by ed. Pela Via
A hint of Tom Waits slithers under the crack of the door. I imagine pale moonlight, a velvet rug and skin of sateen. Silk restraints and a leather flog hanging from the wrought-iron bed frame. I cinch my knife inside my pocket, drop a few dead petals to the floor and open the door.
Adele lies naked on the bed, bound by the wrists, with a silk kerchief over her eyes. Two dozen candles rimming the studio throw jagged shadows, make the slight line of pubic hair dance like a flame. She’s biting her bottom lip, writhing against the restraints. Her ribs press against her flesh like a fish waiting to be gutted.
The light in the bathroom turns off.
A man enters the room. He unbuttons his sleeves and wears no pants. Black socks. Garters. He’s laughing to himself, doesn’t realize I’m standing here.
‘What the fuck?’
He drops a cufflink. It skitters across the hardwood floor, under the bed.
Adele stops moving.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
His shoulders pitch back. Chest out. Trying to stand tall. ‘Now wait a minute. This isn’t what it looks like.’
I peel off my jacket, drop it at the door. ‘It’s not.’
‘This is just a big misunderstanding. Sherry, tell him.’
‘So I’m not walking in on you fucking my wife, then?’
He looks genuinely confused. A bit horrified, too. ‘Your wife?’
I smack my hand against the wall. ‘You can’t see the fucking ring?’ I glance over at Adele, at her hands on the bed frame. ‘Oh, Jesus, babe. Where the hell is your goddamn ring?’
The man backs up as I step towards him. ‘We can deal with this like men. There’s no need to get violent.’
‘Motherfucker, you haven’t seen violent.’ The click of my knife makes him shudder. A smile creeps over my face, though I’m not sure whether it tastes blood or finds his southern-plantation accent amusing.
His wallet’s out, bills falling like dead leaves in a storm. Adele’s tiny hands ball into fists, stretch out. Working blood back to her fingertips.
‘Let’s be civil about this.’ His voice is loyal, barely trembling or betraying himself. ‘I didn’t know she—I had no idea she was married. Sherry, you didn’t tell me.’ The candlelight glances off my blade, catching his eye and for a man who was just caught with a married woman—and an underage one at that—he is surprisingly composed. I suppose you need composure like that to make a living in politics.
He corrals the money with his socked feet, tries to shove it towards me.
‘Now she’s a whore? You can just buy me? We’re just trash and you can do whatever the fuck you want and let your wallet take care of it? I’d cram that money up your dick hole before letting you pay us off.’
‘You’re misunderstanding me. This was just—’
‘And now I’m a retard? A whore-fucking retard? You need to draw pictures so I can understand?’ To my surprise, it’s my voice that shakes first. The throbbing in my temple makes the room shiver. Stay focused, man. Focus.
‘No, come on now. Don’t be—’
His hands barely reach shoulder-height before I’m on him, smashing the butt of my knife into his temple. He collapses, a foot snaring the lamp cord and yanking it to the ground beside him. The bulb shatters with a dull pop. His right foot, twitching slightly. No urine in his pants.
I turn to my right, kneel on the mattress. Cool sheets beneath my sweating palms, fingers cradling my knife. Adele’s breath falls heavy, ribs breaching, nostrils flaring when she exhales. A few beads of sweat along the ridge of her brow. Climbing across the bed to her, she might be carved in marble for how little she moves.
Lips to her ear, I trace her lobe with my tongue, whisper, ‘You should’ve listened to me.’
Between quick breaths, she asks what I mean.
‘Because I was right.’
‘How?’
Hands behind her head, I untie the knotted kerchief. ‘I told you it would work.’
She blinks away the darkness. ‘You did.’
‘The little girl thing?’ I gesture with my hands like a French chef. ‘You were perfect.’
‘I look sixteen, fifteen tops. Nowhere near thirteen and I told you this was a bad idea.’
‘Tell it to me in Miami or Memphis or wherever you wanted to go, belle. We’re but two days from there. Two days and you’re far away from this. Besides, I wish you could’ve seen his face when I said we were married.’
