“Ow, ow, shit,” she complained as pain pulsed through her big toe.

  Sniffling and trembling, Kristine began to tear up. But she refused to stop. She wasn’t going to fail Wyatt again. She pushed down on the handle. The pain sharpened as the nail rose with a soft crinkling sound. She met some resistance, so she applied some more pressure. With an unnerving crack, the toenail broke in two and the pieces flew off her foot.

  Eyes clenched shut, she bit down on her lower lip and slumped to the side, close to collapsing. Balls of fiery pain ping-ponged between her ankle and toe, consuming her entire foot.

  “Fuck!” she cried out, face rosy and teary and sweaty.

  She slapped her hand over her mouth and sobbed into her palm. With the room spinning around her, she felt like she was sitting in the middle of a carousel gone haywire. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath during the nail removal process. She took a moment to pull herself together. She cringed as she glanced at her foot.

  Flecked with blood, the skin of her exposed nail bed was raw and reddish. Some blood rolled down the sides of her toe as her foot vibrated.

  “Don’t... s–stop... now,” she told herself in a weak, quivering voice.

  She didn’t want to give herself the slightest opportunity to start second-guessing everything. She pushed her other big toe into the bottle opener’s ring. She recoiled as the tool’s tooth slid under her toenail, but that pain was negligible compared to the hot throbs in her other foot. Unknowingly holding her breath once again while gritting her teeth, she wiggled the bottle opener to loosen the nail.

  Feeling it separate from the nail bed, she pushed down on the handle with all of the weight of her upper body. The toenail snapped off. The cuticle and the fold of skin at the base of her nail were split open. This nail removal was grislier than the first. It looked like she had dipped her big toe into a pool of blood.

  Now, her feet seemed to be competing in a battle of suffering. She couldn’t tell which one hurt more, though. The throbs of pain came out of sync, some hotter than others. She couldn’t sit still. Her feet shifted restlessly, tap dancing to a tune of agony. And with each tap, drops of blood splashed onto the tile floor.

  Her vocabulary was reduced to some profanity: “Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck me.”

  She snatched a small towel off the counter above her, shoved it into her mouth, and bit down hard to suppress her cries. Her muffled whimpers died out just beyond the open window. Her tears saturated the towel and dripped from her jaw. After two minutes, the pain started to let up. A warm, uncomfortable tingly sensation remained in her injured toes. She spit the towel out and fought for air.

  Hands shaking uncontrollably, she collected her removed toenails—three pieces, each one painted in blood. Her face twisted with anguish as she struggled to her feet. Whimpering, she limped over to the counter in front of her and sprinkled the toenails onto the flesh on the sheet pan. But it did little to alter the concoction of ‘humanly essence.’

  She didn’t want to lose her momentum, so she shut her mind down and went straight for the closest tool: The box grater. Quick and thunderous, the thrumming of her heart filled her ears as she studied the tool, looking at it as if she had never grated cheese before. Tears blurred her vision, making each side of the grater look alike. Feeling them with her fingers, she focused on the side with the largest holes.

  She gripped the edge of the sink with her left hand, then pressed the grater against the back of it. Orbs of skin clogged the holes. But just before she could start, she noticed she was gnashing her teeth together. It was making her jaw, teeth, and head ache. Without taking her hand off the sink, she put the box grater down and took hold of the roll of paper towels nearby.

  Kristine chomped down at the center of the roll, gripping it longways in her mouth like a dog holding a bone. As ready as she was ever going to be, she grabbed the box grater and held it against the back of her hand. Her skin entered the holes again. Her grip on the sink tightened, turning her knuckles white. Then she pushed the grater down.

  The back of her hand tore open with a wet crinkling sound. The roll of paper towels couldn’t mute her bellow. Her cries reached every room in the apartment and, although almost imperceptible, haunted the street below. She pulled the grater towards her, letting some flaps of skin loose, then pushed it down again.

  Hot blood raced down her fingers while bolts of searing pain rocketed up her arm. A strip of skin tore off her hand and spiraled down to the sink. Her knees rocked, close to buckling. A cold sweat wet every inch of her shivering body and ropes of mucus flew out of her nose with each exhale. Bloody flaps of skin hung from her mangled hand. With another push, the grater screeched against a pair of bones.

