I haven't done any formal editing with this, so it may seem a little rough. That's okay. I want you guys to help me edit this. I'm using it for Cal's contest. (Probably should've rated this R)
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He bolted.
Throwing himself over the bed, rolling onto the floor, Ivan scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the door. The Julia-corpse stared at him motionlessly, her blank milky eyes following him out of the room. Gasps were torn out of his chest by invisible hands as he caught the door jam and turned abruptly into the kitchen, his throat constricting, his breath ragged. He didn't want to look back. He didn't want to stop. This was right out of a nightmare; translated from the deepest darkest corners of some sort of surrealist hell. Ivan sobbed as he ran into a table, knocking it over, tumbling to the floor, his breath punched out of his lungs. The apartment seemed to swirl around him, the furniture twisting into oblique shadows that turned into imitations of her. Groping for him, reaching for him. Scrambling into a corner beside the couch, Ivan put his head between his knees and whispered a moan, his chest shaking
What the hell was happening?
His heart was palpitating in his throat. Rocking back and forth, he counted the beats. One-two, one-two, one-two. Like a tribal tattoo. A bass timpani lodged inside his chest. The sound seemed to pulse inside his ears and clouded his thoughts. She was coming for him! She was going to kill him! Rip, shred, tear. No more Ivan. His rattling breath caught and he threw up on the carpet between his legs. The material around his groin was dark, spreading up his thighs like a damp shadow, but he didn't care. His thoughts were concentrated on his bedroom, next to his bed, freshly excavated from her cherry wood coffin beneath six feet of cold, coarse dirt.
The smell of lavender was overpowering the room, seeping in from every direction it seemed – sickly sweet and bitter like strychnine. The smell of her hair. Shaking, gasping, Ivan looked up, his eyes scanning the darkness. Probing. Shadows swirled and shifted in front of him, but Julia was nowhere to be seen. He rubbed his face – clammy with sweat – and pressed his hand to his heart.
One-two, one-two, one, two.
Hallucination?
“Ivan,” Julia whispered behind him. Whipping around, spilling over backwards, Ivan screamed kicked and away from Julia's body which was suddenly kneeling behind him, her eyes boring into him. She reached towards him plaintively, hands chalk white against the contrast of the lighting. He yelled again and stumbled to his feet, running, lavender choking his throat and stifling his breath. She followed this time. Floating, her feet nonexistent, replaced by a swirling dark mass that carried her forward like a caliginous flying carpet, reaching for him.
Ivan.
Ivan was back in his room, knocking over his nightstand, jerking open the bathroom door and throwing himself inside. His fingers fumbled and slipped as he tried to turn the lock, his own name echoing in his head over and over.
That's where you'll find me.
Something heavy collided with the door and he heard a splintering cracking sound as the wood bulged inward slightly. Ivan retreated slowly, staring at the door, praying to God, let it hold! He backed against the tile wall and slid down. Another splintering crash. Ivan shuddered. He felt like crying. Like a frightened kid after a nightmare. During a nightmare. Julia was Frankenstein's monster; a half-rotten corpse, an animated, functioning lusus naturae. Traits that ended at the gravestone. Characteristics that were exclusively reserved to those with heartbeats and brain stimuli and a house and a job. What the hell was she doing in his apartment?
Why was she after him?
Another crash.
He groaned softly, pressing his cheek against the cold wall. Let it pass, let it pass! Go away! This wasn't happening. He was dreaming. Within minutes he would wake up, cocaine granules crusted around his nostrils, entwined with his bedsheets, and searing hot sunshine filtering through the veranda window. Julia would be dead again. The apartment would be in order. The bathroom door would be in the same condition it was in an hour ago. Ivan bit his lip and shut his eyes tightly.
But she was going to kill him! Slash 'em up, chop 'em up. Straight out of a B rated horror film. And he was trapped in a bathroom, for God's sake! They always died in bathrooms.
A bone-splintering crack. Julia's fist punched through the two solid inches of wood, shards and fragments consuming her hand partially; jagged teeth. The fist withdrew. Another crash. Her whole arm appeared through the door, pale white and bony. Her fingers, joints popping like sputtering oil, opened and closed. Searching. Searching for him. The smell of lavender drove Ivan further against the bathroom wall. Pinning him there. His mouth suddenly dropped open, eyes riveted to the hand as it groped the side of the wall for the doornob. His heart seized and his mind stalled as her bloody, skin-graft fingers found the nob and caressed the lock. They began to turn it.
