Fungus of the Heart (8 page)

So I ignore the door and focus on the man.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” I say. “But I’m tired and hungry. I haven’t eaten for days.”

The man shrugs. “I couldn’t care less.”

“You couldn’t?”

“No.”

I smile. “Are you in need of a servant? I’d be happy to work for food and shelter.”

The man rubs his beard, then opens the door wide.

I follow him inside.

His home would remind me of every other home in the area, if not for the pyramid of stacked excrement jars.

“What can I do for you?” I say.

He motions to the far wall. “Everyone in the world wants to live inside my cabinet, but I hate when people stay in there. So I need you to stay in there and stand guard.”

“But if you hate when people go in there, won’t you hate when I go in there?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t count.”

“Why not?”

The man sighs. “It’s a complicated issue. And on my list of things I hate, complicated issues are ranked fourteen. That’s fourteen out of six thousand and twenty seven. So you can understand my reluctance to answer your question.”

“Of course.”

“So you’ll take the job?”

I nod.

And the man forces me into the cabinet, closes the door, and locks me in.

I’m home again.

*

Sometimes, the Man Who Can’t Smile allows me to join him for dinner, but I don’t think he yearns for my company the way I yearn for yours. I think he likes to watch me enjoy my meal the way he can’t anymore.

But the dinners never end well, because he can’t taste through my mouth, no matter how hard he tries.

So like always, he knocks over the table, and says, “Get back in the cabinet, Boy.”

I don’t. “I’m not going to help you anymore, unless you help me bring Salvador to life.”

“Who’s Salvador?”

I pull you out of my pouch.

And the Man scoffs. “What a stupid-looking cup.”

“He’s not stupid,” I say.

“I didn’t say he’s stupid. I said he’s stupid-looking. Although I’m sure he’s as stupid as he looks.”

You don’t deserve this, so I try to cover your ears.

But the Man snatches you away from me.

“Give him back!” I say.

The Man throws you on the floor, and grabs me by the arms. He forces me back into the cabinet.

“Let me out!” I say.

He doesn’t.

And through the keyhole, I watch him drink from you as if he owns you.

Now, I’m sure.

I’m going to die in here. Unloved. Alone.

*

You have to understand.

Normally, I wouldn’t try to kill another person, but I don’t think this thing counts as one.

I’m almost positive.

So I say, “Have you heard the one about the decapitated mouse and the talking intestines?”

The Man shakes his head.

So I tell him the only joke I know, but the Man doesn’t seem to appreciate Death Cat humor, because he doesn’t even smirk once.

I sigh.

Then I notice the notches on the cabinet wall.

“It’s my birthday,” I say.

“So?” the Man says.

“I want to hold Sal.”

And my muscles ache with hope and the power of my birthday wish.

Finally, the Man says, “It’s my birthday too. Therefore, my wish cancels out your wish. You get nothing.”

I want to cry, but my mason jar can’t hold any more tears.

So I watch in silence as the man pours hot water into you.

Then, after all my years of waiting for you, you scream.

And I want so much to hold you in my arms.

“It hurts!” you say.

And I know what it’s like to burn, because a strange fire always flares up in my face whenever I think about what happened to my parents.

“Help me!” you say. “Help me!”

I realize now that you’re more than my friend.

And of course I want to save you, but I don’t want to face the Man outside. I recognize him now. I recognize myself in him. And if I leave this cabinet, I’ll probably end up becoming him.

I’m better off locked up. If I ignore your pleas and my heart long enough, all my suppressed emotions will transform me. And become me. And in this state, I’ll never feel anything ever again.

I imagine myself as a monster, and part of me wants to embrace a life without fear.

But I love you enough to love myself.

So I kick open the door. Easily.

And I say, “Pour out the water.”

“Never,” the Man says.

“I’ll fight you if I have to.”

“You don’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t?”

“You’re a Child. I’m a Man.”

I feel the urge to close myself off again, so I face my cabinet. But instead of climbing inside, I reach for a container of piss and shit.

