It's The Look

The corridor stretches on before and behind you, endless and dark. Pale blue light drifts from beneath several doorways, casting a shifting glow on the walls and floor, defining the space and giving it shape. Your pulse quickens, a racing tempo, hairs rising on your arms and neck in time. Cold sweat clings to your skin as dread creeps into the base of your stomach, worming itself through your insides to someplace deeper until it covers you, a fungus, a poison. 

Run. Hide. Fight. The evolutionary decision that will determine survival. Imminent danger in pursuit. Adrenaline, a chemical concoction of liquid fear, coursing through your veins. Mind sharp, knees weak.

Something clatters against the tile floor from an unseen corridor off the main hall. You freeze like the dumb, large eyed prey of the forest. It takes every ounce of will not to fall into panic, not to break down then and there. Quickly, you dart behind one of the many doorways, pressing your back firmly on the other side of the cinderblock wall. Wet, grating breaths grow louder and increasingly clear. Your grip tightens around the handle of a kitchen knife, but your hands shake. Hot tears roll down your cheeks, and you bite your lip, trying not to breathe. You can see him in your mind, that tall, painfully thin creature with blood-red flesh stretched taut over a looming frame, that skeletal face, showing no emotion, just hollow cheeks, a wide gaping mouth, and deeply set eyes like a pair of watery black pits. He is coming. Closer, closer.

"It's time. Do you hear the dark?" he whispers, somewhere down the hall, repeating the phrase over and over in a shrill, raspy voice that seems far away but close, above, below, and all around you. He’s in your head now, hearing your thoughts. Time slows, and your blood grows cold. Shouldn't you have known better than to run? 

Suddenly he is behind you, reaching out, cold skin wrapping around your legs. You swing frantically with the knife, but the tendrils of flesh only reform, tendons growing and warping to fill the gaps. His tongue reaches forward, its wet sliminess coiling around your right arm. You drop the knife in panic, attempting to pry yourself free as you are pulled closer and closer to his wide, opening jaws, but it’s no use as your hand quickly dissolves into the pink goo. With a final lunge he draws you inward, and you feel them over your eternity, sets of jagged teeth like cut glass tearing through skin and fat and muscle, ripping you apart, crushing and grinding bone. There is white hot pain as you are swallowed in mutilated bits, pain, and then nothing.

Fragments shatter and colors blur until nothing remains but an absence, a milky film of white light slowly fading into a blackened void, a total darkness. 

The red man is ever present, a looming shadow on the edge of your conscience. Sometimes he kills you, burning you in a torrent of flames or tearing you to bits with sharpened steel; other times, he only toys with you. Delays it. Gives you the illusion of escape, of safety. But in the end there is always death. Then again it repeats--a thousand screams, a thousand last breaths--and the creature feeds, devouring the fear and suffering of its prey. You do not remember a time when he was not there, when you were not running and he was not behind you and two steps ahead. You do not have a name. You are nothing but a host, a victim, trapped in a cycle of endless torment. This is your fiery furnace, the wailing and grinding of teeth. There is no escape, only the unending pain, divided only by intermittent periods of icy darkness.

You feel yourself falling, falling, then crashing down, down into cold, tumultuous water. You struggle and finally break the surface, fighting against crashing waves to stay afloat. Your eyes sting from the salt, and the briny water fills your nose and mouth. There is no shore in sight, only moonlight reflecting on an infinite plane of dark water.

A wave crashes over your head, and you feel the tide pull you under. Something scaly and cold brushes against your leg and you flinch, recoiling at an electric charge climbing your nerves. Sharp teeth rip into your side and you scream, though only a dull sound travels through the abyss. Salt water fills the wound, sending a throbbing pain throughout your body. Blood stains the water a deep, carnal red and you know it’s him lurking below. Another bite tears into your right leg, and your gasp, your mouth filling with water. Your lungs scream for air but you can’t seem to orient yourself upwards, the pain sending your head spinning. Something grasps your foot, pulling you further under. You fight it but feel yourself rapidly growing weaker, starving for air and losing blood rapidly. Your vision is failing, crowded by black spots, and you feel yourself fading. Then once more there is cold darkness.

You are drifting through nothing, wondering what sins you could have committed to deserve this, a lifetime of agony. You pray for deliverance to any God merciful enough to listen, and you weep bitterly, giving into the futility of it all. Why do you struggle? Why do you fight against it? It is as if your efforts only cause more pain, but you can’t stop yourself from resisting, from rebelling against the hold of hopelessness. There must be some way to save yourself from this demon, from this hell in which you are trapped. And so it repeats.

You are in a crowd of people, packed shoulder to shoulder with hardly enough room to breath.  All of them babble incoherently, filling the space with indiscernible noise. You look around, trying to gain some sense of the space, but something catches your eye. A woman’s eye has begun to droop down her cheek, her face like melted plastic. Startled, you take a step backwards, bumping into a weezing man, hands around his throat, his face a suffocated purplish hue. That’s when you realize they are all deformed, all suffering: a man with bleeding pits for eyes, a child with three arms clinging around his painfully narrow ribcage, a woman spitting and choking a gel-like, red substance. You can’t escape them; they are everywhere, and reeling, you spot the red man amongst them, drooling at the mouth. 

“It’s time...” he whispers into your skull, his voice serpentine and flowing. “Do you hear it?”

You run as fast as you can, pushing past the people that seem to be pressing into you, closer and closer. Again, you see him, now in front of you, only paces away.

“Do you hear the dark?”

You cover your ears and scream, trying to drown him out. How can you fight something that doesn't obey the laws of physics, who has no weaknesses? Inhale, exhale. Underneath it is a soft pounding, something like a pulse, a heartbeat. You strain to make it out, making your way towards it. You need to find the source; somehow you know it. 

Your follow the sound and it becomes louder, pounding in your ears. You hear the bodies begin to scream, writhing as if in pain. Among them, you can sense he is hiding. Red flashes across your field of vision, and something invisible cuts across your skin, leaving lacerations on your arms, your legs, your neck. It hurts, but you press forward through the crowd, clinging to the sound, the heartbeat, this feeble strand of hope. You fall down as the cuts become more severe and something pushes you backwards. You crawl weakly onward, fighting back. Finally you find the source, a small, blackened heart, shriveled and deformed, tethered as if growing from the ground. So it does have a heart. 

The screams are deafening, the pain unbearable, the redness blinding. You reach out and grasp the heart, reaching inward to its core, finding the center. Suddenly, everything sinks inward, swallowing you like jaws, but you hold on, ripping the meat apart, pushing, fighting. Your fingers touch something smooth and cold, its soul, and finally you crush it, releasing a piercing cry, a final flash of red. Then there is nothing.

    I found you lying in the hallway of the fourth floor, your spine contorted into a rigid curve and your arms drawn in around your shoulders. You shivered and coughed, purple-tinged fingers digging into the small of your back as you clung on for warmth. There was blood on the carpet, a vivid red stain spreading from your just below your ribcage, but you didn’t seem to notice; your eyes were tinged milky white, two blank orbs fastened firmly on something just beyond sight. You weren’t moving, so I knelt down beside you, cupping your cheek in a trembling hand and brushing a finger over your skin, dry and cold to the touch.

    “There was a shooting on the news tonight... ” I murmured, wanting so desperately to reach you, for you to hear my words from that distant place that held your eyes. When you didn’t respond, I carried you out to the balcony, into the warm wind and night air. I held you there for a moment, stroking your hair and tilting your head towards the city to show you its light, and finally you told me, a low, grating sound coming from deep within your throat.

    “I know.”

. . .

