Dark Avenues

by Brian J Smith

  What the hell?

  Oh, goodie!

  I got one. I finally got one.

  Actually, I got seven but it's not about my kitchen. It is about the tree standing in the back of the building at the edge of the hill; it stands before a pinkish blue sunset, its gnarled shadow stretching across the grass. It would make a good screen saver, that's for sure.

  Hold on a minute.

  AHHH!

  AHHH!

  There I'm back. I had to rip a branch from that tree and whip myself for seven minutes then upload my evidence. Long red scratches crease down my back like a one night stand; I even got deep enough to draw some blood.

  It's how the app works.

  You download the app, upload a selfie or a picture and then you base your next move on the amount of likes hence the tree branch and the number. It's no longer about self-pride and narcissism anymore; they don't care if you smile unless you were going to knock your own teeth out. It has always been like this since we elected our new President. If you didn't follow the rules, there was a stiff penalty.

  I don't want to think about that but I'm sure it's bad. It gives me the creeps just thinking about it.

  Oh well.

  Coffee's done.

  *****

  I step out onto my front porch to grab the morning paper when something caught the corner of my eye. I scan the cluster of one and two story stucco and clapboard bungalows sitting on neatly-trimmed lawns when my neighbor Danny waves at me from across the street. I pick up the paper, wave back at him and then parade across my lawn.

  "Hey, Danny."

  "How are you doing, Trevor?"

  "I'm waiting for my next notification." I say. "I got my first one this morning. It was a good one."

  "The tree?"

  I slip my left arm out of my sleeve and slide the side of the robe down to show him my back. He gives me a satisfying while and a small round of applause; he is a tall portly built man with a halo of brown hair around his big egg-shaped head and narrow blue eyes bracketed by a faint pocket of wrinkles. When I slip my robe back on, we shake hands like a couple of war buddies.

  "President Trump would be proud of you, Trev." He says. "Really proud."

  "I hope so. How's Melanie doing?"

  "She's good." He nods. "She put the picture of that new bracelet I bought her last week and her phone has been blowing up all morning."

  "Where did you get that?"

  "Zeke's Diamonds and More." He says, flashing a proud smile. "She was grinding a paring knife into her right hand when I came out here to see where that little bastard stuck my paper this week."

  "Cool."

  "Hello, Trev."

  I peer over my shoulder and see Melanie Landers slowly padding across the street; she is three inches taller than Gus and she has the silkiest mane of blonde hair I've ever seen. She cradles her right hand inside of a dirty dishcloth, her olive tan skin fading to a ghostly pallor. Cryptic blood stains spread across the fabric, and drip onto the front of her cotton-pink nightgown; the bigger stain resembling a poorly-painted strawberry.

  "Hello, beautiful."

  "I saw what you did to your back." She mumbles. "Good job with the branch."

  "Thanks." I blush.

  "Have you heard back from Tina?"

  My throat locks up at the sound of that name. I hadn’t thought about Tina since she chose to go to Mexico with everyone else who were displeased with the election.

  "Not yet, Mel."

  "I miss her so much." She murmurs. "She always made the best tuna noodle casserole.”

  "She sure did."

  Melanie teeters toward the ground but Gus catches in his arms and cradles her tightly against him. Her cracked pale lips tremble as she stares down at the towel wrapped around her still bleeding hand.

  "Let's get you inside and get you all bandaged up." He says, then nods to me. "I'll see you later, Trevor."

  "Take it easy, guys."

  I get back inside the house and put my still throbbing back to the door. It hurts but that is normal; I wince and accept the pain as much as the rest of the country. I carry the paper to the kitchen table and read the front page headline between bites of hickory-smoked bacon and scrambled eggs with toast.

