Grace stood, unable to speak. She saw the kitchen table. It was smeared with blood, as if a child had finished fingerpainting.
She moved toward him, gently taking the pan from his hands. Innards dotted the floor like a butcher shop after an earthquake. She took the handle. It was still hot, but not hot enough to let go. He smiled at her. His rotten teeth looked like a corpse's.
Inside the pan were two detached ears wrapped in blonde strands of hair and what looked to be a ring of red burnt skin—lips. It let off a quiet sizzle as Grace placed the pan on the blood-soaked table.
A siren blasted from the TV in the other room, catching Grace’s attention. A female voice alerted, "This is an amber alert message from the Pennsylvania Highway Patrol. Officers are still on the lookout out for the Ketchum abductor and now have a partial description of the suspect. Two witnesses told officers the perpetrator is a white middle-aged man with a skinny build, a dirty completion, and wears a black hat over a bald head. Suspect may be considered to be homeless. Please report suspicious activity to the Ketchum police station—"
Grace heard the tone of Aubrey's cellphone from below the table. She reached down and scooped up the bloodied thing. "We're going to get you help, okay?" She gently took his boney wrist and led him outside.
END
Tremble for Me
It's early evening and the dwindling beams of deep orange sunlight drift downward, deepening through the fiery autumn forest, casting an eerie mix of light and shadow on the road. The constant cool breeze wafts over my freshly shaven face and chills me to the bone.
Through a tunnel of thick trees, I swerve my bike over a snaky stretch of pavement. My goal today is to meet Jay, my first ever real date, without fucking things up. Jay's a gorgeous dude I sort of met through a friend of a friend online, and for the last couple nights, I've been spending at least five hours on the phone with him, and by phone, I mean YOLO, a mobile phone app where he broadcasts a live video stream and lets people chat with him. He's got a huge viewer following, and he wants to go on a date with me. Crazy, right?
I spent four hours getting ready for the night, for him. I took a shower, shaped and tweezed the hell out of my eyebrows to give them a super-polished look, deep cleaned my pores, exfoliated, moisturized, took another shower, then soaked for a short while in a bath and shaved my stubbly chin. Then I picked out the perfect outfit, something stylish yet relaxed enough to make him want to rip it right off. But I won’t allow it on the first date. I gave myself a once over in the bathroom mirror, then another in the dining room, and one final peek in the front sliding glass doors. Jay's gorgeous. I've got to look perfect.
"Thirty-three, thirty-three, thirty-three," I repeat to myself as I pass a dirt driveway ten minutes from my house. A dog barks from somewhere outside the property. A mailbox with silver letters reads thirty; getting closer. I feel a flutter of anxiety in my stomach. I wonder what he's wearing. I picture him in an expensive ensemble, a dark blue, long sleeve, strip pullover and a black, urban cool pant hugging him in all the right spots, so I can see his bubble butt. And his high-end platinum watch he wears but never uses. And his shoes . . .
A cry of wolves in the distance interrupts my thoughts and my attention is brought back to the bumpy road. I see a light flicker through the leaves ahead. I slow down. I wish I had a mirror. My hair is probably a mess now.
I near another mailbox, a black one with big white sticker letters reading thirty-three. Without another thought I make a right turn and peddle up a steep driveway smothered in crispy leaves to an orange and off-white trailer. Drips of rust bleed from each window. Grass grows about half a foot tall, and leaves smother most of the yard not a parked car in sight. This can't be it.
A dim light pulsing through a small glass window on the front door is the only evidence this place is even occupied.
At the top of the driveway, I text Jay, "I think I'm here."
Seconds later, the front door opens and a guy dressed in grey sweatpants, a black tank top, and spiky blond hair steps out onto a tiny cement porch. It's Jay. I smile and wave. I lean my bike down on the overgrown lawn and follow a faint stone path covered in piles of dead oak leaves to the porch.
"You got here on that?" he asks, looking at me like aliens spit me out of a spaceship or something.
"Yeah, I try to stay fit," I lie. I don't even have a car yet. But I can't tell him the truth. How lame would I look if mom dropped me off, kissing me on the forehead and waving goodbye. He'd laugh at me and slam the door before I’d be able to step out of the car.
