Nothing but Darkness

by Maria Ann Green

  What the fuck has happened to me?

  Looking down at my loose-fitting sweatpants sitting on the points of my hips and my old alma mater hoodie, I’m second-guessing my choice to actually wear my comfortable clothes instead of just bringing them along to change into. The Jack, coke, and beers feel heavy in the brown paper bag, and now I think it might just be better to quickly run home and change. Maybe switch out my drinks to a lighter beer, too.

  I look like an idiot.

  As I turn around to head back to my car, the lavender door, now behind me, opens with a whoosh. Shit. Now I have to stay, looking like a moron who’s planning to get trashed. I wish I’d thought more about what I looked like before rushing over here.

  Fuck.

  “So are you going to turn around and come in, or did you just plan to stand on the doorstep all night long?”

  Bee’s voice surrounds me like warm honey, and shockingly it soothes my anxiety. I have no idea what’s going on with me right now, but at least I have the nerve to turn around. As I do, I’m greeted by a genuine smile.

  “I was debating running home to change into more attractive clothes. I look like a college student. I should’ve just brought these.” I gesture to my classy attire. “But I didn’t want you to think I was changing my mind. And while I was still debating with myself you caught me.” I suck in a breath from saying so much so quickly. “So here we are.”

  Wow. So smooth. I just word-vomited all over her.

  This night may not go as well as I’d hoped. Maybe I should just give up and leave.

  Instead of looking confused or worried, Bee’s features soften, and she giggles. It’s a sound that should be coming out of a model. It’s light and airy and surprisingly attractive. It almost sounds like music.

  “Get your ass in here.” Okay, I need to be more aloof, more like my regular self. This is getting ridiculous. Breathe. Despite how I appear at the moment, I swear I’m not, and never have been, an awkward teenage girl.

  I follow Bee into her entryway, taking a second to look around. It’s odd, intriguing, that her décor is similar to mine. The lines are clean and the colors are bold neutrals. To someone else it may feel cold, but to me it just feels like home. Sharp but comforting. I should have her over sometime to see what she thinks of the similarities.

  “Okay, I’m going to be more suave the rest of the night. Promise.” God, I hope I will. I chide myself for my behavior thus far as I follow her to the living room. Here she has colorful paintings displayed, highlighted with professional lighting.

  “Please don’t.” Her smile is radiant, and for the first time I notice how flawless her skin is. “I like this weird side of you. Much more relatable.” Her cheeks rise with the upturn of her mouth, and her eyes sparkle with the laughter in her voice. Though, yes, she’s a bit overweight, I realize you’d never tell if all you saw was her shoulders and up. There isn’t a blemish or bump on the entire landscape of her face, and that flawlessness is sexier than any bimbo caked in makeup.

  Okay, what’s happening to me?

  “So what are our plans for this evening? I’ve been dying of anticipation.”

  I actually have been intrigued. Most women I ask out want to be treated to an expensive meal, wined and dined. Plus they want to put out afterward. So they wear expensive clothes and lots of makeup to impress. But not Bee. She asked me over to cook for me. All she asked was that I bring the alcohol. Little expense on my part, and she’s putting in the effort, too. She didn’t wear a cocktail dress too short for public or curl her hair for hours. She’s in yoga pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. It eases my mind about wearing my sweats instead of toting them in a duffle bag.

  Her hair is up in a messy sort of bun, and though she’s been wearing makeup every other time we’ve crossed paths, this looks better. I feel like I can see who she is underneath the exterior she presents. I can see the real her. No mask. There’s something in her eyes I can’t quite name, don’t know how to place, but it feels familiar, almost kindred. I see a flash of it, and then it’s gone. When she’s dolled up, whatever that is, it’s camouflaged.

  “Dinner will be ready later. First we’ll need to work up our appetites.” Her grin is laced with innuendo and mischievousness.

  “Not touching that one.” Again her laugh surprises me in its allure.