  MAN BURNS DOWN BUS KILLING TWENTY PASSENGERS blooms across the headline in big black font. According to the headline, the driver was taking a load of people to the border when he uploaded a picture of the bus and received over twenty likes. He had then parked the bus along the road, locked the doors on his way out and soaked the bus in gasoline before setting it on fire; he'd cut his throat before the law arrived to save anyone.

  Serves them right.

  Patriotism requires sacrifice; if you don't sacrifice anything for your country then you're not a patriot. I finish reading the article when it suddenly hits me from out of nowhere.

  Where is my big sacrifice?

  Those slashes on my back are just crumbs compared to what I've been seeing these days. Where's my fiery bus full of screaming people? Isn't my right hand good enough for me to cut into?

  I'll have to up my game.

  After breakfast of course.

  *****

  THERE we go.

  A selfie of my left hand and another of my right foot. There is a mole on my left hand between my first finger and thumb but I don't know where it came from. I've had it since I was a kid but it isn't like I don't have plans for it; I've got big fucking plans for it.

  I finish my work for the day (I'm a stay-at-home accountant for a number of local businesses) and flip on the television to watch the news. Glory be praised, our new President is standing tall and proud in front of a podium topped with microphones; rapid-fire camera flashes whip across the room and toss his shadow across the wall behind him for a split second before disappearing. His hair lays over his big head like a failed comb over but he looks like a dream in a charcoal-colored suit.

  "I'm proud of the way things are going right now." He says in a deep monotone voice. "This country elected me to be their Leader and my people will continue to lead America in the right direction for years to come. I love the outpouring of responses to my new app. Keep them coming, America. Good day."

  When he was asked about the bus driver, he shrugs and walks away amidst a barrage of more questions and camera flashes. I mute the television and let out a girlish shriek. I thumb down the volume, race into my bedroom to retrieve my cell and enter my pass code; my face glows in the glare of my phone.

  No way; no fucking way.

  Seven for my left hand and eight for my right foot; a woman I've known since high school compliments on my pinky toes. I thank her and like two of her recent uploads in return. I set my phone on the table, eat a quick lunch, gather my tool bag from the bottom of my closet and set it on the floor beside of the couch and slip off my right sock.

  Before I can begin, my high school chum submits a pic of her own. She stands in front of her bathroom sink, a fist-sized hole in the big mirror with pieces of jagged glass jutting out from between her fingers like it were part of a glove she was looking for. Tears of blood cascade down her hand between her fingers and drip onto the floor.

  She titles the pic: DO YOU LIKE?

  I LOVE IT I respond.

  I'll start with this one and then–

  AHHH! OH MY GOD!

  With my grandfather's pliers, the little nail on my right pinky toe slides away with ease. It always hurts the first time but that comes natural; sacrifice requires pain and without one you can't have the other. There’s no need for me to scream anymore because it doesn’t hurt so much.

  I upload the evidence and wipe the blood from my toes. I perch my feet on the edge of the coffee table and lean back against the couch. My foot is still throbbing but otherwise I feel great and—

  *****

  THAT was a close one.

  I don’t know how long I was out but all I could think about is my wife Tina. She’d been walking toward a bus loaded with passengers when
she’d turned and gave me a disgusted look; tears brimmed in her eyes as she stepped aboard. She’d made her through the tightly-packed seats, found one next to a window and pressed her hand against the glass as if she were visiting me in prison.

  Maybe she thought the country had already turned into a prison or that it would if given enough time. As the bus gave a pneumatic wheeze, she flashed a sad glossy look and mumbled an "I love you" before the bus rode off into the night.

  I'd woke up before I felt sorry for her. I hadn't thought about my poor “misguided” wife and I was okay about that.

  I still miss all of the little things we used to do like discuss our but I love my country and no one is going to tell me who I can and can’t vote for. I do miss her and I wish she was here with me. Who knows what kind of damage we could've done together?

  I reach over for my glass of sweet tea when I hear a car door outside. I push myself off the couch, hobble over to the kitchen sink and part the curtains with my right hand.

