I pushed up to my feet. All at once, I realized how wobbly I was. The room began to spin, so I sat down again. The problem with that was, my eyes went back to the face, that kid’s face, and I saw all the splattered blood and swollen flesh surrounding it. That finely chiseled face was like a pound of ground round.
Strong hands rummaged under my coat, taking my flask, and I didn’t resist. “I told you to lay off the sauce an hour ago,” Harry said. “Didn’t know you had a private stash, damn you. How the hell am I going to explain this?”
The room was still spinning, even though I was sitting. I felt like I might rip my stomach out with a dull knife if I could. Then I noticed that I was bleeding, too, that I was sitting in a pool of glass, and that there was an especially large shard right in front of me, and I recall thinking someone should do something about that because it could hurt someone, and then I grabbed it and jabbed it into my left wrist. Blood spewed everywhere.
I fell over onto the floor, head first, and the rest of the world went away. After that, I don’t remember anything. I assumed I was dead.
“Am I dead?” the young girl asked.
He stared down at her, stretched out on the table before him, a luminescent tableau so full of innocence and youthful curiosity. Her lengthy stay in the basement, so far from the bright lights of the city, had caused her skin to etiolate, but rather than detracting from her natural splendor, it seemed to enhance it. The primordial was strong with her, he sensed. He had chosen well.
“Of course you’re not dead, my darling. You can see, can’t you? Hear, smell, taste, and touch?”
“I can’t move. Not at all. Nothing below my neck.”
“I know.”
“I think I’ve wet myself, but I’m not sure.”
“You have.”
“Even talking is hard.”
He brushed a hand gently across her forehead, straightening her bangs. “I’m so sorry.”
“And I’m scared. Really scared. You’re not going to hurt me, are you, mister?”
He was short of stature, but he liked to think he had a certain presence just the same. Did his accent thicken as he spoke to the offering? He suspected that it did. The genteel Southern gentleman rose to the surface.
He turned and gazed out the window, just above ground level. The sky was clear as glass; the air was pungently sweet. And oh, the stars-! The stars seemed to go on forever, traveling from his private retreat all the way to Dream-Land. Heaven was real here, far removed from the decay of the city, the fiberglass façades and organic stench. He did not look down but across, outward, into the desert, the vast untouched expanse, the low-lying Spring Mountains, feeling the arid warmth as it bathed and reassured him.
“Mister?” Her voice was slow and stuporous.
“Yes?”
“Am I-am I-” Her hair was caught in her mouth. She tried to blow it away, but it was sticky and wet and wouldn’t go and there was nothing she could do. She was like a rag doll, unable to help herself.
He reached down and brushed the hair out of her mouth. “Is that better, my dear?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“And your question?”
Her eyes were swollen and red from the anger phase. Screaming, shouting, threatening. Testing the waters, learning the abject futility of it all. Now she was more subdued, acquiescent. “Am I naked?”
“Yes, love. You’re just as God made you.”
“W-Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you as you truly are.”
“Did you… do anything to me? While I was out?”
He pressed a hand against his black cotton vest. “What manner of monster do you take me for, madam?”
“Well… I didn’t know.”
“There has been no physical impropriety, I can assure you of that.”
“Well… that’s… good, I guess. So… could I have my clothes back?”
“I’m afraid not.” He reached down and brushed another strand of hair out of her mouth. He held it for a moment, staring at the root. “ ‘The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes…’ ” He looked at her with opprobrium. “You’re not a natural blonde.”
“No.”
“But your-your-” His face flushed.
“Dyed that, too.”
“Oh, my. Oh, my.” He assumed a stern expression. “My dear girl, this will never do. I mean, it simply isn’t done.”
“All the girls at my high school were doing it.”
“Then I shall see that you never return to that pubescent whorehouse.” He cleared his throat, fanning himself. “I couldn’t help but notice when I undressed you. You were wearing”-he bore a pained expression, as if the very words hurt him-“thong underwear. Do your parents know about this?”
“No. A girlfriend bought them for me. Amber.”
“I thought as much. Well, I destroyed the offending article.” He leaned in close and whispered, “There’s only one kind of girl who needs thong underwear, Helen. And you aren’t that kind.”
She spoke hesitantly, her words still slurring occasionally. “You can’t know what kind of girl I am. You don’t know me.”
“You’re wrong, my lovely. I’ve been watching you. When you slipped out.”
“What?”
“I’ve even been to your Web site. I know you’ve been unhappy. I know your mother doesn’t understand you. I know you were contemplating leaving home for good. You want something better than what you have been given, something richer. A Dream-Land.”
The fear in her eyes was so intense he felt it in his heart as if it were his own. He had always been like that, sensitive to a fault, so in tune with the feelings of others that it sometimes became unbearable. He wished there were some way to turn it off, to flick the switch, to distance himself. But he had learned long ago that distance was not an option for him. He was a part of this world, and so he would remain. And if he could not escape the world, then his only recourse was to make it a better world.
Staring down into her fearful eyes, golden locks encircling her face, it was impossible not to think of another girl, another innocent, from that lost time so long ago. Following him through the forest, splashing him at the beach, she was the best of him, too pure to be tainted and forever young.
“Mister? Do you think if maybe I promised not to wear that underwear anymore, you could, um, let me go?”
“But my sweet, we have so much work yet to do.” He returned to the basin and placed a washcloth in damp water. With great vigor, he began scrubbing her face.
“Mister? You’re… you’re hurting me.”
“It’s got to come off. All of it. A good girl doesn’t need paint to make herself attractive.”
“But-you’re tearing-”
“A little elbow grease. That’s what’s wanted here.” He made a small gasping noise. “Are those eyelashes false? Pity.” He ripped them off.
“Oww! Mister, please-”
“And the same goes for these earrings, I’m afraid. Imagine piercing your flesh so you can adorn yourself with colored glass. They’ve got to go.” He yanked them off through the lobe.
The girl shrieked. “Please! Oh, my God, stop, please!”
“Don’t fret. I’ll get something to stanch the bleeding.”
The girl began to tremble helplessly.
“And that leaves us with the problem of the hair. What to do about the hair?”
“Maybe-I could just wear a wig?”
He considered. “I fear that would only intensify the artificiality. No, there’s only one thing to be done.” In the cabinet beneath the basin, he found a battery-operated electric shear.
“Please, don’t. Please.” She breathed heavily, twisting her head back and forth.
“I don’t want to. But I have no choice.” He switched the clippers on. “Please don’t move.”
He applied the shear to the crown of her head and moved over the crest in a long straight line, like a Marine barber buzz-cutting a new inductee. The girl let loose hopeless streams of tears that she couldn’t wipe away.
In a matter of minutes, the cutting was done and the hair was gone. He took a brush and dustpan and cleaned up the girl and the table she rested upon. He retrieved his damp warm cloth from the basin and used it to gently, tenderly rinse her face and scalp.