by Jody Gehrman
Only your face looks right. You’re white and luminous, eyes glittering like shards of blue glass. Your face is a poem. You are a study in symmetry, the definition of light and shadow working together for an unimpeachable whole. Everyone else is disposable—defective attempts at human life that should have been aborted long ago. Malformed lumps of tissue, hair, and skin. Tendons and bone and cartilage assembled into wind-up dolls that never worked right anyway. None of them will be missed or mourned. Only you watch me with calm, impenetrable stillness. Your gaze locks with mine; you are as regal and magnificent as Helen of Troy.
Is it strange, at this moment, that I feel a stab of something like hope? Now that nothing can ever happen in a normal way again, now that I’ve traded in every chance at civilian happiness, my old dream rears up like a sleeper wave from the dusty wasteland of my heart. I can see us standing in the darkened street outside your house. Your hands are out in front of you, palms up. Your face is tilted toward the sky. Your eyes are filled with wonder as you watch snowflakes—big as silver dollars, delicate as lace—floating from the starry heavens.
And now I have to kill you.
Look at this tangle of thorns.
There’s a hush in the room, an awkward silence that reeks of fear. Somebody moans, though I don’t turn my head to see who it is. Somebody else lets out a strangled sob.
I raise Lolita and point her at the vet. Though he’s not showing much sign of heroic action, he’s the most likely to make a move, the only one trained to fight, so I’ll take him out first. Also, he’s the one guy I’ve seen you bless with a real smile in this room. For that alone, he deserves to die.
I stand with my back to the door, blocking the exit, watching the color drain from their faces, watching their eyes go from bored to electric. Isn’t it sad, the way we grasp the beauty of everything too late? We stumble through life like sleepwalkers, fixating on the mundane, resentful of everyday inconveniences. We’re slow and stupid, insensitive, unaware. Only in the last seconds of our lives do we realize how much we want to live.
Tattoo Man stares at my Glock, eyes locked on it, mesmerized. He holds his hands up like a child getting ready to catch a ball. His face is rigid, holding back whatever sound threatens to erupt. Some fucking airborne ranger.
“You don’t want to do this.”
I turn at the sound of your voice. You’re standing now, poised at the head of the table. Your white, waxy face still has that look, a mixture of determination and stone cold calm.
“Oh, but I do,” I correct you.
The twitchy guy who writes about wizards takes advantage of the distraction and dives under the table. I can hear him whimpering under there. I consider shooting him through the particleboard just to show everyone I can—also, because reading his shitty wizard fiction took up an hour of my life I’ll never get back.
“Sam, please.” Your eyes do not beg. They command. “This is about you and me. Let them go.”
It’s noble of you. I’m impressed, I admit. Once again, hope blooms inside me, unfurling petal by petal against my will. I’m reminded of how exquisite you are, how unlike other people. It’s crazy that you’re volunteering to die, sacrificing yourself to let these bumbling miscreants go on living. They’re never going to write anything worth reading. They’re never going to make anything beautiful. Their hands are fit only for ass-wiping and masturbating, for diaper-changing and burger-flipping—they’re lumpy bags of blood and bone. They’re nothing. Yet you, the one with hands so small and delicate, hands that can pluck ideas from the ether and mold them into paragraphs—you’re the one willing to take the hit.
You’re right, in a way. This is about you and me. It’s about your inability to grasp my vision. Your unwillingness to leap into the breach. Why, Kate? Why did you say no to so much beauty?
I’m still staring at you when, from the corner of my eye, movement pulls my attention. It’s the vet. He’s crouched, ready to tackle me. As I turn, I see the grim determination in his face. Sweat glazes his forehead and forms dark patches under his beefy arms.
For just a second he glances up, and I see the look of naked fear in his face. His run-on sentences make me want to dick-punch him, but in that moment I have to admire his heroic delusions.
He takes another step toward me. I tighten my grip on the trigger.
“I mean it, Sam.” You’re calm. “I know you have a moral code. None of these kids deserve to die. I’m the only one you have an issue with.”
I turn my face to you but keep my gun trained on the vet. There’s a vein pulsing in my forehead. It’s annoying. I want it to stop. The room has an unreal, flimsy quality. Any second the walls and the ceiling will float away, light as petals.
There’s something wrong with all of this. It takes me a second to understand what. With Eva and Raul, it was private. I had my moment with them. I could concentrate. When it was over, I could put it away. Tuck it inside a memory. Take it out when it served me, put it back, like a kid with his favorite baseball card. It was intimate. Personal.
Here there are too many eyes. They’re all staring at me. Everywhere I move, they’re on me. Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t have done it here. I should have gotten you alone, made you listen. I can’t talk to you with all these people—all these eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard, I taste blood.
The vet takes another step toward me.
“Don’t be a hero, Todd.” It’s you again, quiet but steely.
He’s got his hands out, palms open, like he’s approaching a growling dog. He’s getting too close.
Fuck him. The bastard. I’m not a dog, and this is not his story.
I shoot over his shoulder. That sends him back. He’s reeling, stumbling. He lands in a chair. There’s a clean, dark bullet hole in the wall just above him. The Sheetrock’s splintered in a spider web of cracks. He doesn’t try to get up again. I can see by the look on his face I’ve made my point.