  Kristine fell forward, jerked back, then righted herself. She stopped moving the grater in hopes of giving herself a moment of respite. But to her dismay, the horrible pain didn’t fizzle out. She felt her guts twisting and turning, as if her intestines were tying themselves together in a massive knot. She tried to pull the grater away from her hand, but the smallest movement ignited the worst suffering.

  She blinked rapidly to get the tears out of her eyes and clear up her vision. Threads of her skin were tangled in the grater’s holes. She gave the tool another tug but stopped right away. The pain was too much. The sight of her blood spurting into the sink was sickening as well. Weakened by the self-inflicted torture, she was sure she wasn’t going to be able to rip the grater off through brute force.

  She could only think of one way to free herself. She took the chef’s knife off the counter, slid the blade between the grater and her hand, then started sawing into the shredded bits of skin. Blood flowed off her trembling fingertips in three wavering streams of crimson. The paper towels soaked up her saliva and mucus, but they couldn’t absorb her awful wails.

  Her knees, shaking madly, kept banging against a cupboard. She had to lean into the sink to stay on her feet. The closeup of her blood swirling down the drain was like something out of a horror movie. Slicing through the last strands of skin, the grater came loose. She dropped the knife, too. They clattered loudly in the sink. Blood splashed up and struck her face.

  She spit out the roll of paper towels and wept piercingly, breaths coming in fast, broken rasps. She grasped her left wrist in a vice-like grip, as if that would subdue the pain or slow the bleeding. The back of her hand was a minced mess. Three of her metacarpal bones—streaked with blood—were visible in the wound. Nicked here and gashed there, the lumbrical muscles between those bones appeared to be pulsing, wriggling like worms. Some of her exposed veins—which resembled maroon cords—were severed, snaking around the bones and muscles.

  Realizing the pain wasn’t dying down, Kristine gave up and let go of her wrist. Afflicted with a bad case of jazz hands, her injured hand fluttered unceasingly. Bawling her eyes out, she collected the ribbons of skin scattered through the sink with her good hand. She tossed the pieces onto the sheet pan. As she reached for the box grater, determined to continue the self-mutilation, a bout of nausea overcame her.

  “Oh God,” she groaned.

  She took a glass off the dish rack next to the sink and served herself some water from the tap. She chugged it down, then went for another. Stained with her blood, the glass slid out of her hand and exploded in the sink. The shattering sound rolled through the other rooms. Fragments of glass flew into the box grater. Most of the larger shards piled into the drain.

  Kristine looked at the wall to her right, praying the neighbors hadn’t heard all of the commotion. She thought about closing the kitchen window, but she liked how the fresh, cool air caressed her face. She felt like it was the only thing keeping her conscious now. No noise came out of the neighboring homes. She grabbed the box grater and turned it to the side with the medium-sized holes.

  Palm up, she balanced her left forearm on the edge of the sink. Although her hand continued to throb and tingle, the absence of the wound in her vision brought a smidgen of comfort to her. But she didn’t have time to cherish that feeling. She put the roll of paper towels back in her mouth and pressed the grater against her inner forearm.

  She howled as she grated her inner wrist. Her skin tore and peeled away easily. The steel strummed the tendons in her wrist, sending vibrations of agony up her arm. Rapids of blood surged from her opened veins and pulped muscles. Like red shoelaces, threads of bloodied skin became knotted in some of the grater’s holes. The blood helped the tool glide, though.

  She felt her nerves tingling, burning, writhing, screaming. But she kept going. Within a minute, she scraped a crater into her forearm.

  A stifled ‘Fuck!’ made it past the paper towels in her mouth before she spit the roll out.

  The tangled skin snapped as she pried the box grater away. She slammed it in the sink, forgetting about the world around her. Her butchered arm fell limp at her side. Particles of glass from the broken cup glowed bright red in the wound, glittering in her grated muscles.

  “F–F–F–Fuck,” she stammered.

