Grace Krilanovich - The Orange Eats Creeps

“But you tricked me! You tricked me into coming here. A trap — ”

“It’s not a trap if you can just walk away.”

A bunch of kids screamed outside. He returned to the shed with stolen food in a cardboard lettuce box. You don’t want to leave, he said, I think we both know that. This is what you wanted, what you’ve been looking for — “You’re wrong!” — I do something for you. Perhaps you didn’t even realize you wanted it. Now it’s ruining you. “We will ruin each other then,” I said.

You bit into a solid mass of ground beef artery in my shoulder. You closed your mouth around it and juices sprang into your mouth. Beach people hit bongos on the other side of the wall. Our pulses synched up with it even though we tried to ignore it. I lashed my tongue against the seam of wincing blood vessels up under your jaw. The slick of bone keeping bands of bundled veins tucked under your throat.

We were a bad fit, wedged, as we were into a two-step of puckering esophagi, convulsing larynxes forced into line by the beach people playing bongos outside. Our throats hissed involuntarily, blubbery on the surface, itching with every twist and stretch. Involuntary radiant heat of bongo beats wheezed soupy through the wall. Don’t stop! Did you hear that? They stopped.

I dragged you out, sleeping, lulled into paradise sleep by the big bongo gang. We’re taking it further than anyone ever could, we told ourselves.

This place is bullshit! This shed is poisoning our bodies! We stained the rug, or the rug stained our bodies (couldn’t tell which), the air smelled and was paralyzing. My heart labored against the giant magnets. Sugar caught on my eyelashes. Granules got caught under my eyelids and stuck there, grinding away and I panicked as it etched insignia onto the lens.

A few hours went by. Sucking on a peace pipe, I poked my head out of the little door, turned around a bit, slowly, cautiously seeking out the hippie kids. They were all stretched out on big rocks in the sun, looking slightly brined, birds having picked the bodies clean of hairs to reinforce their nests. Some had their limbs buried halfway inside the mouths of craggy rocks. Moths slept on their eyes, fluttered and shook their dust where they lay. The soles of their feet had been replaced with brown leaves with red veins running through them. Their bodies spread slightly in the salty heat.

I went back inside and got in bed. As I lay I could feel the warmth of his breath and I knew that I was in close proximity to a massive presence, a body pulsing with hot blood hanging in silence at my side. The big oppressive weight languished in the air like a solid tone of black mist.

He brought my hands to his face and kissed my palms.

My hot breath stained his neck. I love you, I love you, he said with every breath.

And?

And, as if to bridge two continents, he went to sleep at my side, as if anything at all had been said before, or would be said after.

I ate both of his hands, fingers, and moved up his arms. In no time I’d stuffed him all into my mouth. I finished and went to sleep. I had eaten the Warlock.

I awoke under an avalanche of dead leaves. Massless, quiet tufts of orange smoke. The room seemed to float an inch off the ground on the low-hum muted wheeze of a fridge in the corner. Approaching the subject in the corner, Kim’s already economical body functions slowed even further. I laid a cold palm to her side and she shut down, holding her breath, waiting for me to go away.

She was wet around her eyes, shedding tombs of it. There was some air chill to her tears, staining her collar. Steam billowed over her on the low platform where she lay like a rock, an island bobbing in a creeping sea waiting to be discovered. Huge cracks widened in slow-motion heaves of the eternal earthquake. I crawled along the damp planks feeling along for her body, a big wet nose wedged into the subfloor.

“How did you get here?” I asked her. As she grumbled at me a wooden bowl half-full of food, mud, and rainwater flew across the room, nearly hitting me in the back before crashing to the floor. I turned around to see my house mom bent in the doorway. Kim turned over and settled in the shadow, in a crevice in the corner where I could only make out the vague shadow of her shoulder blade twitching.

House Mom stooped over a series of crates, stuffing some scraps into her apron pocket. I had mistaken her for a large pile of clothing. I was startled to find her there.

Even more startled when she started speaking. “Don’t touch her,” she looked up, blinking hard over and over at me. Some birds tweeted uproariously outside — I guess they were taking their bath. Her blinking, dry, puffy lids rather screamed out of nowhere. I felt like she was trying to communicate with me telepathically, blinking a series of blinks between thoughts, her shiny black eyes signaling me to read into the big holes.

She stood over her dead daughter, speaking for her as if they were partners in crime. “The reasons why we did what we did were indecipherable. Who would want to know anyway?” Then, uselessly adding, “Don’t judge us.”

What do you mean us ? I don’t remember you ever being there for her. When she left, did you go out looking? I don’t actually remember you ever leaving the house, I said.

This house!

Don’t think hard, think deep! That tiny bag of bones squatting in the doorway had spoken! It looks like she had gnawed away at the ground below her long enough to have constructed something of a suitable dwelling for herself. She was proud and showed me by kicking a small wooden bowl of food and rainwater at my feet. “Mother, stop!”

“Old Rags,” as she said she wanted to be called, went to mopping up the large pools in the corners of the room while an army of small black crickets piled on top of each other in an effort to stop her.

“Don’t touch her.” Don’t make the same mistake I did.

But we both followed the same path to this place, now what do we do?

House Mom’s two arms jutted out from under her rags like two shafts of bottle glass. She moved around heavy and cautiously as if her body was full of rainwater. She looked tired…

“I realize they had all taken me for the dead girl!” I said to my house mom, almost in one complete sob.

But you aren’t. Don’t you realize? None of that shit ever happened to you. It doesn’t matter. You think too much. Obsessive!

What do we do with her?

Nothing. We leave. Don’t touch her. She’ll kill you. She’s toxic poison.

She knelt down to where Kim lay on the ground Mother cares, mother cares … and with that she began to collapse into the guise of the one at our feet. I couldn’t stop any of this from happening, she just started melting until she was inside the body of the dead one, dripping out of the dead one’s eyes, those black pools of water with the white skin on top. The eyes blinked, the swollen pools strained to blink open and closed without spilling. But they spilled a little and streams of grey charged down the dead one’s cheek. The mission is complete, the story is over. The dead one speaks — and blinks — on the floor. Sealed up into a dull, new skin.

“Mother,” I suddenly wanted very badly to save her — what was left of her. She itched a little, complained of tiny bugs’ legs prickling her skin all over as she fell into a pile of rags on the wood floor, orange rust rising in a slow cloud over her, blood and dust, hair mashed into pellets on the floor. I picked up what was left of her and carried her out of that place.

We had both lived on the beach these long days and nights, our eyes spilling open in the pitch black, two bowls which saw nothing out of the nothing stretched out before us. A void appeared next to each of us in the dark, a voice pitted with sand. The silence of the darkness stuffed the voice into our heads; we swore it was taking place inside because we couldn’t fully identify its source. We had each incorporated it and moved on.