  “C’mon, I’ll show you what I have in mind.” If I weren’t one for surprises, this would be killing me, but I’m enjoying it instead. “Follow me.” And I do.

  Bee takes me to a large den, just off the living room. I can tell it’s her office, though I still have no idea what she does for work. Actually, I don’t know a whole lot about her yet, and now that’s my goal for tonight, to learn more about who Bee is beneath the surface. What she hasn’t told me, whatever she may be hiding.

  “You’re going to help me paint my office.” Her smile boasts a successful prank, like she’s tricked me into this. Okay, I’ll go along with it. No problem, I won’t give into this idea she has about me, that I’ll just run away or disappoint.

  “I’m game. Where’s the roller?” Her eyes give away a hint of surprise at my willingness, but she quickly recovers.

  “Right there.” She points to the pile of painting supplies. “And don’t you dare think of getting any on me. I know self-defense, and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m stronger than I look.”

  “Well, well, well. Aren’t we a little proud of ourselves?”

  “Fuck yes, I am. If you haven’t noticed, I’m freaking awesome.” She turns her back to start the painting process ahead of us.

  I laugh at her.

  “I wonder if your head will fit in the room with us while we paint.”

  “Only just.” Her retort is quick, and she continues to refresh me with her wit. “And after dinner I was planning a video game dance-off. Can you handle my moves?”

  She starts doing the moonwalk and almost knocks the full can of paint onto her carpet.

  “On a full stomach, even,” I say.

  ****

  After a layer of elephant gray is slapped on the walls, we sit down at the marble island to eat an amazing meal. If she cooks like this for herself every day, it makes sense to me now how she’s a few pounds heavier than my typical date.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten food this good. Did you go to culinary school?”

  In the office I learned a few facts about the increasingly interesting Bee Iverson. She’s a freelance writer as well as a ground investor in several well-off businesses around town. Witty and smart, with a bank account to back her up. She has two siblings, a brother and a sister, and she told me more about them than she’s revealed of herself. The more I learn, the more curious I get. Frustratingly, she hasn’t asked a whole lot about me other than surface questions. I wonder if she’s keeping a wall up to protect herself from the big bad version of me. The less she knows about me, the less connected she gets, and the easier it will be when I leave.

  “Nope. My mom’s an amazing cook. She taught me everything I know. Melanie, that’s my mom’s name, her cooking is still better than mine. As I get more practice, so does she. I’ll never catch up.”

  “I’d like to try something of hers sometime then, since apparently it can top the best I’ve ever had.” Bee’s head whips in my direction, and some of her bangs fall into her eyes. She didn’t expect that one.

  Neither did I.

  “Maybe…” Noncommittal response as she turns back to her plate.

  “My parents passed away a few years ago. I wish my mom had taught me to create food masterpieces like this.” If she isn’t going to ask me anything of importance then I’ll just take the leap and share without prodding.

  “I’m sorry.” Chip, chip, chip at the wall. Her posture is more relaxed than it has been all evening. Maybe I’m on to something.

  “No need. They lived long lives. I don’t have any siblings, though, like you. Only child over here.”

  “Oh, so you were a spoiled brat, huh
? Makes a lot of sense.” Her smile is coy as she finishes the last bites on her plate, and I think I’m starting to get somewhere.

  “You got me. Spoiled rotten. That’s why I don’t mind finishing the last of what’s left without offering any to the cook.” I walk to the stove and take the remainders without waiting for permission.

  “How about those drinks before we start the competition?”

  “Crack ’em open. You’ll need it to even come close to me.”

  “Well see about that, sucker,” she says.

  I finish my last crumbs and clean off the counter while she brings the drinks to the living room. Since when do I pick up for anyone? Rolling my eyes at myself, I follow after her like a puppy.

  ****

  I’m breathing heavily as Bee takes her turn to dance. We’ve played several rounds of the competition, and I’m losing. By a lot.

