Danni opened her eyes then, and said, "What's your name, by the way? I would call you a goddess but that would be a little crazier than even I am. I can't believe I kissed you before I asked that question, but it seemed..." she let the comment hang, the ending obvious, and Danni pushed the long white bangs out of Undead Girl's eyes.
My name?
Undead Girl thought for a moment. Then she smiled. Danni smiled back; the kind of smile you have to respond to, and the energy between them arced back and forth, endless waves building upon each other. She couldn't believe she had just been kissed in the middle of a coffee shop, and all of her dreamy fantasies were on the tip of her fingers. So she said the first thing that she could think of. The thing that had been on her mind every time she'd dreamed lately.
"My name is Red."
About the Author
Kim Wells has a Ph.D. in Literature, with specialties in American Lit, Women Writers, Feminism, Sci-Fi/Fantasy & Film Studies but please don't hold any of that against her. She used to teach academic writing and how to read literature at a university in her hometown and tried to convince college students that it really is cool to like poetry. She has written two full length novels, both Magic Southern Slipstream and several shorts which will find their way into longer stories eventually.
She lives in the South, has twin children (one girl, one boy) and a husband who is the model for all her best romantic heroes. She also has two cats–one black and sassy, one stripey and fat, and also kinda sassy.
If you enjoyed Undead Cyborg Girl, you'll be pleased to hear that there will soon be two more installments to Red and Danni's story. They'll meet her tribe (the appropriately acronym'd REDD group) and get to know more of the local Cyborg Assassins in "Red," and then go on some pretty fun adventures in "Tribe".
Check her out at
kimwellswrites
www.kimwells.net/
Don't Touch Me
by Bey Deckard
Summary: Fighting is what Beau does best, because the very thing he dreads is exactly what lends him the extraordinary strength to defeat even the worst odds. And he does it all with the help of his angel, the woman he longs desperately to hold...but can't.
BREATHE.
Remember to breathe.
Keep eye contact.
Breathe.
Keep moving.
Stay out of reach.
Protect your head.
Breathe.
Those are the thoughts going through my head as I bounce on the balls of my feet even though I'm so fucking exhausted and in so much pain I'm not seeing straight. The man I'm up against always gives himself away before a move, and I'm watching for the sign like it's my last hope. Lean and mean, he goes by the name King Cobra because they say he strikes like a snake, quick and deadly. I think the name's bullshit. He's just tall. Taller than me. It's the only reason he's in my weight class. But it means he's got a helluva reach—that's why he downs so many guys. Nothing to do with snakes.
I take a quick jab to the abdomen, but manage to send him back with a kick. I clamp down on the pain. Bury it.
Breathe.
There's a drop of sweat on the end of my nose. It moves every time I take a breath, tickling me. I shake my head and send the drop flying. Focus. I gotta stay out of range of those long arms; otherwise he's gonna pin me against the cage. Worse, grapple me down to the floor. The thought of him pushed up against me makes me want to puke. The surge of adrenaline shoots me forward for a bit of dirty boxing. I'm in and out before he can do more than slam his elbow into my shoulder.
Breathe.
I bite down on my mouth guard. My breathing sounds like static. I hurt everywhere, but I'm wearing him down. I gotta wear him down.
Then I see it. He's about to lash out. My body moves on its own before I register it. I jump back, dodging one fist but still take a hard punch to the side. Can't be helped. The sound of him bruising my meat is like a wet slap, but his fist ends up out there like a spent bullet. Before he can pull it back or use the other, I spin around and back-fist him as hard as I fucking can.
The mat shakes with force of his fall. I dance back, heart pounding.
A risky move. He could've got me. He could've grabbed me with those big sweaty mitts and covered my skin with a mountain of flesh.
Breathe. Hide the terror. He didn't get you.
The roar of the crowd is a tidal wave of noise. King Cobra's not getting up.
Fear. My secret weapon. That's why I down so many guys.
