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Authors: Jake Hinkson
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little parking lot.
There were five cars in the parking lot. One was an emerald-colored BMW. I knew who that belonged to.
In a couple of minutes the door opened and a short-haired woman wearing a thick coat and green scrubs walked out. Holding a cigarette and a lighter in one hand, her other hand still on the doorknob, she stopped when she saw me. She froze so quickly, it looked as if she were playing freeze tag. Quite comical, actually. Slowly, she went back inside, and in a moment the security officer came out.
He wore no hat or coat—the better to display his military crewcut and muscular arms. He strode over to me and asked, “What’s up, buddy?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes stayed locked on to mine. “You waiting for somebody?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“Awful chilly out here to be sitting around doing nothing. Kinda weird thing to do.”
“I’m kinda weird, I guess.”
A mean smile twisted onto his face, and his blue eyes flashed like little pieces of polished steel. “How about you leave before something bad happens, pal.”
I looked down at his shiny, black shoes. “The last I checked, this is still a free country. Or did I wake up in Russia this morning?”
The door opened and the abortionist came out. Thin, dressed in a shirt and tie, he had curly blond hair and glasses. I’d seen him before, but I don’t believe he’d ever seen me. He stopped by his BMW and put his hands on his hips just like the security officer.
The officer said, “C’mon, buddy. Get on out of here.”
When I met eyes with the abortionist, I called to him, “What will you say to your creator?”
“Okay, shithead,” the security officer said. He thrust closer to obscure my view of the abortionist, so close to my face I could smell the coffee on his breath. “Up. Now.”
I shrank back against the pole.
“Fine,” I said. I stood up and walked off from him, but I stopped in the dry, brown grass at the edge of the parking lot and looked back. The security officer hadn’t moved, but the abortionist was standing beside him, looking at me. For just a moment longer I was eye to eye with a killer of children.
It chilled my blood.
Chapter 2
Maybe quitting your job was a mistake.
The thought came to me as I watched my wife sleep, a quivering strip of orange light falling across her face from the streetlamp swaying in the wind outside our bedroom window. I crept through the shadows to the side of the bed. While she slept she didn’t need the facial prosthetic, and it lay rolled up in a yellow towel beside a bottle of pills on her nightstand. Contracting with each breath she took, where her nose and hard palette had once been, was a dark, moist hole.
Her eyes opened and turned toward me. Titanium snaps, fastened to bone, glinted from inside the hole. I did not move and did not turn on the lights.
Her jaw bobbed as she said, “Hello.” Without her prosthetic snapped in, her voice was a thick expulsion of air.
“Hey,” I said.
She sighed, and her thin blonde hair fell at her shoulders. After two years it still made me nauseous to look at the hole in the center of her face. I could see her tongue trailing down her throat like a snake. Letting my eyes drift, I focused on the yellow stripes on her pillow.
“Tired,” she told me.
I nodded. “You sleep. I’m going to bed.”
She stared at me. The moisture in her mouth cavity glistened in the synthetic orange light, and even trying not to see it, I saw it. I always saw it. She said, “Can you put…the thing…in for me?”
I walked over to the bed and unwrapped the prosthetic. It was light and hollow. Leaning over her, I positioned it in the hole until the magnetic snaps clicked into place.
I sat down beside her and took her hand. “Did your sister come over today?”
“Yes.”
“Did she get you up and around?”
“Some.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s really good.”
She
There were five cars in the parking lot. One was an emerald-colored BMW. I knew who that belonged to.
In a couple of minutes the door opened and a short-haired woman wearing a thick coat and green scrubs walked out. Holding a cigarette and a lighter in one hand, her other hand still on the doorknob, she stopped when she saw me. She froze so quickly, it looked as if she were playing freeze tag. Quite comical, actually. Slowly, she went back inside, and in a moment the security officer came out.
He wore no hat or coat—the better to display his military crewcut and muscular arms. He strode over to me and asked, “What’s up, buddy?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes stayed locked on to mine. “You waiting for somebody?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“Awful chilly out here to be sitting around doing nothing. Kinda weird thing to do.”
“I’m kinda weird, I guess.”
A mean smile twisted onto his face, and his blue eyes flashed like little pieces of polished steel. “How about you leave before something bad happens, pal.”
I looked down at his shiny, black shoes. “The last I checked, this is still a free country. Or did I wake up in Russia this morning?”
The door opened and the abortionist came out. Thin, dressed in a shirt and tie, he had curly blond hair and glasses. I’d seen him before, but I don’t believe he’d ever seen me. He stopped by his BMW and put his hands on his hips just like the security officer.
The officer said, “C’mon, buddy. Get on out of here.”
When I met eyes with the abortionist, I called to him, “What will you say to your creator?”
“Okay, shithead,” the security officer said. He thrust closer to obscure my view of the abortionist, so close to my face I could smell the coffee on his breath. “Up. Now.”
I shrank back against the pole.
“Fine,” I said. I stood up and walked off from him, but I stopped in the dry, brown grass at the edge of the parking lot and looked back. The security officer hadn’t moved, but the abortionist was standing beside him, looking at me. For just a moment longer I was eye to eye with a killer of children.
It chilled my blood.
Chapter 2
Maybe quitting your job was a mistake.
The thought came to me as I watched my wife sleep, a quivering strip of orange light falling across her face from the streetlamp swaying in the wind outside our bedroom window. I crept through the shadows to the side of the bed. While she slept she didn’t need the facial prosthetic, and it lay rolled up in a yellow towel beside a bottle of pills on her nightstand. Contracting with each breath she took, where her nose and hard palette had once been, was a dark, moist hole.
Her eyes opened and turned toward me. Titanium snaps, fastened to bone, glinted from inside the hole. I did not move and did not turn on the lights.
Her jaw bobbed as she said, “Hello.” Without her prosthetic snapped in, her voice was a thick expulsion of air.
“Hey,” I said.
She sighed, and her thin blonde hair fell at her shoulders. After two years it still made me nauseous to look at the hole in the center of her face. I could see her tongue trailing down her throat like a snake. Letting my eyes drift, I focused on the yellow stripes on her pillow.
“Tired,” she told me.
I nodded. “You sleep. I’m going to bed.”
She stared at me. The moisture in her mouth cavity glistened in the synthetic orange light, and even trying not to see it, I saw it. I always saw it. She said, “Can you put…the thing…in for me?”
I walked over to the bed and unwrapped the prosthetic. It was light and hollow. Leaning over her, I positioned it in the hole until the magnetic snaps clicked into place.
I sat down beside her and took her hand. “Did your sister come over today?”
“Yes.”
“Did she get you up and around?”
“Some.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s really good.”
She
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