The Golden Child

The name’s Waterloo Clyde. I’ve been working these hills for longer than anybody. I didn’t take up with too many women in all this time. Women found my countenance disagreeable. The hills have always been the warm bosom what grabs me and holds me through the long nights.

I had some lean times and some boom times, striking a nugget here or some flakes there. Whenever I had had the gold in my pocket, I drank and fucked it all away, until I had to go back into the hills for more.

I did call on the Widow Vern a few times to go for evening strolls. She and I would saunter past the gas lamps on the cobblestone plaza of The Town. She was fair in manner and presentation, and carried an ebullient air.

I asked her one evening, “Will you be my wife? There’s no use in both of us being alone.”

She replied, “Waterloo Clyde, I can look past the face, but you are too dirty and too poor to marry.”

I didn’t take too much offense to it. She was right. I was dirty from living in the dirt, and I was poor from not having enough money.

This happened out on her porch, where we could have iced tea within the quiet scrutiny of The Town, who needed to know we weren’t up to any funny stuff. Such were the morays of the time.

“You’ll see, ma’am. I’ll get a big payday and buy me a bathtub. I’ll wash up real good, so you’ll be proud to be around me.”

She said, “If you can get me a baby, I’ll marry you. My insides ain’t fit for childbirth, according to Doctor Tom. So that’s the deal. You have my word.”

I figured I could find a baby. Babies wasn’t as rare as gold and I found that plenty of times. So I went to the hills and started mining for babies. 

I spent years digging thousands of holes. I found some gold here or there, but mostly it was just mud.

One night I heard the holler in the dark. It was a baby’s cry. I followed it and found its source were under the ground, there in the clearing where the pines gave way to the stars. 

I began to dig. I dug like I dug into the grip of a bottle: with fury and trepidation. I hacked through roots and bramble, digging toward that plaintive wail. I used my hands when the cry got louder. What was born from that hole was a lump of gold 19″ long, roughly the size and shape of a child, there in the full moonlight. I knew what I had to do. 

I went back to The Town. I shaved part of the nugget off to pay a metal worker to sculpt me a golden baby. He had it finished within a fortnight and I presented the baby to the Widow Vern.

“Why Waterloo Jones, this not what I meant. I wanted a human baby, not a decadent facsimile of a baby.”

“Is it not as expensive as a baby? Love it like a baby. Everything is transactional.”

“Yes I suppose there is love to be had in a golden child. I think I’ll call her Goldie.”

And we paraded the baby through the streets, all hailed it as a triumph, and the Widow Vern became Mrs. Waterloo Clyde.

“We need a new house for Goldie,” she said as she nursed the metallic child.

And so I went, hat in hand, to the bank to ask for a home loan. 

Mr. Bankman, the owner of the bank said, “That’s no problem, Mr. Clyde. We’ll just need the golden baby as collateral.”

“Mr. Bankman, sir, that’s quite gracious of you, however, I don’t think I can square that with the wife. You see she’s become very attached to the baby. She’s not going to take too kindly to being separated for the duration of the mortgage.”

Mr. Banksy Bankman thought on this a second. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do because we do want your business. We will place the baby under glass and put it in our lobby. That way your wife can visit the baby during business hours.”

I thought this was a good compromise and presented it to Mrs. Clyde. She said, “So We need a bigger house to accommodate the baby, but if we get a bigger house, we have no baby to accommodate.”

“True.”

“How does that make sense?”

“I guess it really doesn’t. But we need to choose one or the other.”

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Bankman says it is so.”

“Oh. Well let’s get the house then. I can go visit the baby all day every day. Or whenever it suits me.”

This meant I had to work digging up them hills for enough gold to make the payments on the house. This was difficult because the hills was picked over like a Thanksgiving turkey, days after the feast. It wasn’t just ol’ Waterloo Clyde roaming the hills anymore. Word of the golden child spread far and wide. Now every pissant with a shovel was combing the hills, eating up all my glory.

I had to go so far to find gold, I never even visited the house I was paying for. I sleep still in a hole in the ground.

Meanwhile, throngs gather to see the golden baby. People swear they hear the baby crying still, like it did that night below the ground. Others claim to hear nothing but the echo of a marble bank lobby packed to capacity.

