third time, a mere whisper pulled from her through reflex, unconsciously responding to her best friend’s voice. Hillary stepped out into the alley. The jeans-clad legs led up to a man. She was unsteady, felt . . . disconnected. There was a soft buzzing in her ears, and the world around her was foggy. If she concentrated, though, she could make just a little bit of the world clear again.
Hillary focused, her eyes following the man’s form. Knees, bent this way and that, as if he were a doll cast aside by a careless child. The jacket thrown open, shirt pulled up to expose a bulge of hairy white belly. Beside the man, one of his hands clutched the ground. She noticed the way his fingernails had shattered against the blacktop, ragged chunks of nail and skin mixing with the blood that trailed along the ground for about a half a foot before pooling beneath his ruined fingers.
That looks like it hurt, she thought. A lot. A part of her somewhere was trying to tell her that yes, it did hurt a lot, and it was important , but that part seemed far away, and she just didn’t want to listen right now. The wordless torrent of sorrow sounded closer, and she could make out some of the comforting words being murmured in response.
“. . . Not your fault . . . none of this . . . sorry, honey, so sorry, but . . .”
Hillary’s gaze wandered higher, crossing the man’s chest to his twisted shoulders, then higher still, expecting to see a face; but her curious stare ground to a halt before getting that far, riveted by the man’s throat.
Or where his throat was supposed to be.
Where his throat was supposed to be was a ragged open hole filled with mush, stringy things and bits, all of it reminding her of the first time she’d opened the top of a pumpkin to make a jack-o’-lantern. She’d been grossed out at the mess of stuff she’d seen inside, like the pumpkin was half melting, or gone bad already, with seeds and strings and goo , all slimy and disgusting; but this stuff here wasn’t orange like the inside of a pumpkin: it was red, bright red and dark red and just red because it wasn’t the inside of a pumpkin , but the inside of a person and—
This was the real Hillary doing the talking now, the part that had been trying to warn her that the splintered hand was important, that had started so far away but had fought its way closer every second until now it was so loud she couldn’t ignore it; and though she tried not to look at the messy hole where the man’s throat used to be, she did look, understanding what she was seeing although she wanted so much to just ignore that too, understanding that this man was dead—
She vomited: hot popcorn, soda, and the chicken she’d had for dinner ( that seemed so long ago now was it really just earlier tonight? ) spraying against the green dumpster with enough force to bounce off, spattering her sneakers. Her stomach clenched so hard she fell, slivers of pain driving deep into her battered knees, nearly landing in the puddle of her own mess.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.”
The voice was louder, clearer now that Hillary had come back to herself and the foggy feeling had blown away. She recognized Mrs. Redfern’s voice, shaking with emotion, a slight hitch in the word sorry stretching the two syllables into three, giving the impression the woman was crying. The pavement bit into her knees even more than the cement dumpster pad had, and the moist stink of the dumpster’s contents mingled with that of the hot puddle between her hands in a way that made her stomach lurch again, the painful twitch of an already abused abdomen. She forced herself to her feet, the green metal cool beneath one hand as she leaned against it for support and turned to face the crying woman.
They sat there, at the head of the man lying torn open on the ground, Mrs. Redfern sitting tailor-fashion, Valerie in her lap. The woman was comforting her daughter, cuddling her like a toddler, rocking her
Hillary focused, her eyes following the man’s form. Knees, bent this way and that, as if he were a doll cast aside by a careless child. The jacket thrown open, shirt pulled up to expose a bulge of hairy white belly. Beside the man, one of his hands clutched the ground. She noticed the way his fingernails had shattered against the blacktop, ragged chunks of nail and skin mixing with the blood that trailed along the ground for about a half a foot before pooling beneath his ruined fingers.
That looks like it hurt, she thought. A lot. A part of her somewhere was trying to tell her that yes, it did hurt a lot, and it was important , but that part seemed far away, and she just didn’t want to listen right now. The wordless torrent of sorrow sounded closer, and she could make out some of the comforting words being murmured in response.
“. . . Not your fault . . . none of this . . . sorry, honey, so sorry, but . . .”
Hillary’s gaze wandered higher, crossing the man’s chest to his twisted shoulders, then higher still, expecting to see a face; but her curious stare ground to a halt before getting that far, riveted by the man’s throat.
Or where his throat was supposed to be.
Where his throat was supposed to be was a ragged open hole filled with mush, stringy things and bits, all of it reminding her of the first time she’d opened the top of a pumpkin to make a jack-o’-lantern. She’d been grossed out at the mess of stuff she’d seen inside, like the pumpkin was half melting, or gone bad already, with seeds and strings and goo , all slimy and disgusting; but this stuff here wasn’t orange like the inside of a pumpkin: it was red, bright red and dark red and just red because it wasn’t the inside of a pumpkin , but the inside of a person and—
This was the real Hillary doing the talking now, the part that had been trying to warn her that the splintered hand was important, that had started so far away but had fought its way closer every second until now it was so loud she couldn’t ignore it; and though she tried not to look at the messy hole where the man’s throat used to be, she did look, understanding what she was seeing although she wanted so much to just ignore that too, understanding that this man was dead—
She vomited: hot popcorn, soda, and the chicken she’d had for dinner ( that seemed so long ago now was it really just earlier tonight? ) spraying against the green dumpster with enough force to bounce off, spattering her sneakers. Her stomach clenched so hard she fell, slivers of pain driving deep into her battered knees, nearly landing in the puddle of her own mess.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.”
The voice was louder, clearer now that Hillary had come back to herself and the foggy feeling had blown away. She recognized Mrs. Redfern’s voice, shaking with emotion, a slight hitch in the word sorry stretching the two syllables into three, giving the impression the woman was crying. The pavement bit into her knees even more than the cement dumpster pad had, and the moist stink of the dumpster’s contents mingled with that of the hot puddle between her hands in a way that made her stomach lurch again, the painful twitch of an already abused abdomen. She forced herself to her feet, the green metal cool beneath one hand as she leaned against it for support and turned to face the crying woman.
They sat there, at the head of the man lying torn open on the ground, Mrs. Redfern sitting tailor-fashion, Valerie in her lap. The woman was comforting her daughter, cuddling her like a toddler, rocking her
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