Ivan choked.
Somebody help me! Godssakes, somebody do something!
He was crying. A torrent of streaming tears wrenched themselves from his eyes as he screamed and sobbed, urinating himself again. Hyperventilating, head spinning, eyes rolled up into the back of his head – an animal now more than anything – Ivan curled up into a fetal position on the ground and crossed his arms in front of his face.
Ivan.
She's dead, she's dead, she's dead!
“Help!” he shrieked as the door swung open, banging against the counter.
“Ivan. I can help you,” Julia hissed.
From his bedroom door, Ivan heard a shotgun discharge. Julia grunted and whipped around as the buckshot hit her full in the back, slamming against the sink. Wheezing, Ivan saw her plant her spindly hands on the lip of the sink ad push up, turning back towards the sound's origination. Another shot. Roaring, bawling; canon fire. The corpse gasped softly – in a voice too much like Julia's – and was knocked back over Ivan, splinters of bone and droplets of blood painting the wall like carnal graffiti. Half-grunting, half-sobbing, Ivan scrambled away from the body, it's head an indiscernible pulpy mass, and stumbled into his bedroom. Chest throbbing, he grasped his bedposts and retched again into his sheets. And again. He groaned and rested his head on the wall.
What was happening? What in God's name was happening to him?
Someone moved in the shadows of the doorway and Ivan closed his eyes tightly. Whoever it was had a shotgun. Pump action, plastic magazine, and a firm solid kick-back. They had fired at Julia, they would fire at him.
Just take the snow and get out, will you?
He didn't care what they wanted. He didn't care that they were in his an apartment. He didn't care that they had a shotgun. And in the middle New York City, for God's sake. At least Julia was dead. Again. A shotgun as the weapon of execution this time instead of a windshield.
Like a guillotine.
“Hell, Ivy. You okay?”
Ivan looked up – still shaking – and stared into the darkness. He recognized Todd's voice immediately. What was he doing here, in his apartment?
First Julia, now a crack dealer.
“What was that?”
Ivan watched as Todd's shadowy figure moved across the room towards Julia's corpse. He crouched down and prodded her legs with the butt of his gun. “Jeez, this thing smells. What the hell was it doing in your apartment? You some sort of necrophiliac?”
“Todd?”
Todd stood up and flipped the light switch by the bathroom door. Fluorescent light, harsh and corsucating, burned through his bedroom. Todd - big, muscular, with biceps that bulged at the sleeves of his shirt and dark, deeply inset eyes lined with shadows – glanced around the room. He wore a strange expression as he shook his head and shoved the butt of the gun into Julia's back again. A feral expression. Lustful. Like some sort of human butcher.
Ivan shuddered and stood slowly, shoving the thought from his mind.
Not tonight.
“How did you get in here? The door's locked.”
Still shaking his head, Todd moved over to the overturned nightstand and picked up the bag of cocaine. He weighed it in his hand with a smile. Hard and tight and awkward on his face. “Have you tried it yet? Grade A, I tell you. Straight from the coca plant. You don't get much better than this.”
“Todd?”
He looked up, tossing the bag onto Ivan's bed. “What?”
“How did you get in?”
Todd gave him a funny look and lifted the shotgun into his hands – hostile and menacing. “The door was unlocked. Jeez, Ivy, should keep that thing deadbolted in a neighborhood like this.”
“I do.”
Todd shrugged and wandered into the bathroom to survey the door. Ivan frowned and rubbed his temples. The whole situation was bizarre and out of place. First Julia and then this. Ivan glanced at the corpses feet, bony and white. He shivered and bit his lip.
It was over. Over, over, over!
He closed his eyes and sagged against the bed. Images of Julia – with her wide staring eyes and raw, bleeding body – swarmed through his mind. Chasing him through the kitchen again, through the living room, into the bedroom. Images of Julia's hand punching through the door like it was toilet paper, her body jerking back as Todd's buckshot tore into her chest. Ivan shook his head and tried to think about other things. He suddenly wanted answers. Everything he had seen and heard defied every law and fundamental ground rule of life. Bodies weren't reanimated. The transformation from soft, living flesh to coarse and decaying skin didn't happen within a matter of seconds. People couldn't punch through doors and levitate and appear out of nowhere either.
