Sixteen Small Deaths (11 page)

You’re late, he says. I want this thing out of my fucking apartment, Chloe.

Chloe pushes her way in and I follow behind. Hank frowns when I walk past him, seemingly not expecting my presence in Chloe’s work tonight. He smells like a casino and the rest of his apartment has the décor of a middle-aged bachelor, vomit-colored carpet and a single recliner in the living room. The
television is small, its antennas rusted. The kitchen is bright and the ceiling fan spins with delight.

Hank points to the refrigerator and makes a drinking motion with his hands. Beer, anyone, he says.

Both Chloe and I shake our heads and she takes a seat at the pine kitchen table. She points to the blue duffel bag and I set it on the table, a quick clanking of metal when it rests. Hank puts his hands on his hips and leans against the wall, looking Chloe up and down, staring at her crossed legs. I feel a quick urge to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze but I resist.

Chloe fidgets in her chair, feet tapping the yellow linoleum floor. How long has it been here, she says. It’s important to know.

Hank coughs and spits something into the sink amidst a mess of dirty dishes and a single silver pot. It got here this morning, he says. Your friend from Venezuela knocked at my fucking door at four in the morning and left it here.

Chloe lets out a small giggle and winks at me, the plush residue of affection dripping from my heart. Her shoulder blades have more definition when she laughs and I picture myself on top of her, rosy red cheeks bursting with a mix of sexual prowess and unfiltered passion. The vision fades when Hank’s voice fills the room, a deep growl that I’m sure is a lot tougher than his bite.

Please, let’s get to work, Chloe, he says.

Chloe nods and she gets out of her chair in slow motion, a stellar green trail of haze behind her. My eyes blink three times and I know that four nights without sleep has taken a toll on my body. I shove my hands in my pocket and rattle the change, hoping to wake myself with the slight ringing of metal coins. Hank snaps his fingers and points in my direction. He walks over and places a hand on my shoulder, pinches the jacket and tilts his head.

You look like a tired surfer, he says. Maybe you should take a nap or something.

I push his hand away and follow Chloe, who’s already in the
spare bedroom. The door is masked in various bumper stickers and rock-band logos. She turns the doorknob and a mass of insipid light surrounds her, illuminating her body in a peculiar glow. She stands silent for a moment then walks into the room. Hank steps in front of me and heads into the room behind Chloe and slams the door. I can hear Chloe shouting at him and telling him that she won’t take out the package unless I’m in the room with her. Hank swears and opens the door.

Alright cowboy, you can come in, he says.

Chloe kneels next to a naked man on the floor, coil springs of the mattress protruding from the spots that his body isn’t covering. He’s skinny and looks like an anorexic version of a washed up Mexican heroin addict, olive skin and jet black hair. Chloe reaches into the duffel bag and pulls out a pair of latex gloves. She traces a finger around his nipples and down to the center of his abdomen, pausing for a moment to look up at me. Our eyes dance for a few seconds and I have to look away. She pokes the man’s sides twice before rubbing the area above his left kidney.

This is it, she says.

Hank takes a deep breath. Finally, he says.

Chloe taps the carpet next to her and I sit down. She leans over and whispers into my ear, cold traces of the world we share. She points to the duffel bag and I know exactly what she needs. I reach in and find the slender, black velvet box and a pair of metal prongs. She gives me a light kiss on the cheek when I hand them to her.

Hank reaches over to the bookshelf against the wall and grabs the rubbing alcohol. He hands it to Chloe, who opens it and pours a small amount on the naked man’s skin. A tiny trail of the clear liquid slithers down his side and onto the mattress, falling into a crevasse between pieces of the dirty white fabric. Chloe removes the scalpel from the black box and cuts into him, slowly at first. A woman with a sharp object is the most beautiful sight
that has ever graced my eyes.

Blood trickles from the wound and Chloe continues to work, crimson smears on her latex gloves. She slides her hand into the naked man and taps my arm with the other. There’s one more set of gloves in the bag for me and it’s my turn to reach into the blood. I place the metal prongs into the wound and spread apart the skin, flesh curling upwards like rotten linoleum.