She crinkles her fingers, hands tinted purple. ‘I asked you not to use that anymore.’
‘I was in the moment, I forgot.’ I lean down, run my tongue along the side of her ribs, over the scythe of her hip. She presses her skin against my face.
‘And I don’t like you saying retard, either.’
I flip my hand, slide my lips and breathe across the apex of her legs. ‘My apologies.’
Her chest rises hard, hesitant. A flash of stars when her pubic bone cracks against my nose. ‘How much was in his wallet?’
Saying ‘a thousand or so’ makes her gasp, so I count up by fifties, telling her that with the pliers, lye and the videotape, he’ll be more than willing to negotiate our relocation costs. An underage girl will precipitate the end of a politician, the beginning of a TV talk show host. I slide the blade of my knife along the inside of her thigh, create a tableau of lechery in thin dripping lines of red. She comes three times, and for a moment I almost stop, afraid I’ll pierce the femoral artery.
When my face is damp and fingers stick to my cheeks, I inch away from her legs, letting the knife amble over the crest of her stomach, through the valley of her breasts. A thin red line and I’ll know how to find my way home. She looks like she’s been drinking wine, lips a deep shade. I straddle her settling chest, her skin radiating heat I can feel through my jeans, and set my face beside hers. A fleck of saliva lands in the corner of my eye.
‘You did good, belle. You did real good.’
The bump in her throat falls, rises. I slice through the restraint around her right wrist, hand falling to the bed like a shooting star. Blush red pours into it, the circulation coming back. Free her left, then set the knife on the wooden apple carton beside the bed, sit up and stretch out my arms.
‘Tell me again,’ she says. Her voice is fragile enough to break with a harsh look.
‘I love you, Adele. Vous, je aime te.’ My pronunciation is awful. I need to practice more often, for her.
‘Not that.’
I lean down again, press my forehead against hers, as if proximity had some direct relationship with certainty.
‘We’ll find a town that’s made of circles, belle, one that’s light all the time. No shadows, no black eyes. You’re not going back. You can’t and won’t.’ Her eyelids flutter beneath my lips. ‘I won’t let you.’
‘Please, just—’
‘This will all end well.’
She closes her eyes like fists, inhales hard to dry the tears. Nods a few times and inhales again.
‘Now you say it.’
‘This will all end well.’
‘Again.’
‘This will all end well.’
‘Do you believe it?’ I smooth her hair back against her head.
‘I believe you.’
I can’t help but smile and I unfold myself, dismount her chest. A pair of candles in the kitchenette burns out, first one then the other a few seconds later. The light on the coffee pot glows like a distant red planet. Three frying pans stacked on the two-burner stove, the sides turned black with scorched coconut milk and chili. I get a glass of water from the tap, watch the sediment swirl while Adele lies in bed, staring at the light show on the water-stained ceiling.
‘Can you bring me some?’
‘We’ll get cleaned up first.’ I cross the studio with her water, stand next to the bed while she drinks. ‘Get ourselves together before we wake him.’
Her eyes open wide, lips contorted, water spilling over her bare chest.
I open my mouth to
speak and all I see is static, swirling snow outside a frozen window. The sound of Adele’s scream trickles through the haze, filling my skull. My hands land on something soft and cool—I can only assume the bed—and find a cold cylinder. Like it’s a developing picture, I see the lamp that sat next to our bed, now jagged at the top and rimmed with blood. Furious breathing behind me. I slide my hand over, ready to grab the base of the lamp and impale the fucker, and when I spin I taste metal in my mouth, hot copper and bile. Once, twice.
The fucker’s face is flushed with murder, his arm extended towards me. He’s shaking hands, he’s pushing me away. Gnashing bugs swarm through my stomach. I look down at the knife bobbing in my gut, look up at the floor hurtling towards me.
Adele screams and then there’s a wet thump. She holds her mouth, blood streaming through her fingers. The room turns strobe, slivers reassembling in random order. He looms above me, foot raised and ready to stomp, then he’s barking into the phone. His arm is cocked back to hit her again, then he’s dragging me towards the door. My head hits the hardwood floor, sends shockwaves through my vision. His silhouette in the doorway, saying he’ll be back in ten minutes with his people.