    I used to like going outside before I met you. Now I prefer the confines of this apartment, where I can keep you close to me, cradling you in the safety of these walls. We lay side by side on the mattress, wrapped up in cotton sheets. I do not move because there is no place that I’d rather be; you cannot move because it hurts you, though I hope that someday you will learn to love the pain, to love me. Sometimes I kiss you, because laying there in the dark and breathing in your scent drives me mad with desire to have you, your softness within me. I want to know what it feels like, so I touch your pain so profound, tasting its black oil lingering on your tongue and clinging to it for a breathless moment when I can feel it, that delicious ache that fills you and eats away at your soul. To truly achieve oneness with you would be ecstasy, but until then I will survive off of the glimpses of it.

You whined about it in the beginning, always begging to see the sun, but I have since convinced you that it is better this way: you the infant and I the keeper. How could the world ever understand a pair like us? You tell me that your wounds are only getting worse, but I know that I am all you will ever need. Your mind is so full of fear, manifesting on your pale face and wide eyes, yet I cannot understand why. I have told you that we are safe here. No one will ever find us; no one can take you away from me.

. . .

    We cannot dance, like this world’s lovers, in the openness and brightness of day, only in the dark recesses, hidden from watching eyes. You always let me lead, your limp limbs draped over my shoulders, your feet dragging against the pavement. Maybe that’s why I chose you, my lover, my pet, with skin so smooth and white that some might think you an angel, but oh, I know you better than that. I know you better than anyone ever will.

    Ours is a curious love: a tender form of torture, a gentle disintegration of sanity. I want to be underneath your skin, nestled in that place where muscle and bone meet. Your beauty fills me; it is my water and my air, my son and ghost. All I could ever want is for you to say it, tears of joy spilling over your scarred face:

    “Take me. I’m yours.”

. . .

My heart still bears the scars of your cruel betrayal, that cold evening when I awoke from a blissful dream to find you gone, the space you left behind caving in your absence. Everything became bright and static, pulsing with each beat of my frantic chest as I tore through the apartment in search of you. Each empty room was another blow to the head as something deep within my stomach ached with grief, craving the vibration of your bones like a drug. You were nowhere in sight, evasive as smoke, but the memory of you was everywhere, spinning black-and-white images that filled my eyes and nose and mouth until I was drowning in your hair, swallowed by the image of your face. I was out the door in an instant, consumed by the unbearable thought of you slipping out of my grasp, stolen away by some phantom force.

I raced down the staircase without pausing to breathe. I could not call your name, only imagine your face, pale and weary, filled with gentle relief when I finally found you. Morbid scenarios haunted my every step, but of all the horrors I never expected to find you suddenly there, clinging to the banister and inching further away with each labored breath, desperately trying to escape when you laid eyes on me. I couldn’t comprehend it: why were you trying to leave me? Didn’t you know we were happy together? A hole opened somewhere in my chest, something shattering inside. You broke my heart that day, darling, and although I have forgiven you now, at the time I could not see beyond my own bitter rage at your abandonment.

I was violent with you then, grabbing a handful of your hair and dragging your ragdoll form back to the inside as you thrashed against my grip, pitifully exhausted in your state of illness. You bared your teeth and cried out in pain, but you must know that it hurt me so much more to see you like this, so terrified and disgusted by my rescuing touch. Even when I threw you down on the mattress, you would not go quiet; you would never surrender, never stop fighting, never accept or reciprocate my love, and in that moment, I knew I had to end it.

You gave me no choice, pushing you to the ground was my last resort, and holding my hands around your neck was the only way to keep you there. Your eyes were beautiful and blue, so full of sorrow that I couldn’t help but adore them even as you trashed beneath me, cursing my name and making sounds like an animal between gasps for air. I saw myself in the bloodshot whites of those tear-slicked eyes: a monsterous image that could never hope to find love among the living. When you finally went still, I took you in my arms and prayed, weeping and thanking the universe that I had you at last, that we could finally be together.

    From where she stood, looking down upon the man’s hunched frame, he could very well be a sleeping child. His limbs were carelessly sprawled about the canvas cot, twisted up in a hospital gown and white linens, his dry lips barely parted. If he was a child, Renee thought, then she ought to be the mother, dressed in blue, with faint traces of shadows underneath her eyes. She held the nameless man’s hand in her gloved ones, separated by nothing but a thin layer of blue latex. It was peaceful like this for a moment. Renee sighed deeply, content to be the mother, the healer of a stranger.

    The man’s hand began to tremble suddenly, forcing her to let go. He murmured and cried out wordlessly, as if in a desperate attempt to escape some feverish nightmare. Renee reacted quickly, reaching onto the metallic bed tray for a syringe and a bottle of clear serum.

    “Anna, can you please hold down this patient while I ready the sedative? He’s having a fit again.”

    Anna, clad in the gray uniform of a trainee, turned away from a patient in the adjacent cot, her eyes sparking to life. She gave a quick nod and fastened the man’s right arm into velcro restraints before rubbing the area with a disinfectant solution.

    Seconds after the drug had entered his system, the trembling had ceased. Renee dabbed his forehead with a wet cloth, careful not to inflame the welts that covered his skin. The man gradually relaxed at her touch, his pained look softening as he fell quietly into a dreamless sleep.

    “Shush, darling,” she said softly. “Everything is going to be alright. I’m here for you.”

    Sometimes, lies were the only comfort one could give.

    “Thank you for your help, Anna. You did well. Can you see to it that patient…” She glanced down at the plastic bracelet on the man’s cuffed wrist, “...1170 makes it to the late stage ward?”

    Anna gave a meek smile. “I’m afraid he doesn't have much time left then, does he?”

    “Sadly no, he doesn't.” Renee looked down at him, the man, the sick child. She pitied him, of course, but there was no saving the dead. The final stage of infection was by far the most gruesome. In some cases, the lungs would collapse in a quick instant, in others it would take months for the body to rot away. Regardless, it could not be prevented or cured, and the best thing that they could do was keep him comfortable until he faded away.

    Renee stared down the endless aisle of cots, each one holding another living corpse, victims of a plague that had killed more efficiently than any genocide, taken more casualties than any war. No, this wasn't a war- the infected had no fight left to give, nor did the abiding survivors. Sickness yielded no martyrs; there was no honor in a slow, quiet death. The only honor, Renee thought with a sense of pride, was in caring for the infected. Compassion was all humanity had left. It had to be.

    A bell sounded from the far end of the infirmary, the droning, robotic voice of the loud speakers crackling to life:

    “All class four nursing personnel are permitted to take their break period. Repeat, all class four nursing personnel are permitted to take their break period. Class two, please report for your shift in the diagnostic ward.” Masked men and women, scattered across the room, rose from their patient’s bedsides. Renee lingered for a moment, only now allowing herself to feel the effects of her fatigue. She had not slept well for days.

    “I suppose I’d better go. Take care of him, Anna.” She gave the sleeping man’s limp hand one final squeeze before joining the rest of her colleagues.

A series of transparent plastic corridors connected the quarantine unit to the remainder of the hospital. Renee navigated the passages with ease, having memorized each turn through countless routine commutes. Outside, the world was bleak and still, devoid of any sign of life. Cities were no longer safe for civilians, who had been forced to scatter, confining themselves to the far and few safe places in the deepest folds of the countryside until they too had been overtaken by sickness. Even when her position required her to come in close contact with the disease, face-to-face with the infected, Renee was far safer here than anywhere else. Every thinkable measure was taken to keep the facilities sterile. The standards were high, and any staff member who threatened to compromise the establishment was dispelled immediately, cast out to fend for themselves. There were worse ways to make ends meet. Thievery and looting had become particularly popular, and undertakers were always needed to burn and bury the dead. Renee knew that she was one of the selected fortunate, and prided herself for the accreditation she had earned.  People relied on her, they trusted her, and she would do anything to defend that.

