HOT BLOODED

L.B. Goddard

     I woke up with blood beneath my fingernails. I hate that feeling. Thick, suede drapes shrouded the room against sunlight. One sliver of light broke into the room where wall and curtain failed to meet. I couldn’t see the blood, but I knew it was there. It was dried blood, almost painfully thick and hard.

     Fuck me. I forgot to wash up again. Being a lackey for murder takes a lot out of a person. The last victim took every ounce of energy. Apparently, cleaning up was not an option.

     I didn’t want to leave the fuzzy softness of bed. The heater kicked on, a soft whir that pulled me back toward sleep. I rolled over to face the clock. 2:49. Hell, I needed to clean up. There was something stiff in the hair that fell over my neck. I had a pretty good idea what it was. A long, hot shower. That’s what I needed.

     My bathroom seemed a cruel distance from bed. I could have slept another two or three hours. He was so hungry lately. It made me nervous. I preferred to keep Him happy and fed.

     I avoided the mirror. Sometimes it’s better not to look. A monstrous little girl is all I’ll see. I’m straight as an arrow. Hips? What are those? But there’s something in my face that is old… and still aging.

     Frown lines mar my lips. Dark circles make my eyes seem ancient. My aging soul peers out from behind a thirteen-year-old face. It does damage to a woman’s mind, looking like a child.

     I turned the shower knob until it couldn’t go any further. Steam swirled around my face. I breathed it in, thick and dewy. I kicked the slippers into the corner. Shirt and panties on the floor. I stepped inside and let the water hit my face. It wasn’t hot enough. Never is. I bowed my head and let the water pour down my scalp and neck.

     Yellow sheets on a twin bed. “I Love Lucy” on the TV set. My cheeks are wet. Tears. Mom is out with her friends. I want her to come home.

     He yanks the sheets away. Talks to me in a friendly voice while touching me all over my breasts. How can he do this while I’m crying?

     I jumped. Steam swirled around me. Water pelted against my head. It turned my hair into a veil that streamed over my eyes. Just memories. He can’t hurt me anymore.

     It was 4:58. I wore a pair of press-on nails—silver with red hearts. My make-up was already done. I look silly in too much makeup. Like a beauty pageant child. So I try to keep it minimal.

     I picked an outfit. It didn’t take much thought. Most of my clothes are black vinyl. Trust me; it’s not a fashion statement. Black vinyl is easy to clean, end of story. I chose a particularly trashy number-- spaghetti strap top, high-cut at the midriff, and a zippered mini skirt.

     I threw the outfit on the bed. There was time to relax, but only a little. Winter nights were long and started early. It gave me more time to hunt, but oh… how I loathe the cold.

     I opened the nightstand drawer. I caressed the smooth, white skull of my first victim. It is sanded smooth on the shattered side. Its surface has been washed and scrubbed. There’s no expression left in his cold eyes. No eyes at all. Just meaningless, empty holes, forever staring. I trailed the soft flesh of my hand down the hard cheek. Hot flesh on cold porcelain.

     Beside the skull, I found my hand-carved wooden box. It’s not much larger than my hand with outstretched fingers, but angels cover the entire surface, touching at every corner. I like angels. They’re sweet.

     The lid was attached at the back by one brass hinge. I flipped it open, found my cigarettes and lighter. Yeah, I could relax until dusk. I leaned back against my headboard, took a drag.

     “I’ll do anything to live. Don’t let me die.”

     My throat was leaking onto the floor, torrents of blood draining out between my fingers. The cut was deep. It started behind my ear, sliced down to the center of my neck. I bent my neck all the way to the right, head and shoulder nearly touching. If I didn’t, the wound would be gaping. In my palm I could feel the steady rush of blood. Warm, constant. My hand couldn’t stop the bleeding.

     Across the room, a hairy man was oozing brain matter from a large opening in his skull. He’d cut me. He’d cut me for fighting back.

     “I can help you.” A voice flowed through the air. The power in that voice seemed to fill the entire room. I was suddenly very hot, and sweating. “I can help you.” The words seemed to float on that liquid voice, suspended. I wanted to answer, ‘Please help me, please!” I didn’t have the strength.

