Dark Matter Presents Haunted Reels, page 26
“You’re creamy today,” he said as he thrusted.
It hurt too badly to form words, so I moaned in feigned pleasure. He finished with a loud grunt and extricated himself. I lingered there, trying to let the sensations settle. I knew if I got up, I might fall over.
“You okay?” he asked as he zipped up his pants.
“Yep, just gonna stay downstairs a while.”
“Okay. Well, I have to get back to work. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay. Thank you, babe.”
“Love you.”
I smiled. “Love you.”
I heard the sound of his footsteps going up the stairs and then him closing the door. I gingerly pushed myself back onto my feet, hobbled into the enormous basement bathroom, and cleaned up with toilet paper. It hurt. Badly. I eyed the whirlpool bathtub with high-pressure jets; it seemed soothing. I removed the rest of my clothes, started the water, and stepped in, the warmth tingly on my feet. The water stung as it reached my groin, making me wince.
I wouldn’t be able to have sex again for a while, that was for certain. I’d have to turn him down the next time he tried. I grew anxious at the thought. I took three deep breaths, trying to calm my nervous system. What if it lasts forever? What if he discovers all the worst things about me once I can’t give him sex? What if he goes back to Melody?
Calm down. Calm down.
The stinging was getting worse. I clutched my crotch, trying to breathe through the sensation. Panic tore through my body. What if he never loved me in the first place?
I needed to make it stop. I stepped out of the tub and searched the cabinet under the sink for something, anything, that would soothe the pain. Spray cleaners, soap, lotion, roach poison.
Roach poison.
I grabbed it and read the label on the back. 100% boric acid. Perfect.
Don’t be alarmed! It’s a little women’s secret. If you swallow it you could die, but when inserted vaginally, it balances the pH so yeast and bacteria can’t grow. I wouldn’t just stuff poison in my vagina.
I opened the bag, grabbed a handful of the powder, and stuffed the poison in my vagina. Dizzying pain. I remember screaming.
• • •
I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings. I was in the spare bedroom. Don’t worry—it was my idea to sleep there. It had been three days since the first sign of infection, with no improvement, and I didn’t want to disrupt Jasper’s sleep with my unappetizing secretions. He seemed grateful but refused to say it out loud. Bless him. He’d never want to hurt my feelings.
Everything burned. I sat up slowly, soggy wet noises coming from my underwear despite my ultra-thick maxi pad and examined myself in the mirror next to the bed. My eyes were sunken and hollow, and my hair was stringy. My stomach looked flat from my diet of leafy greens and meat, though. That was something. When I could finally have sex, at least I’d be more attractive. If Jasper could ever even think of me like that again.
Knock knock knock.
“One second!” I squeaked out pathetically.
I sat up straight, quickly smoothed my hair, grabbed the concealer in my purse, and dabbed it under my eyes. “Okay, come in!”
He opened the door and walked in, holding soup on a tray. “One soup delivery.”
“For me?” I melted. My eyes misted up.
“Special ordered.”
“Thank you, babe. That’s so sweet.” I took the tray from him and slurped up a spoonful of a clear warm broth I identified as pho.
“Of course. How are you feeling today?”
“Not so good. But I’m sure it’s getting better.”
“The doctor said it should start to improve within three days or so, right?” He kneeled next to me and began caressing my leg gently, slowly. I closed my eyes as his hand moved further up my thigh. I stopped his hand.
“He did, but…I’m not there yet. I can’t.”
He sighed. “I figured. Do you think you’ll be better in time for the launch?”
“I’d never miss it.”
“I’m so glad,” he said. “My agent’s really looking forward to meeting you. So is Melody.”
My spoon, halfway to my mouth, stopped mid-air. “Melody’s going to be there?” I tried to keep my tone even. Don’t sound jealous. Jealousy isn’t rational. Irrationality is unappealing.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“I’m sure you did,” I said, though he didn’t. “I must not have been listening.”
“She’s at the New Yorker now. Harvard was over a decade ago, and I need all the coverage we can get for this. It’s actually good that we have a history. She gets me like no other member of the press would. This is the best thing for us.”
Be agreeable. Be agreeable.
“No, right. That makes sense.”
I smiled and took another sip of the soup. I tried to swallow, but the back of my throat was expelling something. I tried again. No use. Jasper looked at me, concerned.
“Sweetie? Are you okay?”
I covered my hand with my mouth and turned away, but I couldn’t stop it. A white, curdled-looking goop forced its way out of my mouth. It poured out of my lips, through my fingers, and into my soup bowl.
No. No-no-no-no-no.
I got up, ran to the bathroom, and locked myself inside before Jasper could react.
I bent over the sink and frantically scraped my tongue with my tongue scraper, but it just kept forming. Yeast, everywhere, from unknown corners of my throat. I caught a glimpse of my eyes; there was a kind of thin white film over them. I splashed water onto them, blinking maniacally.
Through the door, Jasper was saying something.
“Honey? I have your medication. Do you want to take some more?”
“Just leave it outside!”
“Are you okay? Did you throw up?”
“I’m fine!”
“Okay. I’m here if you need me.”