The hall ended abruptly, leaving Renee face to face with a vault-like metal door. She held her ID badge to the reader beside it, and after a chorus of mechanical clicks and whirs, the door opened, revealing a stark, iridescent-lit room. Renee stepped inside, the only remaining sound soft footfalls resonating off tile. The opening promptly sealed, leaving her isolated in the silent chamber, empty save for exposed piping, ductwork, and an identical door on the opposite side.

Renee removed her gloves and facemask, taking special care not to touch the contaminated parts as she deposited them in the incinerator embedded in the wall. The thin plastics quickly vanished into the flames, leaving only a faint cloud of black fumes lingering in the air. Fluid rushed through the pipes overhead as they began to seethe a white vapor, rapidly encompassing the space. It settled into her exposed skin, killing off any traces of the pathogen that may have embedded itself in her pores or the very fibers of her clothing. Renee outstretched her arms, welcoming the cool, purifying touch. Vents along the walls cleared the room after about thirty seconds, whisking away every trace of the gas. The front door unlocked, allowing a crack of light to come through, tracing over the cement and leading Renee outwards to her destination.

The main hall served as the logistical hub of the facility, packed with quick-moving medical staff clad in blue scrubs and white lab coats. Each of its occupants had an urgent directive, a purpose to fulfill. The walls were covered with backlit monitors, displaying every sort of essential statistic in codes and graphs that could only be interpreted by those they were intended for. Centermost in the display was an outline of a world map, illuminated by dozens of glowing red lights, each one representing another fallen city. There were no rows of plastic chairs or comfortable couches strewn with magazines. This was a place not intended for waiting, but for effectively addressing one issue and then moving on to the next. The only civilians allowed entered on enclosed stretchers, and those begging to see their dying loved ones were turned away in disregard. Desperate times called for such measures, and despite the harshness needed to enforce it, spreading of the plague had to be prevented at all costs. Survival was the staff’s foremost priority, and that was why they had succeeded in doing so thus far.

Renee, of course, carried her own task. Her eyes traced down the center of the room, where a bespectacled woman sat positioned behind a wide reception desk.

“I’d like to turn in my reports for the day,” Renee said, placing a clipboard of handwritten notes on the edge of the worktable. The woman looked up from her computer screen, and a thin smile spread across her narrow face, revealing slight wrinkles around the corners of her mouth.

“Of course, Ms. Landon.” The receptionist, Barbara, picked up the clipboard, scanning over the pages as she began typing up the records. “Seems as if everything’s in order here. By the way, a few new patients are being added to your list; surplus from our sister center. There’s been an influx of of outbreaks across the state, numbers like we’ve never seen before.” Barbara looked up from her work for a moment, wearing a soft expression admiration. “I know you’ll be able to handle it, though I still don’t understand how you manage to keep your head through all of this.”

Renee laughed modestly. “I’m only doing my job, Barbara. This is my calling, I suppose.”

Barbara thought, her fingers lingering over the keyboard. “Yes, but that on its own is such a burden to undertake. There’s such a deficit in doing paperwork on the infecteds and knowing them. Everyone here knows you have twice the enthusiasm of a new recruit. Working with the infected drains all of the life out of some of these nurses. And in times like these…” Barbara paused mid sentence, her cheeks beginning to redden. “Sorry to rant like that. You probably have some place to be.”

“That’s quite alright, I’m really very flattered-” Renee’s broke off, swallowing hard and choking back a cough. Her skin prickled, but she forcefully ignored it.

“Well, I suppose there is a reason behind my vocality,” Barbara leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Between you and me, I heard that we’ve lost three doctors and a technician to illness just this past week. The directors are trying to keep it all quiet to prevent panic, but you ought to be careful about yourself.”

Renee’s face went numb, a coursing heat entering the rest of her body. She steadied herself, putting on a polite smile and keeping her tone of voice even without so much as a beat hesitation. She assured herself that Barbara didn’t know. There was no way she could have.

“Not to worry.” She thrust both hands in her pockets, fists tightly clenched, giving an effort to look convinced. “I’m going to take my break now, if you don’t mind. And thank you, Barbara.”

“Sure, dear. Take your time.” The receptionist nodded, returning to her work with a quiet intensity. She had accepted Renee’s words without a second thought. Barbara's limitless trust was in itself both her greatest asset and her most fatal flaw.

Renee made her way down the hall in a silent hurry. She looked straight ahead, maintaining and even pace despite the escalating dizziness in her head. Her expression remained neutral, and she took care to keep her breaths even. It was flaring up again, worse now than ever before. Stumbling and leaning on the wall for support, Renee began to cough, covering her mouth with her hand. She moved it away, staring blankly at the spots of blood on left behind on her palm.

The dormitory was vacant, a cramped space with four bunks and sparse furnishings. Except for a few scarce hours per day, there was no privacy; resources didn’t allow for such a thing. Coughing still, Renee locked herself in the bathroom, the fear in her face reflecting off the vanity mirror.

White tiles shone under glaring lights. Renee hung over the curved edge of the sink, and staring into her mirrored image, tore off the outer layer of her blue cotton scrubs.

A rash spread over the entirety of Renee’s right arm in blotches of crimson and burgundy,  concealed only at the edges by the straps of her undershirt. Scores of pronounced reddened veins, inflamed and infected, led from the back of her hand and crept up towards the base of her neck. Just the sight caused bile to rise in the back of her throat. This was the first stage of the plague, soon to become contagious before the symptoms escalated. In no more than a few weeks, she would be just like her patient's: covered in bleeding sores and bursting into fits of raging madness until her body and mind had rotted away into something unrecognisable, something barely human. How she of all people had managed to contract the virus eluded all reason. Renee had always been so meticulous in following every procedure and regulation with such flawless precision that failure on her part seemed altogether impossible without some cruel twist of fate, some act of sabotage against her.

The symptoms had been apparent for more than a week now, but Renee hid it well, with no intention of revealing her condition. Her own death and demise were inevitable, yes, but there was so much to be done before that time came. She had worked too long and too hard for her position to jeopardize it now, and besides that, the world needed her to heal. They called the plague the great equalizer, but she couldn’t allow it bring her to shame. People like her had to rise above, a great example human of hope! On what else could they lay their desperate eyes, whom else could they run to for stable embrace? The populace was doomed anyway, why not give them a picture of something greater to die for?

The choice seemed obvious. Renee felt lightened of all guilt, knowing what she had to do. It didn’t matter who else became a casualty of her treachery, they would understand that her actions were for something greater than one, greater than a thousand individual lives.

    A soft rap brushed against the door.

    “Landon? Are you alright in there?”

    “I’ll be out in a second, Gates, just changing.” Renee pulled the blue scrub over her shoulders, delicately positioning the right sleeve to cover the raw skin. It was as if the pain had completely disappeared. She opened the door, nearly beaming at the stocky man standing before her.

    Gates took a step back, his eyes filling with concern. “God Landon, you’re completely pale! Do you need to lie down or something?” He placed a hand on her shoulder as if to provide comfort, as if she needed support.

    Renee scarcely heard his words. What had she told Barbara earlier? Not to worry… She shook her head in reply, brushing free of the man’s gesture.

“I’m perfectly fine.” She said it so evenly, with such confidence that just for a moment, she convinced herself that the charade was all true. “What was it that you needed?”