     “You are scared and you wish to live. That man over there deserved to die. But you…  you deserve life. We’ll make them pay. All of them. If you come with me.”

     A tear hit the ashtray, and sizzled against the plastic. I snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray, killing every last ember. Bad memories are a part of my daily routine, but there wasn’t time to reminisce. He’d be hungry soon. I needed to get dressed.

     There was slush around the sewer lids and in the cracks of the sidewalk—old snow that refused to die. I kicked at a pile, little grey clumps hitting my leg. The grass hadn’t managed to spring back to life, but weeds danced in the brutal wind.

     I sighed. I hate the first few minutes of walking the street, like a burden that won’t go away. Hooking isn’t for everyone. In my case, please, consider it an obligation. I put both hands to my back and leaned against the streetlight.

     A car pulled up. Late 80’s Honda with fist-sized patches of rust. Yippee. He rolled down the window. Not a looker at all, but beggars can’t be choosers. He gets angry when dinner is late.

     “Hey baby, wanna date?”

     “How old are you?”

     “Thirteen.”

     “How much?”

     “40 bucks.”

     “Get in.”

     He was in his early thirties, no suit and tie. Small white splashes stained his pants and shirt. Maybe he painted houses. I wouldn’t bother to ask. I got in.

     The interior was clean, no dust build-up or stray soda cans. Most guys are messy. Maybe this one was special. Nah. They’re always the same. I mean, you don’t pay for the services of a thirteen-year-old hooker unless you’ve got mental issues.

     “Go straight for two blocks, and pull off in the alley.” He did as he was told. Good for him.

     He was tight-lipped and sweating. Maybe he had a conscience after all. Something told me that he did. The pale blue of his eyes, the nervous glances he kept passing my way. It was like the nerd with the prom queen, all thought and no speech. Aw, gee . . . how sweet.

     In the cupholder I spied a pack of cigarettes. I thought I might have a little fun, to see if I could get a rise out of him, aside from the one in his pants. “Can I bum one of your smokes?”

     He glanced over, his hands wrapped tight around the wheel. A crooked half-smile curled over his lips. He thought it was cute. The little girl wants to smoke. I’ve been smoking for decades, but don’t tell.

     He let out an airy chuckle. “Sure.”

     I lit the cigarette, took a drag and let it out slow. I pointed. “Pull off here.”  He did as he was told. Bonus points for him. Ooh-la-la.

     He parked the car, killed the engine, and looked over at me. I smiled. I took a long, slow drag of the cigarette, the ashes growing red from within. I ran the fake nails down my side, middle finger leading the way, trailing the slight curves of my body. I brought the cigarette between my thighs, to the opening of my skirt, smoke curling around the vinyl. I pulled my panties to the side and snuffed the ember.

     The man froze, as if seeing a murder. “I don’t want to hurt you. Why’d you do that?!” he screamed “Listen, I’m not some kind of sadist! I don’t want to—”

     “I’m sorry.” I laid my palm against his chest and felt the rapid beating of his heart. I batted my eyes, pursed my lips. Just a fucked-up little girl, that’s all.

     “A lot of guys are into that. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I was lying, but he couldn’t tell. I had done it for only one reason—I wanted to see the look on his face. Maybe I’d laugh for days. Maybe not.

     “I have a place right here.” I pointed at a red brick building, pieces crumbling away into chunks on the ground.

     “You don’t expect me to go into your . . . home.” His voice softened when he spoke the word “home.” Maybe it evoked a picture of the way things should be—a mommy and a daddy, and no strange horny men. “What is this anyway? A set-up?”

     “If it were a set-up, would I give you this?” I unzipped my purse and found my black revolver, placing it gingerly in his lap. He made no effort to pick it up, just stared at the gun in shock. “It’s loaded, all right. There’s six bullets in that thing.”

     He was genuinely confused, eyebrows closer together than before. I told him the truth.

