Scarlet Stiletto - the Second Cut

by Phyllis King

  I couldn’t bite back the hideous whispers on my tongue -Ellie was doing a better job of caring for me than my own mother. My mother was wrapped up in her own grief, isolating herself from me when we should’ve collapsed together. Our worst qualities shine through in times of hardship - mine was selfishness, while hers was her lack of will. Our shortcomings only widened the ever-growing gap between us.

  And so, Ellie’s near-empty house became the only place of warmth I could find in my new, cold world. I drank it in, savouring the few hours of comfort I got in a day.

  We were never careful about dancing around the topic of Jane - we exchanged theories and volleyed the good and bad times with her daughter between us. Like me, Ellie could never hate Jane. And like me, I think she hated herself for that.

  One day, as the warmth of summer began to ebb and the coolness of autumn crept in, Ellie handed me something. Her eyes were strangely vacant, like Jane’s had been on October 17th. The object in my hands was a book, a simple leather-bound diary.

  ‘It was Jane’s. I found it in the basement this afternoon, after I was cleaning out some old junk. You should read it,’ Ellie explained.

  I hadn’t even had to ask. I turned the diary over in my hands. My heart hammered in my chest. What would I find written on its’ pages? An explanation? Regret? Sorrow? Or maybe, closure? I met Ellie’s eyes.

  I didn’t smile. ‘Thank you. I, I’ll read it tonight.’ I tucked the diary away in my school bag, a book of secrets that I needed to read but was terrified to at the same time.

  Hours later, I found myself staring at the diary once again. I ran my fingers over the thick leather, questions chasing answers in my mind.

  ‘Well, Shrinking Violet,’ I whispered, ‘go on. Read it, already.’

  What was it that Jane always said? Take the plunge. I drew in a deep breath, and opened it to the first page.

  Jane’s handwriting shocked me into a memory. Her last words to me. ‘VI, why couldn‘t you just listen to me for once?! ‘With a gasp, I hurled the diary to the ground and crawled under my covers. I stayed there for hours, a quivering ball of anguish.

  The first rays of Saturday’s dawn crept under my curtains before I dared to pick up the diary again. This time, I promised myself I would read it.

  I skipped not a single sentence, and as I turned page after page the words poured into my soul, revealing more about Jane Crosby than I’d ever learnt in eight years of friendship.

  January 8th

  Dear Diary

  A few years ago, I heard my therapist suggest to my mum that I get a diary. She offered to buy me one, but I said no. I didn‘t want to write down my feelings about what had happened. I didn’t want to drag up a memory that was best left buried in the back of my mind. I had a date in mind for when I’d call upon that memory - October 17th, 2010. My final year of school. Ten years since it happened. It was perfect.

  I bought this diary to plan it all, and to explain why I’m going to do it. I try not to think of it as awful. I think of it as... enlightenment. I hope my daddy s proud of me.

  I’m just doing what he asked me to do, after all.

  Jane

  August 24th

  Dear Diary

  I’m glad I’m going to die at 17. Forgetting goes hand in hand with aging, and I don’t ever want to forget. My memories of that night are already starting to blur, which scares me. I’d promised daddy that I’d never forget him. I etched every line of his face into my memory, sketched it out a thousand times to get it right, but I can feel myself losing him.

  If I write it out, maybe I can preserve him in ink. Then I’ll never forget.

  It was a day like any other, the day he died. Mrs. Hall from across the road had just brought me home from school. It was daddy’s day off. I called out for him, hearing a faint reply coming from the basement. I remember thinking that he must‘ve been cleaning his rifle or something — daddy used to go pig shooting every summer with his mates.

  I kicked off my joggers and skipped down the wooden basement stairs, humming something softly under my breath. My daddy was bent over his desk. Grinning to myself, I crept over to him, ready to roar in his ear. I never got that far.

  Daddy turned around, twisting a rope in his hands. ‘Hey, Plain Jane,’ he smiled, his tone too soft. I didn‘t like it. Something was hidden there, something my six-year-old brain couldn‘t understand. Now I know it as quiet desperation. The sound of defeat.

  ‘What’s that rope for, Daddy?’ I asked, stretching out my arms for a hug. After a few short moments of quiet, I let them slowly fall to my sides. Daddy wasn‘t looking at me.

  ‘Daddy?’ I repeated.

  He finally turned his attention to me, but I don’t think he really saw me. He was somewhere else, already making his escape. In one swift movement, he hopped up onto his chair and secured the rope on a beam above him.

  ‘Daddy!’ I called, scared now.

  ‘Quiet, Plain Jane,’ Daddy cooed, ‘Daddy’s got something very important to say to you.’

  Slowly, he looped the rope around his neck.

  ‘I want you to promise me two things, Plain Jane,’ he whispered, ‘I want you to promise me you‘ll never forget me. Can you do that?’

  My vocal chords were severed. Mutely, I nodded.

  ‘Good girl. The next thing I need you to promise me is this — make them remember you, Plain Jane. Don’t lose yourself to nothingness, make sure they never forget. Promise me. Don’t be Plain anymore.’