  Her hair is falling out of its holder, and we’re both sweating. But this is the most fun I’ve ever had with a woman outside of the bedroom. I’ve never tried to get to know any female, not really. And I’ve certainly never participated in activities with them not leading specifically to sex unless forced somehow. This is all new to me, and I have no idea if it’s going anywhere. But I’m willing to wait it out to see, which is something I’ve never thought before.

  “This is how I’ve already lost 30 pounds. These games are my bitch.” I can’t help but laugh at her dance moves to the obnoxious music.

  I hear my phone chirp, but Bee’s too engrossed in the game to notice. I make an excuse to go to the bathroom, so I can read the message in private. She acknowledges my leave, but keeps dancing, and I shake my head the whole way to the bathroom.

  When I look at my inbox I see the message is from Mel.

  My eyes widen as I read, Sunday. After the game. Your place.

  I guess I’ve gotten my arrangement.

  Shit.

  My legs are heavy, sticking in whatever I’m walking through. It’s holding me down. Won’t let me get away. But I need to get away. There’s someone behind me. I can’t remember who, but it’s someone bad, that much I know.

  “Freeze. Police.”

  Yep. That would be bad.

  When I turn around I see thousands of officers in uniform, chasing me. Running fast.

  They’re gaining.

  I shouldn’t have looked. They have medieval weapons instead of guns and batons.

  “Put your hands up.”

  I don’t.

  “Or we’ll shoot.”

  Go ahead. My life is over already.

  They know.

  They’ll get me.

  I’ll hang.

  I turn once more and see familiar faces. Faces that can’t be real. Faces buried below the earth, or under water. Faces that aren’t faces anymore.

  One cop gets close enough to zap me, and I fall to the floor, pissing myself. She’s got her flashlight in my eyes, and the only thing I can think is, “How’d they find out it was me?”

  ****

  The sun is an asshole this morning. A real bastard.

  My dreaming unconscious isn’t much better, either.

  I stayed at Bee’s way too late playing games and talking, and now I’m paying the price while my shades and curtains are wide open. But it was hard to leave her place. She basically had to push me out around two in the morning so she could go to bed. I can’t think of the last time I talked with a woman just to learn about her.

  Maybe never.

  We have another date set for this upcoming Friday. And though I’ll never tell Jason, even when he begs me to spill, I’m pretty excited about it. Again I’m not exactly sure why, but I’m done questioning; I’m just going with it.

  Though, there’s one thing exciting me more than anything else. More exciting than dates, more exciting than sex. When I got home, while surfing on the high of an emotionally fulfilling night, I made the decision to look for the hitchhiker tonight. I’ll hopefully put my one free weekend day to good use. A Saturday wedged between two other packed days. They’re filled by intriguing women, neither of whom I’d have guessed I’d be even a little involved with if you’d have asked me a few weeks ago.

  And this middle day will have an event altogether different from the preceding and the following. Though it will still involve an interesting woman.

  I have the daylight hours to pack my kit, followed by driving around town. I’ll stay busy “completing errands,” while really trying to scope out streets and highways more likely to have a possible hitchhiker.

  I heave out of bed to brush my teeth since I can’t stay still any longer. It’s time to start my day off right. I’ll get ready, eat, and then pack.

  At least I don’t look tired. The handsome devil looking back in the mirror at me is happy, confident. Dates and playdates do wonders for my skin and hair. My smile fades, though, as I wonder how hard it will actually be to find a hitchhiker on a specific day and in a set time frame like this. I hadn’t thought too much about that, though I hadn’t anticipated only having one day for this fun-filled project, either. I could draw it out and go driving around for a few nights, looking for my chance.

  And I will if I have to.

  But I want it now if I can have it. I don’t want to wait. I want to feel the high tonight. The high nothing else can, or will, ever reach. I want to soak my hands in the blood of my next pretty little lady.

  I know I’ve seen hitchhikers around before. Maybe I’ll just get lucky? But what if I don’t? What can I do instead? I’ve seen lots of homeless people holding signs, asking for handouts from suckers willing to part with their hard-earned money. A bum may be a surer bet since I see them around often enough, if I want it to be tonight. Need it to be.

