Short Fiction

I took the phone off the hook. Not that anyone knows where we are. Past the flickering neon vacancy sign, the stars begin to fade with the light of a new day. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sunrise. Part of me hopes it won’t ever happen again.

When we met, love came faster than I knew it could. By the time I heard the first pull of the whistle, that train was already on top of me. All we had was each other, didn’t need anything else. I had her name tattooed next to mine on the inside of my arm like it was scratched into an old tree. Together forever. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Yesterday, she told me she doesn’t love me anymore. I know it’s to make leaving easier, but it hurt more than anything. I begged her to stab me right in the heart and put me out of my misery.

“No,” she said. “I can’t do it to you any more than you could to me.”

I laid next to her all night, as close as she’d let me, hoping it’s all been a bad dream. Now, she’s sitting on the end of the bed, staring at the door, holding herself the way I want to hold her. I have the urge to reach out, but she’s already too far away. There’s nothing else to do, so I ask her one last time. Why does she have to go?

“You know why,” she says. She raises a hand, maybe to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Instead, the tips of her fingers rest on her temple. When her hand starts to shake, she pulls it away. “My memory… it’s getting worse.”

It’s part of the reason we left, why we’re running from our families and the place we grew up. I ask again about our plans. New Orleans in the fall. Valentine’s Day in the desert. California by spring, where the ocean’s as blue as her eyes.

She lowers her head. “By Valentine’s Day, I won’t even remember your name.”

Everything is broken. This whole time, our plan seemed so simple that I forgot about the cost, or maybe I can’t bring myself to admit that it’s true.

She stands and faces away from me with her hands in her pockets. “I have to be on my way.”

I tell her I wish I could change things and make it so she could stay. She grabs the handle of the battered old suitcase on her way to the door. Before heading out, she stops and glances over her shoulder. “If only wishing for it made it real,” she says, then walks out into the cold morning air.

***

Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

***

The base of the green vinyl chair Benjamin had slumped in creaked and groaned under his shifting weight as he watched the door. He leaned away from the once white wall, darkened by age and dirty handprints. Without a phone, he didn’t know how many hours had passed since he arrived or if it was even the same day. The anxiety of being disconnected faded, likely swallowed by the growing numbness radiating from his ass.

The door to the room flipped open. Benjamin sat up as a detective in a moss green button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows sauntered in. His thumb hooked behind the gold badge on his belt when he hitched up his pants, then he dropped a manilla folder on the metal desk in the middle of the room. Keeping a close eye on Benjamin, he pulled the worn black office chair away from the desk and flopped down. The detective sighed, opened the folder, and leaned over it. “Quite a night you’ve had… Benjamin.” He looked up with one eyebrow raised. “I bet your friends call you, what, Ben? Benny, maybe?”

Benjamin watched the detective without emotion. “No.”

The detective frowned. “Okay then.” He flipped through the papers in the folder. “Let’s see here, assault with a deadly weapon, destruction of private property, theft over—”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“Don’t matter whose idea it was, you were there, which means just as much as if you planned the whole thing.”

“I didn’t plan anything. My… friends didn’t tell me what they were going to do. If they even knew it themselves.”

The detective gave a smile that was anything but genuine. “Oh, they planned it all right. Got two confessions already. Only need one more before the rest of the crew goes to lockup.”

Benjamin tilted his head. “Are you suggesting there’s some sort of deal on the table if I tell you what you want to know?”

The detective shrugged and looked away, fighting the twitch at the corner of his lips. “Maybe, and I mean maybe, that’s what I’m sayin’.”

Benjamin sat back and scanned the corners of the ceiling. “Am I on a hidden camera show? Does that kind of thing happen in real life?”

The detective scowled. “Well, if that’s the way it’s going to be.” He slapped the folder shut and pushed away from the table.

The air in the room grew heavy and still. Flickering light from the fluorescent fixtures overhead steadied and dimmed. The detective’s skin greyed as his body slowed and froze mid-way to standing. Benjamin frowned, then turned to the door and crossed his arms. When it swung a wide arc into the room, it did so without a sound.

A man in a black tailored suit sauntered in with a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. “Benjamin, there you are.” He shook a shiny, oversized watch down his wrist and glanced at its face as if time meant something. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I bet.” Benjamin stood with a wide stance. “What the hell happened out there, Wheeler?”

Wheeler’s smile faltered, and he averted his eyes. “It was a… misunderstanding.”