As soon as I heard his footsteps disappear into another room, I cracked the door, snatched the medicine bottle, and downed every pill inside.
• • •
I woke up scratching myself so hard that the discharge on my finger was tinged with bright red blood. It was dark in the bathroom now. I’d fallen asleep on the floor, and everything hurt. My stomach was rumbling. I hadn’t eaten all day.
I slowly got to my feet, trying to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, but I managed to catch a glimpse of my face anyway. It looked pale and swollen and oddly shiny.
I opened the door a little and peeked down the hall to make sure Jasper wasn’t out there. I tiptoed out, passing his office on the way. He was speaking to someone on the phone in hushed tones. I could hear snippets of his conversation. I know I shouldn’t have snooped, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Thank you. I’m trying… She’s beautiful, but…well, we can’t exactly have lengthy discussions about Wittgenstein. Know what I mean?” He chuckled. “You were always the rational one,” he said to the person on the other end.
Pain. Searing pain.
I stumbled into the living room and scanned the bookshelves, which looked enormous to me now. I reached clumsily and pulled a few books at random. I knocked something over but didn’t stop to see what it was.
I brought the books into the spare room and began to read. I had to learn. I had to be smarter. That was all that mattered.
I was squinting at the word “schematicism” when I realized Jasper was hovering in the doorway, watching me. Despite my discomfort, I felt a surge of pleasure that he’d found me like that and I hadn’t noticed.
“Hey. How are you feeling?” he asked, looking at the book in front of me. “A Critique of Pure Reason, huh?”
I tried to smile, but my face was so puffy it was too painful to get my cheeks to move in the appropriate direction, so all I managed was opening my mouth a little. “I thought it would be nice to share some of what’s important to you.” My mouth formed a bubble on the word “you.” I quickly sucked it back in. Act normal.
“That’s so sweet, honey,” Jasper said. “It’s a dense one.”
“Do you think it’s too dense for me?” I asked, a little too sharply. I should have monitored my tone more closely. Stupid mistake.
“No…no. Of course not.”
He sat down next to me on the bed.
“Listen, love… I think you should probably skip the opening. I can FaceTime you. It’s okay. There will be other events.”
“No!” I looked at him with an expression that I can only assume was wild-eyed. “I’m going.”
“You’re very sick. You need to get better.”
“I’m getting better.”
“You’re not,” he said softly.
His eyes were completely blank.
I tried so hard to hold in my sobs, but I lost control and began to cry. He put his hand on my shoulder stiffly, and when he pulled it away it stuck to my skin a little. Repulsive.
• • •
“Foucault’s emphasis was on the division between reason and madness; Derrida articulated a more complex interplay of their relationality,” the man’s voice was saying on the computer. I mimicked him, memorizing each bit of information.
I steamed my sophisticated, cream-colored Yves Saint Laurent dress that Jasper had gotten me for my birthday. It was the same shade as my slick pale skin. I thought it looked nice against my arms. I shimmied into it, listening intently to a lecture about postmodernism. I felt light and malleable. I felt beautiful.
“Foucault’s emphasis was on the division…” I said softly as I brushed my hair.
Looking over my accessory options, I felt nauseous observing the gaudiness of my old jewelry collection. Rhinestones and oversized earrings, gold chains and brightly colored bangles…tacky. I selected the thin, tasteful silver necklace I had picked out with Jasper. I had grown so much.
“A more complex interplay of their relationality,” I whispered.
• • •
Walking, but it felt more like sliding.
I think I saw a trail of goo following me as I went, but I’m not certain now. My whole body was moist, making my dress cling to my limbs. I hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. I’d been reading, watching lectures, learning. I had so much to share with Jasper.
He wasn’t expecting me at the party, of course. He’d been leaving meals for me at the top of the stairs. I hadn’t let him see me in days. He thought I’d be waiting for him at home, still sick in the basement, but I was really feeling much better now. He was going to be so surprised.
A car slowed as it passed me, and a man’s voice rang out. “Lady, are you okay?”
“I’m wonderful!” I said, or at least I think I did.
I was almost to the bookstore entrance. There were so many people inside. That was great. I was so proud of him.
I stepped inside and heard his voice reading a passage, his audience rapt. I squirmed my way through the crowd, desperate to get a glimpse of him in his shining moment.
A woman recoiled after I gently pushed her aside.
“What the fuck,” someone whispered as they looked at me, but it didn’t bother me. I was almost to the front.
“And that, perhaps, is the central theme of Bulgakov’s life,” Jasper’s voice was saying authoritatively, “the struggle to maintain his integrity even under the control of an oppressive regime who wished to strip him of his voice, his autonomy, his life.”
I can’t remember what he read after that, because that’s when I saw Melody. I’d never seen her in person before. Her platinum blonde hair looked chic. She held a notebook and pen, and she was luminous. White-hot jealousy surged through my body. She watched Jasper, a look in her eyes that I recognized.
He finished reading, and the crowd began to applaud. I joined them, clapping, though my hands only seemed to be able to make a sickly wet sucking sound. Jasper thanked the audience and stepped out from behind the podium. Melody intercepted, neither of them seeing me. I stayed put, ignoring the reactions of the people around me. I knew things now. I belonged here.