“We just got another batch of patients. You’re needed in the children’s ward.” he stammered, hardly able to finish his sentence before Renee had already started down the hall.

“Of course. Thank you for relaying the message.”

The following week felt like hell: seven aimless days and seven sleepless nights plodding on in an agonizing procession. Wendy skipped school to avoid hearing any mention of Rachel: the whispers of unanswered calls and missed cheer practices that drifted through the halls, the beat of silence that followed when her name was called for attendance-- nowhere was safe. This forced her to spend hours alone in her room, lying in bed and chain-smoking cigarettes, fully absorbed in her own tumultuous thoughts and raging self-hatred. The events of that night replayed on loop in her mind as she stared up at the cracks in the ceiling paint, searching for a way she could have made it all end differently. Eventually she was able to sort it all out, to reason with herself. Even if Wendy had stayed quiet in that moment, it would have only been a matter of time before the spirit demanded a human offering. Even if she refused to hurt Rachel, Rourke would not have hesitated. He was programmed that way, thinking in terms of action and consequence, sacrifice and survival. It all circled back to the beginning, when she and all the others first agreed to participate in the rituals, blissfully ignorant as they set their gruesome fate into motion. When the last night finally came, Wendy knew what she had to do. She left the house with nicotine in her veins and her father’s gun tucked into the waistband of her shredded black jeans, vowing to end this, whatever it took.

    Fragments lamplight and shadow patterned trainyard in hazy shades of yellow and gray. Rusted steel cars and tracks scattered the terrain, a labyrinth that created countless places to hide from the outside world as the dirty work was done. Wendy approached through a tunnel, graffitied walls of connected cars closing her in on either side. She could see Steve and Rourke in the distance, busy assembling a pile of scrap wood into a pile, ready to be burned. Her pulse quickened as she approached, one step at a time until Steve spotted her and there was no longer an option of turning back.

Steve ran over to Wendy when he saw her, bending down to her height and squeezing her shoulder in affirmation, a gesture far more affectionate than what she was used to receiving from him. “We’re gonna finish it tonight,” he said, as if trying to reassure himself just as much as Wendy. “Then we’ll be free.” He looked so tired, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look years older, like the carefree part of him had been smothered, the life drained out of him. Wendy nodded, but kept her eyes on Rourke, who was absentmindedly examining the blade of his pocket knife only a few meters away. She swallowed hard to suppress the dread that had lodged itself inside her stomach.

    “I won’t do it. This has gone too far. I won’t participate in the ritual.”   

Steve stared with a look of plaintive shock on his face, stunned into hopeless silence. Rourke stood, his eyes flat and cold as he advanced towards Wendy. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull? You really think you’re being righteous right now, don’t you? You’re just going to get us all killed! Give it up, you don’t have a choice!” The blade of the knife flashed in his hand, but Wendy stood her ground.

    “We have to face this mess we’ve made. Even if we do finish the ritual, if we do everything that the darkness wants us to, things won’t get better. Rachel will always be there, haunting us in every little memory, every reminder that she’s gone and we killed her. Can you live like that?” Her voice broke, hot tears welling up in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks. “Can you fucking carry on knowing that?” Rourke took a step forward, and Wendy backed away, shaking her head and refusing to break eye contact.

    “If you don’t shut up and do your part, I swear to God, won’t hesitate to kill you.” Each word was enunciated and clear. Wendy could see the veins running red in his eyes.

    “Rourke, stop it!”

    “Stay the fuck out of this, Steve.” Rourke yelled, pointing the knife in his direction.

    “You never loved her. You never loved Rachel.” Wendy said, her voice barely a whisper.

    Rourke charged, pushing Wendy to the ground and punching her over and over in the face. The gravel sliced open her cheek, and each blow sent pain deeper into her skull, making her vision go black around the edges.

    “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you little cunt!” He screamed, spit flying from his mouth in unhinged fury. Wendy tried to push him off of her with her knees, fumbling to reach the gun tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She managed to get her finger around the trigger, but Rourke knocked her arm to the side, causing the bullet to fly past his face and hit the ground a few yards back. Wendy hesitated, stunned by the sound of the gunshot echoing through the night, and Rourke reacted quickly, aiming a punch at her windpipe. Wendy choked, her grip on the handle of the gun loosening just long enough for Rourke to knock it out of her hand. He buried the point of the knife in Wendy’s chin, and she cried out in pain, silently praying to anything that would listen and preparing for the worst, when Steve’s boot hit Rourke in the side, knocking him off of Wendy and onto the ground. Rourke recovered in seconds, this time flying towards Steve with fists raised.

Wendy could do nothing but watch helplessly as they exchanged blows, drifting in and out of consciousness and struggling to hear what they were saying over the ringing in her ears. Soon Steve was on the ground, and Rourke was hitting him in the face, stomach, and ribs, blood staining his bruised knuckles.

“I gave up everything for this,” he mumbled, breathing heavily. “We could have had the power to change our miserable, pointless lives… and now it’s all gone.”

Wendy’s head throbbed, her face sticky with her own blood. Pain shot through her arm as she felt for the gun beside her, grasping at nothing. Something sleek and black caught the light in the corner of her eye, and with the last of her strength, she gradually turned onto her stomach and crawled towards it, her only hope. Her hand closed around the barrel, and a wave of relief washed over her. With great effort, she pulled herself onto her feet, bracing herself on a nearby train car. She aimed, managing to steady her shaking arms before firing, eyes shut tight. Rourke fell, a bullet embedded into his back. Wendy’s shoulders sagged, and she dropped the gun by her side. Nothing moved. Silence.

Rourke’s body was stiff and contorted at an odd angle, his head lolling to the side. Blood soaked through his white t-shirt where his spine had been shattered by the bullet. Shaking with each breath, Wendy slowly approached the corpse, trying to find some sort of solidity, proof that the last few moments were real and not her own twisted delusion. The stench of rot grew stronger as she approached, and when she finally gathered the courage to look at him, Wendy bent over and throw up. It appeared as though Rourke had been dead for days, his body already showing signs of decay. Maggots squirmed beneath ashen gray skin, covered with liquid-filled blisters and hanging slack from his muscles. His eyes stared at her solemnly, blank and mirror-like, as if his soul had already left him long ago. Wendy’s chest continued to heave even when there was nothing left in her stomach. This all had to be a nightmare, it couldn’t be real. She never meant to kill Rourke, and would have allowed herself time to regret it, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

Steve laid motionless not two feet away, his face a disfigured mess painted in shades of crimson and burgundy. Cuts on his lip and forehead still seeped fresh blood, and his nose stuck out at a crooked angle, most likely broken. Wendy stopped in her tracks when her eyes fell on the stab wounds in his stomach, six in total, the blood barely visible on the black fabric of his shirt. Her hand trembled as she touched his chest, feeling for a pulse, a breath, a movement, any indication that there was some hope of saving him. Steve was the only one she had left, the only one who could understand all that happened, the nightmare that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Wendy needed him alive, but all she could feel was his cold, lifeless flesh against her skin. She stood and stumbled backwards, her vision blurred with tears.

It had become a routine for Friday nights. Wendy would climb out of her bedroom window and jump down from the roof as soon as her parents were asleep, making her quiet getaway along the side streets where cars would pass her only on occasion, speeding by in streaks of red and white light, too quickly to see if their drivers even thought twice about seeing a girl her age walking alone in the night. The suburban landscape was wrapped in a calm loneliness, a comforting kind of isolation that put Wendy at ease. Everything was going to plan, and after the initial rush of sneaking out of the house, her pulse had slowed to normal. She savored the quiet, feeling safe in the darkness, invulnerable in the way it concealed her. During these late hours, the world seemed to stand still, allowing everything to be alright if only for a moment.

