Corrupts Absolutely?

by Peter Clines

  Maybe she’d just sit somewhere, being inconspicuous, and watch the mailboxes. Everybody checked their mail. Her other superpower was the ability to sit patiently for a long, long time.

  So that’s what she did. She sat next to the pool and pretended to read a book. She sat there until well past dark, far too dark to even read, but Colin never showed up to collect his mail. Finally, she gave up and went back to her apartment. She ate a couple of bites of macaroni and cheese, slashed her wrist again to see if the healing still worked (it did), and then went to bed.

  The next day, Kaylie decided that she didn’t actually care if anybody suspected her of Colin’s future murder. It wasn’t as if she was going to be falsely accused of a crime she didn’t commit. There were probably consequences to stabbing a rapist in the neck, and she’d accept them.

  When she told the apartment manager that Colin had left his shirt in one of the dryers and that she wanted to return it to him, the manager explained that Colin had moved out early the previous morning. There was no forwarding address that would allow Kaylie to return the shirt. He’d mentioned moving to Los Angeles.

  Los Angeles! She’d never find him there! And he’d probably lied about it, being a rapist and all, so that left the entirety of the United States for him to hide! Maybe even the world!

  Even if she hired a private investigator who did find an address for him in California, she couldn’t go there. She could barely force herself to go out for groceries. Maybe it would be easier to go out for groceries now that she was a superhuman healer, but California? Not a chance.

  She went back to her apartment and cried a lot.

  The mental image of being drenched in Colin’s blood cheered her up a little. And as she thought about it, reviewing the mind-picture from all angles, she realized that it didn’t necessarily have to be Colin’s blood.

  What if she got somebody else to rape her? Would sticking a knife into another man’s neck make up for both crimes?

  She went through her closet. She didn’t own any revealing clothes, nothing to encourage lewd advances. Of course, she had the panties that had presumably set Colin off, but she couldn’t go out only wearing those.

  She did have her favorite turquoise blouse. Though it wasn’t sexy, it looked nice on her, and if she kept it mostly unbuttoned...

  Why hadn’t she called the police? Colin could be raping some other girl right now. He could even be strangling her to death.

  It was too late now.

  No, it wasn’t.

  The police would want to know why she hadn’t called them immediately.

  So what? She was the victim. She’d tell them she was scared and humiliated and couldn’t bring herself to tell anybody about it. Surely, there were plenty of other women who’d reacted the same way to this kind of violation.

  But there’d be no closure. No blood.

  She changed into the blouse and looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad at all. Her face was still plain—no, ugly—but if she let her hair down, she thought she looked relatively desirable.

  Now what? She already had a perfectly good butcher knife, which would fit in her purse, so if she bought some sleeping pills and crushed them into a powder, she’d be good to go. She knew there were date rape drugs out there that you could slip into somebody’s drink, but she didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about getting one, and she thought over-the-counter sleeping pills would work just fine.

  Kaylie was surprised to discover that crushing pills into a powder was a challenging process. They kept popping out from under the spoon, and she had to keep picking them up off the floor. Since these pills were to aid her in a murder, she didn’t worry about this being unsanitary.

  Finally, she poured the powder into a snack-sized plastic bag and put it into her purse next to the butcher knife. There. She was ready to go. Now all she needed to do was figure out where the rapists lurked.

  Waffle House?

  No.

  Under a bridge?

  Probably, but her intent was not to be gang-raped and dumped into a river even with her magical healing powers. She had to remain in control of the situation.

  A bar would be a good choice. Though she’d never been inside of one, there had to be some predatory men in there trying to get women drunk. That was the whole point, right? There were bars all over the place, so if she found no suitable candidates at the first one, she’d just go to the next one and so on until she achieved her goal.

  Yes, that’s what she would do. It was a perfect plan.

  She looked in the mirror again, burst into tears, stripped off her clothes, and scalded herself in the shower until the hot water ran out.

  She cursed her healing powers for keeping her in this agonizing world.

  What if she cut off her own head? That would kill her, wouldn’t it?

  Kaylie didn’t know how to go about cutting off her own head and didn’t really want to try. She’d live for now. Vengeance before suicide. If the vengeance worked out, she might not want the suicide anymore.

  She dried off, got dressed again, took her purse, and walked out of the apartment complex. She didn’t own a car, but there were plenty of places within walking distance. In fact, there was a bar only two blocks away, a place called Abby’s with a martini on the logo.

  Kaylie cringed as she passed a couple of people walking in the other direction. Did they know she had a butcher knife in her purse? Did they know she was tainted? Did they know she could instantly heal wounds? Or did they just think she was some unattractive, emaciated girl desperately hoping to get lucky tonight?

  She walked into Abby’s, but the smell of smoke was so overpowering that she had to walk right back out. Her eyes already burned. That wasn’t going to work.

  She reached the next bar and didn’t even go inside; a cloud of smoke practically billowed from the place when she opened the door. However, there was another one next to it, and though the place definitely reeked, it was at least tolerable.

  There were about a dozen people in there, most of them sitting by themselves. She hesitated, unsure if she should go through with this or if she should just go home and cry some more and then walked over and sat down on a stool.