The ref reaches for my arm, but I growl at him and he steps back. I see him recover, remembering what he was told not to do. He just lifts his own arm and I mimic. The crowd is a sea of howling faces. Like animals. Patting each other on the back for my win. Fuckers.
Then I see her. My angel. A spot of pastel color in the swarming dark. Hands clasped under her chin, I can almost make out the tears in her big blue eyes. My Suzy.
I always tell her not to come. She never listens. Stubborn as I am. She's the only one who knows what fighting does to me. I hate it that she watches me, but I'd be lying if I said it don't make me feel better knowing she's there.
Another night, another fight. This one's in a warehouse. It smells like tar and metal, and it's cold as a witch's tit in here. Illegal fighting is risky, but I see at least two cops slumming it in the crowd. I figure my ass is covered.
I jump around on the balls of my feet. Throw a few practice punches at the air. The mat is cracked in places, and instead of a cage there's ropes. Fine with me. Easier to get away from ropes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see something bright against the grimy black coats of the men. My angel. She shouldn't be here, not around these assholes. Suzy meets my eye and gives me a little nod. She's so pretty. So fucking pretty.
That old sadness comes crawling back, and I stuff it deep into my guts. No point in thinking of that. Not when there's a fight to be won.
Head in the game.
The guy who ducks into the ring is a huge fella, and I lock eyes with him like I wanna tear his throat out. Sometimes it's the big guys who are easiest to take down. They're also the ones who can pin me under their weight. This is dirty fighting. No weight class. No rules except "try not to kill your opponent."
You can do it. Just get through the fight.
Don't let him get you.
Breathe.
He doesn't blink, just stares at me, lip curled like he knows something I don't. The ref is a new guy, and he slurs through our intro like he's had one too many. Then it's show time.
Immediately, I know I'm in trouble. No matter how I bob and weave, jump back and spin, his fists find me. Each one's a sledgehammer of pain. I can't escape. He's everywhere at once, and when his skin meets mine, it's like there's a ratchet tightening the fear and disgust around me like a belt, choking my breath off. Nausea sits like a cool puddle of grease in my belly.
Breathe.
I try for a risky move: a sweep even though he's solid on two feet. But it's all I got. Though it catches him off-guard and makes him shift, I'm not fast enough to land a punch before he recovers.
I made a mistake. I'm too close. Instead of swinging those clubs again, he ducks and grabs me around the waist, slamming me down to the mat.
The wind's knocked out of me for a second and my senses are screaming. He's on top of me, his skin suffocating mine. Fear brings on fury, nausea becomes rage. Every part of me is so hell-bent on getting away from him that I could probably lift a car in this state. Berserker power feeding off terror.
With a crazed howl, I flip him over and elbow him hard in the face. Once. Twice. I've almost managed a third time before he gets his knee up high enough to shove me off. Then, like a rabid dog, he comes after me again, dragging me back down. My forearm snaps under his knee, and I yell through clenched teeth. His fist flattens my nose, my head bouncing off the mat. What I've gotta do goes against all my instincts to flee, but it's the only fucking way I'll win. Or survive.
I piv
ot my hips, my strength like a drowning man's, and cage him between my thighs. Skin to skin, it's a fucking nightmare, but I hold on. Locked together, I crush him while he bashes my face in, the punches barely registering.
Breathe. I can't breathe.
Is it my fear that's making the world go dark, or the pain? I think I'm gonna retch. But then I see my chance, and I take it. One quick shift that leaves me open to another brutal punch to the face, but I got him by the neck...and I squeeze.
It's over.
Lying on the mat. Voices. Eyes half-closed, I watch them drag the guy away. Someone touches my arm and I have a spasm, curling in on myself like a pill bug. Doesn't matter who they are or what they want, my bladder's gonna give because I can't take no more.
But then I hear her.
"No! Don't you fucking touch him! Jesus fucking Christ will you get out of the fucking way? Back off!"