Party Pickle

Everyone calls me Pickles, from my biological family to my found one at Club Climaxxx. Don’t judge—or assume I got that nickname because I smell briny. Just ask my customers, I smell more like the raspberry jam of Linzer cookies. 

The nickname has more to do with my good luck. And okay, I drink the juice straight out of the jar, neon seeds and all. But ’tis the season for green stuff. You see, it’s German tradition to hide a pickle in the Christmas tree so whoever finds it gets an extra gift and blessing to carry into the new year. And I always win that Gherkin.

Some would say I’m too competitive over it, except now it’s strippers, not siblings, insisting it. But I need that good fortune more than ever since my family ices me out over my “exotic” job. I won’t have any celebration to come home to.

“So, let’s have X-mas at the club,” my boyfriend Geo says from the front seat of his shiny Escalade. He started as my escort to and from the club and remains that way for safety reasons. Sometimes I think I should still tip him for his advice. “Why not? Plenty of us are disowned by our families for running in underground crowds. Screw them. Let’s pop some bottles, exchange some bags, toss around a li’l mistletoe.”

I stop myself from chewing off my gloss. Though I can’t imagine candle-lighting the family tree after twelve teary “raised you better” voicemails from Mama, unstuffing stockings with near-naked girlies sucking on oranges and airplane bottles seems as off. 

He glances in the rearview as I stick rhinestones around my eyes to simulate a snow-speckled ice queen. The Santa toy from the Kinder Joy chocolate I gave him a year ago hangs off the mirror, its egghead winking at me as it metronomes to the soft techno. “C’mon, the holidays are bigger than the two of us. Let’s bring some folks together. We’ll have a blast. I’ll bring the Grand Brulot. Been eyeing a bottle since your girl turned me onto the VSOP.”

My smile resurfaces when I remember Chastity drinking him and DJ Jinx under the table over a game of Never Have I Ever. “I don’t know. . . That sounds like a big to-do. Chastity would be on board, but I don’t know if the girls wanna ‘waste’ their money so last-minute.”

“Ah, don’t sweat it. I’m not taking lip from selfish Sheena or too-cool-for-school Anissa. Trust me, I’m a master debater.” He rolls up to the big sign with the club’s bit lip logo. “I’ll bring the whole fam together. You can call me K-rizz Kringle,” he laughs. 

I lean over to noogie him. “Think you got too many sugar plums dancing in your head, handsome.” 

I kiss that big forehead, then we tell each other to be careful. But as I’m walking into the back of the club, I see Geo get out and beeline for the club owner’s mini monster truck. He knocks on the slime-green decaled door and down rolls the window. 

I scrunch my shoulders and push away thoughts of Mister Miser laughing at the idea—or polling all his pole minxes and them doing it to my face.

“Ooooh, Pickles,” Chastity cheers from her vanity, waving a sparkly blush brush at me. “What’s up, girl? Did you hear Miski finally got fired for thieving? Christmas come early, right? Now I can actually afford who’s on my Nice List.”

I plop into the pink roller chair next to her. “Good. That girl was feral. Worse attitude than the Cash Me Outside girl.”

“Total Grinch,” Anissa agrees, leaning into our conversation to borrow Chastity’s cotton candy perfume. “I’d put coal in her stocking and beat her with it like a prison rock sock.”

“Naughty, naughty,” Chastity clucks. “Have you really been to prison?”

“Just jail.” Anissa rolls her shoulders like it was a stint in summer school. “One night over a stupid lotion set I ’lifted for my moms… Bitch wouldn’t even pick me up at the station.” She shakes her head until her frown turns into a grin usually reserved for customers. “Who knew Kmart had security like that?”

“His helpers are always watching,” Chastity ominously intones, staring at a bedazzled Santa hat somebody draped over a mirror bulb.

“You play too much.” Anissa gives her a half-hearted shove. “What about you, Pickles? I know you ain’t never been to the pokey. But you ever done some stupid shit over people you thought was family?”