"I don't do sports. I go to the gym. I try to go at least six days a week, but I'm pretty popular, so sometimes it's hard finding the time." He looks down; his right bicep twitches and tightens into a hard bulge. Man, I’d love to squeeze it. I stare for way too long. I hope he doesn't spot the desperation. He opens the door wider and I follow him in.
The moment I enter, a cloud of alcohol-based cologne intoxicates my nose. He examines me with a skeptical gaze from my head down to my shoes. I begin to get worried. Something's wrong.
"So, did you dress yourself?" he asks, his face stern, puzzled.
"Yes," I say in a calm manner. Of course I did, I'm 17!
I begin to feel sick, probably from the strong smell of cologne or maybe from the smell of disappointment on his breath. I should leave. How could I ever think I was good enough for him? But I sent him two pics of me. I remember him even saying I looked "Not bad." What's the problem with my baggy jeans and orange dragon tee? It was expensive. Maybe it's my shoes. Mom had gotten them half off. I bet he could smell sale items from a mile away. Fuck.
"Know what we should do first?" he asks, and without giving me time to answer tells me, "A makeover."
I look away. I can't look at him anymore. I'm ashamed. I hate my mom. This is her fault. He must hate me for wasting his time. Should I leave? No. He must like me to take time to do a makeover on me, though.
"Sure," I say, still unable to make direct eye contact.
"I used to be a stylist." He takes my hand and leads me through the living room. We pass the bedroom on the left and enter the bathroom. There are so many objects around it's hard to focus on one thing. Every inch of wall is covered in decorations; black and white framed photos of Marilyn Monroe, rose wallpaper border with edges curling up, round mirrors, rectangle mirrors, square mirrors, and a huge vanity mirror with a wooden frame.
"First, your hair. Did you shower today?"
"Yes," I say, finally able to look into his hazel eyes.
"Good." With hesitation, he runs his fingers through my hair and says, "I'll give it a quick wash anyway. Bend over the sink."
I jam myself between him and the sink. He lifts my shirt off and I lower my head. I hear a squeak as he twists the sink knob. Water rushes down and steam billows over my face. With two fingers, Jay tests the water. Small splashes hit my face, but I don't move away. He wouldn't hurt me.
"Who does your hair?"
My mom. I can't tell him the truth, though. I respond, "Uh, I can't remember."
He begins washing my hair, asking more questions. "How do you forget where you get it done? Is it Prim-&-Cut? Or Urban Cuttery on the South End Highway?"
"Yeah, I think South End," I say at once. When will this conversation end? I have a feeling he knows I'm lying.
"You're, like, too skinny," Jay says, gliding a wet finger over my spine, giving me the chills. I don't respond; I don't know how to. I push out my stomach to make me look bigger. He drips something cold on the back of my wet scalp and begins smoothing it over with his fingers. White foam drips to the sink and a scent of chemicals drenched in mint leaves wafts up my nose. I brace myself on two metal rods holding up the base of the sink while his fingers dig deeper into my scalp, as if to rid me of fleas. He smoothes more cold liquid on my hair.
"Stay like this. I'll be back in five. Don't get anything wet," he says, leaving the room.
I close my eyes as soapy water drips down my face. Mome
nts later, I hear muffled chatting coming from the other room. Who's he speaking to? His best friend? Maybe his mom or sister? A dull pain attacks my neck and upper back from standing. And what feels like fifteen minutes later, Jay returns and turns on the faucet.
"Isn't this great, everybody? I have my client right here. Say hello, Chase." He brings the phone close and pauses, waiting for my response. I hear a distinctive message tone from people chatting on YOLO. He's broadcasting live! What does he mean by client, though?
I turn my head and respond, "Hey, everybody."
Jay takes back the phone. "Yeah, okay, that's enough for now. See you all later on tonight for a special surprise!"
I wait till after I hear the noise from his phone, indicating he signed off YOLO, and ask him, "I'm your client?" I force a laugh to let him know it’s okay if he’s serious.
"Yes, I'm doing a makeover on you; therefore, you're my client."