Suzy. My angel. She's got a mouth on her. It brings me out of my shell a bit.
"If you're gonna touch him, the least you can fucking do is put on a pair of fucking gloves!" As if everyone knows about it.
She kneels next to my head, still swearing at the men to stay away. I hate being like this. Suzy can help. Suzy always helps.
"Beau, you okay honey?" She makes it sound like we're the only two in the room. "Can you get up?"
I nod. If she wants me to get up, I'll get up. I'll do anything she says. Weak as a kitten, I sit up, holding my broken arm against my chest. They're gonna have to sedate me to get a cast on it. I can't go through it awake. I pull out my mouth guard and scowl at the men standing around us like the big rocks at Stonehenge. They're annoyed. I can tell. Probably lost some cash, but it's not my fucking problem.
Besides, by the time the next fight ends in blood and pain, they'll have forgotten me anyway. I'm just another gladiator in the ring.
Finally I'm on my feet, and even before Suzy and I get to the door they're calling the next match.
I crawl into the backseat of Suzy's Civic and lay down.
"I wish you'd give it up," says Suzy, like she always does. But the wad of cash in her pocket probably feels good, and I'm glad I put it there. She just starts the car and gets going. We'll be at the hospital soon.
"You gotta tell them to knock me out," I mumble. My voice is all weird because I can't breathe out my nose. I know I'm getting blood on her seats, but she never seems to mind.
"I know. Don't you think I know?" She sounds annoyed. She's just worried about me. I hear a click and then a crackle when she lights up an American Spirit. The smoke finds me in the back. She wishes I'd stop fighting; I wish she'd stop with the cancer sticks. "Jesus, Beau, I thought that guy was gonna do you in good this time."
Me too.
"He didn't."
She takes a few drags, corners too sharply, and jerks the car to a stop at a light. Suzy's a terrible fucking driver, but I'd rather be here than with anyone else in the world. She's my guardian angel, even if she drives an automatic with both feet.
I know we're at the hospital by how steep the road gets. Another slam on the brakes jostles me back hard against the seat, and I wince at the fucking pain in my arm.
Worse than that, though, is the fear. It's building up again. The waiting room. Too many people. Nurses and doctors, swarming around.
"They can't touch me until I'm out. Promise me, Suzy."
"Don't worry, big guy. Promise, cross my heart no one's gonna touch you."
"You got my papers?" I got a bunch of scribbles from some shrink saying I need special treatment because I got PTSD from my tour in Afghanistan. It's bullshit, of course. What I got ain't nothing like that.
"I have your papers. How many times have I done this for you?"
"Okay." My heart's going at it again. Picking up speed. I can't help it.
"Really, Beau," Suzy says, looking over the back of the seat at me. She's got eyes like you see on a doll, huge and baby blue. "Everything'll be okay. Just relax."
I nod, but we both know that's impossible for me.
I'm watching Suzy through the little kitchen pass-through while sitting in the old La-Z-Boy with a beer in my hand. Her blonde bangs are damp and sticking to her forehead from the heat of the stove. She's making spaghetti. Suzy makes three things: spaghetti, fried chicken, and shepherd's pie. Spaghetti night's my favorite. She always mixes in a can of mushrooms with the store brand sauce I like. Makes it special. I smile when she notices me looking at her, and she smiles back. But it makes me hurt a little inside.
Suzy and I've known each other since we were kids. We grew up three doors apart in the same shitty slice of the city, playing together in the back alley behind the row houses. I think she's the only person left alive who really believes me about my condition. Well, at least she's never said anything that would make me think otherwise. Not like those other kids who always teased me and called me a liar, even when I was crying like a baby from them laying their hands on me. She just accepted the truth and made sure that I didn't get bumped in our games.
I think I've loved her all my life.
The doctors don't know what's wrong with me. They all seem to think it's in my head. Or from getting shot back in '04. But I've been like this for as long as can I remember. Mama said when I was born, the first thing I did was push her away, screaming like my skin was on fire.
