Instead of wiping away the blood crawling from the small cut, he chased me around the living room with his finger held up like the wand of doom. “I’ll teach you,” he yelled, laughing. “I’ll curse you.”
He caught me as I pretended to cringe in dread. My face clasped gently between his palms, he leaned in and kissed me, blood smearing my cheek. Into my kiss, Jordy whispered, “I’ll curse you to always love me.”
And I do. I love him like I’ve never loved anyone else, but only because we’re compatible, understand and trust each other. I loved him from the beginning. And we both are fascinated by color. I uncork the pinot noir, pour a small amount and take a sip, toasting our lives to be. The wine needs to breathe and I set it aside to walk down the hall.
I peek into the den on the left, expecting to see Jordy chewing his knuckle as he works through his concluding chapter, but he’s not there. Only the bluish glow of the monitor’s screensaver shows he was in the den. The air is dead here, papery. He spends more time on his laptop than sitting at a desk.
Maybe Jordy took one of those cerebral naps as he calls them, the ones he claims sorts out his thoughts but which I think are just procrastination. Still, he’s done some amazing work and the end is very near. I love him as much for his brain as his awesome humor and great body.
The music contours the bedroom and spills out the open door on the right; unusual if he’s sleeping. I slow. Should I wake him?
As I reach the door, I pause with my hand on the wall, not wanting to disturb him. The light is low. Why would he be burning a pillar candle beside the bed if he’s napping? Then I see Jordy’s tight little ass moving up and down, up and down. I am glued in place. Slowly, I filter what I can’t comprehend. He says, “You are my firebrand. God, how I burn for you,” and a small feminine laugh follows.
I’m doubling over, clutching my stomach as though he punched me. A gut shot, the air is sucked from me and I back out the door. Our endearments. The words he says to me. The special phrases. My vision begins to fog with a red haze.
I’m back in the bedroom. I don’t recall moving. I see only red. I smell salt and musky sex and something else, something coppery, metallic. They don’t perceive me as I draw near. Humming, I raise the axe over my head as Jordy’s head turns. The axe falls, of its own gravity and volition, sheering off his lower jaw, spattering scarlet everywhere. It sounds like he’s gargling and I realize I’ve severed Jordy’s lying tongue. He’s a mess, no longer pretty. Still attached to red, carmine, carnelian, ruby. It's always there. I can’t leave him like this and the axe blade falls again, biting with lover’s passion into his neck. My last kiss. He twitches and falls. Blood geysers, oozes, blends with his burgundy sheets.
A keening comes from beneath him, high pitched, like a teakettle. Humming, I let the blade shut her up too. I keep expecting to hear metal hitting wood but it is only a thunking, wet meaty sound. There is blood, so much blood, a red speckled pattern upon the carpet, and something gray. Jordy’s wasted his brains. Too bad. He was brilliant.
The haze in my vision begins to recede.
What have I done? There is cloying gore everywhere. I gag and back out of the room. The punishment should fit the crime or there will be hell to pay. People say these things, the clichés, the color codes, the blood curses. I didn’t mean to do this but red overcame me. I’ve gone too far, immersed myself. Red is everywhere in Jordy’s apartment.
I stare at the fire, let the axe thud on the carpet. Red-handed, I stumble to the kitchen, wash the sticky residue off my hands. But everything is going black. I don’t see red, just black, an end, a finale. The punishment should fit the crime. I stumble toward the door, humming.
◙
My hand touches the cool metal of the door knob. I’ve been humming a tune. The problem is when I do this I sometimes zone out, forget what I was doing. And I’ve been to Jordy’s door so many times before that it’s almost automatic.
But what’s different today is that my flight was cancelled due to the weather and I thought I’d surprise him with dinner. I push the door open with my shoulder and carry in the bag of groceries. Music drifts like a wraith down the hall, and amber light capers over the living room walls illuminated by a fire crackling in the fireplace. The scent of sharp pine resin mixed with an odd metallic smell fills my nose.
