Edward Lee - The Chosen

Like the prep tables he’d seen earlier, and the ones he remembered when he’d worked at T.G.I.F. A kitchen. A restaurant kitchen. Was that where he was?

Taylor strained his eyes. The effort steepened the throbbing pain in his head, but soon his vision began to clear.

He craned his neck off the table, staring. Then his thoughts ground to a halt…

Kyle was fileting strips of meat off a long bone, and placing each strip in a pan. Yes, it was meat, all right—

Human meat.

For what Taylor made out next, as his vision continued to focus, were the two bare human legs lain out across the table before Kyle.

What in God’s name…is this place?

This was a reasonable question, but by now the answer scarcely mattered, at least not to Mr. Terrence Taylor. Because in the next moment he became aware of an even more atrocious fact:

He managed to rise up on his elbows.

He looked down.

Oh my God no holy Jesus—

It wasn’t enough that the legs on Kyle’s cutting table were human. When Taylor looked down—

— holy Jesus holy Jesus to God…

—he realized, upon the sight of his own short-stumped hips, that the legs Kyle was so calmly fileting were his own.

“Well would you look at this!” Kyle had turned, noticing Taylor over his shoulder. “You’re still alive? I’m impressed, Mr. Taylor. Not many guys could go through what you been through and still be kicking.” Kyle smiled, picking something up. “But I think we can fix that real quick.”

Taylor shuddered as if encased in ice. He tried to get up but, of course, that prospect wasn’t very good since his fucking legs were no longer connected to his body.

Kyle, still whistling, inserted the long, thin Sheffield fileting knife directly into Terrence Taylor’s right eye. When the tip of the blade met the back of the eye socket, Kyle smacked the butt with his palm, driving the blade deep into the brain.

Terrence Taylor croaked aloud. He should have stayed at T.G.I.F.

“I’ll bet you’re dead now,” Kyle remarked.

For good measure, he gave the knife a couple of quick, hard jiggles. Then he withdrew it and went back to fileting the legs on the opposing prep table. He was whistling “Sweetest Legs I Ever Did See” by Robert Johnson.

— | — | —

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

He’s here, Vera thought.

Or at least his car was. At once, butterflies careened in her stomach. In less than a minute, I’ll be talking to him. I’ll be standing right in front of him. Paul.

This realization caused a surge of the most unpleasant dread. A thousand excuses came to mind, to get out of it, but then she remembered what Donna had advised. Until she gave herself the chance to have her final word, she’d never be at peace, she’d never get the memory fully out of her psyche. As unnerved as she was, Vera knew there was no other way.

She parked the Lamborghini in the apartment lot, sat a moment, then got out. The cold chafed her, wisping down her chest through her collar despite her efforts to keep it clasped shut. She looked up at the apartment, and felt hollow…

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything, she insisted to herself. Just go up there, get your stuff, tell him he’s an asshole, and leave.

The long drive from Waynesville back to the city had been neutral and numb, despite the initial scenery and open, winding roads. What would her reaction be, seeing Paul again for the first time in months, for the first time since…

The hideous ménage à trois played in her mind, and the look in Paul’s eyes when he’d glanced up from the bed. An expression empty of recognition, empty of any sort of care whatsoever.

She seemed to be shoving against a great, invisible weight when she walked up the steps. Full minutes passed while she stood at the front door, staring at it. Should she knock? She should let herself in with her key? Maybe Paul wasn’t alone—

Maybe he’s in there right now with one of his drug- head perverted little girlfriends, she considered.

God. That was one scenario she didn’t even want to think about much less see again.

Then her mind strayed. Maybe I should forget about this. I’ll just tell Donna that I told him off. What good will any of this really do? It’s not necessary. It’s stupid.

But then another, more sensible voice screamed at her. Bullshit, Vera! You’re going to go in there! Right now! You’re not going to chicken out!

All right, all right, she agreed with herself. She withdrew her key, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

She expected a mess, and contrived den of drugs and iniquity, but when she stepped into the living room, it looked exactly as she remembered it: neat and tidy, everything in its place. What do I do now? she wondered. She felt imbecilic standing there. Just walk down the hall, go into the bedroom, and get it over with.

She turned, took one step into the hall—

Paul nearly walked into her.

“Dammit, Paul!” Vera yelled. “You scared the shit out of me!”

Paul had turned out of the hall just as she had turned into it. The moment held him in a mute shock. He blinked hard and stared—then rejoiced: “Vera! You’re back!”

“Yeah, I’m back to get my things,” she said, and brushed by him. “And that’s it.” She stormed into the bedroom, expecting to see evidence of Paul’s decadent secret life, but the bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, was clean and orderly. Come to think of it, Paul himself looked… normal, she considered. Dressed in jeans and the typical flannel shirt he wore when he wrote. He looked like the Paul she’d always known, not a sadomasochistic drug denizen she’d seen the last time she was in this room.

Paul jabbered as he scampered behind her. “Vera, Vera! I’ve been looking all over for you! We really need to talk!”

“No, Paul. We don’t need to talk, I need to talk.” She traipsed about the room, but, now that she was here, she really couldn’t think of anything she wanted. So just say what you came here to say, she resolved.

“You’re a deceitful, cheating scumbag, Paul,” she said, staring him down. “I can’t believe what you did to me, and by now I don’t even care—”

“But—but—” Paul stammered.

“And that’s really all I came here to say Paul. You’re a—”

“But Vera!”

“—lecherous, disgraceful—”

“Please, listen to me!”

“—disgusting—”

“Vera! No!”

“—piece of shit.”

They faced each other then, in thickening silence. That should shut him up, Vera thought. Watch. Next I’ll bet he’ll say something really original, like ‘You don’t understand’ or ‘Let me explain.’ What a pathetic schmuck.

“I know what you must think, and I know how you feel,” he began.

“No, you don’t!” she spat back. She rummaged through the closet, then the dresser. All her old things refaced her now, but they seemed tainted, poisoned. She didn’t even want them anymore. “You don’t know how I feel, and you don’t give a shit anyway,” she finished.

Paul tremored in place. “Vera, at least let me explain.”

Vera laughed. Yes, so predictable. “What’s to ex plain, Paul?” Then she marched out of the bedroom and back down the hall. “But since you’re so talkative, tell me this? How long were you cheating on me?’’

He followed her, frantic. “Vera, I never cheated on you! I swear it!”