  A trio of patrol cars sits idling outside of Danny’s home, puffs of thin white smoke spewing from their tailpipes and dissipating above the curb; their roof lights sweep a bright patriotic halo across the faces of the nearby houses. Four police officers in crisp blue uniforms with shiny black-leather belts stands in front of them, waving their hands at him like drunk air-traffic controllers. Danny clasps his hands together and, his face crumpling with sadness, kneels onto the ground spouting a string of startled pleas; Melanie slowly extends her hand when one of the officers but it isn’t too long before one of them snatches it out of the air and holds it down on top of the hood of his cruiser.

  The same hand she supposedly hacked off this morning. How could she lie about something like that?

  I grab my sweater off the back of the couch and hurry toward the front door as quick as one person can on one bad foot. When I step out of my house, their screams echo across the once quiet suburb; it does not take long for me to realize that I’m not the only one standing out on my front porch. One of the officers pin Danny to the big oak tree standing beside the mouth of the driveway by sticking his nightstick against the base of his throat.

  "Don't do it officer, please." Gus pleads. "It was my idea take mine ins–”

  "Sir." A tall bald bearded officer says. "Don't interfere or we'll have to restrain you."

  "She knows the rules." The officer in charge says, holding her arm down on top of the hood. "She disguised her evidence and failed to comply with The President's orders. That's considered treason in The United States. She has to face a penalty, Mister Landers."

  "Don't do it please. I'll pay whatever—"

  Melanie tries to slip free of her captors but it was too late. The officer slips a stainless steel meat cleaver from his hip pocket, taps the right side of her hand and brings the blade down with such force it sounds like a boot being pulled from the muck. She cringes and gives a loud painful howl as her severed hand and a carpet of blood slide down across the hood; the officers release her into the custody of Danny and hop back into their cars.

  "You fuckin' assholes!" He bellows.

  While the cruisers speed away, she kneels onto the edge of the driveway and vomits on the asphalt. I wrap my arms around my chest, shielding my body from the cold January wind and watch my other neighbors retreat back inside. He stares at my house as if he wants to burn it down and helps her inside; from where I'm standing I hear her scream something at him and then a door slams shut.

  I don't feel any compassion for them. They had not only betrayed their country but they betrayed me, too. They got what they deserve; if you don't follow the rules you have to pay the price. They need to consider themselves lucky those officers didn't shoot them in the head.

  I go back inside and lock the front door behind me when my phone gives off a tiny chime. I race back inside to check it when the phone goes off again and again and again.

  It's about my left hand.

  Six notifications.

  I stare down at my open tool bag sitting open on the floor beside the coffee table and remove a tiny claw hammer; no matter how many times I wrap and unwrap my hand around the handle, it feels like it belongs there. I tap the blunt end against the first finger of my left hand, set the hammer down and take another sip of sweet tea before I pick up the hammer again.

  AHHH!

  AHHH!

  God Bless America.

  RIGHTFUL PLACE

  I know where I want to be when I die.

  Who I want to be there in my last moments.

  Do you?

  That question alone was the inspiration for this story.

  WHEN we stepped out of the trees and onto the sand, Nora and I drew the mingled odors of mud and rotting algae deep into our lungs. She licked her lips and tucked a long strand of blood-red hair behind her right ear, her pale freckled face creasing with curiosity.

  “It looks as beautiful as ever.” She said, her voice tinged with wonder.

  I spun her around, planting my dark-blue sneakers into the soft brown sand, and slid my right arm around her waist. The sun warm on the back of our necks, I laid a soft kiss onto the crown of her forehead and peered deep into her almond-shaped green eyes; my lips tingled long after the kiss was done.

  “Nothing in this world will ever be as beautiful as you.”

  She scoffed, rolled her eyes and waved me off. My daily compliments were just one of the many things she’d grown to tolerate during our seven-year marriage along with the fact that I couldn’t sleep at night without the ceiling fan on at high speed. Three shadows rippled across the faint, jagged line between the forest and the shoreline and spread out beneath our feet.

