The Cutting Room Floor

by Dawn Klehr

  “She knows that. Deep down, she knows.”

  “Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”

  “I do,” she says unconvincingly. “But not before you announce next year’s director, so I think you better just count these ballots.”

  I take all the sheets of paper and unfold them. It’s easy to tally the results. It’s unanimous: Caleb will take my place next year.

  Our time is over. I guess that’s as it should be.

  I make the announcement and the groups split up. The sophomores and juniors make plans and the seniors pack away all the equipment.

  “Okay, guys, the first rule of film club is that we don’t talk about film club,” Caleb says to his new team.

  That was my line.

  We finish packing up and before I know it, we’re done. I lose my nerve and don’t try to talk to Rye. She’s with Stella now, so I have no chance. The new film club has already left to celebrate, and the last of the seniors just walked out the door.

  I go look at the edit suite one more time.

  I wish I could edit my life and leave all the bad stuff in here. The lies to Riley, messing up her audition, getting involved with Tori. All of it.

  But I can’t.

  In the parking lot, the lights make all the white fluff sparkle. If Rye and I were walking together, we would’ve already had a snowball fight. We’d be laughing and yelling. Instead, the parking lot is eerie with silence.

  I shuffle through the snow and that’s when I see it.

  That’s when I know.

  It’s the shoes.

  That was the clue I was looking for.

  The footprints in front of me have an odd pattern—crisscrossing lines, like someone took a razorblade to them. I’ve seen this before.

  In Bernie’s crime scene photos. The footprints left in blood after Ms. Dunn’s murder.

  My ears grow warm and the back of my neck is itchy, and I know Rye was right all along. The killer has been here the entire time. At our school.

  But who was it?

  Who was out here tonight?

  I go through a mental list of everyone I saw at school tonight—it’s not a large group. It has to be someone we know, someone we know well. I speed up to a run and jump in my car.

  I have to tell Riley.

  RILEY

  I’m thankful to be done—completely done—with the film club. I walk with Stella out to the parking lot. We’re almost to her car when I hear it, the revving engine. To our left, there’s a big black truck heading right for us.

  “Watch out!” I scream, pushing Stella out of the way.

  The truck whips past us into a spinning circle on the slippery snow. Will hangs out of his window and laughs.

  “Merry Christmas, mother fuckers,” he screams.

  I freeze right there. I can’t move. I haven’t seen Will since the day of the festival. I’d hoped that he’d decided to let things be, but he’s probably just been too busy filling holiday drug orders to bother me.

  Marcus is walking to his car, but he stops to wave at Will. He laughs and shakes his head.

  Yes, he would think Will’s stunt was funny.

  “Don’t worry, Riley.” Stella grabs my hand and leads me to her car. “He’s not going to do anything with people around.”

  She’s right.

  Stella gives me a ride home and we make plans to see each other over break. I couldn’t be happier to have the time off.

  I walk up the driveway and notice Bernie’s police cruiser parked next door. It’s times like this when I’m thankful to live next to a cop.

  I go into the dark house and flip on the lights. There’s an open bottle of wine and two wine glasses sitting on the counter. Mom and Dad must’ve gotten some good news.

  The note on the table confirms it. Dad gets to add another class next semester, so they went out to celebrate. Finally, something to be happy about.

  I’m exhausted, so I grab a blanket and curl up on the couch. I try to sleep but my head is pounding. When I can’t take it anymore, I walk into the kitchen for some Advil.

  The door is wide open, flapping in the breeze.

  Looks like I forgot to shut the door.

  I close it and reach for the Advil in the cabinet above the fridge.

  Before I can grab it, a sharp, debilitating pain shoots through my head and down my neck, and then everything goes black.

  DEZ

  My fingertips are raw and my nails are bitten down to the quick. I’ve been chewing them since I found the footprints. I have to tell Riley that Ms. Dunn’s killer is still here. Rye was right.

  She was right about a lot of things.

  I take a deep breath as I head over to her house—I know she doesn’t want to see me, but I have to find a way to make her listen.

  One foot in front of the other, Dez.

  I make it around to the back and see shadows float across the windows. Looks like I might have an audience for this. I swing around to the door. It’s wide open. Without thinking, I walk in.

  Inside, it’s quiet … too quiet.

  Something’s not right here, and I suddenly feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I take slow steps toward the living room. “Riley?” I call out. “Are you there? Rye?”

  My words are cut off by a python that’s wrapped itself around my neck.

  No. This can’t be happening.

  I’m trapped in a chokehold.

  But not for long. I’m not going to go down like this.

  I feel the python’s breath on my neck.

  “Desmond. Fucking. Brandt,” a familiar voice hisses. “You’re not supposed to be here tonight.”

  My head tries to place the voice of this asshole while my body squirms in his grip, searching for a way out of the hold. “Where is she? Where’s Riley?”

  “You fucking idiot. You have no idea what you just walked into. You’ve made a huge mistake, friend. Huge.”

  What has he done with her?

  Reaching around my neck, I feel my way to his head. He must be wearing a ski mask—I grab a handful of hair through it and pull, jerking his skull from side to side.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says.