I turn right into the open layout kitchen, maneuver the bag onto the counter, then return to the living room. I check the logs in the fireplace and warm my hands for a minute, staring into the fiery dance. The axe is lying in the middle of the floor. I take a few moments to absorb the heat, the scent, and the space of Jordy’s home. Soon this will be mine too. I pick up the axe and prop it against the fireplace, near a fresh pile of wood brought in to dry. There is a sticky residue on the handle. Back in the kitchen, I wash my hands.
James Chambers on Elizabeth Massie's
“Crow, Cat, Cow, Child”
I read “Crow, Cat, Cow, Child” by Elizabeth Massie in her collection Shadow Dreams after meeting Elizabeth at a convention. The piece stood out among a gathering of excellent stories because it reminded how powerful and affecting short horror fiction can be. “Crow” relies on the depth of its characters and their convictions to draw readers in, engage them in social debate, rouse their empathy, and ultimately conflict and horrify them. It concisely but fully informs us of the protagonist’s illusions before forcing us to share her agony when they’re shattered. And when they are, the act is accomplished by one who has suffered his own tragic disillusionment. At the core of the story is the beating heart of all horror fiction: How do we preserve our humanity in a cruel world, living among people who can be even crueler still? And all this in only 25 pages.
◙◙◙
Lost Daughters
James Chambers
Three young women in black party dresses stood by the side of the “suicide bridge.” They were looking into the darkness over the guardrail. Drew dropped his Audi to a crawl as he passed them then stopped, put it in park, and watched the women in his rearview mirror. His tail lights gilded them electric red. It was well after midnight, and there were no other vehicles or pedestrians around, but they paid him no attention.
He opened the door, stepped halfway out of the car, and called against a chill wind, “You ladies okay?”
Together, the three turned and looked at him.
Black streaks of makeup ruined by tears lined their cheeks. Their dark hair was mussed and wild. Their stylish dresses were torn ragged along the hem and spotted with dry leaves and flecks of mud. They were barefoot, and their feet were scratched and streaked with blood and dirt, but the youngest, who wore a beaded shawl across her exposed shoulders, held a single pink sneaker. It was torn across the front, and it dangled from her right index finger by a frayed lace. The women possessed the inherent beauty of youth—but spoiled and bruised. They weren’t much older than Drew’s two daughters in high school.
“Did you have an accident? Are you hurt?”
The women didn’t answer.
“Want me to call someone? The police? An ambulance?”
The women only stared. Drew thought maybe he’d frightened them by stopping.
“I’m not going to harass you or anything. I’m on my way home from work, and I…thought you might need help.”
Nothing.
“You want me to leave you alone? Fine. Whatever. It’s none of my business why you’re out here, but people sometimes throw themselves off this bridge. You’re not going to do that are you? Tell me you won’t, and I’ll go. Tell me you’re not here to kill yourselves.”
Nine people in the last two years, and more before then, had dropped themselves onto the desolate railroad tracks more than a hundred feet below the bridge, a guaranteed lethal descent.
Times were tough, Drew knew well enough. The recession claimed its victims. Drew had worked down the hall from one of them for six years: Carmine Price. Drew and Carmine were analysts, and then Carmine wasn’t—he was laid off fr
om his six-figure, eighty-hours-a-week job, and then he came to this bridge, over which Drew drove almost every day. His funeral was still vivid in Drew’s memory. Sometimes when he was out shopping he ran into Carmine’s wife and three kids, and they always looked trapped in a state of shock, as if they would never come to grips with their loss. These women have people who’ll be haunted the same way if they lose them over the side of this ugly bridge, Drew thought.
Drew sighed. “Have it your way. But if you won’t talk, at least listen. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, there’s nothing that could’ve brought you here tonight that’s worth throwing your life away over it. You can get help. Call a hotline. People care what happens to you. You’re young, and life will get better. So, please, come off the bridge.”
The women seemed still as statues. The wind ruffled their dresses, teasing dead leaves from the fabric and scuttling them along the pavement. It embarrassed Drew how the women stared at him, their dark eyes gleaming like hot coals in the glow of his taillights.