Hank turns away and rests his face against the wall. I can’t watch, he says.

Chloe smiles and blows me a kiss. Her hand disappears further into the naked man and her face turns red with frustration. Her eyes widen and she pulls out a small plastic bag, a cocoon of dark matter wrapped tightly within. She places it on the body’s chest and looks at Hank.

There it is, she says. Nearly thirteen or fourteen ounces of heroin, I think.

She hands me the scalpel but I fumble it and it pierces the tip of my thumb. I bring it to my chest and blood oozes onto my shirt. The pain is constant and sharp, a blanket of black lightning throughout my bones. Chloe stands up and I wave my hand. I’ll be fine, I say.

Chloe removes her gloves and throws them on the floor. She leans down and rubs the bottom of my ear and her touch removes the sharp tinges of pain for only a moment. Hank snatches the package from the naked man’s chest and points in the direction of the doorway. You can wash up in the bathroom, he says.

The prongs are still in the body’s wound and I pry them out of the opening, wrapping them in a small brown towel that was next to the mattress. Chloe and I leave the room and before we get to the bathroom, she mouths three words that I haven’t heard since she’s been back in town.

The bathroom is unusually large for the size of Hank’s apartment. A stack of yellow towels adorn a small cabinet next to the shower. Chloe turns on the water and a steady stream washes
her hands. I clean the prongs and hand them to Chloe, who leaves the bathroom. It’s usually at these moments that she’ll ask for the money and I always feel uncomfortable listening to the exchange. A splash of water on my face feels like heaven.

I walk into the tail end of Chloe and Hank’s conversation. His last name was Viscomy, he says to her. He hands her a small black trash bag and I can see that she’s forcing a smile. This must be the way that a strict business mind works. Chloe takes my hand and we leave without saying goodbye to Hank. The hallway smells different than before, more like a morgue than a mix of culture.

Chloe speaks first when we leave the building and reach her car. This next part is always the hardest, she says. I’m sorry.

I remain silent and lean into what’s left of her sweetness, place a single kiss on her forehead. Don’t worry, I say.

She removes the briefcase from the trunk and dumps the contents of the trash bag. I won’t ask her the amount but I can tell that there’s probably at least ten thousand dollars there. The dirty orange glow from the moon above, we stare at each other for a few seconds before Chloe starts the engine.

#

It only takes twenty minutes to get to the airport. Even at this time of night, the rumble of taxis and shuttle buses are prevalent at each terminal, the mechanical noise of beeping horns a near symphony in my tired mind. Chloe pulls the car into the short-term parking garage and sighs.

She holds my hand and rubs a finger against the wound. A few days and that’ll heal up, she says.

I nod and pull my hand away. She sighs again and opens the door. The parking garage air is heavy and my lungs feel like balloons filled with motor oil. We walk to Terminal C without saying a word to each other. Chloe keeps her messenger bag tight
against her chest while I hold the steel briefcase.

The bright lights burn my eyes for a few seconds then quickly adjust. Eager people watch the vast array of television screens next to the opening gate, all waiting for that special person to land. All gazing at flight numbers and letters like light to the flies.

You never pick me up at the airport, Chloe says. I always have to get a taxi and come to you. That should change the next time I’m here.

My blood eases into veins and arteries and I smile. I promise the next time you’re here, I’ll pick you up, I say.

She rests her head against my chest and I can feel the memories seeping into her brain, every night that ended with the two of us in the middle of the airport, every night that she would tell me that crying wasn’t necessary because she knew that she’d eventually see me again. The sound of people rushing to their gate as they pass by, I push Chloe away and take her hand in mine.

She opens her messenger bag and folds the ticket in half. My flight leaves in less than an hour, she says. Maybe I should start to pass through security now.

A deep breath stuck in my throat, I let it out and walk to the end of the security line. An elderly couple in bright clothing lift their bags onto the conveyor belt while a twenty something security agent asks them both to remove their shoes.

Chloe looks up at me, eyes that might burst with water at any moment. I’m sorry it has to be this way, she says. I’m sorry that we keep doing this to each other.