I flash on the holly-dotted embroidery hoop I have sitting on my coffee table, likely to become a dust-catcher after Aunt Zelda told me I’d “have better luck being an esthetician, not an embarrassment.” Scratching at the clasps on my bustier, I murmur, “Well, haven’t we all?”

***

On the stage, glacial in temperature and shade, I forget about all my sad-browed relatives and lack of holiday plans. I shake off the stress, keeping the beat even though I’m sick of Ariana Grande’s caterwauling and the customers who think I don’t see them reusing bills from the edge. Men keep their billfolds closer to the chest this time of year, squeezed tighter from their kids’ wish lists, hosting the in-laws, and their wives’ endless list of “necessary decorations.” 

I’ve heard about it for countless lap dances and tabletop bops, so I dip, slide, and shimmy through the night and early morning until Geo comes to get me. He greets me with Mister Miser, Chastity, and Anissa at his flank. 

“You gotta real fun braintrust here, Pickles.” The club owner winks and glances at his gold Rollie. 5AM. “Merry Christmas Eve. You gonna deck the halls with us next shift or what?”

“Huh?” I wipe sweat and glitter off my forehead, raising a brow to my man.

“Said I gotchu, Pickles!” He shakes up a bottle of Moet but doesn’t pop the top. “This Christmas will be five times funner than some dusty ol’ family function, a fusion of the new and classic! Let me surprise you.”

Well, this is surprise enough, I think, but seeing he’s even got the cheapskate club owner and snooty booty Anissa on board… “We’ll see.” My smile shows I’m already cautiously optimistic.

***

Though 7PM is more like breakfast to clubsters, twelve of us sashay through the doors of The Melting Pot. We soak in all the actual and metaphorical cheesiness of eating liquid cheddar while draped in fluffy white bras and hookah smoke. 

“Germans always have fondue for Christmas Even, right?” Geo asks, as eager as a puppy who actually studied the homework instead of ate it. “That’s what Google said. It’s corny fun anyway, right? Nice.”

“Yes. Kitschy in the best way.” I beam, hoping he’ll relax. “Can’t believe you actually coordinated something with eight strippers,” I whisper as he pulls my chair out.

“Can’t believe you doubted your boy!” He winks and asks the waiter for a round of cranberry mojitos. Once they arrive, he toasts, “Miami doesn’t have much of a winter, but it’s definitely the coolest place to come together. I hope this is the first of many years we support this tradition. Even if we move away from the club, we can all take a piece of this memory, knowing that family is what you make it. Thanks, Pickles, for inspiring this! Cheers, everybody!”

Everybody clinks glasses, then laughs about the droplets that fall and sizzle on the hotplates at our roundtable. The bouncer teases Mister Miser that these drinks are less watered-down than his, and the girls squeeze each other’s shoulders in playful shoves, kidding about who’ll get drunkest before dusk. We share cauldrons of Swiss to dunk duck and fillet mignon, charcuterie and shrimp, we cook ourselves on skewers. Anissa entertains us with how she used to slink into her mom’s closet as early as November to slit open her presents with a nail file. Chastity talks about how glad she is not to have to be glared and ogled at for free in church this year. By the time we move onto chocolate and wedges of bread, pineapples and pretzels, I forget why I ever feared rejection here.

“And the best is yet to come,” Chastity sings at me with as Geo signs the bill. 

***

The Champagne Room is strewn with candy-striped balloons. On the red-hot couches, we all sit for the gift exchange by a Charlie Brown tree. Our heels excitedly stomp on the carpet patterned with hair-swinging babes. Anissa tries her best not to fight over that Agent Provocateur lingerie set she had to trade in the shuffle. Chastity and I giggle like schoolgirls over the gag gifts of literal stress “balls” and pregnancy tests that got passed around. I’m more than pleased with the Body Works basket I won and the spa certificate I gave away, but Geo’s sweet deep voice says, “Wait. Pickles, it’s not Christmas without your signature.” 

He nods toward the artificial tree. 

It’s easy to see through its limbs but it takes some digging to pluck that ornament of a Vlasic classic. The other girls halfheartedly search, munching Haribo gummies. 

That pickle prize is mine! I hold it up like a torch.

The girls whistle and clap. 