She met Rachel fifteen minutes later in front of her family’s worn-down ranch house, situated on the outskirts of town where only stray cats and food stamp benefactors laid down their roots. Wendy observed for perhaps the hundredth time that Rachel herself, with her pristine smile and carefully filed nails, surely didn’t belong in a place like this, with all of the grit and tragedy. It was just the hand she had been dealt in life, and she seemed to have come to a grim kind of acceptance with that fact. The pair walked together from there, with Rachel confessing school drama in between drags on a cigarette and Wendy listening for the most part, save for a few intermittent scoffs or nods of agreement. It was strange, she had every reason to hate hearing Rachel gossip like this, but for some reason, she could never seem to bring herself to mind. Nothing Rachel said ever struck her as shallow; she saw everything so analytically that it seemed glamorous, and as much as Wendy might deny it, she liked to feel what it might be like to be part of that world, one of cliques that she could never enter and parties she would never attend. It was nice to see the world in that limited view every once in awhile.

“Wendy, you okay?” Rachel playfully bumped her shoulder. “You’re zoning out on me here.”

“I’m listening! Believe me, I don’t want to miss any of the details about Lauren McNairy’s surprise pregnancy. I’ve hated that bitch since the fourth grade”

“When she denied you entry to her lunch table? Stalin himself never committed a worse crime.”

“Shut up! If it wasn’t for her, I may not have ended up looking like disheveled Morticia Addams.”

Rachel shook her head in mock disbelief. “If you say so…”

Steve was already there when they arrived at the waterfront, and had somehow managed to get himself drunk ahead of time, as was apparent by the light slurring in his speech. He waved when he saw them, holding a bottle in one hand and using the other to amplify his voice. “Look who it is! The degenerates! I knew shouldn’t go walking alone at night.”

“The only degenerate here is you, asshat! The rest of us have managed to maintain some type of dignity,” Wendy shouted back, rolling her eyes. “You hit the bar before coming here?” She asked, though the answer was obvious. Steve was always hanging around in bars, drinking and getting into fights to pass the time, anything to escape the confines of his family’s two bedroom apartment.

“Don’t question my lifestyle choices,” he retorted. “I just go with the flow, and that just so happened to be where it took me. What else is a guy supposed to do on a Friday night?”

“I don’t know, homework? Or are you illiterate in addition to being a drunkard?” Rachel cut in laughing.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s someone working on your’s as we speak. Who is it, some poor honors kid who’s just as madly in love with you as everyone else?” Wendy teased, her tone exaggerated and dramatic.

“Cry me a river, sweetheart.” Rachel countered, easily shrugging off the comment. Steve, meanwhile, had begun whistling impatiently, making a show of rotating a silver ring that pierced his nose. Wendy cleared her throat.

“Steven, is that new hardware I see on the septum?”

Steve grinned, a wide, toothy smile of a giddy child. “Like it? I found a guy who does piercings cheap. I can hook you up if you still want one on your lip, Wen.”

Wendy shrugged, picking up a stone from the bank and turning it over in her palm. “Hard pass. I think I’ve pissed off my dad enough for this week. I got an office referral for ‘insubordinate behavior’ again. The old bastard lost his shit.” She pulled her arm back, pitching the stone as hard as she could at the water’s surface. It skipped twice before sinking into the inky depths. Rachel waved a pair of imaginary pom-poms and kicked her leg high in the air.

“Things are tough all over, kid,” she laughed. “Hey Steve, pass the booze.”

The next half hour flew by, blurred by vodka from a worn glass bottle and anchored by the rhythm of stones being thrown into the water and the sounds of laughter echoing in the dark. At some point a fire was lit, a pire of driftwood and dry leaves set ablaze with cigarette lighters that illuminated the beach in a soft orange glow, its rosy fingers clawing at the water’s edge and reflecting off of their faces. Wendy felt like she belonged here, young and tragic but alive, her stony defenses lowered with the two people she cared about most. In moments like this, it felt as if the world belonged to them, a sensation as fleeting as it was glorious, flickering and then dying out when Wendy spotted a pair of headlights shining down the gravel road. A dented ‘77 Camaro pulled up and parked in a patch of weeds that ran along the beach, and out stepped Rourke, looking like a criminal with his crew-cut hair that accentuated the bony structure of his face. A military school dropout and a war vet’s son, marks of stern discipline showed themselves subtly in the hardness of his expression, the stiff jumpiness of his movements. Wendy shrank back, kicking at the sand and gazing absently at the treeline across the water.

Rachel ran to embrace her boyfriend the moment she saw him, her eyes lighting up feverishly as she wrapped her thin arms around him, a small smile forming on her lips. The couple kissed, and Rachel melted into his arms, hanging from his frame as if she desperately needed it for support. Rourke’s cold blue eyes remained wide open, staring somewhere off in the distance, but his grip was firm, wanting her but not loving her. Wendy hated him more than ever then, but swallowed it for the time being. Whether she liked it or not, everyone had to be present in order for the ritual to take place.

“Hey man, what took you so long?” Steve greeted, slapping Rourke on the back in a friendly manner.

“Let’s just call it an errand,” he laughed dryly, pulling a weighted burlap sack out of the trunk of his car and saying nothing more of it. “I’m sure you didn’t miss me too much.”

“We managed,” Wendy deadpanned. She looked up, and the pair made brief eye contact, giving half nods of acknowledgement. They didn’t have to pretend to like each other.

Rourke leaned in to kiss Rachel again then pulled back suddenly, jerking his hand up as if in pain and then slowly running his fingers through her hair. A smile formed on his face that looked twisted and contrived.

“Let’s start, shall we?” he said, gently lifting her chin so that she met his gaze. Rachel cracked a red-lipped smile and nodded in agreement, her expression showing nothing but complete trust. Steve and Wendy reacted quickly, assuming their respective positions around the bonfire: Wendy standing to the East and Steve facing the North. Rourke carried the burlap sack to his place in the South, cracking his neck after it hit the ground with a dull thud. Rachel drew a tarot deck from the pocket of her jeans before finally joining them, filling the fourth place in the West and completing the circle. She knelt down and shuffled the deck once, placing the top card face down in the dirt before revealing the image. Even from a distance Wendy could make it out in the traces of firelight: a horned creature with the head of a goat and the body of a man, gray wings extending from its back, and a man and woman fettered at its clawed feet: The Devil. Rachel stood, her eyes shimmering a clouded white.

Rourke’s smile had become more twisted than ever, curling upwards at the edges in a narrow line that pulled his lips thin over his teeth. He pulled a knife from his front pocket and held it up over his head, the metal shining red and gold in the firelight. In one quick motion he drew the blade across the palm of his hand, not once flinching or hesitating, and simply stared down at the blood welling up in the cut as if he felt nothing. Rachel slit her palm next, gasping slightly and clutching her wrist to combat the pain. She passed the knife on to Steve, who contorted his face and uttered a string of curses under his breath after accidentally cutting his hand too deep. He then outstretched his uninjured arm, offering the knife to Wendy, the blade  now stained a deep crimson. She clenched the handle and cautiously took it, glancing at the pale, ill-lit faces surrounding her. The blade was cold on her skin as she made the incision, cutting just deep enough into her skin to draw blood. For a split second she felt nothing, just a vague tingling sensation in her wrist, until pain crept gradually into its place, pulsing through her nerves and forcing her to bite her lip in order to fight back the tears as she handed the knife back to Rourke.