“Dammit, say something. All right?” Drew said. “If you won’t let me help, then whatever happens to you, it isn’t on me. Okay? It’s your choice.”
Drew waited for a reply, but none came. He shrugged and got back in his car, intending to call 911 and let the police deal with it. Before he closed the door, though, the woman Drew took to be the oldest stepped forward, and asked, “Are you going through Quantuck?”
Drew popped out of the car again. “Why?”
“You could give us a ride.”
“No,” Drew said. “You can use my cell phone. Call a cab or a friend to pick you up. I’ll wait with you until they get here.”
“We have no friends. We have no money for a cab.”
“Well, I’ll help you, but I’m not giving you a handout.”
The woman scowled. “We don’t want money. We only want a ride.”
“I’ll call your parents so they can come get you.” Drew took his Blackberry from his pocket. “What’s the number?”
“We can’t call them,” the woman said.
“Why not?”
The women exchanged glances with each other, but no one answered.
Drew noticed then that they had no purses and gave them a closer look. Their fingernails were long, chipped, and polished the color of dried blood, and their fingertips were stained with something dark. Each woman wore a single piece of jewelry. A silver-weave choker with a red gem dangling from a silver chain adorned the oldest woman’s neck. The one with the shawl wore sharpened hook earrings of tarnished brass, and the other wore bracelets made of rusted iron. The choker and the bracelet half obscured what Drew took for scars: a ring of raw skin under the choker, and pink furrows beneath the bracelets.
“How did you wind up on this bridge?” he asked.
The second woman stepped up. “Our shitty boyfriends took us on a date then dumped us here because we wouldn’t put out.”
“Please give us a ride,” the youngest woman said.
“I’ll help you get home,” Drew said, “but no ride.”
Drew didn’t like refusing. He imagined his daughters stranded this way, and he felt bad for the women, but he saw too many unwelcome possibilities if he let them into his car. A sharp ache stabbed the back of his eyes, a headache building. He often got them after a long day, which meant almost every day; this one’s first pangs had come on before he left the office, too drained to finish the quarterly reports sitting on his passenger seat. He massaged his temples and tried to rub the pain away.
It was so late, and he wanted only to go home.
He gazed at the heavy darkness beyond the edge of the bridge. Wind whistled through it, and Drew thought of sleep.
“Listen.” The oldest woman inched closer. “We’re screwed if we’re not home before sunrise. Our step-father doesn’t know we’re out. Our little sister isn’t even supposed to be with us. If we have to call him to come get us, he’ll kill us, for sure. And we’ll never get home on time if we walk. All we need is a ride.”
Drew shook his throbbing head. “I won’t do it.”
“If you give us a ride,” the oldest woman said, “I’ll make it worth your while. A guy like you going home from work this late, you must be stressed out, right? I mean, you must be the kind of guy who works all the time, no life outside the office, hardly ever see your family—your wife. When was the last time you were alone with her? All that work, all that time—maybe you tell yourself you do it so you can give them the life they want, but really, isn’t it easier when you’re not there? Then their problems don’t become your problems, and you’ve already got so much stress at work, you don’t need more at home too. The worst part is what you’re really afraid of is losing your job even though you hate it. Maybe someone you know—someone like you—jumped off this bridge. Maybe you’ve even thought about jumping just to escape all the shit you have to deal with. It would be so easy to fall into the darkness. What kind of life is that? Someone should be there to make you feel good. So…you do something nice for us, I’ll do something…nice for you.”
Drew was stunned, speechless.
A wicked glint in the woman’s eyes made him shiver.
So did the black space behind her, the emptiness beyond the bridge.
What the hell did I walk into here?
“Don’t embarrass yourself.” Drew struggled to contain his outrage. “I’m not interested, and I’m old enough to be your father. You should show some respect for someone who stopped only to help you.”
The three women rolled their eyes and snickered.
“We know what you want,” the youngest said.
“Forget it,” Drew said.