Geo snatches it from my hand. 

Before I can ask why, he plants a jewelry box in my palm instead. He flicks open the small square and reveals an emerald ring. 

“Ol’ switcharoo. Whata ya say, Pickles?” He proposes, “Year one of many traditions?”

I say, pickles really are lucky. I am.

Fuck Christmas

Since it was Christmas Day Mom wanted to get drunk. This sounded like a good idea but it’s illegal to sell alcohol in Massachusetts on holidays. She would not be discouraged.

“We’ll drive up to New Hampshire. There’s liquor stores just across the State line.”

That sounded depressing. A storm had covered the Northeastern Corridor with several feet of snow that’d mostly turned black and crusty.  But anything was better than being at home, except maybe the Bay State Prison where I’d spent the last few Xmases. 

“And then we can drive a bit further north and visit your father.”

She put icing on the suicidal cake. My old man’s buried just outside the Navy Stockade at Portsmouth. He struck an officer while intoxicated. They could’ve strung him up, but he took care of that detail himself. 

Black ice blotted out the long stretch of industrial blight. Mom’s naturally chatty. I turned on the radio to drown her out. She doesn’t appreciate Satanic metal, and switched to a station heavy on the Xmas carols. She sang along tunelessly and it was better than her usual nonsense about happier times.

She’d dressed as though we were headed to Miami instead of closer to the North Pole. The car’s heater was broken. She mewled about eggnog, Yule logs and chestnuts burning on an open fire.

The New Hampshire liquor stores were all open. Even so, there were long lines. Xmas is hard to face sober. Mom waited till we were back in the car to open the first bottle. 

“Did you see how all those men were staring at me.”

The attention made her merry. The sky got lower and lower, grayer and grayer. Jesus Christ is born, hallelujah. A storm warning interrupted the carols and prayers. It was strongly recommended that citizens remain in their homes and avoid the highways. 

The prison loomed deathly pale against black clouds headed in from over the Atlantic. There were no other cars in the visitors parking lot. 

The inmates’ graveyard is just outside the chain-link perimeter. The names on the tiny headstones face in towards what amounted to home and family for those dead men.

Mom got weepy, even though her first ex-husband had spent all her money, knocked her up and then left her for some other alcoholic floozy. I never even met the guy, but he’d passed on the prison gene. 

The ice storm hit while we were on the bridge that leads onto I-95. The old car had bald tires and we skidded like a rattlesnake in a jar of vaseline. Police cars had staked out all the exits and the cops were waving people off the road. I prayed they wouldn’t make me pull over because I wasn’t too sober at that point and wasn’t supposed to go out of State. 

Mom saw the pink neon motel sign. “Oh look I stayed there with your father once. At least I think it was him.”

Seemed like a miracle when the old guy at the reception desk took a check for the room. He must’ve been new in the motel business, or maybe he was drunk too. 

“Oh look honey a double bed. We can snuggle up and watch TV like when you were a baby.”

A bottle hit the floor and I awoke to what looked like a snowdrift dancing up and down on my lap. The TV glowed an electric snowstorm and roared static. Mom looked up. 

“Oh I thought it’d be OK as long as you’re asleep.”

Actually it felt pretty good, and it wasn’t as though I had any other hot dates lined up. So it was time to follow through, head in where I came out of, turn life into a round-trip. The place where everything started was nice and cozy and Mom was singing jingle bells but then a thought crossed her mind and she stopped. 

“Ooh baby weren’t you awful lonely in prison?”

“They never stuck me in the hole.”

She moaned. “Oh that’s not what I mean, honey. Didn’t you have a nice cellmate to hug you and keep you warm on Christmas Eve?”

Those are the memories you forget as soon as they let you out. “I’d rather not talk about it, Ma.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, baby. Just let me feel it.” She assumed the position.

TV glare showed a wreath of dead flowers that pulsated with the cathode vibrations. The thing went in slow.

“Ooh now I remember why I fell in love with your papa.”

Guess I’d learned a thing or two at the Bay State Correctional Facility, the only place I was ever popular. 

Outside the motel the snow fell and fell. Mom sounded so happy. She sang about her dreams of a white Xmas. 