  “Let me go, asshole, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  I’m able to get a grip on his neck and I lock in. I flip him around my body and when I do, his feet fly out from under him. And there they are.

  The shoes.

  It’s the killer. It has to be.

  But why is he here?

  He recovers and slams me against the counter. Still, I advance, pulling back my arm and clenching my fist.

  I connect with his masked face, and can tell by his eyes that my connection was good. I lean across him, dropping my weight on his chest.

  “Riley,” I call out again. “Riley, it’s okay, I’ve got him.”

  I try to pull the ski mask off but the guy is wild—he shakes his head and tries to buck me off.

  You’re going to have to do better than that.

  I tighten my grip and almost have the mask off. But in moments, my arms fall away—there’s an explosion in my head. When I look up, the asshole is holding a bottle of wine.

  I’m falling, reaching for him to steady myself. I grab hold of the back of his mask. It slides down to the floor with me.

  I see his face.

  Oh, shit.

  That’s the last thing I remember before he strikes me with the bottle again.

  RILEY

  When I come to, I feel the painful pounding deep in my skull. I’m sprawled out on Dad’s leather recliner, desperate to see what’s going on around me. It hurts to move. I reach up to feel my head and realize my hands are taped together. I run them through
my hair—it’s wet and sticky. I’m stiff, so I try to stretch my legs but they’re taped together too. I open my eyes and see more tape around my middle, securing me to the chair. I blink, over and over again, until I can focus. Though the room is dim, I can still make out a figure in the chair across from me.

  I try to scream, but it comes out strained and hoarse. Dez shakes his head.

  Oh my God. What the hell is going on?

  “Don’t say anything,” he whispers. “Everything is going to be okay.” His eyes dart around the room and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  He sits there, not moving. His eyes meet mine. They narrow like he’s trying to tell me something.

  “Why are you doing this, D—? ”

  Before the words are even out, I see that Dez is also tied to the chair.

  I let out a silent cry that ripples through my body.

  In the shadows, another figure appears.

  A boy I know.

  Marcus.

  “Let her go, Marcus,” Dez says, thrashing in his chair.

  Marcus backhands Dez and a loud crack echoes in the room. “I told you. No talking.”

  Dez’s face reddens and his lip starts to bleed.

  “Next time, I do it to her,” he says.

  DEZ

  “You really fucked this up, Desmond.” Marcus paces around the living room. My eyes don’t meet his. I focus on Riley. Her face is pale and her head is bleeding. I can see her hands shake. I try to calm her with my eyes, but she no longer trusts me.

  My heart squeezes at the thought.

  “It’s Riley I want, not you,” Marcus says. “Shit.” He runs his gloved hand through his hair—back and forth.

  My eyes move to him now and I take him in. He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans. The ski mask sticks out of his back pocket and he holds a huge pair of scissors down by his side.

  Stop.

  Rewind.

  Again, my eyes move down his body to the scissors.

  Pause.

  I close my eyes and see Ms. Dunn’s crime scene photo again. I see the printed report. The report I shouldn’t have been looking at.

  Multiple stab wounds to the victim’s torso.

  Wounds measure one inch in length.

  I open my eyes, back to the scissors, and realize Marcus is holding the murder weapon.

  I pray Rye doesn’t see it.

  What does he want with her?

  “So, Riley,” Marcus says. “I suppose Emma’s already been to see you. Hmm?”

  Riley doesn’t move, but I see her eyes travel down to the scissors in his hand. Her eyes are full of horror and I see her swallow.

  “I asked you a question, you little dyke!”

  Riley shudders. “No,” she squeaks out. “Emma hasn’t been here.”

  “It seems she wants you back.” He flicks the scissors at her.

  “No.” Riley shakes her head.

  “Don’t lie, Riley.” Marcus’ eyes are wild, scanning the doors and windows. “I really hate liars. You know she dumped me for you.”

  Rye shakes her head again.

  “Oh, yes she did. Things were going great, and then she dumps me out of the blue. Says she can’t be without you. What a lying tease. You’re all the same.”

  He moves closer to Rye and my adrenaline kicks in. I pull at the duct tape, but it just digs into my skin. “Who are all the same?” I ask, trying to divert his attention.

  Come over here, asshole.

  “Women, Dez.” He laughs but his hand is shaking. “They tease and lie.”

  “Yes.” I try to keep him talking, keep him from moving toward Rye. “Yes, they do. Why? Who else teased you?”

  “Rachel.” He laughs again. “That’d be Ms. Dunn to you. Or, was Ms. Dunn. Yeah, dude, I had the hots for teacher.”

  Riley lets out a whimper. I will her to keep quiet but she lets out another.

  Now she’s done it.

  Marcus flashes Riley a warning glare and then looks back at me.

  “And she was hot for me,” he continues. “Well, she was before she got cold feet. Just like Emma. But you know”—Marcus stalks over to Riley, this time waving the scissors in front of her face—“I did learn something from that brief love affair.”

  I endure his story. I hear his words, but they become muffled and sound almost as if he’s underwater. It’s because my mind is drifting, going into protection mode. I see the murder scene play out in front of me. One element at a time.