"Yeah." Maybe it’s all he thinks of me as. "Thought this was a date," I whisper, gushing water skewing my words. I hope he didn’t hear me. I don’t want to make him angry. After all, he could virtually destroy me.
Social media gods like him can destroy anybody with the tap of a finger. I remember what happened to a kid named Faith a few weeks back. She had commented on his profile picture, one where he's wearing a Speedo and straddling a mechanical bull. She said, "Bet it’s the only thing you’ve ridden in a long ass time."
I heard she had to virtually delete herself to stop the death threats from Jay's fans.
Jay ravages my head with his fingers under the cool rushing water. He doesn't respond. I don't think he heard me, thank goodness. How could I have mistaken his invite to come over for a movie as something more?
Jay ruffles my hair with a towel and lifts me up. He picks out a pair of long scissors and begins hacking away at the side of my head. He knows what he’s doing. Long chunks fall to the tile floor. He knows what he’s doing. Jay cut two and a half inches off. I’ve been growing it for two years now.
He knows what he’s doing. He is, or was, a stylist. Right?
I close my eyes as he nears them with the long blades. He knows what he's doing. A moment later, I hear a vibration and I open my eyes. Jay mows an electric razor over the sides and back of my head. I close my eyes again because, with the fall of each clump of brown hair, I feel like I'm losing a dear friend. And for a quick second, I picture myself grabbing the scissors and stabbing his handsome face. Quit the shit, Chase!
Jay brushes off the loose strands of hair covering my body, then squeezes a dime size amount of goop on his hand and starts spiking clumps of hair. When he finishes, he tosses my shirt over my shoulder and says, "Finito." I look in the mirror. It's short on the sides and back with clumps of long spiky hair sticking out in all directions from the crown of my head. The upper left side is much shorter and off center, and the strands closer to the front slope down and to the right. Overall, the style is a clone of Jay's.
I smile. "Looks good."
"Let’s see what we look like together." He takes off his shirt, brings me closer to him, and we gaze into the mirror. A faint white glaze fogs our reflection. I display a devilish grin. He's gorgeous. We look like brothers, no, like gods. Is he thinking the same thing I am? Please, please like what you see.
For a long time, he stares into the distance, as if he were peering into a bottomless chasm, his face unmoving, then, out of nowhere, he begins talking.
"I've been doing my own hair since I was sixteen and have clients from all over Virginia. Never gotten a single complaint." He pauses, pinning back up a strand of drooping hair. I nod, waiting for something more. His torso isn't as toned in person as it looks on YOLO. I'm still unable to take my eyes off it, though.
"I’m sexy," he says, shifting his body as if posing for a photo shoot. I nod in agreement. "I'd marry myself if I could," he says, smiling at his reflection as if I'm not even standing next to him, as if it were just he and his reflection, about to fuck. I don't blame him for looking at himself, but I do, however, want to break the mirror.
He touches his forehead. "Need to get these horns removed," he says. I feel like he wants a reaction.
"I don't see anything. What do you mean?"
He runs his fingers over the top of both of his brows. "These bumps. I’m going to get them removed when I have the money."
I see no bumps. The only thing protruding from his face is his nose. And from the looks of it, he already had it shaved down to perfection.
"And, of course, my nose. It’s at the tippy top of my surgery to-do list."
What he said hit me like a pie to the face. Stunned and confused, I nod.
"I think you're fine; perfect, if you ask me." Did I say perfect? He's going to think I'm a desperate fool.
Without taking his eyes off himself in the mirror, he smiles. How could somebody so perfect find so many imperfections about himself?
Jay walks out of the bathroom. I follow. Although the door is halfway closed, I take a quick peek inside his bedroom. Shirts and jeans litter a queen-size bed taking up more than half of the room. A dresser on the side displays two huge masks, one purple, the other green. Jay motions me to sit on a fluffy brown couch in front of a huge flat screen TV in the living room.
He moves into the kitchen in the next room, which is divided by a long wooden island. I take a seat and watch him open the fridge.
"You like wine?" Jay asks.
"Yeah, sure." I've never had wine. I've experimented with vodka and rum, and although my taste buds complain from the liquid garbage taste, an occasional beer.