Warmth spreads through my cheek. Adele, her breath enveloping me. But when I open my eyes I see the dozen candles he swept from the counter lying sideways on the ground, spilling fire across the floor.
She yanks on a pair of velour pants, a hooded sweatshirt with a streak of wine down the center. I reach out to her, feel the cold handle of the knife kiss the back of my hand. Rustling around my head. Her hands wedged in my armpits, shattered French whispers, heels dragging along the carpet. Acrid smoke, her whole box of incense, cheap perfume, burning at once. I look up and she’s crying, lips moving but I hear no words.
‘This will all end well.’
She doesn’t respond to me, just cries harder. Every step shimmies the knife in my gut, opens the hole wider and wider. Sends bright blue shocks across the hallway, but that may just be blood-loss. My legs have disappeared.
I can see my breath. The light hasn’t changed but we’re outside. The wind burns uncovered skin. Heels smack against the concrete steps, her cries accentuating the thuds. I tell her that it’s okay, that she doesn’t need to apologize, that I shouldn’t have turned my back on him, that we’ll be in Memphis or Miami soon, but watch my words drift away in the wind. My knee brushes against the cold steel of the fence when she lays me down. She crouches, presses her face to mine and whispers something I can’t understand.
Her lips on my eyelids. We’ll be okay, belle. This will all end well. Icy puckered depressions over my eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I have no body, no arms. I am a head resting on the sidewalk, the bottom of my neck sticking to the cold concrete. I can feel my lips move but can’t fashion words.
‘I’ll pray that someone finds you.’ She kisses me again and hurries away, out of my sight. I close my eyes, try to absorb the echoes of her heels, try to pull myself along the whipping current and follow her.
Something touches my face. She’s come back, caressing me. Her hand is made of paper. I open my eyes. A crumpled bill. Brown fingerprints. A small pebble in my back. The memory of her breath. A chill down my side. The squeal of brakes, thick southern shouting. The black sky.
This will all end—
——————————
Midnight Souls
by Christopher J Dwyer
She moves like a crimson ghost. Every motion flutters with the glittery viscera of a million shimmering butterflies. Hair as black as ash swims in a sea of endless auburn and for the fifteen seconds it takes her to saw through the nameless man’s arm I’m sure I’ve never loved anyone as much as her. A crimson geyser sprays plasma the color of broken rubies and a single miscible scream penetrates the layers of the dank hotel room, lost somewhere between the moon and the stars.
Penny takes a breath and sits at the edge of the bed, the weight of our world pressing into her shoulders like an angel’s fists. The man falls forward, clasps the fresh stump with white-knuckled fingers, and softly moans until a thin layer of saliva escapes his lips and collects into a mirrored pool on the carpet.
I stand up, dig my soul out of my chest and kiss Penny’s forehead. A trail of comet dust spins between our bodies when she looks down at the unconscious man. I collect the thirteen-inch blade from the center of the bed and wipe it clean with a beige handtowel. Penny crosses her legs and removes the small makeup container from her purse on the side of the bed. She checks her eyeshadow, blinks three times, and smiles with cheeks the color of Christmas morning.
The man squirms beneath me and when I place a pillow under his head, he looks at me with eyes of desperate abandon. Neither of us knew his real name and he paid the full three thousand in crisp, unmarked cash that was housed in a briefcase that smelled of whiskey and regret. Penny reaches over for the phone on the mahogany nightstand and hits the button to reach the front desk.
“There’s been an accident in room 217,” she says, and leaves the receiver disconnected to hang from the side of the nightstand. She takes my hand, immediate warmth and comfort spinning in my veins like fiery heroin, brings her lips to mine.
I grip the small of her back and bring her body closer to mine, dewy lavender scent of her tingling the edge of my nose. “Let’s get out of here,” I say.