“You have a talent for down-playing nearly every situation, don’t you?”

The smile returned. “I have many talents.”

Benjamin rolled his eyes but did not respond.

“Anyway,” Wheeler waved a dismissive hand, “let’s get you out of here before our little distraction wears off.” He turned to walk out the door but stopped and leaned back into the room. “Benjamin?”

“What?”

“Don’t forget the folder.”

***

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

***

An organ moaned at the head of the small church. Rows of seats faced forward and held a scattering of mourners, speaking in hushed tones and dabbing at their eyes with crumpled tissues. Others milled about, eyeing those across the aisle with suspicion.

The empty pulpit had been pushed to one side. A simple black casket sat in a position of prominence with the left side open. Gold-fringed fabric and a bouquet of white roses rested over the right. Beside the casket stood a wreath and a badly cropped picture on a stand, pixelated from being blown up too big. The young man in the picture smiled like he did it too often. His overbite showed the tooth he chipped after his first time skateboarding at the age of fourteen. A self-induced bowl cut showed he still had not secured a well-paying job after moving out of his mother’s house at the age of twenty-seven.

Under the picture, a name written in gold paint was surrounded by tissue paper flowers. Arnolfo Cornelius Kacper. His friends called him Ghost, mostly because he was invisible in a crowded room and tended to knock random objects over as he passed them by. His mother called him Arnie.

Few in attendance spoke, and those who had kept their recollections short and to the point. He was a good lad. So much ahead of him. Such a shame. One of the cousins on his father’s side, which explained a lot, shared a story of how Arnie often spoke of dying young and leaving a good-looking corpse. Few of those in attendance appreciated the sentiment.

It was at the point where people were searching for an excuse to leave, knowing that more of the ceremony would come the next day, that the heavy door at the back of the church snapped open. A woman with running mascara and tangles in her dark hair pushed past a confused usher. She walked forward with uneven steps, the heel from one shoe in her hand. The right shoulder of her dress rode low. Snags marred her stockings at the knees. Her breath hitched, but she contained her grief at that moment.

Those nearest to the aisle either nodded or backed away. With the exception of the odd whispered question, the room fell silent. Standing in front of the casket, the woman set a bulky red leather purse by her feet, then hung her head and wrapped her fingers around the broken heel.

“Hi, Arnie. Sorry, I’m late. Hasn’t been the best day.” She sniffed and wiped her sleeve across her eyes, smearing tears and diluted mascara down her face. “Hasn’t been a great couple of days, to be honest. It wasn’t always this way, though, was it?”

She smiled through her tears. “I’ll never forget the day we first met. You were such a cocky little prick. Said one day you were going to have my heart. I told you that you couldn’t have it. Not ever.” Her chin trembled, and her lips pinched tight. “Then, somehow, it happened. It became yours, and everything and everyone that came before didn’t mean a thing.” She crossed her arms and focused on the bouquet of white flowers on the end of the casket, already beginning to wilt. “But you know what? I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.” She gave a nearly imperceptible shrug. “And I’ve decided that I’m going to take it back.”

The woman flipped the broken heel into the casket and knelt beside the red bag. She took out a canvas pouch, like an oversized pencil case, then stood and dropped it onto Arnie’s chest. Turning her eyes to the ceiling, she kicked off her shoes. “Sorry in advance.”

She pushed out a deep breath, grasped the cloth covering the lower half of the casket, then swept it and the bouquet of flowers to the floor. Ignoring the gasps from behind her and the crashing notes of the organ, she pushed up on the lid with both hands until it stood upright.

From there, her hands moved fast. She unfastened Arnie’s suit jacket, unbuckled his pants, and pulled down his fly. Reaching over him, she clutched an arm and a leg, then rolled him toward her. She wiggled the canvas pouch free from between the casket and his body, then removed what looked like a fat pen with a rectangle battery plugged into the end and a small black vial from the pouch. Holding them in one hand, she slipped the fingers of her free hand under the waist of Arnie’s pants. It took three sharp tugs to expose his naked form. After removing the cap from the vial and setting it on one cheek, she dipped the end of the pen in, and leaned over the casket.

The pen hummed as she dragged it across the cold skin on Arnie’s bare ass. She dipped and scratched, dipped and scratched. She worked the tip back and forth over a crooked heart with “A + C” scrawled in the middle.