Then I change my mind.

So I throw my jar of suffering at the Man’s face.

And he bleeds and shrinks and cries my tears.

And maybe he feels happy for me, because he smiles too, even when Holly pounces from the shadows and rips him apart.

And in the Man’s place comes the Man With a Cup for a Son.

So I dump out the hot water, and fill you with love.

Just Another Vampire Story

When She Found Out

Steven had hoped for a fight the day Helena found out.

He imagined the episode quite often. She would toss his clothes out the window, like in all the movies. And he would say something like, “Please! Let’s talk about this like adults!” At some point in the heat of it all she would smack him in the face with a memento of their lives together. Say, a framed photograph or one of those frowning porcelain clowns he’d always bought her for her birthday.

He’d touch his face and feel the liquid come forth. Yes, some blood would be nice. The crimson streams running down his nose and trickling along the crevice of his lips. So that he could just barely taste it.

But Steven had no such luck.

Helena simply met him at the door and whispered in a drawn out breath, “You cheated on me.” She locked herself in the bathroom. And wouldn’t come out. And wouldn’t speak. And Steven scrubbed the kitchen floor because he didn’t know how to clean away the darkness he’d shoved into Helena’s heart.

When She Rocked

Steven wasn’t sure, but he suspected that Helena had slept in the bathtub all night. When he saw her the next morning, she walked with the stiffness of a door. A closed, knob-less door Steven could no longer open.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t eat the food he offered. Steven spoke but he doubted she heard a word.

All she did was rock. Back and forth on their bed, spawning little squeaks that kept the time. She stared through him, through the walls, to a place where Steven couldn’t touch her.

God, what had he done? Why? It was the only thing she’d ever really asked of him. He knew she had been victimized her whole life. Parents, friends, boyfriends, strangers. There was a bull’s-eye etched somewhere into her skin. Or maybe it was her eyes.

He couldn’t comprehend why he’d sacrificed so much for a few measly hours of pleasure with Mary the Secretary.

The only explanation he could muster was that he’d been drawn to her. By some force out of his control.

When She Spoke

“Do you hear it, Steven?”

Steven almost burst into tears at the sound of her voice. He fell to his knees before her and said, “The TV’s on in the other room. I’ll turn it off if it’s bothering you.”

“No. Not that. Not that.”

“What is it then?”

“The drums.”

“I don’t—”

“Thousands of them, beating all at once. Bum…bum…bum…” She rocked with the rhythm of her voice.

“The only beating I hear is from my own heart.” Maybe too soap opera, but he was getting desperate. “Please talk to me. Do you hate me now? Do you want me to leave? Give me something.”

“Do whatever you want, Steven.”

“What I want is to help you feel better.”

“I’m fine. The drums are enough.”

This was getting him nowhere. And it hurt too much. He stood and headed for the door.

“Steven.”

He spun. “Yeah?”

“They’re getting louder.”

When She Left

She crept out from their bedroom in the middle of the night. As she passed the couch in the living room, Steven pretended to be fast asleep. He even snored a little. It took a lot of willpower to keep himself from grinning.

Yes, maybe she had finally come to her senses. She was going out to cheat on him. Of course she was. He had to follow. The pain of watching her with another man would surely drain away some of the guilt pounding through his veins.

She took her truck. He, his.

Thirty minutes later, Steven found himself trekking through the forest, swerving feverishly to avoid the trees.

Perhaps she knew he was following. Perhaps not. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

When She Changed

He followed her into the cave. A potent musk stung at his nostrils, and it only got worse the farther they went. It smelled like a marriage between dead skunk and wet dog.

Steven’s body collapsed to cold ground when his eyes spotted them. But as quickly as he fell, he brought himself back up. He had to.

They numbered a hundred or so, bunched together, interspersed at equal distances. Nude, muscular—not like bodybuilders, more like…gorillas—wide-eyed, like Japanese cartoon characters…human.

They swayed constantly, without any perceivable purpose. And yet, there was a synchronism to their movements. As if invisible strings pinned to their arms and legs, linked one to the next, spawning an intricate web of harmonic motion.