He started to get back in his car, but the oldest woman grabbed his shoulder. Her touch was cold and stiff. “Give us a ride.”
Drew opened his mouth to say, “No,” but he couldn’t. He was frozen in place.
The woman didn’t look strong enough to hold him, yet he was unable to break her grip. He could barely move. She plucked his Blackberry from his hand and dropped it on the road. The other women joined their sister.
“Give us a ride,” all three said.
Their voices echoed in Drew’s head: Give us a ride.
He didn’t want the women in his car, didn’t want them anywhere near him, but when the woman let him go, instead of getting in the car and driving away, Drew straightened his jacket, opened the driver’s side back door, and then let the sisters slide onto the backseat. The youngest paused before she got in and hurled the torn pink sneaker over the side of the bridge. It spun into darkness. Drew waited for the noise of it crashing below, but if the sound came, it was too faint to hear. He shut the back door and then settled in the driver’s seat and latched his seatbelt. With the driver’s door closed, the quiet in the car enhanced the nearness of the women. They had brought with them a scent like smoke and fresh mud, sea salt and wet dead leaves.
Drew licked his lower lip. His mouth was dry.
“Where in Quantuck?” he heard himself say.
“Start driving. We’ll tell you,” the oldest sister said.
Drew tapped the gas. The car finished its interrupted journey across the bridge, and Drew drove east along a connecting road.
“Don’t you know that bridge’s reputation?” he said.
“We know,” the youngest woman said.
“Of course, we know,” the second woman said.
“How could we not know?” the oldest said.
All three giggled, a shrill sound.
“Why were you really there?” Drew asked.
“Like we told you,” the oldest woman said. “Our boyfriends dumped us.”
“Like that, in the middle of the night?” Drew said. “Where’d they go?”
“Who cares?” she said. “Pigs.”
Drew drove, and the two older sisters whispered over the head of the youngest, sitting wedged between them. Drew couldn’t make out what they were saying; they sounded like hissing snakes.
“At least, tell me your names,” he said.
The youngest raised her eyes to meet Drew’s stare in the mirror. “I’m Venge.”
The second sister said, “I’m Grudge.”
“I have no name,” the oldest told him.
Grudge and Nameless resumed whispering.
Venge leaned forward and touched Drew’s arm.
“Do you have any food?” she said. “I’m so hungry.”
Drew pointed to a gold foil bag beside his briefcase and reports stacked on the passenger seat. Printed on it in red ink were a heart-shaped store logo and the words: Gwendolyn’s Gourmet Chocolates. “There’s some candy I bought for my daughters.”
Venge snatched the bag and dragged it into the back seat. It rustled as she removed one of the boxes. She undid the ribbon tied across the top, opened it, and then peeled away the crinkly paper under the lid. Drew watched in the mirror as she popped a chocolate into her mouth and chewed. Right away, she made a sour face and then spit the half-chewed candy onto the floor and gave a disgusted groan.
“No good!” She chucked the open box against the dashboard, spilling chocolates around the front of the car. She pressed her face close to Drew’s and sniffed him. “You know our names. What’s yours?”
“Drew Cahill.” The words came before he could stop them.
“I’m so hungry, Drew.” Venge ran her finger along Drew’s neck, scraping him with her nail. Then she licked her fingertip. “Before we go home, we’re going to eat you up.”
She smiled and pulled her shawl tighter on her shoulders. Glimpsing her in the rearview mirror, Drew thought he saw rows of sharp teeth in her mouth, but she closed her lips as she sat back in the shadows. He told himself he couldn’t have seen what he thought and wished he’d gone home early that night. He should’ve never stopped on the bridge; he should’ve ignored the women, told himself they were only out for a walk or waiting for a ride, that they weren’t his responsibility. He should’ve rationalized his indifference and driven past them without so much as slowing down. A year ago, that’s what he would’ve done, but tonight he couldn’t—not once he saw them leaning on the rail, their faces pale against the darkness over the side.
Deep Cuts Page 15