“Oh, did I tell you why I was late?” The woman reached out for fresh ink and continued with her task. “I spent most of the morning stranded on the side of the road. Goes to show that if you had spent as much money on oil changes as you did on big wheels and stupid mufflers that piss the neighbours off, your piece of shit might not have died on me in the middle of nowhere. Don’t worry though, it’ll have a good home, for a little bit at least. I sent the tow truck driver away with Tatiana’s address. Gave him an extra twenty to park it on her lawn. It’ll be nice for her to have something to remember you by. You know, since I put all your shit in the dumpster yesterday and burned it.”

She held the pen away and looked to the back of Arnie’s head. “I didn’t want to believe it. I really didn’t. How could you, with the way your dad treated your mom? I know how much it hurt you both. My friends told me, over and over. I told ‘em you said it wasn’t happening. They asked me what made me think you was telling the truth. I didn’t have a real answer, so I decided to ask Tatiana. She told me, sure enough.”

With the pen held out, she stretched forward. “The worst part? I didn’t even get a chance to ask you why. Why her, of all people? Now, I’m never going to know. Not ever.”

She continued in silence until the heart disappeared under a glossy black blob, then stood back and admired her work. “There. That’s better.”

The woman tucked the pen in its pouch, then dropped it through the open top of her purse. With her hands gripping the edge of the open casket, she lowered her gaze. “Bye, Arnie.”

Picking up her bag from the floor, she turned away. A thin smile crept across her lips, and her shoulders pulled back. For the first time, she focused on the gaping faces around her. None dared to speak when they saw the fire in her cleared eyes. So, with her head held high, she lifted her purse over her shoulder, walked up the aisle and straight out the door.

***

I check my watch. She’s late. I was really hoping she wouldn’t be late.

Gaetan strides up beside me and flicks the butt of his cigarette into the dark. He blows smoke and watches me from the corner of his eye. “Relax. This will all be over soon.”

I chew on my lip and watch the crest of the hill. The cast iron park bench. The Victorian lamp post beside. A silhouette emerges from the shadows and Angelica stops under the bland electric light. Her coat is buttoned to her chin. Dark bangs cover her eyes. Her fiery red lips stand out like the ‘x’ on a treasure map.

My heartbeat hammers in my temples. “Okay. She’s here.”

“I see that.”

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

Gaetan frowns. “Of course. You need to trust me.”

“Right. Trust you.” My hand tightens around the handle of the cloth bag resting against my thigh. “Okay. Be right back.”

Gaetan steps away. “Remember to breathe.”

The click of my heels echo around me as I climb the path. Angelica is still as I approach, showing no recognition, until I stop next to her.

“Hello, Thomas.”

“Hello, Angelica. Thank you for meeting me.”

“It is confusing. Being told that we should not see each other. Then you ask me to meet you here, of all places.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just… I have something for you.” Her eyes follow as I hold the bag out. I swallow against the lump in my throat. “A gift. To say thank you.”

Her shoulders relax and she faces the darkness. One hand rises and pulls the top two buttons of her coat open. The lace fringe of her bra matches her lips. “You know how I prefer to be thanked, and how I show my gratitude in return.”

My intention to maintain eye contact fails. “I can’t. We can’t. You know that.” I stretch my arm. “Please.”

Angelica sighs and takes the bag. With the handles spread wide, she peers in, then for the first time to me. “What is this?”

“It’s, well, it’s a doll.”

She reaches in for the doll and lets the bag fall. When she squeezes the body, it crinkles. “It is made from?”

“Dried grass. I think.”

Angelica scowls. “Thomas, what have you—”

Her breath catches. What little colour her skin held evaporates. The whites of her eyes show, and she folds to the ground.

“Angelica?” I rush forward and take her free hand. The doll is clutched tight in the other. “Angelica, are you okay?” Her skin is cold, lips twisted in a permanent sneer.

I scramble away and run down the hill. Gaetan steps onto the path to join me. “So?”

“Gaetan, I think she’s dead. What did you do?”

“You asked me to take care of your situation. So, I did.”

I lace my hands over my head. “That… that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Perhaps next time you should clarify your expectations.” He leans out and looks along the path. “Besides, she is not dead. Only, incapacitated.”

“Next time? Wait… she’s okay?”

Gaetan puts his hands in his pockets. “We can discuss details another time, since you now find them of interest.” He walks the path toward the hill. “In the meantime, it would be best if we collect your girlfriend and leave.”

***

Photo by MChe Lee on Unsplash

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