She smiles and nods, blush of her dimples radiating the dark light streaming from the silent black-and-white television in the corner of the room. We walk past the dead limb separated from its host and as I flip the duffel bag over my shoulder, I silently hope that I forget the momentary look on our client’s sodden face as he awakes from the foggy nightmare of a dry October evening.
———
Penny sips her wine as if she’s never had a glass before this evening. She licks her lips every few seconds as if to savor the years the liquid lived in the opaque green bottle. “You’ve never wondered what it feels like? What it means to experience it?”
I shake my head, down another gulp of Guinness. “Not for a second.”
It’s when she smiles that I picture the first time we met. The balsam forest green of her eyes twinkles with stray moonlight and for a moment I’m a child again.
“I can’t believe that for a second,” she says. “After all we’ve done together, you must want to know what lies on that other side, you know, the words and thoughts and visions they all claim to have after we’re done.”
Another long sip of beer, another cool burst of autumn wind from the open window in the corner of our kitchen. “No. I can’t. I never have, Penny, and I never will.”
She sighs and finishes the glass of wine, downing the swirling purple remnants with a final swish of her tongue. She stares out into the midnight sky. “That man tonight, when he had called, it was almost as if he believed everything he heard. How he could one day see them, the ones all around us.”
It’s right here that I stop drinking, grit my teeth together with the force of a thousand wild boars. I’ve heard it all before, the talk of their shadows, the way they dance in the empty matter floating above and below us within every step we take. The truth is that I don’t want to know what’s living next to me. The truth is that the amount of pain experienced in one of our sessions isn’t enough for me to believe that there’s more to this existence than the physical world around us.
Penny’s cell phone rings and the warmth inside my chest dissipates into a broken silhouette against the celluloid behind my eyes.
———
His name, he says, is Kleyton Parker. Red leather cowboy boots, black jeans and an arrogant smile. His eyes slink back-and-forth as if they’re baby black garden snakes. He sits in the hotel bar and sips on a clear martini. Every few seconds he checks out Penny’s cleavage and makes it hard for me to forget that he handed us just over five grand in cash just ten minutes ago.
“You’re a lucky guy, muchacho.” A wink and another gulp of his drink.
; I nod politely. “Yeah.”
I can tell Penny’s getting anxious because she slides a black-painted fingernail against the edge of her glass, the other hand reflecting through the liquid like a patch of baby black widows. She looks at the neon orange clock above the bar and nods at me. “Let’s get this started,” she says, and picks up her purse.
“You guys don’t want another drink? It’s on me.”
Kleyton stands up from the bar and raises his glass to the air.
“No thanks. What room number are you in?”
He downs the last of his drink. “Two seventeen.”
Penny leads the way and Kleyton and I follow her directly into hell.
———
The radiance of a dozen shattered rays of moonlight pierces the open hotel room air like a rainstorm of silver knives. Penny drops her oversized purse on the edge of the pine desk and fishes out a syringe and two small bottles. I pour myself a scotch from the bar in the corner of the room. Kleyton smiles as I drop an ice cube into my glass.
“I see it’s your lady that does all of the heavy lifting.” A sharp chuckle and he leans against the window, facing my wife. “It’s okay, though. I like me a lady that’s a hard worker.”
Penny draws a few milliliters of morphine from the first bottle and sprays the tip of the needle into the air. “I need you to sit down over there and be quiet.”
Kleyton raises his arms up and scoots over to the other side of the room. He sits in the armchair next to the bar. “Don’t worry, little lady. I promise not to squirm.”
“Good, because that’s a fantastic way of making this a lot worse than it could be.”
I finish my scotch in two large gulps and place the glass at the edge of the bar, halfway on the edge of the pine and halfway into the rest of the room. I’ve done it enough times to know that if the glass falls, the evening won’t go as quickly as I’d like it to. Kleyton fidgets his fingers on the arms of his chair as Penny pulls up the sleeve of his designer flannel shirt. A crow on the edge of the windowsill catches my attention and in the ten seconds that its eyes dance with mine a sharp shriek pricks the calm, dewy air.