    “Ready?” Rourke asked. They nodded solemnly in response and extended their arms over the fire, allowing the drops of blood from their palms to feed the flames, each drop sizzling on impact. The wind shifted, blowing hard from the east, and the fire turned a pale blue color, radiating vibrant heat as the rest of the world faded dim and cold. Rachel threw her face upwards towards darkened sky, and began to chant, her voice coming from somewhere deep inside her chest, producing a low, guttural sound that seemed entirely foreign on her lips. Sweat covered her brow when she finally fell silent, her chest rising and falling rapidly in exhaustion. The preparations were complete; they had channeled the spirit. It’s invisible darkness engulfed them, wanting, waiting.

Rourke reached into the burlap sack sitting behind him and dragged out a skinny hound by it’s back legs. Wendy’s stomach lurched, her mind reeling in temporary shock. A faint glimmer of emotion surfaced in her conscience, one of many that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. Pity. It disgusted her, tugging at the back of her throat and pooling in the pit of her stomach, but as she saw the mutt hanging there, beaten unconscious with dried blood and dark bruises covering its protruding rib cage and patchy coat, the feeling only grew. Suddenly, she felt everything at once: the shame, the fear, the despair, all culminating in the crushing realization that she was in far over her head. She wanted it to stop; she couldn’t bear feeling this here, now, not after she had worked so hard to contain it. Just as Rourke had positioned the knife on the dog’s neck, ready to make the sacrifice, Wendy stumbled back, taking one foot out of the circle.

“Stop it!” She screamed, holding her face in her hands to hide the anguish betrayed there. “I want out! I can’t do this anymore!” She had lost control, on the verge of a panicked breakdown that had been lurking in her psyche since the day she first sensed that something had gone horribly wrong.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re going to get us all killed!” Rourke’s eyes were wild, but there was fear lingering in his voice. “You can’t just opt out, you stupid bitch! There is no out, not for you or me or anyone. This is what you signed up for!”

There had been other rituals like this one. It started with small offerings to the dark spirit: trinkets, valuables, personal items, locks of hair from family members; things that seemed to have little significance until they realized that a connection had been forming all along. Threads of the darkness had wormed their way into each of their lives, twisting and tying around their limbs until they were rendered nearly immobile. They needed to conduct the rituals; their strength depended on it, a neverending pull that was futile to resist. It was only a matter of time before the sacrificing began, when they were already too weak to protest and all morals had faded into indistinguishable shades of gray. It started with rodents and birds caught in the woods, stray cats found in alleyways and roads sides, but the spirit’s appetite for blood only grew, an unsatisfiable thirst for weakness and pain that always demanded more. Through it all, Rourke promised that in the end, this would all be worth it. The power of the darkness was limitless, and to have the ability to tap into it at will, well, that could make any problem disappear. Money, freedom, happiness, control; it all would rest at their fingertips.

Wendy shook her head. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” It was a command as well as a plea, but it was too late for either of those. She had made up her mind, and stepped out of the circle.

A blinding flash of light erupted from the fire, and Wendy felt her body being thrown backwards into the rocky bank, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. She grasped at the sandy ground, trying to find her feet to stand, but something held her there, rendering her immobile. Wendy yelped, struggling against her invisible restraints, when pain hit her chest with the force of a bullet tearing through her insides. The sensation spread beneath her skin, hot like acid coursing through her veins. She doubled over, desperately screaming for it to stop, but the pain was persistent, coming in white-capped waves that pounded beneath her skull in sickening rhythm with the sounds of the other’s cries of pain somewhere in the distance. In the moment, she would have wished for death if it guaranteed relief; anything to make the pain end. Just when Wendy thought she could bear it no longer, her chest heaving and lip quivering in submissive defeat, a voice filled her head, flooding the cavity like water.

“Rachel. Give her to me and you will be spared.” It spoke in layers of deep groaning and shrill hissing, the result something dry and sinister that seemed to shake the ground. Wendy’s stomach lurched in protest-- not Rachel, anyone but Rachel, but before she could think further of refusing, the pain multiplied in one white hot flash, leaving her gasping and shaking in aftershock.

“Do what it says,” Rourke called out weakly. “It’s no use resisting it.”

Wendy knew he was right. Their course was set in stone; they no longer had a choice in the matter.

They dragged her thrashing and screaming into the cold rapids, wading out until the water was waist deep. Steve and Wendy each held one of her legs, struggling to stop her from kicking the while Rourke carried her further into the water, one arm around her chest and the other covering her mouth. She was crying now, her eyes darting wildly to each of their faces, pleading helplessly for any sign of compassion. Wendy had to look away, staring down at the soft ripples on the water’s surface. One could be sacrificed to save the lives of three. It was only logical, and fear prevented her from thinking otherwise.

A full moon shone between scattered clouds in, sending beams of blue light over the landscape. Rachel’s skin glowed pale and unblemished in the water’s reflection, a perfect offering. They pushed her under and held her there, fighting to control the violent thrashing of her limbs. Wendy could feel her weakening, the resistance becoming less and less until she surrendered, her body going limp and floating up to the surface. Her face was soft, eyes resting open and vacant.

They dug a shallow grave in the woods offshore, scratching away at the rocky earth with bare hands, dirt caking beneath their fingernails. Rachel's body was still warm when they lowered it into the ground, but her muscles had already begun to stiffen, as if she were bracing herself against their touch, paralyzed in a state of unending revulsion. Wendy’s hands felt numb, operating outside of her conscious as they covered the corpse, piling soil over it until a soft mound formed. She rose in staggering unison with Rourke and Steve, saying nothing, her eyes plastered to the pebbles and sand clinging to her damp knees. Everything was still, the air humid and chilly, the bonfire reduced to nothing but a pile of ash scattering in the breeze. Rourke produced a roll of gauze from the pocket of his ripped acid wash jeans, bandaging his own hand before offering it to Wendy and Steve.

“We aren’t going to tell anyone about this; we won’t even talk about it to each other,” he said, words rolling quickly and smoothly off his tongue. “It would be better if we weren’t seen together for a couple of days. I doubt anyone will find the body, but if they do, we’ll need to come up with separate alibis... ”

“It’s almost like you’ve done this before,” Steve interjected, laughing nervously. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his skin had turned a slickly shade of ashen gray. The fact stood clear: Steve, the unshakable force of delinquent's confidence, was terrified.

“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” Rourke answered flatly, lighting a cigarette as he spoke. He took a long drag, blowing the smoke slowly from his mouth and watching as it rose up into the air, clouding his face from view. Wendy grimaced, inhaling sharply and pulling the gauze so tightly over her wound that pain shot through her entire arm.

    “How the hell can you say that after what you… what we did?” she hissed between gritted teeth. “Rachel is dead because of us, because we were a bunch of weak fucking cowards!” Wendy stood, fuming, watching and waiting for her words to sink in. Rourke tensed up, his jaw clenched tight with rage as he grabbed her arm, jerking her towards him. His nails dug into her skin, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her face.

“Rachel is dead because you didn’t follow the rules,” he growled. “We did what we had to do, but her blood is on your hands.” He had the air of a loaded gun, and Wendy noticed for the first time that his irises were completely black. She didn’t dare move.

    “Let go of her, Rourke!” Steve said, stepping defensively between them. “She’s just tired.” Steve turned to Wendy with a look dead seriousness. He loomed nearly six inches over Rourke’s height, but that didn’t hide the glint of fear reflecting in his eyes. “Go home, Wendy.” Rourke’s hand slid away, falling at his side in a tight fist. Wendy nodded to Steve before turning away and running into the darkness. Her skin was numb, her mind filled by Rourke’s echoing voice.