And what the hell was Todd doing there? Armed with a shotgun and prodding Julia's corpse like a half-interested biologist. Or a hunter who had just killed game that almost didn't seem quite worth the effort.
I wasted two perfectly good shells on this thing?
And his eyes. Burning with an intense savage bloodlust that Ivan didn't recognize. He had a shotgun, for God's sake! He had just broken into a locked apartment and gunned down a humanoid something standing in a bathroom doorway. One shot was an accident. Two shots was murder.
Ivan felt uncomfortable. He hardly knew Todd. He knew him because he had knocked over a convenience store for him and bought crack from him and got stoned with him once in a while. The guy could have been a serial killer for all he knew. What if he had chosen Ivan's apartment as proving ground? Walk in, kill a druggie, gauge how much he like liked it, and move on down the hall. Ivan opened his eyes and stared into the bathroom where Todd had opened his medicine cabinet and was rummaging through prescription pills and cough medicine. Several orange pill canisters fell to the ground, clattered like spent shotgun shells and rolled around Julia's head. Todd's gun was propped against the sink.
Slowly, Ivan got up. He would get out. Get out, find a bar, and get smashed. Forget this whole thing. He'd come back in the morning maybe, when Todd would be gone. He didn't want to be with Todd or Julia anymore. Todd the serial killer and Julia the resurrected.
He moved through his bedroom door and into the living room. Chairs and tables and the sofa had been overturned and thrown around the room, giving it the appearance of some sort of suburban war zone. Glancing over his shoulder, Ivan grabbed his jacket from off of the floor and drew the deadbolt. Silently, quietly, he grasped the doornob and began turning it.
“Where are you going, Ivy?”
Ivan whipped around to see Todd two feet away, frowning, his shotgun barrel pointed at Ivan's stomach. His eyes glittered like obsidian. Ivan glanced down at the gun. “Point that somewhere else, will you?”
Todd didn't move. “Where are you going?”
“What, are you going to kill me? Point that somewhere else. It's making me nervous, Todd.”
“You weren't going to leave me, were you?”
Ivan tried to hide his shaking hands by folding them across his chest, where his heart was beating furiously. One-two, one-two. “I just needed a drink.”
Shrugging, Todd began turning away. “In that case – ”
He stopped, staring at the ground. Then he looked up at Ivan, spun the barrel around in a smooth controlled motion, aimed the gun at Ivan's gut, and pulled the trigger.
“Ivan,” he hissed.
***
Paul burst through his door and into the hallway, smoothing his hair down hurriedly and swearing under his breath. He was going to kill the bastard. He was firing a shotgun, for God's sake! In his rented apartment. At two o'clock in the morning. He had always had his suspicions about the kid in 27A. Padding through the halls during the dark hours of the morning, walking in late at night with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose, throwing glances over his shoulder like hand grenades. He was a drug addict, Paul was sure of it; there were plenty of them wandering around Queens, after all. He was probably an crack druggie with a substantial criminal record under his belt and friends with even bigger ones. He had had his suspicions and he he trusted his intuition. But Paul didn't ask questions. As long as the kid paid his rent on time, his mouth was locked.
And throw away the key.
But tonight the bastard had crossed the line. Three shots within a five minute time frame. Eviction was assured. Paul wasn't even going to hear the kid's story. He would knock on his door – force it open if he had to – push the kid around verbally a little and tell him to get the hell out of his building. Paul liked to think he ran a halfway decent establishment. And you didn't shoot clay pigeons in halfway decent establishments.
Paul tugged on the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and rounded a corner. Yellowed wallpaper was peeling from the corners and edges like burnt skin and the hallway lights were dim and flickered at times. He walked quickly, limping with his left leg, and swearing each time it touched the ground. Smoke curled from his mouth and into the air like hot steam.
Stupid kid.
Reaching 27A, Paul began banging on the door with his fist. “What the hell is going on in there? Answer me, kid!” He slammed his fist against the door and kicked it with his foot. “Answer the door!”
Someone screamed on the other side and he heard something heavy collide with the far wall. Paul paused, frowning. Maybe the kid was in trouble. A robbery, a murder, assault.
The cops. Call the cops.
Paul slowly backed away from the door, fished in his pocket for his cell phone, and flipped it open.
***
Ivan gasped as he was thrown against the door by the force of the shot.
