chose
Turn from your sins, lest you despair
The Devil take you without care."
The axe falls heavy.
Her head hits the aisle between the bus seats, tumbles under the legs of the table toward the front of the vehicle. The man chases after it like a bird after a worm, giggling as though it's a game. The axe is no longer in hand but now a hooked blade. For cutting out tongues.
–the two bodies come together and pull apart and Miriam feels like she's just been on an out-of-control carousel ride that's been going around and around and now she's dizzy and sick and doesn't know what way is up, down, left, right.
She turns, woozy, and sees the EXIT door.
Roidhead is on her like stink on spoiled meat.
Bam . They crash through the exit. The door swings wide. Pigeons take flight as both bodies tumble out onto a concrete platform. They'd keep going and fall to the parking lot ten feet below if it wasn't for the green metal railing.
It catches them like a net.
Which gives Miriam all the opportunity she needs.
She grabs for his head–
He's gone fat. His gut isn't just a spare tire, it's a tractor tire packed in forgotten mushy muscle and lumpy lipomas. He's forty-five now – it's over a decade since he worked at the school – and he pops the collar of his shirt and waddles down into the basement and there he sees his old friend: the weight bench. He regards it for a time like he's not sure, scratching his neck under the collar, but then he gives a what-the-hell shrug. With a grunt he shimmies himself under the bar, but it's no easy fit – like shoving a tomato under a closed door. Still, he manages. Gets those slick mitts under the bar. Lifts. The bar rattles, doesn't move. More sweat pops out on his brow like so many Whack-a-moles. He starts making a sound like he's trying to squeeze a baby out of his ass, and suddenly his eyes go wide, bulging like googly cartoon eyes, and the heart attack rips through him the way a grizzly bear would rip through a screen door–
–and whong slams his skull hard into the metal railing.
Roidhead makes a moosey sound, a bugling cry of inchoate rage, and wraps his big arms around her in a crushing grip. Her head pulses like a balloon filled with blood and getting bigger and bigger.
She's got no wiggle room. It won't be long before Ron Jeremy, Italian Plumber, joins the fray. Probably with pepper spray or a stun gun. And then it's over.
Roidhead's face leers into her own. He shows his teeth like an animal.
Miriam cranks her head backward and smashes her forehead into his nose. It elicits a gurgling cry from her grappler – but, even better, earns her enough slack to wiggle free.
As she clambers up over him, she leaps over the railing and breaks for the woods, churning on a heady rocket-fueled broth of adrenalin and nausea.
Roidhead still back there, bent over, holding his face.
Nobody behind her.
Nobody but two dead girls. Headless. Tongueless. Feels like their ghosts are harrying her forward – the ghosts of two girls who aren't even dead yet.
But she feels like she's being chased by a ghost. The ghost of not one girl, but two. Each headless. Each carrying their own tongueless heads.
By the time she makes it to the guard gate, she's panting and hacking and wheezing – she tells herself it's all this awful clean air and not lungs shellacked with hardened tar and nicotine. By the time she makes it to the guard gate, she's panting and hacking and wheezing – she tells herself it's all this awful clean air and not lungs shellacked with hardened tar and nicotine. She lights a cigarette. The smoke fills her lungs. Clears her head.
Homer looks out of the booth, watching her like she's some kind of funny squirrel or monkey escaped from the zoo.
"You don't look so good," he says.
"I feel great. Top of the pops. Total tits." She looks down beyond the gate, finally sees Roidhead
Turn from your sins, lest you despair
The Devil take you without care."
The axe falls heavy.
Her head hits the aisle between the bus seats, tumbles under the legs of the table toward the front of the vehicle. The man chases after it like a bird after a worm, giggling as though it's a game. The axe is no longer in hand but now a hooked blade. For cutting out tongues.
–the two bodies come together and pull apart and Miriam feels like she's just been on an out-of-control carousel ride that's been going around and around and now she's dizzy and sick and doesn't know what way is up, down, left, right.
She turns, woozy, and sees the EXIT door.
Roidhead is on her like stink on spoiled meat.
Bam . They crash through the exit. The door swings wide. Pigeons take flight as both bodies tumble out onto a concrete platform. They'd keep going and fall to the parking lot ten feet below if it wasn't for the green metal railing.
It catches them like a net.
Which gives Miriam all the opportunity she needs.
She grabs for his head–
He's gone fat. His gut isn't just a spare tire, it's a tractor tire packed in forgotten mushy muscle and lumpy lipomas. He's forty-five now – it's over a decade since he worked at the school – and he pops the collar of his shirt and waddles down into the basement and there he sees his old friend: the weight bench. He regards it for a time like he's not sure, scratching his neck under the collar, but then he gives a what-the-hell shrug. With a grunt he shimmies himself under the bar, but it's no easy fit – like shoving a tomato under a closed door. Still, he manages. Gets those slick mitts under the bar. Lifts. The bar rattles, doesn't move. More sweat pops out on his brow like so many Whack-a-moles. He starts making a sound like he's trying to squeeze a baby out of his ass, and suddenly his eyes go wide, bulging like googly cartoon eyes, and the heart attack rips through him the way a grizzly bear would rip through a screen door–
–and whong slams his skull hard into the metal railing.
Roidhead makes a moosey sound, a bugling cry of inchoate rage, and wraps his big arms around her in a crushing grip. Her head pulses like a balloon filled with blood and getting bigger and bigger.
She's got no wiggle room. It won't be long before Ron Jeremy, Italian Plumber, joins the fray. Probably with pepper spray or a stun gun. And then it's over.
Roidhead's face leers into her own. He shows his teeth like an animal.
Miriam cranks her head backward and smashes her forehead into his nose. It elicits a gurgling cry from her grappler – but, even better, earns her enough slack to wiggle free.
As she clambers up over him, she leaps over the railing and breaks for the woods, churning on a heady rocket-fueled broth of adrenalin and nausea.
Roidhead still back there, bent over, holding his face.
Nobody behind her.
Nobody but two dead girls. Headless. Tongueless. Feels like their ghosts are harrying her forward – the ghosts of two girls who aren't even dead yet.
But she feels like she's being chased by a ghost. The ghost of not one girl, but two. Each headless. Each carrying their own tongueless heads.
By the time she makes it to the guard gate, she's panting and hacking and wheezing – she tells herself it's all this awful clean air and not lungs shellacked with hardened tar and nicotine. By the time she makes it to the guard gate, she's panting and hacking and wheezing – she tells herself it's all this awful clean air and not lungs shellacked with hardened tar and nicotine. She lights a cigarette. The smoke fills her lungs. Clears her head.
Homer looks out of the booth, watching her like she's some kind of funny squirrel or monkey escaped from the zoo.
"You don't look so good," he says.
"I feel great. Top of the pops. Total tits." She looks down beyond the gate, finally sees Roidhead
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