The white stuff came out, eventually. And I remembered through an alcoholic haze that there was something else I’d picked up in prison that maybe I should’ve told her about.

The Art of Love

I sit silently staring down at the blood dripping from the slashes in my arms. I embrace the pain as it reminds me that I’m alive, and still capable of feeling. I look at the canvas in front of me. It sits on an old wooden stretcher I borrowed in High School and conveniently forgot to give back. The painting on the canvas was an abstract tree meant to represent the tree of life. It had come alive with sweet melancholy when I started to smear the blood onto the tree, starting at the roots and making my way up the trunk. I eventually ran out and tore another gash into my arm to finish the branches. The way the blood mixed with the already dark construct made me smile. This was true art. There aren’t many left who will suffer for their art like this. This, after all, was a tree of life, and what better representation of life than blood?

​ The numbness in my body began and I knew that meant it was time to bandage myself up. I go to my cabinet in the corner of the studio where the medical supplies are kept, pull out a large amount of gauze and medical tape, and go to town on myself. I don’t worry about the stitching materials. I don’t think I went too deep this time. My last painting, a bastardized conception of the Virgin Mary was a whole other story. That one took a lot of blood, and a lot of stitches, which I had luckily watched a YouTube video on how to do.

​Now that I’m all bandaged, and feeling somewhat alive, still riding the high from the loss of blood I figure why stop there? I light a cigarette and open a beer, then send out the notorious, “You up?” text to a few girls on my phone. A few minutes pass, and it buzzes showing an icon of Sara’s face. Wouldn’t have been my top pick if I’m being honest, but it’s midnight and here we are. Her text reads, “Yeah, I can be there in ten.” with a smiley face. So I reply, sounds good, and crack another beer and wait.

​ Sara makes it to my house in what feels more like twenty, but I’m not going to complain. At least she showed up. Something about her is radiant tonight. She wore skin-tight black jeans and a low-cut v-neck showing off just enough. Her porcelain skin seemed to come alive when it was lit up by the pale moonlight. Her face was all angles and beautiful as she brushed her fair hair out of her eyes. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “Do you have another art project you want my opinion on or was this just a booty call?”

​“Can’t it be both?” I ask and we both laugh. I ask her to come in and offer her a drink. “We have beer or bourbon, take your pick.”

​“Do you have any Coke? I’d love a Jack and Coke.” So I mix her one before pulling her over to gaze into my newest masterpiece. She looked at it in awe and it filled me with gratitude, why was I ever hoping it would be one of the other girls? Sara truly sees my art and might be the only one who does. “Did you. . did you hurt yourself for this one too?” She asked in a soft voice. I just grin back at her and pull off my sweatshirt, revealing my heavily bandaged arms. At that moment, she looked so sad and I swear I saw tears forming in her eyes. 

​“Hey now, it’s okay. It’s all for the art Sara, don’t you see? Don’t you see how much better it makes it?” She doesn’t look convinced, but she forces a smile and says, “Of course. I think you’re brilliant, you know that.” I smile back at her. She was beautiful and full of flattery tonight. I grab her by the waist and pull her into the tightest hug I can muster with my arms in their lousy state. She leans in for a kiss and her lips have to be the softest I’ve ever felt. The kisses start coming faster in rapid succession as we both clumsily make our way back to the bed. 

She pushes me back onto the bed with little effort because of how woozy I am from the blood loss and alcohol. She starts taking off her shirt as I slide my jeans off and then I go for my shirt and by the time I get it over my head she’s standing at the edge of the bed completely naked. Her body curves in all the right places and I can’t remember a time when I was more aroused. She slides on top of me and it’s in within seconds, I swear I’ve never felt someone so wet. She rides me for what feels like hours, every second is pure bliss as skin slaps together. We fit together perfectly like slippery puzzle pieces that were meant for each other. 

We both come multiple times before she rolls off of me and we lay there in complete ecstasy. I light a cigarette and pass it to her and then light one for myself. She props herself up on one arm and leans into me, using her non-smoking hand to draw imaginary lines around my belly button. She starts to run her hands over the scars all over my belly and torso, and then she says. “I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself. I know it’s for the art, and it makes it better, it does. I just still hate that you do it to yourself. I wish you would use someone else’s blood. Your body is scarred enough. Why not use the body of someone else you care about? Maybe even someone you love?” 