Helena approached them. As soon as she was in reach, they ripped off her clothes and tossed each article behind them, far into the darkness. He could only see the back of her now.

One of the creatures, the cantor, the one the others seemed to swarm around, was the only to clutch a torch. He neared Helena with closed eyes. He smiled at her.

“Helena,” said the cantor melodically. The crowd jerked with every syllable. “I am glad you finally opened your ears to the rhythm. Do you wish to join the choir?”

She nodded. A single, forceful nod that brought Steven to his knees.

Gently, he tilted her head to the side, leaned forward, and dug his teeth into her neck. It only lasted a moment. He released her. She collapsed to the ground.

Steven wanted to run to her. To pull her to safety. But when he saw the smile on her face—that smile he had brought to dusk with his stupidity—he stood motionless.

The cantor helped her up. She stood by him, swaying now, the same as the others.

The grin never left her face. Even as they, one after another, took turns drinking from the river of blood that ran down her pale skin.

When She Was Gone

Steven scrubbed the kitchen floor. Every day. Sometimes more.

Sometimes, he would see Helena in the polished reflection.

She looked up at him from another world. He never lifted his eyes to see if she really was standing beside him. He knew she wasn’t. He also knew she wasn’t angry. The look in her eyes made that perfectly clear.

Those eyes said, “I’m sorry, Steven. I was drawn to them. And there was nothing I could do.”

Ticketyboo

When Flowers Die

There was no trail through the field of flowers, so Jill made her own. Those she trampled on the first day were trampled on every other day until they died. Jill felt bad for the poor little things she sacrificed, but it was the best way.

Jill liked staring at the field at night. Much better than the stars, because the flowers were illuminated with color. Blues and purples and reds. She watched them waltz with the sky and for a few moments she could forget what had brought her here to Ticketyboo.

Jeff tugged on her dress with stubby fingers and shattered her mellow thoughts into coarse shards. “Jill, I wanna pick flowers for Mommy.”

“Mommy…” Jill trembled. She inhaled deeply and allowed the fragrance in the air to tickle her nostrils. This calmed her nerves. “Mommy’s gone.” Blood. Glass. Fire. “You remember what happened…don’t you?”

“No, not that one. New mommy.”

“She’s not our Mommy!” Jill erupted. The entire meadow seemed to dance wildly from the force of her outburst. But it was just the wind, she knew.

Jeff scrunched up his face and when his muscles finally relaxed, tears came forth. They sprinted down his peppermint cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she said and patted him on the head. “Let’s get some flowers for Martha.” They went to work collecting the brightest, most beautiful flowers they could find.

“Jill, why do they scream when we pull them out?” Jeff cringed every time he heard their tiny squeaks.

Jill didn’t. “It only hurts them for a second, then they’re okay. You shouldn’t worry about them.”

Jeff nodded and smiled just a little.

When Flowers Burn

“These are for me?” Martha took the bouquet and pressed it close to her naked chest. The thorns of the roses dug into her flesh, but she didn’t seem to mind. Jill watched the little rivers of blood travel down Martha’s pale skin and fall onto the glass floor. Drip. Drop.

Jill wondered if it had always been like this—glass walls, glass ceiling, glass furniture, glass everything—or if it was a result of Martha’s cleaning habits. Martha spent most of her day polishing, washing. Perhaps she’d washed her clothes into nothingness, polished her home into a colorless mass.

“Now,” said Martha. “Let’s watch them die.” And she used a crystal match to light them on fire. The petals radiated brighter and brighter until they burst, all at once, creating a cloud of teal dust that sparkled in the air.

Jeff clapped his hands with excitement. Jill was a little too old for that kind of response, so she simply smiled.

The stems of the flowers burned next. Little fingers of cerise smoke reached out and shoved themselves up Jill’s nose. She had never smelled burning flowers before. It was nice. Like fresh cherry pie. It almost made her forget she wanted to kill people.