THIRTY
The Barrens
The world oozes. Everything is wet paint on a canvas, clumps of color sliding down.
Miriam feels hands under her armpits. Her feet drag along sand. Bleary late afternoon light pokes through the gray above. Mosquitoes fly. Pale pines cast long shadows, shadows that seem to have fingers, that seem to want to pluck her skin from her bones.
Ahead of her, Hairless walks. His white blazer is peppered with red.
Ashley's blood.
Ashley's severed foot sloshes along in a clear zip-top freezer baggy in the Hairless Fucker's hand, swinging this way and that.
Time dilates. Then expands.
They're nowhere. More trees. An overturned claw-foot tub leans against a mound of moss, the lower half given over to some kind of black mold.
A tire swing rotates on a heavy gauge chain. Atop the tire, a big black crow sits, turning with the swing as if he's enjoying the ride.
She steps on seashells. Brittle. They break under foot.
Miriam tries to say something. Her mouth is still taped. It comes out a soggy mumble. She breathes through her nose: a low, dry whistle.
Ahead, a small cabin. White siding, the bottom fringed with moss.
At least it's not another motel, she thinks.
She fades out.
Rip.
Miriam's eyes jolt open. The world rushes in with a windy whoosh: a river of blood in her ears, an undertow pulling her back toward full-bore consciousness.
Miriam finds herself hanging in a shower with faded tiles the color of sea-foam.
Her hands are bound above, draped over a shower head.
Her feet, also bound, barely touch the tub beneath her. She has to stand on tippy-toes. She has no traction, only the ability to wriggle like a worm on a hook.
Frankie stands in the doorway, too tall for it. He stoops to fit himself in.
Hairless relaxes on the toilet. Streaks of dried blood – the mascara of a weepy girl – mar his cheeks. In his lap rests Miriam's diary. Gently, he shuts it.
Harriet flaps the electrical tape she's just yanked from Miriam's mouth in front of Miriam's face – a strange taunt – and backs away.
"I have read this book," Hairless says, tapping the notebook against his leg.
"Fuck you," Miriam mutters.
Hairless shakes his head as Harriet squeezes her hand into a black glove. "Such a boring refrain from you. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck me, fuck you. Such a crass little girl. Harriet, I see the ghost of a bruise around this girl's eye. Please, will you wake the dead?"
Harriet steps up onto the rim of the tub and pops Miriam in the eye with the gloved fist. Miriam's head rocks backward.
"There we go, yes," Hairless says. "That will remind you to be polite when you are in such esteemed company. Now, speaking of the dead. You have an intimate connection with the dead, do you not?"
"The dying," Miriam croaks. "Not so much the dead."
"Yes, and we're all dying, aren't we?"
"We are. Well put."
"Thank you. See? That is the politeness I was hoping you might offer. Good." Hairless holds up the book and gestures with it. "I believe what you write in this book is true. I do not think it the fantasy of a deranged girl, deranged as you may be. May I tell you of my oma, my grandmother?"
"Go for it. I'm not going anywhere."
Hairless smiles. A fond remembrance flashes in his eyes.