I think about this for a moment. Do I “love” anyone? That I’m not sure of but I guess if I did, Sara would be the one. I, at the very least, love her at this moment. “What exactly are you suggesting Sara?” I ask, already knowing the answer. 

“You could use me, I’d let you. I trust you to patch me up, and you’re still beautiful with your scars so maybe I will be too.” She says, almost excitedly. 

“Sara, there is nothing in this world that would ever make you less beautiful,” I say with a smile. I brush her hair back and tuck it behind her ear. “Are you sure? You want to be a part of my art?” She nods, and that’s that. “Then there’s no time to waste. I already have my next idea. Let’s get started.’

The concept for my next piece is simple. I will simply paint the Earth and then smear Sara’s blood from top to bottom on the canvas to symbolize the cruel reality we live in. This planet is dying, and we’re doing it. All of us, me, you, Sara, it doesn’t matter, we’re all guilty. Sara sits behind me and watches the gentle brush strokes shape the most authentic representation of the Earth that I can muster. It’s not my best work, for the hour is late and I’ve grown quite drunk, but I’m riding the high now and if I let go for even a second, I may crash. 

I start coloring in my world with blues and greens with a little dash of white here and there for a foggy effect. Look at that, I’ve painted the Earth and it’s only three-thirty in the morning. Now the fun begins. I walk over to Sara with my razor outstretched. She grimaces away at first but composes herself quickly. She’s still naked and I take a moment to see her whole for the last time, without any blemishes. She is so beautiful, but there’s work to be done. 

I make sure not to go too deep with the first cut. It’s on her upper forearm and I just want her to get a feel for it. She winces only slightly and then stares down, mesmerized at the site of her blood. I remember my first time and in that moment I envy her for how free she must be feeling. I grab her arm and squeeze as I run my brush under the flowing crimson. She cries out because my grip is too tight. “I’m sorry,” she says immediately. 

“It’s okay, are you sure you want this? I’m going to need a lot more than just that little bit of blood.” Most of what I had squeezed out of her was already drying and was useless to me now. She doesn’t speak, she just nods her head. So I tear a few fresh wounds open on her arms and go back to work. The blood sets up nicely on the not-yet-dry paint, giving it the exact effect I want. Sara whimpers behind me, admiringly as I, the virtuoso smears fresh blood on as much of the canvas as I can. “Other arm,” I say without even looking back at her as I hold out my hand for hers. She gives me her arm and I tear three new gashes into it, maybe going a little deep with one, but she’ll be fine. I’m a professional, after all. 

Sara’s arms look worse than I initially realized so I pause from my work and begin to bandage her up. The one I went a little too deep on won’t stop bleeding so I know I’m going to have to stitch it. I make my way over to the medical cabinet, pull out my supplies, and go to work on a not-so-great suture that looks even worse than the ones I did on myself. “There you are, good as new,” I said.

“Baby, I don’t feel so good, I think I need to lay down.” It is getting late and I also want to lay down so I get it. We can finish the blood-soaked Earth another time. 

“That’s okay, let’s get you to bed. We can finish it later. You did great for your first time.” I guide her over to the bed, lay her down, and tuck her in gently. She drifts off to sleep almost instantly. That really must’ve taken a lot out of her. I admire her one last time and throw my arm over, bury my face in the pillow, and begin to drift off myself. 

I dream that I’m standing on a stage in front of a large audience. There are hundreds of people seated in front of me in rows. Next to me stand my blood-soaked earth, still propped up on my hand-me-down stretcher. There’s what appears to be a panel of three judges looking over it. I hear their murmurs, saying words like exquisite. A normal man would blush under these circumstances, but I know what I am. I am modern expressionism embodied and the words from the judges are well-earned. They all hold up little cards with the number ten on them and the crowd begins to cheer. I deserve this.

