Head Like a Hole

by Andrew Van Wey

She pinched her temples and slunk into her seat. What the hell was wrong with her? Had she really just done that? The train came to a stop and the speaker mumbled her station. She grabbed her book and exited as quick as she could. She did not grab her portfolio.

It wasn’t the worst day of her life, but it was in the top five.

Earlier, she had shed tears of frustration while the station agent took down her phone number.

Two nude bodies merged together, their skin dripping like wax.

Megan’s words caught in her throat. She knew slide twelve by heart.

She unrolled a Starscroll horoscope and flattened it against the desk. Tom tuned her out as she reviewed their lucky numbers.

Michael Jackson and his wife announcing the birth of their kid. Did that go in the Entertainment section or under People? Another article about Tickle Me Elmos flying off shelves before Christmas. Some company out in California was letting resellers auction them on the World Wide Web.

The Spartan Gazette, with its readership of hungover students and overcritical professors, wasn’t exactly The Washington Post. Nor was he a Woodward or Bernstein. But maybe someday, Tom thought.

But it wasn’t this realization that dried his tongue and tightened his bowels.

The buzzing penetrated him, both terrible and familiar, a forgotten song sung out of tune between stations. It permeated his senses until it was deafening and blinding and all that he knew. He spilled over reams of paper and folded chairs.

What a fool, she told herself. Despite the dark clothes and her occasional goth fashion, she was easily rattled.

“You’re tripping. Who has a scanner?” “Uh, RadioShack has an entire section. Do you seriously not know how this works?”

The car made of soft flesh sliding down a jagged cliff.

gross

Her only fear in this moment was that she might run out of paint.

She did not hear the phone ringing on the other side of the loft. Her answering machine, a simple thing with micro-cassettes and no greeting, recorded a few seconds of silence before the battery died and the caller was disconnected.

My high school was different. Small town, Muslim name. And 9/11 didn’t help.

Most days I was just happy not to be called a terrorist.”

Yes, he suspects this might not be an episode but a limited series.

I wish I could have warned them about the storm that was coming.”

But a missing dog? What was he, Ace Ventura?

Graham was so close to the gravel he could smell it again, his nose stinging with the tang of salt and meat, something starting to rot. There it was, a jagged, pinkish clump about the size of chewed gum and dry at its edges.

“Looks like some fish and bell peppers,”

“Smells like it too. Bill, you been making any tuna sandwiches lately?”

“Nah, not tuna. Can’t stand the stuff. Ju...

The sunken eyes, the sallow cheeks, the mottled spots that began at the nape of his neck and now spread like a collar of roots.

this man is molding from the inside out fr

Oksana had chewed right through him, of course, leaving nothing past the knuckle. He couldn’t even pick his nose properly now.

That's crazy

For a while he worried she might have died.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any more,” he whispered. “I need my fingers. I… I think I’ve got some sort of infection.”

You want me to get better, don’t you?” She turned her eyes up to him. “I know you do. You care about me, Louis. I can see it in your eyes. A great kindness shines inside you.”

It was a curious thing, these soft words that she spoke. Earlier, he’d struggled to understand her at times.

She was healing all right. “Please, Louis. Please. All I’ve had is what the sea brought to me. Bottom feeders, that’s all I’ve tasted. Louis, do me this one kindness and I will repay you tenfold. You hold a great treasure here, in your lap.”

Oksana didn’t complain when he fed it to her, dead but still warm and cut into pieces. She chewed, greedy and grateful. He could feel her little lungs expanding, her heart beating heavy and fast. He wondered where it all went.

He was wrong, he realized. She wasn’t just healing. She was growing. Then someone knocked at the door.

What was in that bag Louis was carrying? And why was he whispering to it?

Then a name came to her, first soft and foggy at the edges, then clarifying in cool light.

Not Ophelia or Octavia; not Olivia or Orianna. “Oksana,” she said.

And then she turned and left him standing right there, martini in hand. She left the gallery and let the crisp air wash over her. She knew what she had to do now, but it scared her. Because it was so far away.

He’d gotten plenty of crap at the station about the Curse of the Bambino, beginning when the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth in 1918 and hadn’t won a World Series since.

What began as a favor was now a full-blown clusterfuck.

“It’s weird, but the way he was holding it, it was almost protective.”

She needed this kindness, yet she felt unworthy.

seen and heard fr

Which was where she was now headed.

“What’s that here? Og-zenna—” “Ok-sa-na,” the old jeweler said. “Oksana Samarina.”

“Do you have Ms. Samarina’s address or a phone number perhaps? I’d like to notify her, see if she’s missing a necklace.”

“Book of Revelations, hello.” She tapped her fingers on the counter. “The name of the fallen star is Wormwood.”

Louis didn’t understand her instructions, but he followed them anyway; she was usually right. Like when she’d told him not to let the cop into their house. Which he’d done. Like when she’d told him not to turn his back or fetch that aspirin. Which he also did. And like when she’d said to swing hard with the hammer and he’d held back because… Because… why? Because he wasn’t a killer.

You said you’d do anything for me. Louis, you promised.

She swore something blinked. No, silly thought.

The other eye was glaring at her. Go. Get out. Now. Sandra ran for the emergency exit. She did not see the man tucked into the alcove between the stairs and the door, his trembling arms lashing out and embracing her. A man who wasn’t here to fix the lights.

Louis gave the limp body a shove down the embankment, watching it gain speed along the damp grass.