Fiends

    Before long, someone would find the razor.

    Releasing a long sigh, Charles closed his book. He tucked it under one arm, picked up his briefcase and strolled up the corridor.

    Later that morning, after his seminar in Twentieth Century Irish Literature, Charles sat on a park bench along one of the campus walkways. The bench was fairly well hidden by hedges at both ends and an oak to the rear.

    He took two X-Acto blades from his briefcase. Each was about an inch in length, V-shaped, with fine sharp edges. At the blunt end of each blade was a tab that could be slid into one of the several handles which were part of the kit. Charles hadn’t brought the handles with him.

    With the blades cupped in one hand, he pretended to read Joyce. He watched the walkway. People kept coming by.

    Patience, he told himself.

    Before he could find time to plant the blades, a couple roosted on the bench across from him. They had bags from the Burger King a block from campus. Charles waited while they ate and gabbed. He waited while they snuggled and kissed. Finally, they wandered away, the guy with his hand down a back pocket of the girl’s short denim skirt.

    He checked the walkway. Clear at last!

    Working quickly, he planted one blade upright in a green painted slat beside his right thigh. He scooted away from it, then dug a place for the other blade on a slat of the backrest. After checking again for witnesses, he inserted the blade.

    Then he roamed across the walkway and settled down on the bench where the sweethearts had wasted so much of his time. They’d left a fry behind. He brushed it to the ground. He opened Finnegan’s Wake, and waited.

    People came by. A lot of people. Alone, in pairs, in small groups. Students, instructors, professors, administrators, ground keepers. Male and female. Slender, lovely girls. Plain girls. Slobs.

***

    Into the afternoon, Charles waited.

    Nobody sat on the bench.

    Nobody.

    Still, Charles waited. Over and over again in his mind, beautiful young women sat down on the bench. Their faces twisted and went scarlet. They leaped up, shrieking. They hurried away, blood from gashed buttocks spreading across the seats of shorts and skirts and jeans, blood from ripped backs staining blouses, T-shirts, flowing down the bare skin of those who wore tube tops or other varieties of low-backed garments.

    In his best fantasy, it was Lynn who sat on the bench. Wearing a white bikini.

    He often returned to that one while he waited.

    Lynn stopped in front of him.

    He gazed up at her, puzzled. She wasn’t wearing a bikini. She wore a white cotton polo shirt, pink shorts that reached almost to her knees, and white socks and sneakers. Her huge leather shoulder bag hung against her hip.

    ‘Hi, Charles,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

    He shrugged. He tried to smile. He was reasonably certain this was Lynn, not a figment of his imagination.

    ‘Ready to head on over to the salt mines?’ she asked.

    He glanced at his wristwatch. Ten till four. Impossible! he couldn’t have been sitting here that long.

    ‘I guess it’s time,’ he muttered.

    Lynn tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you all right?’

    ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

    ‘I had kind of a restless night, myself. So, are you coming?’

    ‘Sure. Yeah. I guess so.’ He put his book away, lifted his briefcase and rose from the bench. With a last glimpse at the other bench, he started walking with Lynn.

    It’s Fate, he thought. He’d tried to direct his need away from Lynn, but his efforts had failed. They were meant to fail. He was being guided by forces beyond his control, forces that had ordained Lynn to bleed for him.

    ‘Check out my finger,’ she said as they walked along. She raised it in front of his face.

    The bandage was gone. Charles saw a tiny curve of white fringe on the pad of her finger. His heart thudded. ‘It looks good,’ he said.

    ‘Almost as good as new.’ She smiled as her upper arm brushed against him. She lowered the hand to her side. ‘If it wasn’t for your first-aid, no telling what might’ve happened. Who knows? I might’ve bled to death.’

    Charles knew she was joking. But his heart pounded even harder. Heat spread through his groin. ‘From a paper cut?’

    ‘Of course. Happens all the time. It’s the leading cause of death among librarians and editors. Honest to God.’ She looked at him. ‘You do know how to smile, don’t you?’

    ‘Sure,’ he muttered.

    ‘Let’s see one.’

    He tried.

    ‘Miserable,’ she said. ‘You know, you’d be a pretty handsome fellow if you’d smile once in a while.’

    He gazed at her. He pictured how her face would look with bright red blood streaming down it. He imagined himself licking the blood from her cheeks and lips.

    ‘That’s more of a leer than a smile, actually,’ Lynn said. ‘But it’ll do. You just need more practice.’

    Even after all the books were shelved, Charles stayed in the second-floor stacks.

    If he went downstairs, he would see Lynn. She would be sitting on her stool behind the circulation desk, checking books in and out, or maybe wandering the floor, cheerfully offering suggestions to students in need of assistance.

    As long as I don’t see her, he told himself, nothing will happen.

    A few students came up. Some searched for books, while others slipped into carrels along the far wall and studied. There were girls, but he paid them no attention. It would be Lynn, or no one.

    He ducked into a carrel himself. For some unknown reason, it had been placed in a corner away from the lights. That suited him well. He felt snug and hidden.

    He folded his arms on the desk top and put his head down.

    Maybe I’ll sleep, he thought.

    He closed his eyes. He pictured Lynn suspended from a ceiling beam, wrists tied, arms stretched high, feet off the floor. He had no rope, though. Too bad. Go back to his apartment and get some? The emergency exits had alarms. He couldn’t leave the library without passing Lynn’s desk.

    Maybe use my belt, instead?

    That had worked before. He’d put a loop around the girl’s hands and nailed the other end high on a wall.

    No hammer. No nails.

    A rope would be better, anyway. Even though he didn’t have one, he liked the image of Lynn hanging helpless. He knew she was wearing a polo shirt. In his mind, however, she wore a regular blouse. With buttons. And he saw himself slicing off the buttons, one by one.

    Charles flinched awake when someone stroked the back of his head. Her jerked upright in his chair. Lynn was standing close beside him, frowning down with concern on her shadowy face.

    ‘You really zonked out,’ she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper in the silence.

    ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t…’

    ‘That’s okay.’ Her hand stayed on the back of his head, caressing his hair. ‘I was a little worried about you, though. You just disappeared.’

    ‘I was shelving books up here. I felt so tired…’

    ‘No problem.' A smile tilted the corners of her mouth. ‘I thought maybe you were trying to avoid me.