Her blood is on your hands. She knew that it was true. Rachel was gone because of her. No more blond hair, no more of coy smiles or understated laughs. She was gone now. Rachel was dead, and her last thoughts had been of fear and betrayal. Wendy was sure she could have stopped it if only she had been stronger, if only she had kept her mouth shut in the first place. Guilt overwhelmed her, pressing down like a weight on chest, making it hard to breathe. Yet the fact stood, impossible to forget or deny.

March 25, 1987

Wendy treaded down the center of the vacant road, avoiding the pools of light shining from street lamps as if they would burn her skin. Each breath she took came out as a short gasp, and despite her efforts, she couldn’t stop shivering in the cool night air. It was three o’clock in the morning and she traveled alone, the soul waking occupant of this dark, hazy realm, so different in the absence of daylight. Wind cut through the soaked black sweater hanging over her thin frame three sizes too big, and the mini skirt and layered fishnet tights which she wore with it provided no additional warmth. She rubbed her arms and walked faster, her heart pounding against her ribcage with a frantic beat that betrayed a fear that her stony eyes would never admit.

They had agreed not to speak of what happened at the river that night. There was no going back, no returning to that time when this was all just a sick game. They were tied to this path, and a final sacrifice had to be made. The thought made Wendy want to burst off running, to find refuge somewhere far away from everything she knew, but she held firm, maintaining an even pace. Only a guilty person would run through the streets this late at night.

The dim houses lining the block looked even more identical in the darkness, silhouettes of two-level family homes with neat little gardens and tacky brown shutters. Wendy resented the sight. Everything felt so plastic and manufactured, making her feel both alienated and trapped in this picture of the cookie-cutter american dream. Thinking of her mother, she lit a cigarette, hiding the ember beneath a shaking hand. Her parents swore that they would never tolerate smoking from any child of theirs, though they themselves had been tobacco addicts since their teens. Wendy made a habit of doing this whenever they weren’t around, her own private retaliation to their hypocrisy. The majority of her rebellions were far less subtle, from the way that she dressed to the outlandish backcombed hairstyles that made made her mother cringe, but it was nice to have something secret, something that was hers and hers alone. It was a last laugh, no matter how many times she got kicked out of the house, no matter how many screaming arguments she lost with her father, forcing her to retreat to her room in defeat. Wendy blew a few smoke rings, a new trick that Steve had taught her in the school parking lot, before crushing the still burning cigarette underfoot.

    Smoke still burned in her throat when Wendy paced up the driveway, scaling the flimsy chain-link fence that bordered her backyard as quickly and as quietly as she could manage. She jumped down to the other side, landing in the grass on a small square of lawn, the only other greenery a scrubby-looking pine tree that hugged the edge of the plot. Wendy would have liked to wait out here until morning, sitting on the stoop of the porch and watching the handful of stars that dotted the sky, but she knew she had long overstayed her leave. She used a spare key to unlock the back door, and slipped into the kitchen with all the silence of a burglar invading her own home.

The main level was cast in shadow, its furnishings reduced to shapes that shifted and moved with the light. Everything was quiet, peaceful in its state of stillness and monochromatic simplicity, until the muted sound of a cough coming from upstairs brought her back. She raced up the steps, cold sweat clinging to the back of her neck as she crept past the baby’s room and then her parents’, holding her breath for fear that her little brother would awake and cry. The dim glow of a plastic night light illuminated the hall, reflecting off of the dusty frames hanging along the wall. It felt like an eternity before she reached her own bedroom and the door was closed and locked safely behind her. Air came rushing into her lungs, and she waited, expecting to feel some kind of relief, some sense of security in the familiarity. She waited, but the panic only continued writhing and coiling in her chest. How could she possibly feel at ease when the reality was that she wasn’t safe? None of them were.

She didn’t bother changing out of her damp street clothes, she never changed before bed, and besides, she had little chance of falling asleep after all of this. Wendy collapsed onto her unmade bed, cold and exhausted, and switched on the tape player on her nightstand, making sure to turn the volume to the lowest setting. She just needed something to fill the empty space, something to take the silence away. The music played so softly at first that the notes were indistinguishable from the static, just brushy strokes against a rolling blank canvas. A keyboard surfaced from the white noise, ringing and dissonant but melodic all the same, then a simple drum beat cut in, layered over by harsh strums on a guitar. Wendy could just make out the words, sung in a range of low tones and passionate wailing that pulled her in, an unmistakable ebb and flow that drew her into the rhythm.

“Water was running; children were running,

You were running out of time.

Under the mountain, a golden fountain,

Were you praying at the Lares’ shrine?

    But oh, oh your city lies in dust, my friend.”

Wendy slammed the eject button, and the music died out. She rubbed her hands over her face and through her hair, undoubtedly smearing several layers of carefully placed black eye makeup. Of course it had to be Rachel’s tape on tonight of all nights, the one with the names of the tracks written in tiny, looped cursive on the paper label.

1. Cities in Dust- Siouxsie and the Banshees,

2. Atmosphere- Joy Division,

3. She’s in Parties- Bauhaus…

She picked up the cassette and began to rewind it, then stopped, pulling the thin tape until it broke away from its reels, a translucent black ribbon hanging limply from her hand. It was useless now, tainted with Rachel’s memory. Wendy threw the tape across the room, where it landed with a dull clatter of plastic, and buried her face deep into her pillow. She didn’t cry, she didn’t think she knew how to anymore, and all she wanted to do was scream until her throat was raw and there was nothing left inside her chest. It was too much to think of Rachel, with her white-blonde hair and warm brown eyes, the cheerleader who wore a pentagram charm around her neck. All of it led back to the image of her lying face down in the water, completely limp.

    Rachel had never been innocent. She had seen too many things in her drunk father’s home, taken one too many beatings from people who she once thought loved her. You could see it in the way she walked, like nothing that touched her would create friction. She acted unexpectedly for someone so pretty, someone with such influence in high school social politics. No one could quite place her, but she liked it that way; it gave her intrigue, and captivation was power in its own right. She had developed quite the reputation, attracting all manner of scumbags that she called lovers, Rourke being the latest. People called her a slut, a witch, but Rachel was far too sad and disinterested to care. Wendy used to admire that, knowing that despite everything, part of her still existed that was fragile and clean. Maybe the darkness saw that too, maybe that’s why it decided to take Rachel.

    Wendy felt sick, like a knot was being pulled tighter and tighter in her stomach. The early stage of a headache pressed against her temple, and she couldn’t stop trembling. She looked over at the clock, which read 3:48 am. It was then that she realized she had been digging her nails into the flesh of her palms, leaving behind rows of tiny crescent-shaped imprints nearly deep enough to draw blood. Everything was too still, too quiet. If Wendy didn’t do something soon, she was going to drive herself mad.

The group had promised one another to lie low and not make contact until things had quieted down. Rourke had been adamant about covering every track, whispering with a low, threatening edge to his voice as he gave them careful instructions on how to dispose of the evidence. As much as Wendy hated to admit it, Rourke scared her. He was violent and unpredictable, and his eyes were always piercing and brimming with hate for the world. As far as she could tell, Steve wasn't afraid, he was never serious enough to be, but even he would never dare cross Rourke. In spite of that, Wendy was certain that if she called him, Steve would pick up. She picked up the phone beside her bed and dialed quickly, pressing the receiver up to her ear and clenching her fist as it rang, droning on one hollow note between agonizing intervals of silence.

