He towered over my five-foot-four frame with vacant, deep-set blue eyes. Shoulder-length, blond hair draped the deadhead’s shoulders. He could’ve made the cover of GQ Zombie, if there ever were such a thing.
I extended my free hand to him. “That’s right, Boris. Hear my voice. Come to me.”
He cocked his head and opened his dried cracked lips. A ring of lividity settled around his neck, showing everyone how he died.
Angrily, I snapped my head toward Blanche. “I thought he died in an act of passion.”
“No,” Blanche said. “Boris hung himself after I caught him with his whore in our bed.”
Onlookers responded with sounds of surprise. Blanche lunged for me so quickly, it caught me off-guard. She snatched the cleaver out of my hand, and before I could stop her, started chopping at Boris’ neck. After three chops (hella-stronger than she looked), Boris’ head rolled onto the floor, and the entire bar roared into a thunderous chatter. The deadhead’s body slumped to the floor. Blood spilled out of his neck and formed a lake of crimson on the dance floor.
“He took away the only dignity I would’ve had by killing him myself when he committed suicide,” Blanche said, breathing heavily. “The cheating bastard.”
Security quickly apprehended Blanche and escorted her to the brig. The entire club was evacuated and for a long few moments, I stood there in the Power of Circle with blood dripping from my fingertips. I told Emily and Flip to give me a moment. My hands were trembling, my heart hammered, and I couldn't stop looking at the spot where Boris' head rolled to after decapitation. I'd really messed up, and by tomorrow, the whole world would probably know.
I inhaled a deep breath and exhaled shaking my head, wondering if I'd ever be able to do another one ever again. As if the check in my pocket started to itch, I wiped my bloody hands on the back of my pants and slipped it out, unfolding it. A little smudge of crimson got on the check but it didn't matter. After I saw that Blanche had actually paid me twice the amount of my asking fee, I walked out of the ship's club knowing that I'd be doing raisings again. Death was a big business.
THE END.
HEARTLESS by Calvin Demmer
I’d given her a sedative. Not your over-the-counter type drug however, it had been a potent narcotic. I needed her to be out for an extended period of time and I must admit I wasn’t sure on the correct dosage. So I guessed.
I had crushed the pills into her morning orange juice. Then I sat, trying to temper the dance of my right foot beneath the dining room table while she sat across from me. I watched, waited. She grimaced when she took a sip from the juice, though this had become normal behavior. Trying to portray my usual inquisitive self, I asked, “Why drink it if you hate it?”
“Good for you.”
No smile had followed her words. In fact, there had been zero hint of emotion in her moss green eyes. Her curly brunette hair all that moved, aided by a breeze entering from the open kitchen window. She waited to see if I’d respond. I didn’t. Her continuation of routine actions led me to believe that she had not tasted anything ominous in the juice.
Less than an hour ago, she had returned from her night shift; she had showered and prepared breakfast for me. She ate nothing, while I dug in, which was usually the case. We would have a quick chat, mostly about mundane subjects. Déjà vu ran rampant during these minutes. I could swear she asked the same questions and repeated the same answers. Sometimes I would steal a glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone standing behind me with a large cue card. There was never anyone. All I would see were framed photos of a childless household.
After breakfast, she would retire to the main bedroom. There, I believed she would lie comatose in our bed until it was almost time for me to return home from work.
Sometimes dinner was ready when I arrived, sometimes she would still be preparing it. Over the meal, of which hers was always a significantly smaller portion and looked a struggle to get down, we would have another of our perfunctory chats. I would clean up and she would head off to work. Marriage to a woman, who favored part-time work at night, well, it sucked.
So why on this seemingly routine morning had I chosen to give her the sedative?
I had simply endured enough, our sex-life was nonexistent and there was barely any communication. It seemed as though she no longer cared about me, us, or anything. In my forlorn attempts to caress some feeling from her, all I would sense was a heartless statue. Added to this, I could not recall when last we had been out together, like a couple should. No, wait--I braced as a shudder retreated down my spine--I could remember a trip to Barbados. That had been over six months ago.
Her skin much paler now, and she spoke in a new found monotonous tone. Gone was her expressive and extroverted nature which I had fallen for. I had been left with a monosyllabic recluse who only ventured outside at night. Had her life become too strenuous? Was she ill? Or had the nightmare I had tried to forget been true? He’d warned me, had he not? I was no longer sure, for during that time, I spent my days in an inebriated daze.
She stood up, her eyes droopy as she mumbled, “Good-bye.”
I watched her retire to the bedroom, taking comfort in her grogginess. As a bonus, she had greeted me, most days she forgot to. I didn’t immediately move from my spot at the kitchen table. I waited until I was sure she would be out cold, and then I entered the bedroom to check on her.
She was asleep.
I searched my side of the bedroom cupboard and pulled out a black leather bag. Though I had already gone over its contents the day before, I double-checked that all the instruments I would require were inside. Satisfied, I set up while whistling the tune of one of my favorite blues tracks.
I reached inside the bag and pulled out a syringe. I walked over to her and injected the local anesthetic straight into her chest; her eyes remained shut. I could only hope this with the sedative would keep her in the state needed, and that she would not tip too far on either side of waking up, or worse . . . never waking again.