  She extended her hand, her face still beaming in the warm golden sunlight, and sighed. I reached over for it, my eternal soul hungry for her touch, when she jerked it back. She raised her right leg, sending a thick curtain of hair falling across one side of her face and scratched at the inside of her thigh.

  When she realized what she was doing, she lowered her leg back onto the shore and glanced up at me with a sheepish expression on her face. She slid her hand away from her leg and, her cheeks flushing with shame, swept the strand of hair away from her face. We glanced awkwardly at each other and did our best to forget about what she’d just done.

  “It was the wind.” She said, shrugging her left shoulder.

  “Your underwear was rubbing up against your thigh, too.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded.

  I snatched her hand out of the air, brought it to my lips and kissed the knuckle on the third finger; her skin felt warm and tender on my dry, cracked lips. A single tear protruded from the corner of her left eye and slid down her cheek.

  “Don’t worry, baby.” I whispered.

  She nodded, her lips set in a crinkled red line. I wiped the tear from her cheek and slid my thumb down and across her mouth, coating her lips with the sweet taste of salt. She kissed the pad of my thumb, waited me for slide it down her chin and drew her lips back into her patent pearly-white smile I fell in love with so many years ago.

  “I’m not,” She mumbled. “because I’m here with you. That’s all that matters, right?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Forever and always.”

  “Forever and always.”

  We padded away from the tree line and across the shore, feeling the soft brown sand sinking beneath our feet. The aforementioned smells of mud and rotting algae were joined by the thick coppery odor of blood and the acidic tang of wood smoke. Pinpricks of sunlight bounced off the lake’s mirrored blue surface; a carpet of light spread across the west side of the lake.

  A pontoon boat with a large blood stain along the left aft floated past us, its frail green awning fluttering in the mid-afternoon breeze.

  Orange-and-white buoys floated along the distance, bobbing with the rhythm of the water. One and two-story houses were sprinkled along the gently-sloping hills sitting on the other side of the lake, backed by large wooden decks of atypical size. The
murky-brown water lapping at the shore stirred the veins of seaweed clinging to the sand; the only three cars in the parking lot on the far-left side sat blistered and cracked, their bumpers glinting under the harsh summer sun.

  We marched across the shore, our lungs filled with the freshwater smells of the lake. On the far-right side, about a hundred feet away, a long-legged blonde lay was cradled inside of a cheap bright-yellow volleyball net; large red stains were spread across the front of her crop-cut white tee-shirt, exposing her slim tan stomach.

  I shook my head in disgust. There was no since in grieving over the things you can’t change. What’s done is done.

  “What are you looking at?” Michelle asked, peering over my shoulder.

  I braced her hips with both hands and spun her around so that her back was facing the dead blonde. She gave a startled gasp and pressed her hands onto my shoulders as if she were about to push me away. The V-shaped neckline of her shirt slid down, revealing the map of bright blue veins streaking across the tops of her perfect-white breasts.

  “Is this it?”

  I gazed across the water at the rank of buoys still floating in the distance and backed up about ten feet to the right. I hoped she wouldn’t see the dead blonde behind her because the other dead bodies we’d seen along the way did nothing but sicken her. I caressed her bottom lip with my thumb and gazed deep into those blue-green eyes I fell in love with so many years ago; they’re the kind that could make a man’s heart skip a beat.

  “This is the perfect spot.”

  She feigned a smile and tucked a strand of fire-engine red hair behind her right ear. Behind her, the thin white-plastic supports holding the volleyball net jostled in the wind like weak supports.

  My wristwatch said it was four-thirty. The sun wasn’t supposed to go down for a few more hours but we still had plenty of things to do before tomorrow morning.

  “I’m so tired, baby.”

  “I’ll start the fire after you go to sleep.”