  Okay, plan revised. Homeless woman tonight. Hitchhiker whenever I spot one another night. I’ll make her spontaneous.

  Yes, that’ll work. No more need to run errands until dark. It’ll be a lot easier to find someone on the corner than it would’ve been to find someone with their thumb up waiting for a ride. There are plenty of homeless near the shelter.

  And with that, my nerves are again alight with anticipation while the new decision settles into place. I hope this never gets old, and I never lose this wonderful feeling. It’s as if everything inside is sparking and bouncing around. I feel every single nerve in my body. If I could bottle this to sell it, I’d be a billionaire.

  ****

  After picking jeans and a t-shirt at random, I make my way around the house, preparing my kit for tonight. My bag already contains rope, duct tape, knives, the usual paraphernalia. But in addition, I head to my toolbox for inspiration, adding a hammer, a drill, a screwdriver, pliers, and a box cutter.

  The tingling in my spine shoots from the center of my back in both directions, to my tailbone and all the way to my scalp. The creative things I can do with these items—it’s so thrilling. I’m giddy.

  I want more unexpected items, too. Knives are obvious. Tools are less so, but they’re still nothing brilliant. I want something more surprising, something creative, devious. Something unexpected.

  I walk around my house with no destination in mind, looking for anything that’ll catch my eye, but I’m coming up empty. Damn. This thinking outside the box isn’t going too well. I want something new and fresh, something that’ll be painful. Something harsh.

  In frustration, I start to stomp rather than walk. My bare feet slap the hardwood floors louder with each step, and the soles begin to sting. I need something else. My kit doesn’t feel finished. I know that much, even if I don’t know what’s missing.

  In anger, I throw the bag on an end table, knocking all the previously stable contents off. I cringe as something shatters.

  Breaking things may have been unnecessary, even if the outburst felt good for a second. I seem to build more pent-up rage since collecting donations. Maybe eruptions like this are good every once in a while now. I feel looser afterward.

  I bend to clean the mess, knowing
I need to act gingerly. I heard the porcelain bowl break. The pieces are sharp, jagged. It’d hurt to slip with this in hand.

  A light bulb sparks.

  This would be great for tonight. So I drop it into the bag. With one irregular piece added, I feel a little better. It’s great, but it still doesn’t feel complete yet. I finish cleaning the mess I’ve made, and restart my trip around the house in search for what’s missing. Lazily, I add a pair of scissors, bleach, another strong-smelling cleaner, a meat tenderizer, and a crème brûlée torch.

  I’m almost there now.

  And suddenly, I know the last piece I need.

  With something in mind, I head down to the basement. The last weapon is the least expected in the bunch. Tonight is going to be so amazing. Reaching into my kit of wonder to pick out a weapon at random will be new and totally incredible.

  The basement is cold, like most basements are, but right now I don’t feel the temperature change. Heading to an old box that’s been packed away for years, I steady my pace, refusing to run like the overexcited child inside wants me to. When I get to the box, I have to blow off the dust on top before I can peel back the tape. Some of the dirt blows back in my face, which starts me coughing.

  I guess I should clean down here more often.

  Opening the box, I’m so happy I thought of this. It’ll make an appearance in many of my packed kits from now on. I pull out an old sculpture made for and given to my parents. When they passed it made its way to me, and I never cared for the supposed aesthetic, so into a box and down to the basement it went.

  But now I love it.

  I rotate the abstract cold metal piece in my hands, looking at it from all angles. The size of a football, it almost looks like a crown with sharp, spiked edges rising from its solid base. And along that base are feet of bike chain wrapped around in layers, slightly rusted over time. Various metals were used in shades of copper, steel, iron, and so on. Each side has patterns etched into the metal with no real semblance of design. It looks medieval, and I was always a bit scared of it as a kid.