Soft Focus: A short story from Bloody Gullets
the short story collection: “Bloody
Gullets”
by
Every
evening, as I lay down to bed, I look over at my pictures of Kiera. I
say good night to her, even though she isn’t really there. And, as
I drift off, I look at her, from time to time, and smile. It feels
like peace. And then, the next morning, I wake up, and the world’s
a blur. In that time when I’m not quite yet me, I can see the
outline of her face on the nightstand by my bed. And I can feel her.
Touching me softly. Kissing me. Telling me everything is going to be
all right.
Then
I wake up, and she’s no longer there at my bedside. Only in
pictures. No soft voice telling me everything’s going to be all
right. And the world comes into focus.
I
can feel the spiders and the worms, crawling and slithering around in
my veins. I scratch at the skin, but they just move around. They’re
faster than I’ve ever been, and I’m getting slower every single
day. Every day that I waste delaying what I know to be unavoidable.
Because,
as I touch her pictures, running my trembling fingers across them,
her eyes don’t close like I want them to. Peaceful in death. They
remain open. Staring at me. Looking at me like they still love me and
they don’t understand. Like they did when she was still here. In
body and in spirit. With me. All day and all night.
And,
near the end, this is where we stayed. On this mattress, soaked wet
with fluids, bodily and otherwise. Except for the occasional errand,
this is where we lay. Unless our supply was low, we never moved an
inch.
Near
the end, the love making was more spiritual than physical. When we’d
tap in, it was just us, looking into each other’s eyes and feeling
our souls being lifted into a dulled and soothing ether. It wasn’t
the same thing as sex. It was better. By far. We both agreed. There
was nothing we could do, separate or together, that could equal the
bliss we felt in those invisible arms. As we drifted and our eyes
went hazy and we reached that pinnacle of peace that sometimes turned
into a nap.
At
first, when we met, I would stay out long hours during the day,
dressed in a monkey suit, while she waited patiently for me and did
whatever needed doing around our small apartment. And every evening,
we’d relax and enjoy each other’s company. Back when we still
touched each other physically. When the feeling of her tongue on my
body or the taste of her dripping down my throat was still
pleasurable. When we made love like animals and passed out from
exhaustion.
Over
time, we fell prone to routine and, even though things were still
good and we still loved each other very deeply, we began to take more
risks. Changing things. Going deeper into one another. Exploring
options. Trading pleasure for pain and then enjoying ourselves again
as we made the pain go away.
And,
pretty soon, I stopped spending my days outside the apartment. I no
longer dressed up like a corporate stooge. I stayed home, in bed,
with her, unless I needed to go out and run errands for us. And she
would wait there. Only leaving the bedroom to bathe or use the
toilet. We barely ever ate. It wasn’t what we craved anymore. And
we were eating into our savings enough as it was.
Then,
as was inevitable, the money ran out, and she began to go out to do
the errands. It wasn’t anything either of us wanted. And when I
look back now, I think I can see a little girl begging in her eyes as
she tells me she’ll be back soon. Begging me to tell her she
doesn’t have to go out and that things could go back to normal.
Even if the shells we’d become didn’t want that at all.
Some
nights, she would come home with bruises on her face and inner
thighs. Sometimes her makeup would be runny, smeared across her face,
and I would tell her that I loved her and she would echo the phrase
and kiss me softly, quickly, before we relaxed for the evening.
And
all those evenings had become routine, again. Except, by that point,
there was nothing but the relieving of the pain. We had no reason to
inflict it upon each other any more. The length of the days took care
of that part for us.
We
would lay together in perfect ecstasy, looking into each other’s
eyes. Letting ourselves drift and just feel the numbing warmth. We
almost never took baths anymore. We never showered. But, I could
still see her, laying across from me, and she looked so very
beautiful. Like an angel. And, even though our mattress had begun to
reek of urine and spoilt food, I could still smell her. Her fresh
clean body. The one hidden underneath the dirt and the clogged pores
and the scars and the bloodied and bruised tracks.
And
then, one day, she was gone. Taken from me in an instant. Like that.
She left and never came home. The girl I’d loved for so long, for
whom I’d do anything in this world, never returned to our
apartment. She had died. She had been, in a very real sense,
destroyed. By the world. By the monsters that inhabited it.
And
as I touch her pictures, running my trembling fingers across them,
her eyes still won’t close like I want them to. They remain open.
Staring back at me. Looking at me like they still love me and they
just can’t understand. Like they did when she was still here. In
body and in spirit. In bed with me. All day and all night.
And,
near the end, this is where we stayed. On this mattress, soaked warm
and wet with bodily fluids. Unless our supply was low, we never moved
an inch.
And
now that she’s gone, the only thing I have to remind me of her love
for me, and to drive me harder and harder toward avenging her death,
are her pictures and the smell from her side of the bed. The smell
gets worse every day, and I feel the fear when I look over to where
she used to rest.
And
I remember, again, the day she left, never to return. She had gone
out that morning, looking tired and weak. Itching herself and
shaking, just as I was. Promising me everything was going to be all
right and that she’d be home soon. But, the hours passed and I
began to panic. Where was she? What was taking so long?
It
wasn’t unusual. It’s what we did. Both of us. Every day then.
And
it hadn’t taken me long after that evening to determine who was
culpable for her death. For killing the once beautiful, sweet,
caring, compassionate woman who had crawled into bed with me that
night. For stealing her soul and leaving a wasted husk to act in her
stead, as her body slowly died right beside me. Staring into my eyes
with disbelief. Looking at me like she still loved me and would never
understand.
And,
tonight, I’m shooting our poison into the femoral vein in my groin.
Hoping against hope that my shaking hands will take pity on me and
let the needle miss, or over-shoot, and puncture the artery at last.
The gutter’s been muddy for days now. It’s only a matter of time.
I console myself with these few cogent thoughts I have left.
And,
as I release my bite from the belt and feel the junk rush my system,
I roll over, away from her pictures. I look over at her. I stroke and
kiss the yellowing flesh that no longer resembles her photographs and
I pray that tonight I will finally deliver, for her, the justice that
she deserves.
As
my eyes drift closed in that horrifying ecstasy, I whisper that I
love her. I need to believe that she can hear me. I know that, soon,
she will understand. And I hope that she will have forgiven me.
