been, it turned out, was worth something, after all.
In the audience, the crowd oohed and aahed. The lights got brighter, and she could see their faces. There were about fifty of them, and they were all old, in their seventies at least, but their skin was pulled preternaturally smooth and tight. “You see!” Audrey cried out at them. “Don’t screw with me. I’ll fight. I’ll win!”
She expected to wake up, or to enter another dream, but instead the lights got dark again. Scritch-scratch. That sound remained. Only it carried more of a hollow echo, like the man was close to breaking free from the closet. The kitchen brightened like a stage set. So did the hole in the floor, and Betty’s wild blue eyes. In front of and behind her, letters briefly lit up the stage:
A u d r ey L uc as: t hi S is Y O ur L i fe.
Audrey felt a breeze. She looked down, and saw that she was now wearing those same coveralls as the girl, only the safety pins had come undone. No panties. Her nakedness, exposed. She covered herself with her hands. A thick tuft of dark woman hair.
Betty turned and looked straight at her. Saw her. The feeling was like a stab in the chest. Audrey’s blood pooled at her feet. “Who are you?” Betty asked.
Scritch-scratch! Audrey could hear the wood shavings as they fell from the plywood closet. The man had almost dug his way out.
“This is a dream,” Audrey said. “You’re my subconscious. You’re not even Betty. I’m not your daughter. It’s just me, talking to me, because I’m upset about Saraub.”
“Really?” Betty asked as she cleaned the girl’s blood from the knife with her hands, then licked her fingers, so that the corners of her lips got bloody. Betty nodded at the screen door. “Little girl won’t get far. Only a few years. Twenty on the outside. Wounds like that bleed slow, but they’re fatal.”
“She’ll make it,” Audrey said.
Betty shook her head. “No, she’s damaged goods. Now come with me. Come see the floor.”
(Scritch-scratch!)
The audience got very quiet, and Audrey understood that something bad was coming. She and Betty stood on either side of the broken faux linoleum. Audrey’s coveralls flapped. “We’re the same, Lamb,” Betty said, as they both peered down. The hole was deep, and at its bottom lay a mirror. The two women’s black-eyed images were indistinguishable, because both were riddled with squirming red ants.
Scritch-scratch. The sound was very close. The man in the three-piece suit was almost out.
“Please wake me up, I don’t like this game anymore,” Audrey begged. Flap-flap, went her pants. So exposed. The red ants wound between mother’s and daughter’s reflections, then mounted the sides of the hole and climbed out.
Betty grinned. Her silken hair and dewy skin channeled an old Hollywood movie, where the people were charming, and nothing bad ever happened.
Scritch-scratch!
In a quick, jerking movement, Betty reached acrossthe void. She squeezed the hole in Audrey’s coveralls. So shameful. So exposed. “You come from me. I own you,” Betty said.
The hole pulsed wider, its jagged sticker linoleum like teeth, and the ants a red tide bubbling up from its depths. “It wants to live inside us, Lamb. It smells our weakness. It climbs through our holes. Don’t you hear it?”
Scritch-scratch.
The hole got bigger. So did Betty’s frozen grin. “Get out while you can, Lamb,” she said as she squeezed. Only her fingers were red with blood, and now, so was Audrey’s crotch.
“No. It’s not after me, only you,” Audrey tried to say, but her words got garbled. Her throat hurt. Bad. Something wet. She felt her neck with her fingers. Red.
Still bleeding, she broke down and began to cry. In her dream, and in real life, too. The sound carried through 14B’s air shafts, and halls, and even the elevator. Through the vibrations in the walls, it roused sleeping and vigilant tenants alike. A weeping, desperate sound that made their
In the audience, the crowd oohed and aahed. The lights got brighter, and she could see their faces. There were about fifty of them, and they were all old, in their seventies at least, but their skin was pulled preternaturally smooth and tight. “You see!” Audrey cried out at them. “Don’t screw with me. I’ll fight. I’ll win!”
She expected to wake up, or to enter another dream, but instead the lights got dark again. Scritch-scratch. That sound remained. Only it carried more of a hollow echo, like the man was close to breaking free from the closet. The kitchen brightened like a stage set. So did the hole in the floor, and Betty’s wild blue eyes. In front of and behind her, letters briefly lit up the stage:
A u d r ey L uc as: t hi S is Y O ur L i fe.
Audrey felt a breeze. She looked down, and saw that she was now wearing those same coveralls as the girl, only the safety pins had come undone. No panties. Her nakedness, exposed. She covered herself with her hands. A thick tuft of dark woman hair.
Betty turned and looked straight at her. Saw her. The feeling was like a stab in the chest. Audrey’s blood pooled at her feet. “Who are you?” Betty asked.
Scritch-scratch! Audrey could hear the wood shavings as they fell from the plywood closet. The man had almost dug his way out.
“This is a dream,” Audrey said. “You’re my subconscious. You’re not even Betty. I’m not your daughter. It’s just me, talking to me, because I’m upset about Saraub.”
“Really?” Betty asked as she cleaned the girl’s blood from the knife with her hands, then licked her fingers, so that the corners of her lips got bloody. Betty nodded at the screen door. “Little girl won’t get far. Only a few years. Twenty on the outside. Wounds like that bleed slow, but they’re fatal.”
“She’ll make it,” Audrey said.
Betty shook her head. “No, she’s damaged goods. Now come with me. Come see the floor.”
(Scritch-scratch!)
The audience got very quiet, and Audrey understood that something bad was coming. She and Betty stood on either side of the broken faux linoleum. Audrey’s coveralls flapped. “We’re the same, Lamb,” Betty said, as they both peered down. The hole was deep, and at its bottom lay a mirror. The two women’s black-eyed images were indistinguishable, because both were riddled with squirming red ants.
Scritch-scratch. The sound was very close. The man in the three-piece suit was almost out.
“Please wake me up, I don’t like this game anymore,” Audrey begged. Flap-flap, went her pants. So exposed. The red ants wound between mother’s and daughter’s reflections, then mounted the sides of the hole and climbed out.
Betty grinned. Her silken hair and dewy skin channeled an old Hollywood movie, where the people were charming, and nothing bad ever happened.
Scritch-scratch!
In a quick, jerking movement, Betty reached acrossthe void. She squeezed the hole in Audrey’s coveralls. So shameful. So exposed. “You come from me. I own you,” Betty said.
The hole pulsed wider, its jagged sticker linoleum like teeth, and the ants a red tide bubbling up from its depths. “It wants to live inside us, Lamb. It smells our weakness. It climbs through our holes. Don’t you hear it?”
Scritch-scratch.
The hole got bigger. So did Betty’s frozen grin. “Get out while you can, Lamb,” she said as she squeezed. Only her fingers were red with blood, and now, so was Audrey’s crotch.
“No. It’s not after me, only you,” Audrey tried to say, but her words got garbled. Her throat hurt. Bad. Something wet. She felt her neck with her fingers. Red.
Still bleeding, she broke down and began to cry. In her dream, and in real life, too. The sound carried through 14B’s air shafts, and halls, and even the elevator. Through the vibrations in the walls, it roused sleeping and vigilant tenants alike. A weeping, desperate sound that made their
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