  She gathered the shredded skin. It filled her hand like pasta drowned in sauce. As if she were in the middle of a food fight, she lobbed it at the mound of meat. A strand of flesh landed on the counter. As she gazed at the tray, something deep inside of her told her that it wasn’t enough. A sense of bloodlust hijacked her body, demanding more and more and more by any means necessary.

  In a frenzy, she glanced around for another tool. The bottle opener on the floor caught her attention. She nearly fell over as she grabbed it. She stood up, her entire body swaying like a drunk’s, and thrust the bottle opener into her mutilated wrist. Jiggling it around, she tried to hook the tool’s tooth under her tendon. She wanted to ‘devein’ herself.

  “Is this what you want?!” she brayed as she scowled at the window. “Is this enough for you?!”

  Blood sprayed out of her arm, raining down on the tray, counters, and floor. Unable to rip the tendon out with the tool, she started clawing at the massive wound in a fit of blind rage, thrumming the tendon with her fingernails.

  She yelled, “Take it! Take it a–”

  Mid-word, she staggered back and crashed into the kitchen island. Anger could only produce so much adrenaline, and adrenaline could only block so much pain. Losing control of herself, she ground her teeth and held her breath against her will. Her jugulars jutted out and her face flushed the darkest shade of red. Stabs of white-hot pain ripped through her arm. The loss of blood robbed her of her strength.

  She crumpled to the floor and finally breathed. She sat there with her back against the kitchen island, head spinning dazedly. A hit with a paper ball could have knocked her over. Scared of what she was going to see, she snuck a peek at her wounded arm. It looked like an animal had taken a bite—or a few—out of her. She started coming to her senses and realized she was getting close to unintentionally killing herself.

  She looked up at the window. “I–I’m sorry, Father. I... I said too much. I was hurt... angry... lost. It won’t happen again. I’m waiting for you.”

  Unsteady, she slid up to her feet. She had to stop the bleeding, and she already had an idea in mind. Working off of memory, she opened the cupboard under the sink and took a box of Saran wrap out. Then she fetched the small towel she had used earlier to smother her cries. She wrapped that towel around her flayed wrist. It grew heavy as it soaked up her blood.

  Over the towel, she swathed her forearm in the Saran wrap five times over as tightly as possible. The towel shifted and folded in a few places during the process, but it stayed put. For good measure, she took off her hair tie—allowing her hair to spill down to her shoulders—and used it to tie down the makeshift bandage.

  She felt some relief, although she wasn’t sure if she had stopped the bleeding entirely. Now, she only needed to find a way to reduce the pain.

  8

  PUPPY LOVE

  Yoselyn stood in line at the concession stand in the movie theater’s lobby, cradling an empty popcorn bucket near her stomach. She was watching the customers at the neighboring cashier, though. A couple with two kids—an older boy and a younger girl—were ordering their snacks.

  Face pressed against the snack display, the boy jabbed his index finger at the glass and said, “Twizzlers, Dad! I want Twizzlers! Dad, Twizzlers!”

  The girl stood next to him and watched popcorn overflow from the kettle in a popcorn machine, hypnotized by the sight. She yawned, already sleepy.

  Yoselyn smirked and thought: A little late for a movie, isn’t it?

  She assumed they were there to watch the only kid’s movie playing at that theater—Max Keeble’s Big Move. Her smile grew as memories of her son shuffled through her mind. She wondered which movie they would watch with him for his first movie theater experience.

  “Next!” The male voice broke her trance.

  She looked straight ahead and saw the cashier beckoning to her. She stepped forward and placed her order—a refill of popcorn and a box of Milk Duds. While the cashier prepared her order, she heard the boy crying in the next line. It sounded like his world was ending.

  His dad had passed on the Twizzlers.

  Yoselyn’s motherly instincts told her to go comfort him, but she knew it wasn’t her place. She could see the boy’s parents were already trying to get him to cheer up anyway. With her popcorn and candy, she headed back. She had to show her ticket once more to return to her auditorium. She wasn’t really ‘getting’ Mulholland Drive, so she wasn’t in a big hurry, checking out all of the posters in the hall while flicking some popcorn into her mouth.