  My brain had shut down, but his words would never leave me. Tears filled my eyes. Again, I nodded.

  Don’t be plain anymore. I felt those words scald my heart.

  ‘Daddy loves you, Jane,’ he promised me, right before he stepped off the chair.

  I never really understood why he did it. Maybe he saw so many terrible things, things that shouldn‘t have been forgotten but were. Maybe he thought he ‘d misplace who he was, becoming just another sickening memory. He wanted to preserve himself, so he wouldn‘t be forgotten. That I can understand.

  Years later, and I’m still Plain. Plain Jane. But not for long.

  Plain Jane

  September 29th

  Dear Diary

  Eighteen days. Eighteen days until liberation. Eighteen days until I free myself. Eighteen days until I etch myself in history.

  It makes sense, really. All of history’s most prominent figures - take Adolf Hitler or Karl Marx for example - have made names for themselves by doing evil things. I didn‘t have the means to commit genocide or start a communist revolution, but the answer to my problem sleeps underneath the floorboards in my room. Daddy s hunting rifle.

  After all — death makes headlines.

  Plain Jane

  October 10th

  Dear Diary

  One week. I can barely conceal my excitement anymore. Each night, I run over my carefully-composed plan. And as my eyes slide shut, I dream the same dream I’ve been dreaming since it all began.

  I’ll grab daddy’s rifle, and I’ll stash it in my bag. Since befriending Violet, I now swim in the waters of invisibility. Sometimes, I wonder if that was always my intent. People had a way of seeing through Vi, like she wasn‘t there at all. After a while, they started seeing through me too. No one will notice the slightly larger bulge in my bag.

  I’ll wait until lunch. I’ll wait with Violet, to keep her away from all the ugliness I’ll cause. Then I’ll get the rifle from my bag, find a crowd of students, and shoot up the place. The blood will splatter everywhere, painting me in the startlingly unforgettable colour of death. I’ll grin while they sob. Their screams will sound like music. I can see it all so clearly, everything will be perfect. Finally, I’ll fulfil my promise to daddy. They’ll never forget me.

  I know I can kill without flinching — I practised on a few possums outside my house — but I don’t really know what I’m aiming to destroy. Maybe I just want to know that somewhere, in some small corner of the world, people are feeling the same ag
ony I felt when I watched daddy’s cold body swing on that rope. I want them to watch people they care about die, so I won’t feel so alone.

  Then, after the damage is done, I’ll turn the trigger on myself, right through my left temple. A dramatic way to go, after so many years of waiting for finality. My heart will stop beating on October 17th, but honestly?

  I died years ago.

  Plain Jane

  October 17th 8am

  Dear Diary

  I love you daddy. I’ll be seeing you soon. And when I do, I won’t be Plain anymore.

  Jane, just Jane.

  It was a week before I had the courage to go back to Ellie’s. I kept Jane’s accursed, soul-wrenching diary under my mattress until I couldn’t take the blackness that seeped into my heart during the night. I leaked from the tear-stained pages of her diary, the mournful words singing to me in my sleep. I had to give it back, or else I’d lose myself to the madness that was Plain Jane.

  Ellie was waiting for me. She told me she had been all week. I silently handed her the diary, trying to ignore the churning in my stomach. Finally, after months of being an exception, the silence had taken Jane’s house from me.

  Except Ellie wasn’t going to let me go without a fight. She pulled me into a warm embrace, and I breathed in her scent. She smelt of home, and of sadness. I couldn’t help but hug her back, finally letting a few lonely tears break free of my control.

  After a while, Ellie asked me if I wanted to visit Jane’s grave.

  I agreed, because I didn’t quite know if I wanted to say no.

  I thought of a million ways to break the silence that shrouded us on the way to the cemetery, but the words died on my lips. So instead I sat in the passenger seat of Ellie’s beat up old Mazda, twisting my hands in my lap and wishing the earth would swallow me whole. ‘I wasn’t ready to face this. Wasn’t ready to face her.

  But the car ride ended and I had to get out, had to force my feet to shuffle across the rain-kissed grass after Ellie’s purposeful strides. Like Jane, everything about Elbe Crosby screamed self-assured. Her wildly-styled hair. Her tight green orbs, so intensely focused. It was almost like they pierced through your soul.

  Jane told me once she hated her mother’s eyes. Now I understood why. Maybe Jane thought that if she’d looked hard enough, Ellie’s gaze might’ve seen through her intricate lies.

  Ellie stopped suddenly. ‘There she is,’ she murmured, as if Jane were still alive and well, just waiting for us. Like we’d found her again. Funnily enough, I couldn’t smell death in the air; only the scent of new earth.

  Jane’s grave was simple. Light brown soil sprinkled the earth, devoid of flowers. Ellie hadn’t brought any. The words on the headstone were brief:

  Jane Crosby

  1993-2010

  I won’t forget you, Janey.

  Love, Mum.