The brown carpet, flattened by years of treading feet, reminds me of topsoil, and the longer I wait for Jay to take a seat, the more I imagine worms crawling out from between the threaded cracks.
The TV flashes on and Jay, both hands holding glasses of red wine, takes a seat next to me. Within moments, the movie begins. He hands me a glass of red wine and I take a sip. I turn my head away from Jay. The bitter taste twists my face into a frenzy.
I feel his hand moving closer. I don't look, but I feel our hands interconnect. I never want to let go.
About halfway through, I still don't know what this movie is about. I laugh when Jay laughs, coo when Jay coos. My attention is on him, not the movie. I rub my thumb over his palm. It's soft and warm, nothing like mine.
He gives me a slight nudge. "Get up. Let's get more comfortable," he says. He sprawls out at the back of the couch and motions me to lie in front of him, to be the little spoon. He wraps his arms around me. I have a feeling I'm not his client any longer.
I suck in air and yawn. My eyes are heavy. What's come over me? I slept great last night, even took a nap this afternoon before I came. I pinch my arm and yawn again.
I feel Jay examining my chest with his right hand. "You're so skinny," he says. I know he wants a reaction, but I don't know what to say. He glides a careful hand down my back. "It's kinda disgusting."
Not a second later, I sit up, embarrassed. My head feels foggy. "I'm sorry," I say. "I can't help it."
"Do you have cancer or something?" he asks. His words are like jagged knives, cutting deep into my gut.
"No, everybody in my family is skinny." My eyes swell with hot tears. Somehow they don’t spill over.
"It reminds me of this one guy who came here once. I had him over and had to send him back home."
"You, you sent him home?" I stutter, hoping he won't do the same with me.
"Yeah, he came here looking like a homeless person. I was like, 'Get a shower and go to the fucking gym.' I felt kinda bad because he traveled over five hours to get here, but I couldn't deal with looking at him any longer."
I can tell he wants a reaction, but I don't have anything positive to say, so I ask, "Is that how you feel about me?"
"Nah, you're not that bad. Besides, you look a lot better now with a haircut. Next, we need to work on your outfit, if you don’t mind, to make you more . . ." He pauses. "Presentable." He chuck
les; I don't.
I stare at the TV, but I don't notice the ending credits rolling up the screen or hear the vibrant music blaring out the speakers. I need to sleep. I can't hold my eyes open for much longer. This is a fucking nightmare.
My phone vibrates on silent in my pocket. It’s my mom. I answer, "Hey."
"Chase, where are you? I was calling and calling but didn't get an answer—"
"Sorry, I'm at a friend’s watching a movie. I'll—" My phone beeped and shut down, cutting the call short. Shit, I could've used my mom as an excuse. "Can I use your phone to call my mom back?" I ask Jay.
He sits up. "I'm all out of minutes. I'm going to get a plan once I have the money, though." He's lying. I'm not 100% sure he's lying, but I don't think his phone comes with prepaid minutes. He must want me here.
I take a stand. Sandbags weigh down my eyes. I wipe beads of sweat off my brow. "Jay, I'm so tired. Maybe I should leave now."
"No," he says, standing. "Here, come to my room." He pushes me toward the bedroom. My knees give and, before I hit the ground, he catches me and smiles. "Come on." He guides me to his room. I should sleep here. I don't think I'll make it back to my house anyway. The wolves will surely tear me apart.
"Lie," Jay commands. I close my eyes and topple over, face-first, onto the bed. I hear an unmistakable message tone go off from behind me, where Jay stands holding me upright. He lets go. My bare skin hits the cold bed sheets and I feel as though I'm drifting into paradise.
I wake to a fury of scratching at the bedside window, right behind our sleeping heads. I flip the covers over, but before I'm able to sit up, a wolf tears through the thin screen and tumbles onto the bed. It crouches backward, its black fur raised, eyes blaring like two red marbles.
I look over at Jay, but he's gone. The fucker must've escaped. I try to scoot back, but my body doesn't respond.
The wolf crouches, its snout wrinkles with a wet snarl, its eyes fixed on me, then, it lunges straight at me. The furred lug pins me to the bed and starts ravaging my flesh like a dog toy. I'm paralyzed.