Several people cry for real then, unable to stifle their sobs.
For a second I think about the photos they’ll show on the news when this is over. They’ll use the publicity shot from your book jacket, the one with you smirking sideways at the camera like Mona Lisa. They’ll have to look far and wide to find a photo of me. I’m invisible. A shadow. Vivienne will probably dig one up for them, sell it to the highest bidder so she can score. It’ll be me at fifteen, since after that I learned to leave no trace.
It pains me to think about the narrative the media will weave: lone wolf, obsessed with his professor, history of psychological problems, unstable home life. They’ll speculate and fill in the gaps and get it all wrong. They’ll make me out to be some Columbine loser, the Millennial reinvention of the Trench Coat Mafia. Somebody will no doubt pontificate about video games, though in my case they’d be better off blaming Nabokov.
Then my manuscript will land in the mailroom at G. P. Putnam. It will float undetected in the slush pile for a few weeks, maybe even a month or two. Some hapless intern will open it, sipping her latte and checking her Facebook and eyeing the editor in the horn-rimmed glasses, a man she aspires to fuck. She’ll read the first sentences of my cover letter three times: By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. I will have killed many others as well. This is my story.
I can see the heated editorial meeting, with marketing and legal weighing in. Some will say they shouldn’t glorify my brutality by publishing my work. That doing so will only inspire copycats. They’ll speculate that every depressed, unpublished hack in America will dig his shitty manuscript from his sock drawer, stick it in the mail, and go on a shooting spree just to seal the deal. Others will champion my novel’s brilliance, pointing out that great literature can’t be kept from the world just because the author is nuts. If sanity were a requirement for writers to be published, we’d have precious little left on the shelves.
In the end, the money men will win. They always do. My book will be an international bestseller. Your backlist will soar.
&nb
sp; This is the best way. The only way. As you stare at me with icy calm, though, it feels a little empty. I thought it would feel different.
I’m not an exhibitionist. I prefer the shadows, a cool, dark place where I can watch the world, where I can drink in beauty. These past couple of months, watching you—those were some of the happiest moments of my life. I’m a watcher. Always have been. The closest I come to craving the limelight is writing. I need my work out there in the world, need people to read it the way a chef needs his creations to be devoured and savored, but if nobody ever saw my picture or even learned my name, I wouldn’t care. It’s the work that matters, the words, the characters, the story. That’s what I love.
Kayla makes a move for her phone. She’s sitting to my right, her pierced face contorted with terror. Her hand darts across the table, her black-painted nails reaching out like demented claws. I aim Lolita at her. She freezes.
“Everybody just stay still,” you order.
You’re magnificent. I love how commanding you are.
Our eyes lock. I wish all these people would just disappear.
KATE
I can’t think. My mind’s gone pure white. The blizzard inside me roars. At the same time, a perfect stillness has me in its grip. The eye of the storm. There is blue smoke drifting in the air, and the ringing in my ears is like the emergency broadcast tests they used to do on TV—do they still do them? A block of colored stripes, and then this horrible, piercing sound that makes my teeth hurt. I can hear the roar of my own blood in my ears, and then even that cuts out. I am floating in a pristine, white silence, the silence of snow.
Through it all, from the moment he walks into the room, a part of me hovers overhead, near the ceiling, cool, distant, thinking, If I survive, this will make one hell of a story.
Fucking writers.
Suddenly I know exactly what to do. I’ve never been so filled with purpose. Who would guess I could move with a dancer’s grace under fire? I’m not that girl. I’m not brave, not fierce, not heroic. I’m sure as hell not noble. I wouldn’t die for these kids—I’d probably shoot them myself if it meant my own survival—but in this moment, doing what needs to be done seems like the most natural thing in the world.
I seize my chair. Wrapping my fingers around the cold metal legs, I heave it overhead. For a heartbeat, it’s poised there above me. I’m an ape preparing to beat the alpha male to death. It’s weightless; the adrenaline pumping through me turns it into a ridiculous pretend-chair, a featherweight prop. My spindly muscles hold it aloft without effort. I let gravity do its work on the way down. It gains weight and substance then. It becomes real. The hard, plastic seat lands with a satisfying crack against Sam’s skull.
He falls. He’s on his back. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. His expression blends betrayal and surprise. I want to roar, to scream, Don’t ever underestimate me! Nothing comes out, though. No sound. I’m efficient and lean, all muscle and pounding blood with no use for words.
I stomp hard on his wrist; I hear bones crack, can feel them giving way beneath my boot. He cries out; his fingers lose control in a spasm of pain. His other hand reaches around to grab the weapon, but it drops to the carpet with a heavy thunk.
The despair in his face makes my breath catch in my throat.
SAM
Wizard Boy under the table scampers over and grabs the gun. In his haste, he fumbles it. Still stunned and clumsy from your attack, I struggle with him. Our arms lock, and we grapple like children wrestling. We roll on the floor once, twice. He makes a grunting sound, and I feel a sharp pain in my forehead as his skull collides with mine. His freckly arms have surprising strength. The tendons in his neck pop out. A wild light appears in his green eyes. I can smell the coffee on his breath. Flecks of spittle dot his mouth.
