Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror by Zané Sachs Page B

I got the job at the supermarket. I ran into Krista on the street. She volunteers at Safe Haven for Women, and she insisted that the three of us go out for happy hour. I happen to have two days off (Friday and Saturday—a rarity), and she caught me off guard, so I agreed to meet them. This morning I almost cancelled, then I decided going out would make me seem normal. I mean, that’s what normal women do when they’ve been traumatized; they hang out with girlfriends, don’t they?
    I don’t know.
    Lately I feel removed from the human race. I feel like I need to wipe my hard drive clean and reboot. I think Sadie the Sadist has been tinkering with my programming while I sleep.
    Anyway, thanks to Krista and Tracy, I’m sitting in a dim corner of The Quiet Lady, tapping my fingers on this table set beside a potted palm, when I realize: the cops took my fingerprints. My knee starts shaking and I order it to stop. The police told me the fingerprints were strictly for elimination purposes. But having my prints in the system means next time I’ll have to be more careful.
    I take a hefty gulp of the house red I ordered. Tastes like acid. I gaze into the wine. Looks like blood . I set down the glass, careful to place it in the center of the cocktail napkin, a challenge because now my hand is trembling. My knee shakes so hard it slams into the table. I check my phone. No calls. No texts. Krista and Tracy should be here any minute. I arrived early, hoping to get this spot. From where I sit, I can see the entrance, the bar and all the other tables. The potted palm provides a barrier, making me feel safe. To calm my nerves, I pop a Dilaudid (left over from the thumb accident) and peer into the vial. Still about a dozen pills, no refills. Maybe I should see that shrink again. After the rape, they had me talk to someone at Safe Haven. Maybe, if I ask her, she’ll write me a prescription for something really good. She said I’m suffering from post-traumatic-stress disorder, that’s why I’m so jittery.
    Sometimes I wonder if I really was raped.
    I take another sip of wine. Pick up the menu, try to read the shaking words, and set it down.
    I remind myself to breathe. That helps a bit.
    I think women make me nervous. They tend to talk too much. If I get another shrink, I want a man. Men don’t talk.
    I like The Quiet Lady. The atmosphere is Victorian, mahogany bar and fixtures, dim lighting. So dark it’s kind of creepy. As you enter, you pass a marble statue of a woman. She has no head. That’s why she’s quiet.
    My gaze travels across other tables—filled with the after work crowd and tourists—moves to the bar, and comes to rest on a loudmouth bitch. She’d look better without a head. A man, sitting on the stool next to her, notices me watching. He points at me, blows a kiss and laughs.
    I glance at my phone. Text Krista : i m hear .
    Get back: Parking.
    Probably a brand-new Lexus.
    Tracy arrives before Krista, not a surprise since Krista is always late. I met them a few years ago at the art center where I used to model. Life drawing class. Earned some extra money and I get off on people seeing me naked.
    “Sadie, is that you?”
    “I think so.”
    “You don’t look like you. What happened to the cute, all American girl next door?”
    “Dyed my hair to match my blood. I’m going for vampire.”
    I laugh, but Tracy doesn’t.
    “You look pale,” she says. “Tired.”
    Bitch.
    “You doing Botox or Restylane?” I ask.
    “What?”
    Tracy frowns, but her face barely moves.
    She’s older than me, but I have to admit, she looks good. Well preserved . She’s wearing skinny jeans that must make breathing difficult, high heels, and a tangerine orange sweater, probably by some designer whose name I can’t pronounce. When I’m with her, I feel the need to make excuses for my clothing. Except my sneakers; like most people in this town, I’ve got a thing for athletic shoes. Today I’m wearing Nike Dual Fusion Run 2s, my