“I like to do it in my house. I don’t have parents. There’s nothing to worry about.”

     He was collecting his thoughts, eyes fixed on the gun. “Men never want to come with me . . . so I started giving them protection. Shit, I don’t care if someone shoots me.” It was the truth. Once you die, a gun is nothing but a toy. Shoot me. Shoot me, please!

     He picked up the gun and checked it for bullets. Touché, dark stranger, touché.

     He shook his head, but with a smile creeping over his lips. He put his hand to his mouth and laughed. “You’re the strangest girl I’ve ever met.”

     Ain’t seen nothin’ yet, I wanted to say.

     I led the way, stepping over the broken glass. My thick-soled boots would keep it from cutting to the flesh, but pulling a chunk of glass out of your boots is a real pain in the ass.

    “You live here?” The gun was stuffed into the waistband of his pants, untucked shirt nearly hiding it from view. “This looks abandoned to me.”

     I rolled my eyes. “Just wait until you see my apartment. It’s the only one left. I’ll be leaving soon, too.”

     He sort of stationed himself at the foot of the stairs, watched me slip the key into the hole. Did he think the boogeyman was just inside, waiting to explode out the door?

     The second lock gave a click. I pushed the door open wide, leaning my back against the jamb. The man peered inside, from the bottom of the stairs, at my red couch and marble table. He took a deep breath. Steam blossomed through the air when he let it out. A sigh of relief at having found no boogeyman?

     When we were safely inside, door double-locked, I got right down to business. “I don’t like to stain the furniture, so I prefer to do it in the bath. Is that okay?” He didn’t need to answer. The crotch of his pants did all the talking. Yes. Bath. Good.

     Fuckin’ pervert.

     I ran the water. Lukewarm. Just gag me with a spoon. But then, scalding water might send him running.

     I began to untie my knee-high boots, and he shot me a painful look. They all hate to see the boots go, but my job gets messy. I like to do it in the bath.

     I poured a capful of soap under the stream of water. Foamy white bubbles clung to each other, spreading further as they grew. He was still struggling out of his underwear when I slid into the tub. But his blue eyes were fixed on me.

     He got in and put his hands on either side of my hips. I could feel his eager breath between my breasts. “Just lay back,” I said, and he listened.

     I climbed on top, straddling him between my slick legs. “Oh, that’s warm,” he moaned. “Oh . . . it’s hot.”

     I smiled, reaching for the shampoo bottle. Fastened to the back by two thick rubber bands I found my little red knife. The man started to pull away, limbs useless on the slippery porcelain. “You’re so hot! You’re hot! You’re burning me! My dick!”

     I plunged the knife between his eyes. It came out with a wet gurgle. He had managed to grab a fistful of my hair, and I waited for his hand to fall away. It went limp and splashed at his side. I pierced the right side of his neck, pushing down until his skin met the handle. I dragged the blade across his throat. It left a rigid path of torn skin. Blood covered his neck, a glossy sheath of red that mixed with the water. He sputtered, wordlessly sputtered like a dying engine, blood gushing from his mouth when he did. I felt sorry for this one. He wasn’t all that bad.

     I was kneeling over a corpse in a veritable pool of blood. The air was still pleasant, a hint of lilac from the soap. It would smell a lot worse if he wasn’t in water. You lose more than just blood when you die.

     I threw on my black terry cloth robe, double-knotting it at the waist. My supplies were in a basket beneath the sink—a thin rope and a plastic shower curtain. I unfolded the curtain at the base of the tub. Black. The only color for me.

     I pulled his hands, pushing with my feet against the outer wall of the tub, using all the strength in my legs. His body squeaked over the smooth edge, face landing in my lap. I tied the rope around him, just below the arms. Heave ho.

     I dragged him out of the bathroom on the plastic shower curtain. His head wobbled from side to side, still connected at the spine. It thudded against the doorframe when I turned.

     I pulled him into my room and opened up the closet door. A heat wave spilled out. The air danced in waves. It was so hot, even I broke a sweat. A bead rolled down my forehead as I pushed the body, rolling him over twice to reach the door. I scrambled backwards, to the foot of my bed. And waited.