As I watched Jasper hug Melody, his hand lingering on her the small of her back, I felt my insides shift. I made my way over to them; it took an unusually long time to move across the room. Everything was heavy.
Melody was whispering something into his ear, her fingers lightly touching his arm, when she saw me. She screamed.
He noticed me just as my legs gave out. His face contorted in horror. “Charlotte?”
“You were brilliant,” I tried to say, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words.
Speak! You know things now! Foucault’s emphasis was on the division between reason and madness. Foucault’s emphasis was on the division between reason and madness!
“Fuhcuh’s emphuh,” I managed to get out.
My lips exploded into goop.
“Don’t look! Don’t look at her!” I heard Jasper saying before my hearing went. Melody was vomiting.
The last thing I remember is catching a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror on the wall opposite me.
Where my body should have been, there was only a pile of yeast.
Detroit
Michael Dunker
Story by Michael Dunker, Jess Carfield, and Alex Ruiz
“It came back,” the doctor said.
Alex sat motionless, trying to absorb this new information, while the phrases recurring cancer and what the fuck drifted through his head. He stared at a model skeleton’s chest cage in the doctor’s office, which mirrored his entire existence. He knew the exact direction he wanted to go.
“Now, we have some treatment options, but it’s going to be—”
“No,” Alex replied. “I want the Kifo Pill.”
The doctor paused. The Kifo Pill had been around for nearly a decade, created by the Thanatos Corporation, reserved for hospice patients who had chosen painless euthanasia. Once taken, a patient would feel no side effects and when they drifted to sleep, they simply would not wake up again. Being all of thirty-nine years of age, Alex didn’t exactly qualify for this option, but this being his third cancerous stint, he was granted a prescription by the hesitant doctor.
• • •
On the banks of the Detroit River sits Belle Isle, which at one time boasted a beautiful view of the Motor City’s grand skyline. Decades ago, the city was shaped by the pillars of the automotive industry and echoed with Motown music, but today the music has faded and the cars remain dormant. Though the locals still cheer on the depressing Detroit Lions and wash down their sorrows with an Atwater beer, Belle Isle is one of the last remaining crown jewels of the 313.
It’s there, on a random park bench on Belle Isle, that Alex takes the Kifo Pill, thus starting a ticking clock to the end of his life.
He began calling friends. “Hey bud, it’s Alex. I know it’s been awhile, but I’m getting all the boys together at the London Chop House tonight. 7:30. Be there. It’s important.”
Though he called more than a dozen people that afternoon, his neglect of relationships over the years would be the thorn in his plans. He got a fresh haircut, tailored a new suit, and leased a 1969 Pontiac GTO because why not? If you’re going out, go out in style. Upon cashing out his bank account, he ran into someone from his past, someone he hadn’t seen in twenty-seven years.
“Kristen?”
“Oh my God, Alex? Alex Foster?”
“Wow. How are you? I haven’t seen you since—”
“Eighth grade.”
“Yeah, eighth grade.”
Kristen was engaging in a Katherine Hepburn-type way, with her quirky smile and an adorable laugh. The world had been unkind to her, but she always persisted.
Alex hadn’t seen her since he moved schools that year, but running into her that afternoon immediately reignited his affection. She was the one that got away and while the pair made small talk like you do with familiar strangers, he eventually saw an opening.
“I actually work at my son’s school part-time. Oh, I have a little boy. Well, he’s not so little. He’s ten. But I work there and then at the Coney in Royal Oak to make some extra cash.”
“I love Coney’s,” said Alex. “Are you working tonight?”
“I am, but not until late. And it’s probably out of your way, so don’t worry about it…”
“…But I’d love to see you,” he said.
Kristen beamed. “Okay then. Maybe I’ll see you,” she replied.
• • •
That night at the London Chop House, Alex was greeted by an extravagant spread of steak, lobster, and eighteen-year-old scotch. No expense was spared. He was the first to arrive and while waiting for his friends, a series of texts started rolling in.
Sorry, bro. Can’t make it tonight.
Hey Alex, I got a family thing. Sorry.
Can’t tonight, but let’s get drinks next week.
One after another, they all canceled. Crushed and embarrassed, Alex made peace with it, finished his last drink, and thanked the staff for their hospitality. When he was about to leave, Vince, his oldest friend, finally showed.
“Hey buddy, sorry I’m late,” Vince said as he looked around at the empty table. “Where is everyone?”
Alex didn’t need to say anything, and Vince immediately knew.
“Assholes.”
“It’s fine, they’re busy.”
“It’s bullshit. When you say it’s important, it’s important.”
The pair retired to a bar down the street and after venting frustrations about work & life, Alex eventually confessed his sins. Vince sat in shock as his friend explained he didn’t want to fight anymore. He had lived the American dream. Well-educated, well-traveled, well-moneyed; everything capitalism tells you is important, and he was fine with it. Vince wanted to protest but could only listen with empathy. They ordered another drink and Vince asked the eternal question, “what would you do on your last day on Earth?”