  The bartender asked her what she wanted to drink. What did she want? Not alcohol. She ordered a Coke, hoping he wouldn’t get mad at her. He didn’t seem to care. The drink was mostly ice and about six times as expensive as the soft drinks she bought from the vending machine by her apartment, making Kaylie wonder why anybody ever went into a bar.

  Nobody approached her.

  She stayed for about an hour, long enough to drink four overpriced Cokes, and then left. Why had no men hit on her? Was she too unattractive? Did she have a recently-raped scent?

  At the next bar, she considered just getting a glass of water, but that would anger the bartender for sure. So she continued to buy Cokes even though she desperately had to pee and didn’t want to use the strange (and probably horrific) restroom.

  Just as she was about to leave, a man sat next to her. He looked old enough to be her dad, but he had a pleasant smile. He asked her name, and she decided to make up a fake name, so she said it was Dot. He said his name was Jim.

  She told him that she couldn’t stay anymore because she really, really had to pee, and he said that his place was two minutes away and that he had a very clean bathroom, and that’s all it took.

  It was more like eight minutes. Still, he hadn’t lied about the cleanliness of his bathroom, and Kaylie/Dot was able to relieve herself while suffering only a minor panic attack.

  Now that she no longer needed to sprint to the toilet, Kaylie came out of the bathroom and looked around at Jim’s apartment. It was a nice place, at least twice as big as her own. There were framed paintings on every wall though Kaylie didn’t know if the art was any good.

  Jim offered to make popcorn, which she thought was kind of charming.

  After he went into the kitch
en, Kaylie considered how she might get him to try and rape her. Should she just take off her shirt? No, if she was that blatant, then it might not be a legitimate rape. He seemed like a nice guy. What if he didn’t try anything? What if she had to spend the evening watching a movie and eating popcorn?

  He asked if she’d ever seen The Princess Bride. She had, of course, but lied and said that she hadn’t. So they sat on his leather sofa and ate popcorn and watched the movie.

  When the movie was over, he asked if she was ready for him to take her home. He said it with a smile, in such a way that she knew he would take her home if she wanted, but that he hoped she would say that she didn’t want to go. So she said that she didn’t want to go.

  He asked if she wanted to move somewhere more comfortable.

  It was a tentative, low-pressure question from a man who was clearly not used to having the opportunity to ask it. Not exactly the behavior of a savage sexual predator, yet at the same time, they’d barely known each other longer than the running time of The Princess Bride. Who did he think he was? Who did he think she was?

  She said yes.

  Though he was a bit shorter and thinner than Colin, she didn’t think she could just lunge and successfully get a butcher knife blade into him without putting her safety at risk. Her healing powers gave her the courage to try this in the first place, but she didn’t want to strain them too much. She’d have to use the powdered sleeping pills.

  She asked if he had any red wine since she needed a dark-colored beverage to hide the powder. He said no, he didn’t drink, and she tried to think of a suitable substitute until he grinned, said that he was joking, and reminded her that they’d met in a bar.

  They sat on the couch and sipped glasses of red wine. It was even grosser than she remembered from the time she’d tried it as a little kid, but she choked it down. Unfortunately, Jim never left his glass unattended. What was she supposed to do? Ask him to go take a shower? Was that allowed?

  He asked if she was ready to go to the bedroom. She couldn’t figure out how to create an opportunity to spike his drink, so she said yes, she was. She picked up her purse as he took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

  Jim started to light a candle, but she said no, she liked it better in the dark. And then, though Kaylie was not good at coming up with spontaneous plans, she got an idea, and she told Jim that if he lay on his stomach, she’d give him a back massage.

  He happily agreed to this. He took off his shirt, revealing a hairy chest and a small beer belly, and stretched out on top of the blankets.

  Kaylie unzipped her purse. She told him that she was getting out a…she couldn’t bring herself to say “condom,” so she said “thing” instead. He didn’t question her. Technically, a butcher knife was a thing, so she wasn’t lying.

  She climbed onto the bed, straddled him, and ran her fingertips over his shoulders.

  He let out a soft moan.

  She clutched the handle of the butcher knife in both hands.

  Had he truly done anything wrong?

  Did she really want to do this?

  Yes, he had, and she did.

  She slammed the blade into that son of a bitch’s neck. It didn’t go in as far as she wanted, but his entire body went stiff, and she wrenched out the blade and stabbed him again, giggling at his high-pitched yelp. She shoved the blade in deeper, wishing it wasn’t too dark to see the blood spurting from that fucking rapist’s neck (she should have let him light the candle), and suddenly, he was up, bucking her off like a rodeo horse, but it was a mistake for him to turn around because she jabbed the blade in his goddamn throat, not a direct hit but close enough, and spatters of blood got all over her face and blue blouse, and he shoved her away, but she came right back at him, and the knife plunged into his chest, and he was weakening in a big way, and she couldn’t wait for that motherfucker to burn in hell for what he did to her, and she stabbed him over and over and over. When he stopped moving, she just kept stabbing, and when she was positive he was dead, she just kept stabbing, and it wasn’t until his head was most of the way off that she decided this was overkill and dropped the knife into the soaked blanket.

