Point, you enter an agreement whether you want to or not. If you are young, then you belong to us. If you are older, then you mean nothing to us. You stand in direct opposition to us. Look around you.”
Karen looked at the people hanging from the walls. Some of them were people she recognized: teachers, shopkeepers who worked in town, random faces. None of them were teenagers.
“Why does it keep happening?”
“A long time ago, there were atrocities played out here. The town had to die. The young people had to be turned away from their parents’ way of life. They had to become something different. Somehow, you got away. You didn’t give us time to react. But I have you here now and you’re too old for the turning.”
Summoning all her strength, she attempted to bolt. The boy’s grip tightened, shutting off her wind, and he drove her to the floor of the church. Within seconds, two members of the congregation had risen and moved toward her and the boy. Each of them grabbed a hand. The boy moved in front of her and pulled a whiplike thing from the sleeve of his shirt. It had the diameter of a quarter and ran the length of his arm. At the end, it had a curved piece of metal, like a talon. She tried kicking but the boy held her legs down and put a foot on each ankle. He bent to raise up her shirt, exposing her tender back. With a quick gasp, he brought the whip down across her back. She shrieked out in pain, her fingernails biting into her palms. Unlike a clean cut from glass or a knife, a cut that somehow caused numbness, this cut burned with savage life. She could feel the wound hanging open, as though the very atmosphere irritated it.
The boy brought the whip down again and again. She couldn’t help but scream. The fear consumed her. And it wasn’t just the fear of death, it was the fear of living. In only a few minutes, the boy had told her the life she thought she had led wasn’t really her life at all. She was merely a pawn. Insignificant.
The other two members of the congregation moved away. Karen realized, somewhere, in the course of this, the choir’s chanting had risen in volume and intensity. The boy knelt down beside her, placed a hand just inside one of the gashes in her back. The pain disappeared.
“There are some things worse than death,” the boy said, stroking the lip of the wound. “Join us,” he whispered. “Join us in death.”
She felt his hand probe deeper into the wound. And then another hand. She felt more and more hands on her and the chanting rolled through her head, dragging some inner part of her to some other place.
From behind her, she heard the sounds of celebration, the soft crackle of a fire. Karen realized her something worse than death was finally happening.
Cruel Women with Whiplike Smiles
Hutchens took up space in his customary seat in the back corner of the bar for quite a while before he saw the woman come in. Sitting in that particular spot allowed him to see everyone coming and going. A few moments before her entrance, Hutchens was about ready to call it a night. The smoke in the club seemed a little too thick. The alcohol had gone to his head, making him tired rather than exuberant. The house band’s rendition of “Kind of Blue” seemed to drone on endlessly and the trumpeter sounded like Miles Davis if Miles had chosen to play the trumpet with his ass.
When the woman came in the door, alone, there was one of those unique pauses in everything. Even the music seemed to stop for a few seconds. All the old cliches were resurrected, ringing with a new truth. Every man watched her because they wanted to be with her. Every woman watched her because they wanted to be her. What it came down to, he supposed, was rape and envy.
She took a seat, by herself, at the far end of the bar. What life it had rushed back into the club. Hushed conversations of girlfriends chastising their boyfriends inevitably blossomed even though the women knew perfectly well why their
Karen looked at the people hanging from the walls. Some of them were people she recognized: teachers, shopkeepers who worked in town, random faces. None of them were teenagers.
“Why does it keep happening?”
“A long time ago, there were atrocities played out here. The town had to die. The young people had to be turned away from their parents’ way of life. They had to become something different. Somehow, you got away. You didn’t give us time to react. But I have you here now and you’re too old for the turning.”
Summoning all her strength, she attempted to bolt. The boy’s grip tightened, shutting off her wind, and he drove her to the floor of the church. Within seconds, two members of the congregation had risen and moved toward her and the boy. Each of them grabbed a hand. The boy moved in front of her and pulled a whiplike thing from the sleeve of his shirt. It had the diameter of a quarter and ran the length of his arm. At the end, it had a curved piece of metal, like a talon. She tried kicking but the boy held her legs down and put a foot on each ankle. He bent to raise up her shirt, exposing her tender back. With a quick gasp, he brought the whip down across her back. She shrieked out in pain, her fingernails biting into her palms. Unlike a clean cut from glass or a knife, a cut that somehow caused numbness, this cut burned with savage life. She could feel the wound hanging open, as though the very atmosphere irritated it.
The boy brought the whip down again and again. She couldn’t help but scream. The fear consumed her. And it wasn’t just the fear of death, it was the fear of living. In only a few minutes, the boy had told her the life she thought she had led wasn’t really her life at all. She was merely a pawn. Insignificant.
The other two members of the congregation moved away. Karen realized, somewhere, in the course of this, the choir’s chanting had risen in volume and intensity. The boy knelt down beside her, placed a hand just inside one of the gashes in her back. The pain disappeared.
“There are some things worse than death,” the boy said, stroking the lip of the wound. “Join us,” he whispered. “Join us in death.”
She felt his hand probe deeper into the wound. And then another hand. She felt more and more hands on her and the chanting rolled through her head, dragging some inner part of her to some other place.
From behind her, she heard the sounds of celebration, the soft crackle of a fire. Karen realized her something worse than death was finally happening.
Cruel Women with Whiplike Smiles
Hutchens took up space in his customary seat in the back corner of the bar for quite a while before he saw the woman come in. Sitting in that particular spot allowed him to see everyone coming and going. A few moments before her entrance, Hutchens was about ready to call it a night. The smoke in the club seemed a little too thick. The alcohol had gone to his head, making him tired rather than exuberant. The house band’s rendition of “Kind of Blue” seemed to drone on endlessly and the trumpeter sounded like Miles Davis if Miles had chosen to play the trumpet with his ass.
When the woman came in the door, alone, there was one of those unique pauses in everything. Even the music seemed to stop for a few seconds. All the old cliches were resurrected, ringing with a new truth. Every man watched her because they wanted to be with her. Every woman watched her because they wanted to be her. What it came down to, he supposed, was rape and envy.
She took a seat, by herself, at the far end of the bar. What life it had rushed back into the club. Hushed conversations of girlfriends chastising their boyfriends inevitably blossomed even though the women knew perfectly well why their
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