Short Stories About You
Page 7
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Both of you look at the front entrance to the house. The cavalry has arrived. A stern looking woman with a badge and a bigger gun than yours is standing by your couch.
“Allison?” you call. “Somebody’s here to see you.”
Allison comes out of the bedroom and walks down the hall. The injured man scrambles, trying to grab her pants leg as she walks by, but she avoids it.
“Officer,” she says, “my name isn’t Allison. That’s just what he calls me.”
Well, hot damn. She can talk.
“Can you explain what’s going on here, Miss?” the officer asks.
“Yeah, I can,” she says. “You’re gonna need more cops.”
The wounded man starts convulsing with anger. “You fucking cunt!” he screams. “I will get you for this, for all this! I will send your soul to the hell that exists under hell, do you hear me?”
“My name isn’t Allison,” the girl says, ignoring the babbling man with the hole in his ankle. “It’s Jennifer. Jennifer Bates.”
The cop lowers her gun. “Holy shit,” she whispers.
“There are five more of us next door,” Allison/Jennifer says, and she points at your unwelcome visitor. “At his house.”
It’s a blur after that. Police car after police car arrives. Mr. Friendly is taken to the hospital and placed under arrest. He spits at you as they wheel him away on the gurney.
You watch from outside as his wife is dragged out of the house. So much for being demure and good-natured; she screams at the top of her lungs, calling down curses from above, her hair all in her face, saliva flying from her filthy mouth, followed by the laughter. So much hysterical laughter.
Allison/Jennifer goes back to that house with a group of officers. Fifteen minutes later, you stare slack-jawed as five more girls are led out from the storm cellar under the house. They seem amazed to be outside, and two of them burst into tears. All the girls are sickly thin, except for one with short black hair.
She is pregnant.
And now the media is calling you a hero, and they want to do interviews. National news, local stations, newspapers, they all want their little piece of you for their stories. You don’t think you’re a hero. Far from it. Everyone talks at you, asking their questions, and you can’t even say anything.
This is a good neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood where people keep to themselves mostly, but still wave at each other on the street. Make small talk about their lawns, their kids, the weather. It’s a place where you feel safe.
And you don’t know how this happened. You don’t know how the people next door to you were sick bastards, who kidnapped six girls and did fuck all knows what to them. Allison/Jennifer has been missing for seven years. Seven. She was taken when she was thirteen.
Who does that? Why didn’t you see it? Why didn’t you stop it?
You were supposed to be safe here, in this little house with the hardwood floors.
Now you know no one is safe. And you’re part of the problem.
Deep Ocean, Vast Sea
You can’t sleep. This is an ongoing problem.
Oh, you’ve tried everything. Bitter herbal teas. Tepid milk. Tryptophan. You tried a friend’s prescription sleep medication. It made you hallucinate. Black unicorns pranced through your bedroom singing songs from the World War II era.
People at work make comments.
“You look like hell. Are you sick?”
You aren’t sick. Just so very tired.
It’s Thursday, and your mother calls. She worries.
“Have you tried white noise?” she asks.
“What is that?”
“Just background noise, like static. Some people listen to the sound of waterfalls, or thunderstorms. Even ocean waves are supposed to be good.”
“What does it do, Mother? Bore you to sleep?”
“Don’t scoff. The sound does something to your brainwaves. It settles your thetas or something. It helps you relax and get a decent night’s sleep, which you need, because you look terrible.”
“You’re always so encouraging, Mother.”
“Well, listen to me. Give it a try.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” you say.
“Might help,” you say.
She hangs up and the house is quiet again. You sit, with your hands palms down on your legs and stare into the distance. Another night is approaching quickly, another night of trying to sleep, wondering why you’re not sleeping, and losing sleep because of the worry.
Ocean waves.
Sure. Why not?
You do a quick search online for sea sounds. There’s a video that claims to be “Ten Full Hours of Ocean Waves Grate for Sleeping!!” Perfect. You get your favorite comforter and a pillow and make yourself a little bunny nest on the couch. You grab a bottle of water and prepare yourself for another night of disappointment. You think of the millions of people all over the world, unable to sleep, watching along with you. One gigantic dysfunctional family.
You start the video.
Unsurprisingly, you see the ocean. The creator of this video set up a camera, pointed it seaward and just let it run. The waves go in and out. Once in a while, some gulls swoop through, squawking and squeaking.
It is pretty for about fifteen minutes. After that, it’s just boring. You try to close your eyes and just focus on the waves, the ebb and flow, the rhythm of nature.
That’s boring, too.
Well, fuck, you think. Here it comes. Another night of dry eyes and yearning, broken up only by the occasional need to urinate.
There’s no sense in turning the television on, even. Nothing is on at this hour but infomercials and B-movies, all of which you’ve seen on other sleepless nights. Your attention goes back to your computer screen. You think of an old Cure song, something about staring at the sea and staring at the sand.
