Lydia Cooper - My Second Death

“How come?”

“How come what? How come I love you?” He held the ball out and tried to spin it on a finger. It fell and he caught it, hugged it to his stomach. Looked over at me under a fall of dark hair. “Because I can. No one else can. But me, it doesn’t gross me out that you might someday eat people. See what I mean?”

I laughed. “Okay. So, what would people taste like?”

“Maybe like chicken, only stringier.”

I grinned. “Oh, and maybe a fat person tastes like bacon.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I think it would be tangier. Like that venison we had that time that Uncle Randy killed the deer. Remember when we ate that deer?”

“Yeah. But why would a person taste like that?”

He shrugged. Seemed to lose interest in the conversation.

I shook my head and opened my book again.

He rolled the ball restlessly over his legs. Then he stood up and bounced the ball at me, but I was ready and I pulled my book up and the ball bounced off harmlessly.

“I’m going to go invent the cure for cancer and take over Mesopotamia,” he said. “You okay with waiting here?”

“Whatever.”

He went off dribbling and weaving around the ball, graceful as a professional player. I turned a page and went back to reading.

At that age, I didn’t know there were limits. Things I would only ever be able to dream of. At that age, Dave was still able to make me believe that no bogeyman of children’s nightmares was beyond my capacity to become. In any event, Dave never mentioned that Jeffrey Dahmer was murdered in a high-security prison. I found that out when I was older, when I realized that human laws would keep me moral, if only because I could never survive in a prison.

I rock back and forth and wonder if there is any way to halt this process, or if I am fated to complete the transformation, if I am some murderous chrysalis, a nightmare creature struggling against human bondage towards an inexorable and terrible freedom.

Aidan bangs into my room.

“Mickey! What have you done? Is this — is this blood ?”

I’m sitting in the corner of my bedroom with knees hugged against my chest.

“Hey! You’ve got to answer me, okay? I’ve got to know why my knife’s got blood on it, why it was lying there rusting away in the sink.”

I open my eyes and push my hand through my hair. God, I’m tired.

“Go away.”

He comes into the room. The knife in his hand. Dripping dishwater on the scarred hardwood boards.

I push myself back. Backbone pressed against the wall. “Don’t come in.”

“What the hell is going on?”

I put my head down on my knees. You’ve been through this before, I tell myself. In the dreams. You can see how it will play out. It’s not the end of the world. It’s not like you haven’t done it before.

“Just tell me.” He crouches down. Trying to make himself eye-level with me, modulating his voice like he’s talking to a fucking head case or something. “You’ve got to at least tell me someone’s not dead. Okay? Do you see my point here, Mickey? That I’ve got to know? Are you even listening to me?”

I lift my head. “Yes. Yeah, I’m listening to you. Now get the fuck out.”

He holds the knife. It drips pinkish water.

The silence goes on for a long time. Long enough that I can smell him. The faint smell of human under the turpentine.

My heart feels stiff, the muscles struggling to contract, to expand. “No one is dead.”

“Okay. Good. No, that’s good. Okay. So, whose blood is on my knife?”

My arms are wrapped around my legs. I can still feel the heat of its skin, the oily texture of its fur.

I look up at him.

“I killed our cat.”

We breathe. In and out. In and out.

“Our cat?” he says. “You mean, the cat that you said ran away? Like, weeks ago?”

“It did.” I swallow. “I didn’t lie.”

“Okay.” He sits back on his heels. He puts his free hand, the one not holding the knife, over his mouth. “Okay. What happened?”

I say something about the students. My voice seems to be coming from far away. It sounds like when Dave mimics me, like someone reciting poetry in a voice meant for singing lullabies.

I tell him about snapping its neck.

And then I am silent.

After a while he says, “What about the blood? The knife?”

“Oh,” I say. I close my eyes. “It’s just — look, you said I didn’t want to hurt anyone but that’s — oh God, I do. I want to — I can’t even think about — I don’t want to, you have to believe me. I don’t want to let him get control of me yet.”

“Him?”

“Satan,” I say.

Aidan’s mouth twitches.

I wave my hand impatiently. “The Tempter. You know, in medieval plays — never mind.” My skin feels frail. “I don’t hear voices or anything. It’s just an — expression. I don’t want to — turn darkside. Not yet. Not ever , but I don’t think I can — I can’t put it off forever.”

When I open my eyes he’s staring at me and his face is a collection of sharp lines with rage printed in them. He sees me looking at him and his face flushes slowly. He opens his mouth like he’s going to yell. Then he takes a breath and holds it, lets it out. “Okay. Let’s try this again. The knife.”

I say, “I couldn’t — help it.”

He just waits.

And so I tell him what I did to the cat.

When I stop talking he closes his eyes briefly. “My God, Mickey.”

Another short silence.

“You had to kill it,” he says.

I look at him. “What?”

He is frowning, thinking hard. “I get it, about the cat. You had to kill it. That was — it wasn’t, you know, what you said. It wasn’t you going — darkside. The cat was in pain. But then — using the knife. Why did you do that? What made you flip like that?”

I want to tell him. I intend to tell him. It felt like panic. And rage. Mostly hatred. I hated it for making me a killer, again. I open my mouth to explain but my tongue feels thick. I close my mouth and shrug.

“You don’t know?”

I shrug again.

He is silent. Then he says, “You said that I got you. Like your brother gets you. Right?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what he means.

He puts the knife down. I watch him, confused. And then he gets up and comes forward.

My eyes widen.

“No — what the — no !”

He kneels down next to me.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I say. I look at the knife, lying about two feet away. “Get the hell away from me or I will stab you in the face.”

He puts his arms around me.

I hold my breath. Close my eyes. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

Fuck .

I lunge for the knife. He wraps his arms tight around me and holds on. I strain against him, shove myself back with my legs. We both slam against the wall. I wrench sideways. He clings on, gets a leg across mine. Jerks back on my leg and pulls me off balance. I fall forward. He tips over and we crash down together. Lie panting. My eyes fixed on the knife. I get an arm free and my fingers reach for the blade. He pulls hard, holding me back. I make a straining noise.

“Please. Please get off me.”

“No.” He’s breathing hard.

“Get off or I’ll stab you in the eye. I am not kidding.”

He laughs, breathless. “You’re not going to stab me.”

My face is pressed against the floor. I turn it to the side. Pressure on my cheekbone. I close my eyes. Lie slack. And then tense and lunge for the knife again. But he doesn’t let go. He grabs my flailing arm and we wrestle in silence until I fall again and he lies on top of me, arms wrapped around mine. I feel sweat on my face. The walls move forward gently. Pulse. The flesh floor breathes. I gag.