She looked dead, but I refused to check her vitals. I managed to scrape together some inner reassurance that she would not open her eyes during the procedure. I wiped the sweat beads that had begun to form on my forehead and began the procedure.
Though I had no machines to monitor any cardiac or respiratory parameters, even if I had wanted to, which I did not, I kept a syringe of adrenaline alongside me . . . just in case. After making the incision down her chest with my scalpel, I retrieved my oscillating saw from my bag; this was for the sternum, which I cut straight down the middle. I retrieved a retractor and placed it between the two halves, and I slowly spread them apart--and voilà--there was my wife’s heart.
It was not beating, just as my nightmare predicted. After some internal debating, I decided it was not decisive. I needed to complete my experiment to know for sure.
The time had come for action: I, James Vandersson would cut my wife’s heart out. I used my electrocautery to cut through the pericardium, and then I removed the heart, leaving behind the back of the left atrium, which was standard procedure.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not just check her vitals? Don’t get me wrong, during the few times I had touched her over the last six months, I did not feel a pulse. I never saw her chest move to inhale and exhale. But, the mind has a way of playing tricks. I did not want to just feel or sense things. I wanted to see the actual heart and lungs, inactive within her. I wanted to know if she could function without a heart.
There had been no bleeding, another warning from within the nightmare. Strangely, waves of relief washed over me. For the road to conclusion, no matter how dark, is better than a perpetual labyrinth of stress and worry. The waves near tidal when I factored in the gray colored heart and the pungent decay smell that had escaped after I had opened her up. It doesn’t have to be a nightmare, I told myself, but then cut off any further internal debating, this was not the time. I forced myself not to over analyze all the new information.
I aligned the sternum then used sternal wire and glue to keep it in place. I stitched her up. This had been light-years from my best work, in fact, I could think of only one mishap in medical school that could have been anywhere near as terrible, but in my current situation and with limited time it would suffice.
With her discolored and still heart in a plastic bag, I sighed, realizing that I would be late for work.
I threw her heart and my surgical gloves into a large black bin in our backyard. A bin which stood on the terra-cotta tiled patio and oversaw the pretentious sized pool. Seeing the pool reminded me that I needed to have it cleaned, as well as to have the backyard’s lawn cut. I stole a final glance of my wife’s heart, while fragmented images of a blurry trip to Barbados flickered in my mind’s eye.
Either way she would no longer require the organ.
After work, while walking to my vehicle I managed to hold myself accountable, at least in a small way, and without the nausea that would usually ensue. If she had not left for the everlasting slumber, I would be sure to ask for forgiveness for not seeking the answers sooner. I praised myself for my truthful introspection. You are a good man, you are a good man, I repeated to myself. I decided to run an errand before heading home, and as I did so, answers began to flow.
Yes, I had to admit that certain memories of Barbados may have been real. In the early days of our relationship she had had been there for me, through thick and thin. I could not forsake her, no matter the situation. I would adapt. Through my kindness and warmth, she would reawaken that which had become dormant in her. I nodded as I turned into the hardware store’s parking lot. Yes, I will be there for her, no matter what. I barred the recurring possibility of finding her dead from piercing my immediate thoughts, ignorance is bliss. An icy tear did manage to break free, escaping down my left cheek. Though it could have been an illusion, a trick brought on by the cool air-conditioning,
I didn’t check.
There were two men standing outside the hardware store with old gym bags near the front. Luck favored me.
I got out my vehicle and walked towards the two men, opting to engage the elder and weaker of the two.
“Hey there,” I said.
“Hey,” the elder one said, as he looked towards me, before returning his gaze to the road.
He wore a dusty red and black checkered shirt, torn denims and a green trucker cap. The cap could barely contain the wild silver-gray hair falling to his shoulders. His face tanned; the wrinkles of age clear. Satisfied or bored by the view of the road--I was not sure which--he turned his body towards me, his back now facing the fading sunlight. The wrinkles on his face were now hidden in the shade.
“You don’t do a little gardening by any chance?” I said.
“Sure, I can do that, what you need help with?” the man said. His nicotine stained teeth momentarily visible, while a faint smell of alcohol surrounded him. The younger man had moved off, sensing he was out of the deal.
“I need some help with my pool and then just some trimming in the garden?”
“Okay I can be here tomorrow, what time’s good?”
“No, I need help now,” I said. I loosened the top button of my shirt.
“Now? But it’s going to be dark soon.”
“I will pay you well for your time.”
“How will I get home? The latest bus here is--”
“I will drop you off, it’s not a problem, and I will even throw in a case of beer for your trouble.”
The man who I would find out was called Ralph, nodded excitedly, and a new found light emerged from behind his eyes. I figured the beer must have sealed the deal. After assuring him I was not some weirdo, as he put it, which included showing him my hospital identification, we negotiated his fee for the evening’s work. “Won’t take longer than two hours,” I promised.
He followed me to my vehicle, climbed into the passenger’s seat and we were off. I felt a tingling current coursing through my veins, I would soon find out what had happened with my experiment.