     There is the edge of a cliff just beyond my door. It stops suddenly some thirty feet out. This cliff, this steep mountain, is made entirely of bone. Mostly spines, worked together like yarn, sprinkled with skulls here and there. Each mouth is agape in a petrified scream.

     From my seat on the floor, I could see the stair banisters rising up like two giant tusks into the sky. The sky was red, but not the color of blood. Blood is much, much brighter. Something sharp ripped into the horizon. The first glimpse of his twisted horns could be seen, steadily rising between the two ancient banisters.

     He is all muscle, and over eight feet tall. He has the snout of a wolf, and no hair. Human flesh against snarling teeth. His chest and arms look human, arms bulging with strength, veins threatening to burst. His lower stomach and legs have the scales of an alligator, massive spiked tail dragging behind. I could hear the clicking of his curved claws on the ground.

     He knelt before the door, massive horns pointing at me as he scooped up the body. He lifted it easily, like a child with a cat . . . or more like a cat with a mouse. His beady eyes flicked to me, black as an insect’s and just as empty. His tongue is split, forked. It quivered in the air just over the wound. He tasted the man’s blood . . . and approved. Bad blood. He only likes the bad men.

     He stood, the body limp in his arms. And then flung it over his shoulder . . . a butcher with a side of beef.  The head dangled loosely. The neck wound widened to a half-moon. I saw his spine glistening, still wet with fresh death. I wondered if that spine would become part of the cliff, woven into a mountain of bones for all eternity.

     I watched until they were both out of sight, the back of his hairless skull disappearing down the stairs. A burst of fire shot into the sky. I shut the door, leaning my weight against its warped surface. I caught my breath and let my heart rate slow down.

     When my hands were freshly scrubbed, my face and hair checked for blood, I jumped into a pair of cotton sweats. I’d be back to the vinyl skirt in no time, but right now there was work to do. I dropped the gun back into the darkness of my purse and grabbed the keys to his little red Honda.

     Lacy black clouds dimmed the moon. Sounds of traffic from the main road carried through the lot. The frigid wind turned drops of melted snow into frost that clung to the car. I slid the key in the ignition. The car sputtered to life.

     I kept the headlights off and eased the Honda around back. There was a fenced-off bin where they used to keep the dumpsters. Tall, fuzzy weeds engulfed the empty lot. There was moss in the knots of wood on the gate. I opened the gate; drove inside. I parked the car and made my way back to the gate.

          When I was safely outside, I turned to watch.

     The ground had been concrete just moments before. Now it began to bubble. It melted and popped, bubbles bursting near the center. The rusty car was being swallowed up, sinking steadily down.

     I heard the ground gurgling into the car through a crack in the window, but I never heard the shatter of glass. Every bit of car below ground level seemed to melt, to disappear completely. The car wasn’t sinking; it was ceasing to exist. Magic? Evil? Don’t look at me. I didn’t ask for any of this. I just wanted to live.

     Yellow sheets. My legs are shaking. I grip the hammer so tight that my fingers are pale. “Leave me alone,” I tell him, but he won’t leave me alone. He comes closer. No, no, no, no!

     His long legs straddle the bed with ease. There’s too much pressure on my abdomen. He is heavy, and drunk, and mean. I grip the hammer so tight I can feel a pulse thumping in my palm.

     I swing the hammer at his temple. His head is forced to one side. A cracking sound hangs in the air. Worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.

     All I can think is ‘I killed him. I killed him.’ Then his hand slides away from the back pocket of his jeans. I hear the sound of the butterfly knife. He plunges his free hand into my hair, gripping it. Pulls my head back. Sticks the knife in. I try to scream, but only manage a gurgle. I swing the hammer . . . again and again and again.

     I was leaning on the wooden gate, cheek resting on the splintered frame. The ground was solid again. No sign of the little car. I wanted to stay and catch my breath, to reflect on things for a moment. To walk the streets in plain clothes. To look for the good in this world.

     But there is always work to do. He is always hungry.