Wendy and Steve were close, they always had been, bonding over a shared sense of defiant apathy and designated freakishness, a black-clad duo, with Wendy in her dramatic makeup and baggy clothes and Steve towering above her in his military boots and spiked deathhawk. The only thing that separated them were their reasons for looking the way that they did; Wendy wanted to disappear, to keep people away, but Steve relished in the attention he attracted. It was for that same reason that he always picked fights, why he shoplifted and smoked in the bathroom at school. He adored being in the man of the hour, sitting back and watching the ruckus he could cause. Wendy couldn’t stand it, but she loved him all the same, like the wisecracking older brother she never had, always there to lighten the mood with a well placed quip or practical joke. Besides, Wendy couldn’t afford to be selective too with who she chose to call friends, being that she didn’t really like many people at all. Rachel and Steve were two of the only people who she didn’t downright hate, and though she was none too fond of Rourke, she had learned to deal with him. She could care less about her parents. They were probably the last people she’d turn to at a time like this.

    “Goddamnit Wen, not everyone has adopted the sleep schedule of a vampire bat, namely everyone else in my apartment building.” Wendy breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of a familiar voice.

“I’m surprised you’re home at this hour.”

“Yeah, I lost my fake ID, so none of the bars downtown would let me in. Fucking bastards,” he laughed sheepishly, then cleared his throat. “Plus after what happened, and that whole speech Rourke gave…” his voice trailed off, “I just had to get out of there.” Wendy swallowed hard and fumbled through her sock drawer for another pack of cigarettes, not caring if the room still smelled like smoke in the morning.

“What the hell are we going to do? I don’t know if I can live with this. It’s all going too far.” Her voice broke. “And God, I never thought that it would take Rachel.”

Steve cursed, and Wendy could hear him beginning to pace the floor, the creaking of floorboards echoing in the background. “Look, I don’t think that there’s anything we can do.” His voice had dropped low, the seriousness in his tone revealing no trace of his normally easy-going demeanor. “Believe me, I’m not happy about it, but you heard Rourke. There’s no going back; we’re in too deep.” Wendy ground her back teeth, tensing every muscle in her body to resist the urge to scream.

“Yeah. I know.” Her voice was monotone, her response clipped and robotic. “When can we finish it?” The words were hot and bitter in her mouth. The thought of giving another offering was unbearable, but at this point she would do anything for it to be over, for everything to return to normal.

“I talked to Rourke after you left. He said we can meet up at the trainyard in a week.” Steve sounded jaded, like he was being stretched too thin. For a moment, Wendy thought he could be crying, but then thought better of it.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

Inspired by Machado and Johnson

Boys

I can talk about you just the same as you talk about me,

Either romantic and poetic or like a toy.

I want your idea just as much as you want mine.

Any boy can be beautiful if you look hard enough.

The old but distinguished ones, 

The fresh-faced but rude teenage ones.

The ones with beards and the skinny, girlish ones.

I need your body just as much as you need mine.

I’ve loved so many of you

From kindergarten through high school;

Prideful jerks and the soft intellectuals.

I’ve searched for your idea,

You perfect one.

I could fall for you in any form you take.

You will hurt me

Even if you don’t try.

Girls

The girls are the same as boys, only different.

At least that’s what the feminists have told me.

I have wanted you too,

Since that fateful day in eighth grade.

I’ve loved you but for briefer periods,

For you are the ones always just out of reach.

I hate you because all of you are beautiful;

Do I want you or want to inhabit your skin?

I hate the fake ones with too much mascara

But I strive to look just like you without it.

I wear dresses to feel like one of your kind

Along with combat boots so no one mistakes me for you.

When I hear the sound 

It drowns me,

Flooding through my eye sockets 

And running down my throat 

Until even my grey matter

Is saturated, floating,

Tangled in one constant

Heartbeat, pulsing to the syncopated rhythms

Of a schizophrenic's tappings

Banishing the layers upon layers of dust

Until it is no longer an option to stand still

And I want it, more than anything--

Heaven, cloud nine--

The feeling of riding a bus at sunset,

Moving pictures of suburban poetics

Uncontrollable cravings with

Child's hands

On my wrists

Leading me in the eternal,

Forgo the closure, 

surrender control, 

and listen.

In a nowhere town

of fields and fifties minds,

a girl 

(thirteen years old)

walks head down

through a parking lot.

Round sunglasses

hide her dark eyes;

The floral-printed purse

resting on her hip

hides her father’s gun,

taken as a symbol.

She walks through 

the chiming glass door

of a tiny convenience store

just two miles from home.

(“Can I help you?”

“No thanks.”)

Cracked tiles collect dirt;

(like everything in this town)

She walks down aisles

of soda and painkiller

while the radio plays.

(Bohemian Rhapsody, 1975)

It starts with a plastic lighter

shoved into her pocket;

The rush feels good,

(satisfaction sweet)

but it won’t satisfy 

her destructive appetite.

Next it’s a candy bar,

a car air freshener,

and some earbuds:

shots of adrenaline 

that could be mistaken

for happiness.

Three steps from safety

she hesitates,

(heart beating)

and in the split second

that it takes to look back,

the cashier sees her guilt.

She didn’t plan on using it,

but his eyes are probing

into her stomach and chest;

(“You gonna pay for that?”)

His arms tense up,

wanting more than answers.

The words won’t come

as her mind searches 

for a redeeming excuse

to spare her the wrath.

(clenched fists, licked lips:

she knows what it means)

The quicks of her nails

and the whites of her eyes

flash in the sunlight

as she reaches for salvation

(once hurt, twice shy)

and pulls the trigger.

He might have screamed

if she didn’t miss,

hitting him in the teeth

instead of the neck;

Now all he can do

is howl like an animal.

Blood falls from his mouth,

dripping on the white floor;

She covers her ears

to escape the sound

of agony and armageddon

that she has unleashed. 

The second bullet

it hits him in the stomach

and he folds,

a blank-eyed body;

(wake up! wake up!)

She has to run.

The light overwhelms her

as she stumbles outside

into a new world

bathed in red.

(her name is not Alice;

this is no Wonderland)

People start to stare

at her blood-stained arms;

(echoes after gunfire)

She takes off,

running fast even though

she knows it’s already over.

Her only escape

seems just beyond reach,

(leave and never return)

faint a black line

along the horizon

that existed once long ago.

Some endings 

are better left 

I have come to think that we are less alone in this world than we may seem,

For even while walking at night,

Roaming vacant and yellow-lit streets

Like the last man on earth or Robert Frost,

You will notice a young couple smoking on the patio

Or an insomniac quietly watching his TV, 

And you must know of a wife that lays waking,

Staring wide-eyed at the ceiling with the light on.

I have heard the highway traffic at 3 a.m.

Those lost souls: truckers, travelers, desperate partiers,

Driving by at 85 miles per hour, 

Unaware that they are passing the exit that would lead them to your house,

Where you live out your commonly remarkable life

I was dead, or so it seemed-- 

A blot of red beneath the breast,

A paleness to the cheek;  

A look of stillness 

Was all it took to deceive. 

I was dead, but no,

I had never been so alive!  

I was everywhere, the air and trees  

Where all the body I could ever need  

And the visions of the living 

Were like pictures on a screen;

They were nothing--

Trapped in a limited state  

Bound by bodies, chained in hate

Trapped in cycles and repeated routines  

Searching for love in a void of greed--

It means nothing! I laugh down

From somewhere on high,

But they do not hear, and all the while  

I can fly now, forever to be  

Dull, dark, deep horizon

Fading with the day--

All your sins to answer

And the guilt to pay--

Death is a feeling 

I’ve felt before--

A blank invasion,

A silent shore--

Beautiful people, all in a row;

So many people