Flesh

Alison’s mind felt numb. She folded the letter, slipped it inside the envelope, and picked up the vase of daffodils. She carried it into the house, nudging the door shut with her rump.

“What’s the deal?” Helen called.

Alison shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak; her voice would shake and she might cry.

“Well, all right, flowers. Told you he’d see the light.”

She climbed the stairs to her room, placed the vase on her dresser, and sat on her bed. She pulled the pages out of the envelope and read them again.

He wrote about a dream. This was like a dream. She almost couldn’t believe that he had written such a letter. The anguish in it, the desperation. Even a threat, in the Hamlet allusion, of suicide— which he was quick to retract but which remained, nonetheless.

Alison told herself that she ought to be delighted. Isn’t this what she had wanted; to have him repent and plead for her to take him back? But she wasn’t delighted. The letter was almost disturbing. Could she mean that much to him?

Did she want to mean that much to him.

He sounded almost obsessed.

Alison lay down on her bed, the letter pressed to her belly, and stared at the ceiling. She kicked off a sandal, heard it thump the floor, then kicked off the other. She felt exhausted, as if she had just come back from a long walk. She took a deep breath. Her lungs seemed to tremble as she exhaled.

You wanted him back, didn’t you? Well, he’s yours. If you want him.

You’ll have to do something.

Something.

Evan’s probably sitting in his apartment, staring at the telephone, waiting, wondering if you sneered when you read his message, or if you wept. And very possibly thinking he had been a fool to open himself up that way.

It’s cruel to make him wait.

I should go downstairs, right now, and call him. Or walk over to his apartment. Make it like his dream. Don’t say anything when he opens the door, just kiss him.

Don’t make it that easy on him.

Maybe I don’t want to go back to him at all.

What should I do? Maybe pretend I didn’t get the flowers and note, go along as if nothing happened.

Alison lay there, wondering. She felt stunned, confused, hopeful but a little bit frightened.

She pulled the pillow down over her face. The dark was nice. The soft pillow felt good.

Later, she thought. I’ll do something about it later.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Roland couldn’t understand. He had taken off the cuffs before pushing her down the cellar stairs, and he hadn’t put them back on because she was beyond struggling and he needed both hands free. So how come, now that he was done, he was suddenly cuffed to her again? It didn’t make sense.

He knew that he hadn’t attached the manacles again.

Had she done it? No. Huh-uh. She’s dead.

Then how?

He felt a tingle of fear.

As he dug into the pocket where he kept the key, he wondered vaguely why he was wearing clothes at all. Hadn’t he left them upstairs?

The key wasn’t there.

Don’t worry, you’ll find it. You’ve got to find it.

Fighting panic, he searched every pocket. The key was gone.

This can’t be happening to me, he thought.

Fortunately, he had turned on the overhead light before following Celia into the cellar. The bulb cast only a dim yellow glow, but it should be enough. Getting to his knees, he scanned the concrete floor. The area surrounding them was pooled with blood. Could the key be under the blood? He began to sweep his free hand through the wet layer.

Out of a corner of his eye, he thought he saw Celia grin.

No.

He looked directly at her. She was scalped, her skull caved in (and brain gone, don’t forget that), her eyes shut, her face a mask of blood, and she was grinning.

Her eyelids slid up.

“You’re dead!” he shrieked.

Her jaw dropped. Her tongue lolled out. The handcuff key lay near the end of her tongue.

He reached for it.

Celia’s teeth snapped shut on his fingers. Crying out in agony, he jerked his hand back. The stumps of three severed fingers spouted blood.

In horror, he watched her chew his fingers.

The cellar suddenly went dark.

He heard the stairway creak.

“Who’s there?” he yelled.

No answer came, but Roland knew who was there. He knew. He began to whimper.

“Leave me alone!” he cried. “Go away!”

In a mocking singsong, a voice in the darkness chanted, “I don’t thinnnk sooo.” Dana’s voice.

“Youuu are go-ing to diiie noww,” sang Jason.

The voices came from high on the cellar stairs but something grabbed the front of Roland’s shirt (Celia’s hand?) and tugged him. He toppled forward. Onto her. Her legs locked around him. Her hands (why wasn’t one cuffed to him anymore?) clutched his hair and forced his face down. Down against her face. She pressed his mouth against her mouth. She huffed. Into Roland’s mouth gushed the mush and splintered bones of his half-masticated fingers.

He started to choke.

And he woke up, gasping for air. For a moment, he thought he must still be in his dream.

But the bulb still glowed from the cellar ceiling. He wasn’t on top of Celia’s body; he was sprawled on the concrete floor beside it. Quickly, he lifted his hands. Though they both trembled violently, neither was cuffed and he still had all his fingers.

He glanced toward the cellar stairs. Nobody there. Of course not.

Just a nightmare.

As Roland sat up, his bare back came unstuck from the floor.

He looked around and picked up his knife, but he didn’t see the handcuffs. Then he remembered leaving them upstairs with his clothes.

He groaned as he struggled to his feet. His body felt tight and chilled. His muscles were sore. It had been madness, allowing himself to fall asleep down here. What if he had slept through the night?

He was confident, however, that he had only been asleep for an hour or two. There would still be plenty of time to sneak away under cover of darkness.

He climbed the cellar stairs as quickly as his stiff muscles permitted, and opened the door. The brightness of day stung his eyes. He cowered, shielding his face. Sickened, he saw himself shrivel and crumble to dust like a vampire. He wanted to turn away from the light, rush down into the comforting gloom of the cellar.

But the warmth felt good. As he stood hunched in the doorway, the deep chill seemed to be drawn out of his body. As the chill diminished, so did his panic.

Major fuck-up, he told himself. Not the end of the world, though.