As we fight for control, Lolita goes off. Another deafening crack.
I see the bullet as if in slow motion. It careens toward your heart. Time shudders to a stop. Nothing in the air is breathable. I throw Wizard Boy off and lunge toward you, the pain in my head searing a pale blue arc across my skull. The bullet continues its trajectory, rocketing toward your ivory sweater. Even in this moment, when everything is about to end, I see you in slow motion. I see your hair moving in golden waves around your face. I see the place where your bra strap peeks out from beneath your sweater. I see the fine, delicate beads of perspiration on your forehead, elaborate as lace.
I see your body hunching backward as the bullet makes contact. Your shoulders shoot forward, and your spine contracts like a modern dancer’s.
Breathing deeply, struggling against the gravity pulling at me, I catch you in my arms; I squeeze too tightly. Blood erupts from the wound in your chest. I moan, pawing at it. Blood covers my fingertips.
Your blood.
Because of me.
My bullet did this to you.
I knew this was how it would end, but I didn’t anticipate this suffocating wave of regret. All the moments throughout my life when I sat numb and unfeeling have been deposited into a vault; now they’re all being released at once. Sadness and longing flood my whole body.
My bloody hand fills me with such revulsion, I want to gnaw it off, like a fox caught in a trap.
KATE
I feel a searing pain in my chest. I look down and make a sound of stupid bewilderment, a tiny exhale of disbelief, like I’ve spilled my tea.
Blood. Lots of it. I watch it spreading across the cream-colored cotton of my thick, white sweater. It reminds me of a poppy, my favorite flower, the dark red blooming in every direction, blossoming slowly.
I’m in my aunt’s garden in Mendocino. The ocean sparkles on the horizon, refracting sunlight into tiny kaleidoscopes. The air’s rich with salt and brine. I’m staring at a clump of rich, red poppies. Their blossoms tower and sway. The petals are so shiny, so impossibly red. Behind them, a tapestry of green climbs the leaning lattice fence. A wild tangle of morning glories consumes a cramped garden shed. Gulls circle overhead, calling out their delight. The sight of the poppies consumes me. I put my face closer to one, studying the black nimbus and yellow center.
As I sink to my knees, I can’t help thinking how right it is, how poetic, that death should look like my favorite flower, the great opiate, the dark, satin petals unfurling like they have all the time in the world.
SAM
You’re bleeding. So much blood, Kate. I’ve never been bothered by blood before. The smell, like pennies. The color, vivid red, then drying to a rusty brown. I know it makes some people light-headed. In movie theaters, I’ve seen people recoil from the sight of it, as if even the flickering image of corn syrup and red dye has the power to do them harm. I’ve never understood that revulsion. To me, blood’s another substance, like rain or sap or ink.
Now, though, with you in my arms, your blood covering my face, my arms, my clothes, I get it. Blood equals loss. This sticky, dark substance is the essence of you, the thing that keeps you real. Without it, I’ll never be able to kiss the lily-white curve of your neck. I’ll never be able to sink into you, arms braced on either side of your hips, my body pouring into yours, my eyes locked on your face.
“Stay with me, Kate.” It’s stupid, I see that, my sudden irrevocable regret. I never claimed to be logical. “Please, please, please. Don’t fucking die.”
Around me, I can hear people crying, sucking in breath. I can hear rain on the skylights, tapping at first but getting faster, more insistent, working up to a good downpour. It pains me to think you will never hear the rain again. Any moment now, the light will go out of your eyes, and whatever sounds reach your ears will not be the ones in this room.
Just as I did that first day, I see you now for what you are: the only person on earth who will ever understand me.
That first day, watching you cross campus. Your boots kicking up explosions of red and yellow leaves. You stopped walking and looked up. So few people ever do that—have you noticed? They keep their gaze locked on the ground or stra
ight ahead. But you stopped that day and stared up into the branches of a slender, silvery birch. You let your head fall back, and you stood still, examining a woodpecker. I sat huddled on a bench nearby, enjoying my first glimpse of you, the real you, not your reproduction on a book jacket. Your throat was white and exposed, swanlike. You watched the woodpecker hammer away, your face full of unguarded fascination.
And then you smiled.
It made me smile. Without even trying.
That’s your power, Kate. Your one-of-a-kind potency. You make me feel things. I don’t just go through the motions with you, don’t just arrange my face into the semblance of human response. I don’t have to fake it. With you, everything is real.
“Sam.” You whisper my name.
I reach down and brush a strand of hair away from your face. “Don’t talk.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” you say. It’s not something I appreciate hearing, but there’s affection there, maybe even love, so I take it.
“I know.”
“You saw…” Your voice trails off. Your eyes start to lose focus.
“Don’t die, Kate,” I repeat, louder this time, a command. “Stay with me.”
Someone’s out the door now. The Wizard Boy makes a break from under the table, and he’s out. Good for him. I don’t care. Let him call the cops. I’m not getting out of here alive, and I don’t give a shit about anyone else in this room. Nobody except you.
“Let me say this,” you wheeze.