I look down and see Sara sitting in the front row. I go to the edge of the stage and beckon her to join me. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I say to the crowd. “Could we have a round of applause for my partner, for it was she who truly inspired this work?” The crowd eats it up and then all of a sudden I hear an alarm going off in the distance. My alarm clock succeeds at waking me up even though I swear I shut it off the night before. I have a splitting headache. It’s only eight in the morning. What was that like four hours of sleep? Oh well. I look over at Sara and notice something is wrong with the way she is breathing, or rather the way she seems to almost not be breathing. 

“Hey, wake up,” I say, shaking her gently. Nothing. She doesn’t respond. I shake her harder and roll her onto her back. Her face stares up at me but there’s nothing left to it. All the vibrance is gone. Her eyes are open slightly and her mouth is ajar, but no air is going in or out. I feel a tear fall from my eye and it lands on her face as I begin to break down. I look at her arm and see that the stitching I had done the night prior had been ripped out and underneath her was a large pool of blood. My silent sobs grow heavier as I feel my chest heaving in and out. I turn with just enough time to avoid doing it on the bed and throw up all over my floor. 

I allow myself what feels like an hour to remain in this state before I get up and start pacing back and forth. “Okay, you gotta fucking think. Not only are you a murderer, but there are clear signs of mental health issues wrapped up in this too. So do you go to the cops? Confess? Spend the rest of your useless life in the psych ward of some prison? Fuck no, okay? We’re not doing that. It’s not what I want and it’s not what Sara would want either.” A thought crosses my mind to get rid of the body and ditch the cell phone. The cellphone would be the easiest to get rid of, my band plays a show tonight at The Rockit, I’ll just drop it there in the crowd somewhere, but the body was an issue.

I look around the room and my eyes fall on the pile of camping stuff in the corner from back when my folks and I still did things together. I know the sleeping bags are wrapped up in a couple of Hefty’s so I’ll use those first and foremost. I go dump the sleeping bags and I’m back to the bed in seconds. Her body was small so maybe I could just fold her into one? I start at the feet as if the trash bags themselves were sleeping bags and when I can’t go up any farther I push her head down and forward until it lets out a loud crunch. I recoil and it takes everything I have to not throw up again. It did work though. I was able to fold her up and get the first bag tied. The second bag fit over much easier and then part of it was done. 

Luckily my house is surrounded by a few miles of forest on each side. I just have to pick a place that’s not often explored and I know just the spot. After checking that both my parents had already left for the day. I picked up the garbage bag and went outside to my car. I popped the trunk and placed Sara gently inside. I run to the tool shed and find the biggest of the shovels we have to choose from and return to the car with it laying it on top of Sara. My head is going a million miles a minute in all different directions, most of which end with me in prison but I can’t think about that now. We’re not going far and I just have to take things one step at a time. 

It’s only about five minutes of driving before I park and go to the trunk to retrieve Sara and the shovel. It’s a bit of a walk to the secluded lake, and the overgrown wildlife doesn’t help matters. Still, after an additional five minutes, we come to a large open area with a big rock at the end of it that looks out over a lake. When it isn’t muddy and horrible like it is today, this is my favorite spot because of how beautiful it is. I’d spend hours here when I was young with my sketchbook and colored pencils trying to catch a trace of the magic on paper. In later years, I’d try to paint it. This was also the first place I ever self-harmed, the place I came to cry, and the first place I ever brought Sara to. 

I find the cleanest-looking bit of soil that I can and begin to dig. I dig for hours. She has to be deep. No one can ever know where Sara went and if she’s deep, no one will ever find her. I’m satisfied when I hit what feels like eight feet. It’s a struggle to get out of the hole and an even bigger struggle to say goodbye to Sara before tossing her into the hole. I fill the hole much quicker than it took to dig, and I smear a lot of the mud surrounding the area overtop so it doesn’t look much different from the rest of the ground. 

I toss the shovel in the back of the trunk and light a cigarette. I begin to cry again, as I had in this spot so many times before. This was my spot and now it would always be our spot. “I love you, Sara,” I say before flicking my cigarette into the lake. I’ve never said those words to anyone other than my parents, and never thought I’d love anything other than the art, but it was true. If I could go back I wouldn’t have cut her so deep, but there aren’t many left who will suffer for their art like this.