  In the auditorium, she ducked her head and crept her way to a seat in the back next to Joel. They looked at each other. Joel could tell she wasn’t enjoying the movie. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t want to ruin the mood for everyone else. It wasn’t exactly a full house, but he respected cinema etiquette. So, he smiled at her and gave a little shrug: Hey, I’m liking it so far. Yoselyn handed him the bucket of popcorn before giving him a playful nudge with her elbow.

  Joel mixed the Milk Duds into the popcorn.

  They continued watching the movie. Joel was fully immersed in the mystery. For Yoselyn, the minutes dragged by. Her eyelids got heavier by the second.

  The film transitioned to a sex scene between Betty, played by Naomi Watts, and Rita, played by Laura Harring. It remedied Yoselyn’s drowsiness, piquing her curiosity in an instant. She adjusted herself in her seat and concentrated on the movie. As if startled by a jump scare, she flinched as Joel took her hand.

  They made eye contact through the darkness. She snickered and blushed. He nodded and beamed. They had a wordless conversation, totally on the same wavelength. Their gestures said: ‘When was the last time we had a little bit of fun?’

  Their sex lives were put on life support when River was born. They only had sex when their son was dead asleep or during one of those rare moments when a trusted family member would take him off their hands—and that was only if they even had the energy to get aroused. Either way, quickies were their only option.

  Very little foreplay. No mood-setting. Just fast, down-and-dirty sex.

  Joel grabbed Yoselyn’s thigh and massaged her leg tenderly. Fidgeting in her seat, she sucked her lips into her mouth and breathed deeply through her nose. She wanted to giggle so badly. Joel’s hand inched up her leg, squeezing her thigh every inch of the way. A shudder of excitement swept through Yoselyn as the side of her husband’s hand ground against her crotch.

  She eyed him with a lustful look that said: ‘Oh, you’re so bad.’

  Her breathing sped up. With a gentle touch, his pinky spread her labia and brushed her clitoris through her underwear. Arousal fluid blotched her panties with a small wet spot. She squirmed in her seat some more. Joel beckoned to her. Yoselyn knew exactly what he wanted because it was exactly what she wanted to give him. She reached over the armrest and rubbed his crotch.

  She felt his erect penis over his pants. She started stroking it, making his jeans rustle faintly each time. He balanced the bucket of popcorn on his other knee to stop the other moviegoers on his side of the row from getting a free show. They leaned in closer to each other and locked lips. Popcorn spilled out of the bucket, pattering on the floor between their feet.

  Yoselyn let out a small moan, then she gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes darted left and right. Joel pulled his hand away inconspicuously while glancing around. No one seemed to notice them—or they just didn’t care. The couple tittered and kissed again. With a big, proud grin, Joel sifted through the popcorn, stirring it with his finger as he searched for a buttery piece.

  9

  TOPPINGS

  A container of melatonin pills fell into the bathroom sink, its contents rattling inside. A big bottle of cough syrup followed. An electric razor landed on top of it. There was an empty box of extra-large Band-Aids on the floor between the sink and toilet.

  Shivering feverishly, Kristine rummaged through a medicine cabinet. Four large Band-Aids were plastered sloppily over the wound on her injured hand. She took another bottle out. She heard the familiar rattling of pills inside but she couldn’t quite read the label because she was seeing double. After some quick blinks, she made out a few words: ‘Non-Drowsy’ and ‘DECONGESTANT.’

  “Damn it,” she whined.

  She tossed it over her shoulder. It splashed in the bloodied water in the bathtub. She pulled an orange pill container out of the medicine cabinet. It was almost empty. She held it up and squinted at the label. It was a bottle of Percocet tablets. She was familiar with the medication.

  Bingo, she thought.

  Joel’s full name was also printed on the label. She couldn’t read the directions, though. She spotted a few numbers: A ‘7’ here, a ‘1’ there, something that looked like a ‘5’ or a ‘6’ next to the others. And the numbers seemed to duplicate themselves and float through her vision.

 

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