  Marcus’ gloved hands.

  The blades of the scissors. Opening and closing. Opening and closing. They let out that squeaky sound, whining for something to cut.

  “See,” Marcus goes on. “I was the only one who suffered when I killed Rachel. She didn’t know any better. She was dead. And I was left living without her. Seeing her face wherever I went. It was a stupid move on my part. This time I won’t be as foolish.”

  I feel a faint sense of relief. At least he doesn’t plan on killing us.

  “Yeah,” he adds. “Instead of killing Emma, I’ll kill the person she loves the most.”

  I cough, choking on my own saliva. I’m going to be sick.

  “If you’re gone, Riley, then it’s Emma who’ll suffer. But she’ll get over it … and I’ll be waiting when she does. I can be very patient.”

  At this point, it’s clear. This is not a stunt. He came here for one reason: to kill Riley. My mind races, searching for something, trying to form a plan. I can’t think. I can’t do anything. I’m stuck. Impotent. Weak. I’m helpless and I start to slip away. My eyes get fuzzy, like it’s a dream sequence in a movie.

  A new song begins to play in my head. My soundtrack has switched from Chris Isaak to Stealers Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle with You”—the song in that twisted ear-cutting scene from Reservoir Dogs. I’m caught up in a fucking Quentin Tarantino movie.

  I break out of it. The fuzziness gives way and Marcus comes back into focus. Still, I hear Stealers Wheel, singing about an eerie feeling that something isn’t right.

  Marcus is poking the side of his leg with the scissors. It’s like he’s in a trance, keeping time with the music in my head.

  Then he looks at me and shakes his head. “You, my friend, are a victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He lets out a little chuckle, turns his back on me, and stalks over to Riley. I squirm and twist my body, trying to loosen my bindings. They only cut deeper into my wrists and ankles.

  I close my eyes and flip back to Reservoir Dogs playing in my mind. The infamous Mr. Blonde commands the screen. He walks across the warehouse—the hideout for a bunch of thugs after a robbery goes bad. Mr. Blonde has taken a police officer hostage. The cop sits bound to a chair—much like I am right now. Blonde turns on the radio. “Stuck in the Middle with You” is ringing through the speakers.

  Mr. Blonde’s next movements are set to the music, perfectly. He lifts his black cowboy boot and rests it on a chair. His hand reaches inside the boot and pulls out a switchblade. He opens it slowly and runs it along his five o’clock shadow. Mr. Blonde is intimate with the blade—just like Marcus is with his metal shears.

  Mr. Blonde sings along with the words, dances to the tune, while the cop struggles in his chair. Again, like me.

  Mr. Blonde then rips a piece of duct tape from the roll and slowly wraps it around the cop’s mouth. He’s calm and cool as can be when he leans over the cop and says he’s going to torture him.

  I stop the movie in my mind and order my eyes to open. They land on Marcus. He’s talking to Riley. A deep red pattern blooms on his pant leg, from his jabs with the scissors.

  The fucked-up song about losing control continues in my head, a fitting track for the real-life nightmare playing out in front of me.

  “Marcus,” I yell. “Marcus.”

 
He leaves us and dashes into the kitchen. Riley squeezes her eyes shut.

  “Rye,” I beg. “Rye!” I need her to look at me. We’re running out of time.

  In seconds, Marcus is back. I stare into his eyes but they’re vacant now. He’s looking right through me.

  “Marcus,” I stutter as the panic courses through my veins. Behind my eyelids, I see Mr. Blonde take his blade to the cop’s ear.

  He begins slicing.

  The camera jerks to the ceiling but I can hear it.

  I hear it all.

  The struggle and pain and … torture.

  The camera moves back to Mr. Blonde. He’s now holding the cop’s ear he just hacked off with the switchblade. He flips it around in his hand. The cop screams and groans.

  In the real world, the room spins. Fuck, can this be the real world?

  Yes, it can. It is.

  But then Quentin Tarantino takes the reins. He takes over this real world. He takes over my life.

  Desmond Brandt Death Scene:

  Take one.

  DEZ continues to look at RILEY. The camera moves back and forth between them in uneasy, choppy movements. The song “Stuck in the Middle with You” continues to play.

  CUT TO:

  CLOSE UP: DEZ

  DEZ’S eyes water. He’s shaking, pleading with MARCUS. The camera pulls out, framing the profiles of DEZ and MARCUS.

  DEZ

  Please. Don’t do this. Don’t do it, man.

  TAKE AUDIO FULL:

  SONG PLAYS: Please … . Please …

  MARCUS

  Sorry, Dez. I have no other option.

  In a flash, MARCUS’ hand is at DEZ’S face. MARCUS pulls down DEZ’S bottom lip, cranks open his mouth, and stuffs a dishrag inside. DEZ chokes and gags. We watch as his body shudders.

  DEZ lets out a gasp and Riley explodes in sobs.

  RILEY

  Groans escape from Dez. They start deep in his throat but are stifled by the dishtowel stuffed in his mouth. His guttural pleas rise and fall. Everything inside me tightens.

  It is the most frightening sound I’ve ever heard.