The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was dull and throbbing, like a bruise, but cold and constricting at the same time. It was as if ice was spreading from his stomach to his chest and groin, cementing what it touched. His hands immediately shot for his stomach, gripping it tightly. Blood pushed through his fingers as if he was squeezing a sponge. He groaned and swore, sliding slowly down the door. In front of him, Todd was blurry and undefined.
Ivan felt himself jerked up and thrown towards his bedroom. He stumbled and fell, gritting his teeth and rolling from side to side in shock and pain. Todd snarled and kicked him in the back. Once, twice. Ivan barely felt the blows. Ice was slowly spreading up his neck and through his jaw.
“Stand up.”
Ivan moaned and gasped as Todd brought the butt of the gun hard against his chest. “Get up, I said!”
Coughing, blood dribbling down his chin, Ivan placed his hands on the ground and moved into a crawling position. Todd propelled him roughly into his bedroom and shoved him at the glass veranda door. Ivan grunted, crashed through the glass - which shattered and splintered around him - and fell to the concrete veranda. Cold, fluid night air rushed around him, cooling his face. The ice seemed to travel even faster through his arms and legs because of it. Like freezing pipes.
Todd grasped Ivan's shirt collar and pulled him up, propping him against the veranda railing, staring at him with a smile. He leaned forward and whispered into Ivan's ear, “I'll leave you, I swear I will.”
Ivan choked and stared at Todd's face, glistening with sweat. The man seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Grinning, his eyes glittering.
Julia.
Someone was knocking on the door. Banging on it in quick repetitive bursts. Ivan stared in it's direction weakly and blinked as a gust of wind feathered his hair. Car horns honked below and a police siren blasted in the distance.
Julia.
“Ivan, I said I could help you.” Todd murmured as he stepped back and aimed the shotgun at Ivan's head. He wasn't smiling anymore. His expression was cruel and and his face was white, thinner than ever. Ivan didn't move – couldn't move – as Todd leaned into his sight and rested his finger on the trigger guard. Ivan drew a rattling breath, his mind blank and confused. How could this be happening? What was going on?
He heard the front door slam open and footsteps running towards the veranda. The apartment building landlord appeared in his bedroom, shouting at him, yelling something. But Ivan couldn't hear him. The wind in his ears was too loud. The ice was too cold.
All he could hear was Todd softly humming Julia's song.
He was dreaming. That was the only answer. This was all a dream. And he would wake up soon with everything in it's normal place, a little shaken, but unharmed.
Just a dream.
Todd pulled the trigger.
Ivan felt his body jerk over the railing and begin falling through space, his limbs twisting around him like a marionette's. The wind was biting, harsh; almost like a thousand razor blades cutting into his skin. And it smelled like lavender. All the way down the wind smelled like Julia's hair and sounded like Julia's song. Whistling in his ears.
As he hit the ground, he even imagined he saw Julia lying beside him. But he knew it couldn't be her.
Julia was dead.
***
Paul saw the kid go over the rails. His eyes frightened, his shoulders trembling, groin wet, the kid stared forward and tipped over. Just like that. He didn't even scream as he fell. Paul rushed to the veranda railing and leaned over partially. The kid was lying on the sidewalk, legs and arms twisted out of proportion, staring heavenwards.
Into thy hands I commend this soul...
Paul turned around, shaking his head and holding his stomach. Suicide was a nasty business. Throwing life away like a piece of crumpled trash was serious, deadly, sickening. Even when there was no hope left. Hope was a relative thing, after all. It fluctuated. It flowed. There were droughts and floods.
Obviously, the kid had hit rock bottom.
The apartment was empty. No one in sight. Paul noticed a shotgun lying on the bed next to an empty bag. He walked over to it, picked the gun up, and fingered the barrel. It was still warm. He glanced up at the opposite wall and saw three distinct clusters of buckshot holes. Lined up like little maids in a row. Grinning at him. Three shots, three holes.
Carefully, he set the gun down and glanced at the empty plastic bag. Tiny white granules were stuck the the interior. A mirror laid beside it.
So the poor bastard was an addict. Crush it, line it, snort it. Paul shook his head, leaned against the wall, and waited for the police to come.
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For some reason, I don't like this ending. It feels rushed. I wanted to emphasize that what had happened to Ivan was just his imagination by introducing Paul into the story. Do you think Paul is a valuable addition to the story? Is the ending okay? Also, could you guys point out any impressions of color you get from this piece as a whole? At the moment, the colors I feel are black and white, with a little red...