It doesn't hurt. Nothing like that. Just seems that all those nice things that folks talk about, all those gentle, loving, fuzzy feelings, are turned inside out when I'm touched. I get the nightmare version: fear, disgust, and anger. No matter who's doing the touching, it's always the same. My pop tried to beat it out of me when I was barely out of diapers, thinking that if he held me down long enough, I'd come out the other side cured. All it did was make me get sick all over the carpet and then black out. That was the last time I saw the bastard. Mama kicked his sorry ass out.
Plain and simple, there's something wrong with my skin, and it's getting worse every year. Bare contact is bad. Wet contact's worse—which is why fighting pushes me to the very limit, what with all the sweating and grappling. If someone's got on a pair of gloves to touch me, I can stand it for a little while, but whatever it is that causes the terror and sickness always seeps through and gets me in the end. Me being dead drunk's another way I can block it out for a bit, but the contact's gotta be rough and quick. When I can get it up, I pay the whores extra for any bruises I leave behind when I crash into them like a head-on collision. It's always the same two, and those girls are damn good sports even though they don't believe the reason why I use them so hard. They think I just like it that way.
My condition's why Suzy and I can never really be together. I don't wanna be with her like that, all drunk and harsh. Suzy deserves a helluva lot better.
I really don't know why she's stuck around all this time. Maybe she feels sorry for me. Maybe she actually loves me like she says she does, but I wouldn't blame her for a second if she left. I'd miss her something terrible, but I know I'd find another way to get myself to the hospital after a solid beating.
I like that Suzy's here though, living with me. When I came back from the war with my guts all bullet-riddled, she'd just buried the little girl she'd had with the fella she married. Came to see me in the little house I grew up in when she heard I was home. Kicked the useless nurse out, and took over. The only thing she said when I asked about her husband was that there was nothing left there for her. I never asked her again.
Suzy frowns at me from the kitchen. I've probably got that look on my face that makes her worry for me. I always tell her that worrying over my fool head's gonna give her wrinkles, and she always laughs, saying that wrinkles can't make her any more plain. She's got no idea how pretty she is.
Normal folks don't know how nice they got it, being able to touch. They take it for granted. It's the little things that I can't do that hurt the most. When Suzy comes home from her cashier job, sore from standing all day working a double, I'd love to sit on the couch with her
and rub her feet to make her feel better. And she's got the daintiest feet too. I'm sure they'd disappear in my big mitts. But I can't fucking do that. Who in their right mind would want to touch the lady they love and feel only fear and disgust? Not me.
So this is what we got.
Suzy playing housewife for a man who can't ever love her like she deserves. Being my guardian angel and making sure I get put back together right after a match.
Me stuck fighting because that's the only thing I'm good for. I've been fired too many times over the years. My special needs get in the way, and I'm not smart enough to do anything but warehouse or factory work. Illegal or smoker fights when I can't get into a real match. We need the money. These are tough times, and only getting tougher with my arm in a cast like it is.
"Want another beer before supper?"
I just shake my head and go back to smiling at her as she strains the spaghetti over the sink. My angel. Sometimes I think I love her so much it'll kill me.
I ball my fists and box at the air, annoyed at the ache in my arm. I cut the cast off a week early, but I couldn't pass up this fight. It's good money. Just gotta keep my left shielded.
Breathe.
Relax.
I'm gonna keep a little of the cash aside and take Suzy to the fancy Italian place down the street. The one with the real tablecloths and candles stuck into wine bottles. I haven't told her yet, but I know she'll love it.
The alleyway is dark, and the crowd's a little rowdy. A few guys are obviously drunk. I don't like it. Suzy shouldn't be here. I take a look over my shoulder and see her standing there in her pink coat, smiling at my ugly mug like I'm something special. But she looks a little pale, and I think she's worried about the crowd too. Still, she gives me a thumbs-up, and I grin.
UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1) Page 15