The night drags. You’re four hours into a ten hour video. Surely most normal people are asleep by now. There are a couple people playing in the surf now, their distant joyful voices barely registering on video. You see them, though, and you create a backstory for them.
Their names are Brantley and Olivia, and it is their honeymoon. They come from Indiana, where their parents disapprove of their marriage. Brantley is Lutheran. Olivia is Methodist. They pay for their own wedding, and supportive friends, more progressive-thinking than their parents, pool their funds and surprise them with a trip to Myrtle Beach. Two weeks of sun and fun on the Redneck Riviera. Brantley manages a popular chain restaurant. Olivia is a dental technician. She will come home from this trip pregnant with twins.
“Oh, Brantley,” she says. “I’ve never been so happy. I’ve never seen so much water.”
“Oh, Olivia,” he says. “I love how you look in that two-piece. Let us continue to frolic in the waves and celebrate our love.”
You hate Brantley and Olivia.
You are suddenly overcome with the desire to own a cat. Cats are warm and fuzzy, like a slipper you have to clean up after. Maybe a cat would help you sleep, if they could refrain from ripping your chest apart with their hideous claws. You would have to get past the incessant meowing, too.
Fuck cats.
At this hour, you hate everything.
You’re six hours into the video and you have hit the point of no return. It’s far too late to get a good night’s sleep and you have to be at work in the morning. You may as well stay awake.
Brantley and Olivia have been in and out of the Atlantic three times now. You watch as they head back into the surf, splashing each other, holding each other around the waste and looking off at the line where the ocean meets the sky.
“Oh, Brantley,” Olivia says. “Our future is as limitless as that horizon.”
“Oh, Olivia,” Brantley says. “Next time, please rinse the salt water off your hands before you give me a hand job.”
“I will, Brantley,” Olivia says, gazing at him with empty Indiana eyes. “I promise.”
“That’s my good girl,” Brantley says. “Now how about you snag me another beer? I need to take a piss here in this warm seawater.”
Brantley and Olivia are assholes.
Ooh! A third person has entered the water with the happy couple. Now this is action.
This person is stomping through the surf, pulling his legs up high with each step, like he’s angry at the ocean itself for getting him wet. He is in a hurry. He is bulling his way straight for Brantley and Olivia.
You sit up and pay more attention. Does he know them? Who the hell would bring a friend along on their honeymoon?
Brantley and Olivia, that’s who.
The new person confronts Brantley. They seem to be fighting. Brantley raises his hands in front of the stranger’s chest and backs up a step. The man pulls something out of his pocket. You can’t tell what it is right away. He clutches the object, then puts his fist up to the side of Brantley’s neck. He holds it there for a second before bringing his hand back down to his side.
Brantley slaps his hand to the spot where the stranger’s hand was. Olivia is staring at him, standing utterly still, as the waves batter her about the waist. The stranger is still standing there, his hands balled up into fists. Brantley falls to his knees. Olivia claps her hands over her mouth and walks towards Brantley.
As Brantley goes under the water, the stranger grabs Olivia by the hair. With what must be amazing strength, he forces her to her knees and shoves her head into the sea. He holds her down for a few seconds before yanking her back up into the sunlight.
The waves are hitting the beach, and they are tinged red.
The stranger puts Olivia under again. His arm moves involuntarily as she struggles. He does not pull her back up. All you can see is a man with one arm in the ocean. He remains still for a long time, longer than you care to keep track of. You realize you have been holding your breath.
The stranger finally lets go of Olivia’s hair. He looks around, down into the water, making sure his deadly work is complete. Brantley and Olivia are not coming back up.
You pick up your phone, but who do you call? What if this is just a joke, some kind of elaborate prank? It doesn’t look like one, though. Your gut tells you this is real. You wonder if anyone else has seen this, but you remember that normal people are asleep by this point in the video.
Altered brainwaves.
The stranger is walking out of the ocean now, back onto the beach. He looks both ways, like he’s crossing the street. You squint, trying to make out his facial features, any distinguishing marks.
He is walking towards the camera.
He is walking towards you.
Part of you wants to stop the video. Just cut it, forget you ever saw it. It’s too late now, though. As they say, what has been seen cannot be unseen.
The man is walking slowly, inexorably. Chills are tap-dancing up and down your spine. Even if you could sleep now, you wouldn’t. You need to see this through to the end.
He is wearing black. Some kind of wet suit. No diving gear or anything like that, just the suit. He looks like a ninja, a shadow. As he comes closer, you see his face is covered, too, with only his eyes visible.
You are riveted. A childish part of you believes he will walk right out of your monitor and ram something into your neck. He’s the boogeyman. He’s the devil.
This is no mistake. It’s not an accident. He sees the camera, he knows it’s there. He is in no hurry, though, and he keeps a slowly measured pace. You are subconsciously backing away from him, pushing yourself further into the back of the couch.
Closer, closer, closer.
And he stops.
The camera is focused on his stomach. The screen is black, but you can see him breathing as the skintight suit moves along with his body. This is all you can see for ten seconds, maybe fifteen. Your breathing pattern matches his.
