hot wire spider jumped inside of Sissy’s head, swollen as a tick.
Leda bent down and whispered in Sissy’s ear.
Sissy’s hands, quivering, fell from her throat and grew still. Her body stopped thrashing against the kitchen floor. Leda unraveled her hands from Sissy’s hair and petted her soaked forehead. Sissy’s eyes rolled up in her head, spit the color of glycerin shining on her lips.
“Come on,” Leda said, “let’s get you back to the couch.”
“How did you do that?” I asked, “what did you say to her?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Leda said.
Leda pulled Sissy to her feet. Sissy, now docile, let Leda lead her back into the living room and position her by the couch beside Momma. Momma had continued to watch television throughout the whole ordeal. When Sissy rejoined her on the couch, Momma shifted inside her cocoon of shrapnel and gunmetal wire, and addressed Leda without ever glancing in her direction.
“Jeanine,” she said, “where have you been?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Leda said, “I’m here now.”
“Jeanine,” Momma said.
“Yes?”
Momma’s neck creaked as she turned her head.
“You’re blocking the television, Jeanine.”
Leda straightened up, as if unrolling out all her bones. I hadn’t taken notice of a woman in seven years, but I couldn’t stop looking at her. She stood tall, taller than me. I thought she might somehow manage to break through the boundaries of my house and carry the roof away on her shoulders.
“Come upstairs with me,” I said.
“How long have they been here?” Leda asked me.
“Too long,” I said.
Later as we sat up in my bedroom picking the rest of the glass out of our skin, I meant to ask her what she’d said to Sissy to calm her down.
Yet I asked “can I draw you?” instead.
I sat on my desk char. Leda sat opposite me on my bed barefoot, her dress hiked up to her thighs and her hair slipping rheumy down her shoulders in the faint light. Glass littered the floor in front of her. The blood on her forehead and fingers shone like light.
“I’m not pretty enough to draw,” she said.
“It’s not about that,” I said.
“What is it about?” she asked.
“Something that catches the eye,” I said, “something unusual. It’s all in the way the lines around us are drawn, you know. We think we’re in control of our eyes, but it’s really the lines that are.”
The silence lay thick on her. Outside the insects ticked.
“How come I’ve never seen you before?” I asked.
Before she could answer someone knocked on the front door.
“Charles!” I heard Ezekiel yell, “You son of a bitch, are you still alive?”
I got up and went to the open window. Ezekiel stood outside in front of the porch with a deadhead woman on one arm. Freshly implanted, from the looks of her turpentine skin and puerile eyes still colored human. She clung to him with fingers that couldn’t keep still, braced herself against him with her knees, jumped into his skin with her clenched jaw.
“Where the fuck did you go earlier?” Ezekiel said when he saw me at the window, “I wanted you to meet Boxy.”
“You left,” I said, “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Say hello, Boxy. Charles, did you know Boxy’s an exotic dancer?”
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
I glanced back at Leda. She stared at her hands, palms full of veined debris. Her fingers twitched as if they were slipping into gloves of broken glass. “Those Apocalypse Brigadiers got all riled up after we electrocuted that girl in town square,” Ezekiel said, “rioting, blowing up the street, demanding her corpse so they can desecrate it. It’s great. Come down here.”
He tipped the deadhead’s neck back so far I thought her vertebrate might reach out to brush her ankles. He kissed her and she screamed in the back of her throat like night thrush and swamp music.
“I can’t,” I said, “I’m sort of busy.”
He let go of the deadhead with a flourish,
Leda bent down and whispered in Sissy’s ear.
Sissy’s hands, quivering, fell from her throat and grew still. Her body stopped thrashing against the kitchen floor. Leda unraveled her hands from Sissy’s hair and petted her soaked forehead. Sissy’s eyes rolled up in her head, spit the color of glycerin shining on her lips.
“Come on,” Leda said, “let’s get you back to the couch.”
“How did you do that?” I asked, “what did you say to her?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Leda said.
Leda pulled Sissy to her feet. Sissy, now docile, let Leda lead her back into the living room and position her by the couch beside Momma. Momma had continued to watch television throughout the whole ordeal. When Sissy rejoined her on the couch, Momma shifted inside her cocoon of shrapnel and gunmetal wire, and addressed Leda without ever glancing in her direction.
“Jeanine,” she said, “where have you been?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Leda said, “I’m here now.”
“Jeanine,” Momma said.
“Yes?”
Momma’s neck creaked as she turned her head.
“You’re blocking the television, Jeanine.”
Leda straightened up, as if unrolling out all her bones. I hadn’t taken notice of a woman in seven years, but I couldn’t stop looking at her. She stood tall, taller than me. I thought she might somehow manage to break through the boundaries of my house and carry the roof away on her shoulders.
“Come upstairs with me,” I said.
“How long have they been here?” Leda asked me.
“Too long,” I said.
Later as we sat up in my bedroom picking the rest of the glass out of our skin, I meant to ask her what she’d said to Sissy to calm her down.
Yet I asked “can I draw you?” instead.
I sat on my desk char. Leda sat opposite me on my bed barefoot, her dress hiked up to her thighs and her hair slipping rheumy down her shoulders in the faint light. Glass littered the floor in front of her. The blood on her forehead and fingers shone like light.
“I’m not pretty enough to draw,” she said.
“It’s not about that,” I said.
“What is it about?” she asked.
“Something that catches the eye,” I said, “something unusual. It’s all in the way the lines around us are drawn, you know. We think we’re in control of our eyes, but it’s really the lines that are.”
The silence lay thick on her. Outside the insects ticked.
“How come I’ve never seen you before?” I asked.
Before she could answer someone knocked on the front door.
“Charles!” I heard Ezekiel yell, “You son of a bitch, are you still alive?”
I got up and went to the open window. Ezekiel stood outside in front of the porch with a deadhead woman on one arm. Freshly implanted, from the looks of her turpentine skin and puerile eyes still colored human. She clung to him with fingers that couldn’t keep still, braced herself against him with her knees, jumped into his skin with her clenched jaw.
“Where the fuck did you go earlier?” Ezekiel said when he saw me at the window, “I wanted you to meet Boxy.”
“You left,” I said, “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Say hello, Boxy. Charles, did you know Boxy’s an exotic dancer?”
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
I glanced back at Leda. She stared at her hands, palms full of veined debris. Her fingers twitched as if they were slipping into gloves of broken glass. “Those Apocalypse Brigadiers got all riled up after we electrocuted that girl in town square,” Ezekiel said, “rioting, blowing up the street, demanding her corpse so they can desecrate it. It’s great. Come down here.”
He tipped the deadhead’s neck back so far I thought her vertebrate might reach out to brush her ankles. He kissed her and she screamed in the back of her throat like night thrush and swamp music.
“I can’t,” I said, “I’m sort of busy.”
He let go of the deadhead with a flourish,
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