Once home, I climbed out my vehicle, and made my way towards the house with Ralph in tow. He seemed sluggish, and when we reached the front door, he stalled, as if he was unsure whether to wait outside or not.
“Please, come in,” I said.
I led him to the entertainment area, where he took a seat on one of our black leather sofas. I noticed he sat on the edge of the sofa, his right leg shaking, and an uncomfortable pout on his face, while his eyes shifted around. I ignored trying to put him at ease any further; I had more important matters to attend to.
I made my way to the bedroom.
I entered, and felt a sheet of ice drape over my body. I shut my eyes and slowly reopened them, to be sure of what I saw. The bed made, there was no body. Barbados and its dark, fragmented images had been real; the man from the nightmare had been real.
I turned around, and exited the room. My pace quickened, my heartbeat raced, and thoughts pounded in the confines of my mind. I smelt it. Yes, I knew the aroma all too well: roast chicken was on the menu for tonight. I had a spring in my step, as I made my way into the dining area.
There in the kitchen stood my wife.
She gave her usual forced smile when she saw me approach. I walked towards her, and then leaned over the marble counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. I kissed her cold cheek. “How was your day?” I asked.
“Fine.”
All my thoughts aligned; I knew the truth. The feeling of euphoria overwhelming; I had to hold the counter, for fear of losing my balance from the power of conclusion that had exploded within. This explained the last few months. And yes, I, James Vandersson, was still a fucking good man. I had questions for her, they circled in my head, but I did not have time for them . . . yet. I had to move on to the last test: a gift for her. This act, would also cement the conclusion I’d arrived at.
“Hey, I want to show you something,” I said.
She looked at me, her bland facial features never changed, but her neck did skew ever so slightly. I guided her with my hand on her side to the entertainment room.
When she saw Ralph, she paused in the doorway. Then with no change in expression she entered the room.
Ralph stood up, unsure whether to put his right hand in his pocket or to hold it out and greet the women I had led into the room.
“Hello, I am Ra--”
“Honey, I know everything,” I said, cutting Ralph off. “I know what you are. I never told you, but I had to do it, it was the only way to have you. We made a promise to care for each other, eternally, no matter what.”
Her neck skewed further to the right than it had in the kitchen.
I saw her features soften, and I said, “I should have accepted it sooner, I’m sorry. It’s just that Barbados was such a blur for me. I . . . I had to do what I had to do . . . to save you--”
“Ah, mister,” Ralph said, now cutting me off with confusion drawn into his face.
I ignored him. “I have brought you dinner,” I said to my wife.
Her eyes brightened. “For me?”
“Yes, I told you I would always take care of you.”
Her yellow canine-like teeth were visible as she smiled. At least that is what I thought she was doing. No, I believed it was.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Man, you people are fuckin’ crazy. I’m done with this shit,” Ralph said. He made his way towards me, for I stood in the doorway, barring his exit. I wondered if I would have to physically hold him back, maybe I should have knocked him out and then tied him down.
None of these thoughts would matter. The next moment, the thing that had once been my wife, leaped forward and tore a chunk of flesh from Ralph’s right arm.
Taken aback by her lightning fast movements, I froze. As soon as the initial shock wore off, I decided it best to turn away. I heard animal-like screams emerge from the inner bowels of Ralph. I thought back to the trip to Barbados and how I had crashed our vehicle into a tre
e alongside the side of the road.
When I had stumbled out the vehicle, I realized I barely even had a scratch; my wife Kimberly had not been so lucky. When I checked on her, I found her inert, and her mangled body presented a horrific pose on the passenger seat. When an ambulance had arrived, they had rushed her to the hospital in the area, and after a few days, from the emergency room to I.C.U, her prognosis was grim. She had suffered massive head trauma, as well as a punctured lung. When I demanded to see her, I was told she had slipped into a coma, and that machines were keeping her alive. Doctors doubted whether she would ever awaken.
She was as good as dead.
It’s funny what you will do in such dire times. For one night, while trying to fill the ever deepening pit within, I had come across an old drunkard at the local bar. He was a thin, dark-skinned man, with long black dreadlocks and silver-gray beard. Unlike others who had tried to converse with me, and I had ushered away; I felt this man was different. I would prove to be correct. When I told him my story, he was the first person whose face did not turn sympathetic. Instead, he smiled, and told me, “Everything will be jus’ fine mon.”
Yes, he had given a desperate man hope. His early positive demeanor only grew, until boisterous, especially, when he told me of his ‘magic and powers’. Whether the copious amounts of rum we shared aided this part of our conversation I was not sure, nor did I care. He went on to tell me his grandmother had passed the knowledge down to him. It had been outlawed, but he said he trusted me and could sense I was a good man. No doubt my American dollars that kept our thirsts quenched helped shape his opinion of me.
The only problem was my wife needed to be dead, clinically dead, for his learned ritual of revival. In my drunk state that made perfect sense.
After a few more drinks, and then a few more, I began to become ever more engrossed in the man’s confidence in his abilities. So much so, we even agreed on a generous compensation if he were to be successful in the endeavor.
9 Tales Told in the Dark 16 Page 6