Suddenly, he drops to his knees. The picture blurs for a moment as the auto-focus readjusts. When the image clears, he is staring at you. There is no white to his eyes. They are pure black. He stares directly into the camera.
He is looking at you.
The man puts his finger in front of his mouth. Through the fabric of wetsuit, you can hear him.
“Ssshhhhhhh.”
He stands again. The camera jostles briefly. He is picking it up. There is an audible click, and the picture turns black.
The sun is beginning to rise. It’s Friday morning. You make a quick call to work. You won’t be in today. You think you’re coming down with something. You’re sure you’ll be fine by Monday.
That’s not true. In fact, you’re not sure you’ll ever be truly fine again. You ponder calling your mother to beg her to watch the video, maybe she’ll have some idea of what to do. But there’s nothing left to do. It can’t be undone.
You go to the kitchen and make some coffee. You go to the bathroom. You stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering what kind of person you’ve become, trying to find a way to blame yourself for what happened. That is a lesson Mother taught you. You think about poor Brantley and Olivia. The coffeepot begins to sputter, and you go back to the kitchen and pour yourself a mug. Then you do what you knew you would do from the very start.
You go back to the couch, to your safe little bunny nest, and you start the video again.
Pain Makes You Beautiful
It’s an undeniable fact: you are gorgeous. Healthy thin, long blonde hair, visible six-pack abs and eyes bluer than the sky. Your teeth are perfect and shiny white. You have a delightful, bubbly personality and are waxed in all the right places.
It’s the truth. You are amazing.
Girls are catty, and they can’t stand you. They talk about you behind your back. They call you plastic, and wonder if your breasts are real.
They are.
It’s all right. You’re used to people being jealous. Even your mother, God rest her, was jealous of you. Daddy liked you more than her. It was a constant argument in the house when you were a child.
“You’re spoiling that girl,” Mother would say.
But Daddy would shush her like a noisy child. “There’s nothing wrong with a father taking care of his little Princess.” And he would pull you onto his lap, and you would bury your face into his neck, feeling his scratchy unshaven cheek against yours, breathing in his faint after-shave and old cigarette smoke scent.
Oh, no. It wasn’t like that. Never like that. That would have been gross. It never, ever got gross.
The lights go out, and it is suddenly unbearably cold. Your perfect nipples grow hard. The only sound is that of the fan, working overtime to cool down the ultraviolet bulbs. You lift the lid of the coffin-like tanning bed and swing your feet to the floor.
Out of your bag, you pull an aloe-based moisturizer. You have learned from years of doing this how to apply it quickly and evenly. You stand in front of the oscillating fan in the corner, turning to help the lotion sink in. When that layer is dry, you apply another moisturizer designed to keep your tan from fading.
It is your only addiction. You tan for an hour every day . You love it. You love the way it makes your body look. Your eyes are more pronounced. Your teeth practically glow. Your colorful clothes stand out. It is like being under a black light all the time.
Your skin is deep brown, blemish free and scarless. You will do anything to keep it that way. Some days, you will tan early in the morning, then go back to the salon after the shift change, so the attendant won’t know you’ve already been there. That way, you can sneak in two sessions in one day.
You work at a popular sports bar and grill. You wear tight bike shorts. No panties. You have a black top, stretchy and tight, that you wear with a thin lacy strapless bra. Your tips are out of this world. One night a regular mentioned that you would be a perfect date for a blind man.
“What do you mean?” you asked.
“Well,” he laughed, “your tits are in Braille and your pants are so tight, he could read your lips.”
When you notice the mole on your upper arm, you’re a little grossed out. Are you getting old? Old people have those weird bumps all over their bodies. You never even had acne. You slap a bandage on it before going to work, and then put some foundation over the bandage. Maybe no one will notice.
The break room at work is an ashtray nightmare. It smells like a 1960’s beauty parlor. There are trashy women’s magazines scattered among the ashes and lipstick smeared cigarette butts. You pick one of them up and flip through it. Ugly girls, ugly clothes, everyone pale and skinnier than you. Gross.
Suddenly, one word jumps out at you.
“Melanoma.”
You glance over the article quickly. A woman, who habitually used tanning beds, discovered a mole on her arm. When it grew and changed color, she went to her doctor. They did a biopsy and it turned out to be skin cancer. She lost her whole arm to cancer and now she has a fake arm with a hook for a hand. Gross.
You throw the magazine down and clock in.
It’s a busy night, and you look fantastic. There’s a baseball game on, and the patrons are getting torn down. All the men stare at you when walk by. You can hear small snippets of their conversations.
“Man, I’d like to…”
“If I wasn’t married, I’d…”
“…tap that like a maple tree in Vermont.”
You soak up the compliments like a leaf absorbs sunlight. You think sometimes you could live on that adoration. No food, no water, just the adulation from strange men who can never touch you. You are a Goddess. There’s a pedestal with your name on it.