  She ran her index finger along his ruined chest and considered whether her burden felt sufficiently lifted.

  Yes. It did.

  Her rape had been officially avenged.

  And quite honestly, even without the vengeance angle, this hadn’t been such a bad way to spend an evening. Knowing that she was a superhuman healer had removed a lot of the stress. She wondered if she’d heal from a crushed bone. Maybe she should drop something heavy on her fingers to test it out.

  She did. They healed.

  Kaylie decided that she should kill more people.

  She did.

  After the third murder, involving a teenager who wouldn’t be using that penis again even if he weren’t dead, she realized that she had to become a transient or she’d eventually get caught. That was fine. After all this time, she was discovering that it was nice to get out of her apartment and go do things.

  And besides, as long as she could find an internet connection, she didn’t have to quit her day job.

  Because she was careful, rarely murdered twice in the same state, and varied her methods, the media never caught on that there was a new superhero (or serial killer, or whatever) in the country. Which meant that she didn’t get a cool nickname.

  So she gave herself one: Slashy.

  It was a silly name, but hey, it was silly when she played Tic-Tac-Toe on a man’s stomach with a straight razor. Nothing wrong with a little silliness.

  She’s still out there, protecting the world from those who might have evil in their hearts.

  And that is the origin of Slashy.

  Conviction

  Edward M. Erdelac

  “Hello, Abassi,” the lady say when I sit down. “My name is Daniela Orozco. Now, can you tell me why you were referred to me today?”

  I just shrug even though I know.

  When she open the folder and slide the piece of paper with my drawing on it, I look down at my busted shoes.

  “Your teachers are concerned about you,” she say though I know really they just worried about they own selves. “Abassi?”

  I look up, and her eyes are on me. I look away, but every time I come back, she still looking. She pretty.

  “You’re a very good artist, Abassi,” she say.

  Nobody never tell me I good at anything. It feel good. I wish the picture was something nicer.

  I drew it in history class. We was learning about the minutemen. In the picture in the book they wore GD colors, and they was all strapped in the street like they was bangin’. I thought about Lateesa. I drew the minutemen blowing up, like they swallowed bombs. Their triangle hats was on fire. Their heads come off, some of ‘em. I drew my own punkinhead self in there too. I shouldn’t have. If I’d of left that out, nobody would’ve said shit.

  “You told the teacher these were the minutemen,” she say with her pencil on the bloody bodies. “But who’s this down here?” She point to the little boy with the big head and the busted shoes.

  I don’t say shit.

  “Are you angry about something, Abassi?”

  I shrug.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Afraid?”

  She wait.

  M’always afraid. In the hall. In the street. In the stairwell goin’ back to Grammaw’s place up in the whites. I see ‘em on the corners, in the doorways, lookin’ out the windows. I don’t go to the bathroom at school ‘cause they in there. I hear ‘em from the hall, and my back and my neck hurts I get so scared.

  “Abassi?”

  She looking at me.

  “Abassi, I want you to sit up and take a breath. Breathe in very deep through your nose like this, and out through your mouth. Breathe with me.”

  I do what she say. My neck don’t hurt so much after.

  “Better?�
�

  I nod.

  “Can you tell me what makes you afraid?”

  “I scared sometime,” I say real quiet so they can’t hear through her door. “They goin’ gimme another PhD.”

  “PhD?”

  “Punkinhead Deluxe,” I say. “They beat you till your head get big like a punkin.”

  She look at me, and I look at my broke-ass shoes again. I know I ugly. I been ugly since the PhD.

  “S’why I look this way.”

  “Who beat you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Abassi, I want you to be able to trust me. Will you tell me what happened?”

  I like her. I guess maybe ‘cause she pretty.

  So I say.

  I tell her how Lateesa was smokin’ water all the time with the clique (I don’t say who in the clique), and how she start in smokin’ rock too. I tell her how Grammaw told me one night to go out and find her, that I was responsible for her.

  I tell her how I found Lateesa out by the reds with the clique tryin’ to get TreySix to sell her some rock. I seent ‘em push her around. They say she got no loot, so she gotta pay the other way. I don’t wanna tell her how she get on her knees, how she take TreySix’s dick in her mouth. I feel sick sayin’ that to Miss Orozco, but she tell me it OK, so I tell.

  I tell how I stepped up to them, how I yelled at my sister to stop. They all told me to fuck off, but I din’t listen. I hollered for Lateesa to come home.

  Then I say how they bum-rushed me. I din’t see nothin’ but blue and silver and the black of they fists and they Tims comin’ down, they gold chains swingin’. They shout, they laugh the whole time. I din’t hear nothin’ but my bones snappin.’ The last thing I seent before I woked up in the hospital was TreySix laughin’ on his celly with Lateesa on her knees in front of him.

  But I don’t snitch. I don’t say TreySix. GDs kill me and my Grammaw if I do.

  Just like they kill Lateesa. She OD’d while I was sleep. But it just like they kilt her.

  “Breathe,” she tell me.

  I breathe.

  “Abassi?”

  I look at her.