  ‘I was the only one who attended the ceremony,’ Ellie sighed, ‘and I’ve been the only one to visit her grave. I thought it seemed right that her epitaph was a message from me.’

  The words bit into me like frostbite, even though I knew she didn’t mean them to. She’d forgiven me for abandoning Jane.

  ‘I was afraid,’ I finally said, ‘Afraid that I’d get here, and lose myself like she did.’

  ‘Violet,’ Ellie said, gripping my shoulders, ‘you will never lose yourself.’

  I avoided her gaze as best I could.

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked, unable to hide the tremble in my voice. Again, I heard the unspoken pleas of my parents echo in my mind. Please, please don’t become Jane.

  ‘Because I know you,’ she said simply. I exploded into rage. All the hurt and rage came tumbling out of my mouth like molten lava, my tongue a whip of fiery destruction. I was helpless to stop it.

  ‘You said you knew her, too!’ I seethed. ‘But you didn’t!’

  Ellie didn’t so much as flinch. Somehow, that only made me angrier.

  ‘If you knew her so well, why did you let her rip the town apart? Why did you let her tear me into pieces and destroy my family? If you couldn’t see Jane doing any of that, who says you’re not wrong about me, too?’

  ‘Because I’m human,’ Ellie shrugged, as if she’d been expecting my outburst. ‘I make mistakes. I’m Jane’s mum, of course I didn’t want to believe the things she was truly capable of. And... I’ll never forgive myself for not looking deeper. I just thought I’d never have to.’

  It seemed like ages before we spoke again. It was me who broke the silence, finally.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Ellie shook her head.

  I gazed at the inscription written on Jane’s headstone.

  ‘You were her best friend, you know,’ she said softly. A small truth, but not one I didn’t already know. I opened my eyes, not having realised I’d closed them.

  ‘She loved you,’ I replied.

  ‘Just not enough to stick around,’ Ellie agreed.

  ‘Not enough for either of us,’ I murmured.

  ‘But we’re still here.’

  ‘We are.’

  And there we stood, the two halves of Jane Crosby that were left behind. The two halves that deluded themselves into thinking they knew her beyond the person she wanted them to see. The two halves that she had loved, but hadn’t loved enough to spare. Shrinking Violet and Mum; Jane’s paper-thin tethers to the waking world.

  Two women, destroyed by someone they cared so deeply for. Jane had gotten her wish. We felt the same agony she’d felt after watching her daddy kill himself. Now, we understood.

  And we wouldn’t forget.

  <>

  Xenos

  Evelyn Tsitas

  The room was dimly lit, with only a few pieces of important mid-20th century furniture to enliven the surroundings. From the window, the red dust swirled in an endless cycle of drought and decay. A large painting by Peter Booth of mutants eating their arms, legs and genitals graced a smooth cement wall, and on the huon pine conference table sat a small digital recorder.

  I was alone. Ushered in by the Xenos-troops who pushed me out of the black Humvee four hours ago and marched me into the holdings. It was another hour after that before the blindfold and handcuffs were taken off. Then another hour in one of the wait-cells with only a half-ape to keep me company. I would have preferred to be alone. Call me a higher evolved species, but it’s a basic rule of thumb, so to speak, that those who walk on four legs stink like they shit without using toilet paper. And they make lousy conversationalists.

  I expected as much. You don’t kill one of their own and get away with it. Mind you, if that was my only defense, I was as good as fried. I only wish I’d worn better shoes. Leather shoes actually; pig-skin. My full lips curled at the thought. Pink pigskin stilettos with a Perspex heel. In fact, the last word in killer shoes.

  But as it was, I was wearing PVC ankle boots. On trial for killing a genetic mutant and not even wearing shoes made from the beast itself. I wanted to throw the bloody things against the glass wall, but what was the point? The window was bullet proof and anyway, I could be sure that the sat-link would be picking up everything I was doing and relaying it as far as the Outer Hebrides.

  After all, global killing meant global repercussions. Even if the only thing that got between you and your gun was a mutant.

  No, especially if it was a mutant.

  It used to be said as a joke. You know, ‘ha, even mutants have got rights these days!’ But it was no joke. Once the animal testing labs had been emptied, the genetically enhanced rats and rabbits and dogs and cats and monkeys were set free to cross breed.

  And you’d better believe there was more than the odd human out there happy to do it with a money; or a dog; especially when they looked almost human.

  Hell, I’ve seen rats that looked more human than my first husband.

  But that’s not why I’m here in this room. With my future dependent on what I could remember of that night on the Xenos raid.

/>   That bloody night. Rain pouring down like there was no drought. Of course, it was genetically enhanced rain, the sort you get when you shoot particles into low lying cumulus. But it felt real. It felt cold and wet and the roads were slippery despite the flexi-grip tyres.

  With Ralph beside me. The last time we went out together. Jesus - I sighed. Poor Ralph. My mind flashed momentarily on a memory of him laughing, eating sushi out of a plastic takeaway tray, his eyes watering from too much wasabi and a trickle of soy down his chin. And then the sickening sound of a cat screaming. A guttural yell.