Hair stands on edge and I can’t say anything to her, can’t find the words that could define the depths of my heart. All I can do is wrap my arms around her, smell the tinges of lilac and cinnamon in her hair.

Soon, I say. And I let her go, refusing to look back. I’ve never once looked back at this point. I usually keep walking until I’m back in her car, the urge to unleash an apocalyptic scream fading
with each step.

I pass by the men’s restroom and figure that I should stop in before beginning my ride home. My reflection in the bathroom mirror reminds me that there’s blood on my t-shirt. I unzip in front of the urinal and stare ahead. The man standing next to me peers over with a casual gape, eyes pinpointed at the various stains on my shirt. He has the look of someone who wishes the world would end.

Is that your blood, he asks.

Her gumdrop eyes glisten in the rogue moonlight beyond our bedroom window. My mouth reaches hers and in a matter of seconds her switchblade tongue caresses mine. She pulls back, finds my hands and pushes them around her waist. Another kiss, another minute where the world stops spinning. Dark sky bursts into a haven of pink and green, the illusionary deception of too many milligrams floating through tired veins.

She opens her mouth and words flutter from her teeth like butterflies caught in the grasp of a hurricane. My vision caves into an avalanche of quick blurs and voices. She floats away from me, past the ample purple clouds in the distance and into the twin suns dancing beyond the horizon.

I close my eyes, watch her tiny frame dissipate into a pale convergence of ice and snow. It’s only when I wake that I remember she’s gone.

It’s only when I open my eyes that I realize that she was taken away from me.

#

I sift through the little plastic baggies adorning the corner of the coffee table. I find the one I need, take a quick breath of apartment air, and lay back into the comfort of the couch. A cigarette burns into forgotten smoke somewhere in the kitchen. I stare at Evie’s picture, finger the edge of the photo that’s frayed and yellowed. Her eyes look up at me as if they’re real, as if she’s living and breathing in another world beyond the physical. If I stare into the black sky outside, past the broken stars and bloody moon, it’s almost as if I can hear her sullen voice between the absence of wind and sound.

I dump the contents of the baggie into a small metal plate in
the middle of the coffee table. The mixture’s powdery aroma eases the jangles in my muscles. Tip strike of a match and it cooks while I contemplate my life and everything that went wrong. I fill a needle with the white liquid and raise it to the air, feel my pupils widen as I let a miniscule amount drip from the edge.

I blow a kiss to Evie’s picture, visualize her plump red lips doing the same, and say three words before plugging the needle into a healthy vein between my bicep and forearm. The first of a dozen imaginary fireflies lands on the coffee table and for a moment I am everything and nothing all at once.

#

Evie’s blonde hair ravages the supple wind gracing the soft tips of our noses. Her eyes and mine are connected, hers as green as fresh holly. She leans in for a quick kiss and this elates me, makes me forget about the poison running through my body nearly 20,000 feet below. We’re on a shiny black surface, reflections of our bodies spinning and stretched below our feet. Evie’s wearing a tight black skirt and a white baby-doll v-neck t-shirt, hint of freckled cleavage peeking from rosy lace. She shakes her head when I reach for her hand.

“No,” she says, then smiles.

Fingers brush the wheeling dust of ash and smoke colluding from behind her. The black surface is slippery and although my body, bones and muscles are at ease, I’m afraid I’ll fall back to earth. I mouth “Why?” and only hear the tone in my own head before a thunderclap of static pops somewhere in my chest.

“Not yet,” Evie says, blonde-and-black locks nearly frozen in mid-air like tentacles.

A jolt of dark light pierces the black surface below and in moments all I can hear are the disparate voices of violent angels.

#

Numbers. I can hear numbers.
Three, four.

“Again.” A single word radiating from all sides of my mind.

Three, four.

Fade to white. Shapes that resemble faces above me, a constant string of electricity burning throughout my skin as if my bones were made of wire and aluminum. A spinning slosh of red and blue lights easing from the corners of my eyes and I hear the voices of two men. My body is as light as a summer morning and the shapes carry me from comforting warmth into a rash breeze of chilly air. My tongue is dry and when I let it free of my mouth I’m greeted with a dollop of snow. It tastes like the city, cold and distant.