Polistes exclaman

I like to be up close and personal with my victims.  Some killers like things clean and neat, a rifle through a window, a quick squeeze and away; not me.  I like to taste the blood and feel the organs crush.  There is something roughly spiritual about killing, taking a life force from another even as you see how tenacious your hold on mortality is.  
Today is much the same.  Different house number, scribbled on a paper as I sip my Starbucks and click my phone shut.  The other cafe patrons take no notice of me, just another young woman in yoga pants and a track jacket.  Smoothing my hair I stand and hold the door for a young mother who is flusterdly trying to balance a baby carrier and purse on one arm and a diaper bag on the other.  I return her gracious smile, wondering how much she will bleed if she is the one I got the call for today. 
After dark, I park my minivan across the street and count mailboxes.  One twenty-eight, one thirty, one thirty-four...two more blocks.  Two eighteen, two twenty, two twenty-two.  Target acquired.
Two twenty-two has the curtains drawn on a pristine sitting room.  The back corner has what might be a study desk, and the silhouettes of bookcases line the right side of the room.  I know this house, it's just like every other cookie cutter construction on this side of the iron gates.  There will be impressive leather volumes on those shelves that still crinkle when they're opened, a neatly swept fireplace awaiting this years yule log; the rooms are currently being permeated with Maratha's fall collection candles.  Just like every other house, until tomorrow, when the neat lawn will be flooded with media personalities and the drapes will be drawn shut against the morbid curiosity of neighbors.  Two twenty-two.
There is a car parked in the drive, and lights on in the connecting garage.  I look back at the paper, reading the instructions one last time.  Top floor, second room on the left.  Bed under the window.  I look in my mirror, smooth my brows and pat my nose with a tissue to remove excess powder.  Tucking my phone into my pocket, I slide out of the car and jog across the street.
Tap tap tap.  Pause.  Breath. The door swings in, revealing a polished woman wearing a cardigan and a yellow glove, clearly cleaning up the aftermath of dinner. 
"Can I help you?"
"I'm so sorry, I just didn't know where to go and your lights are on and it looked like such a nice house, and I'm really starting to freak out."
I am gushing, and I can see my panic already wearing down her wariness.
"What's wrong?"
"Well my car won't start and it's getting dark- I was supposed to pick up my son from band practice hours ago.  I called Triple A, of course, but the tow company hasn't shown up.  I'm getting really nervous and I don't like waiting in the dark, I know it's such a safe community but there has been a group of boys on skateboards past the car twice already.  Would you mind terribly if I used you bathroom and just waited in the light of your garage?  I'm so sorry to impose."  My apologetic air is pathetic, it makes my skin crawl but she is already opening the door further.  She can sense a fellow wasp in distress. 
"That sounds horrible, of course we won't make you wait in the garage.  I'm just cleaning up from supper, why don't you sit down with us for a while.  Would you like a glass of water?  Tea?  Juice?"
"Oh, no thank you I couldn't impose.  Would you mind terribly if I used your bathroom?  I've been out there for the better part of two hours already."
"Of course, it's right upstairs, first door on the right."
I nod my thanks and climb the stair, being careful not to touch the polished white banister.  I wait until I can hear the water running in the kitchen again before flicking on the bathroom light, closing the door, and creeping across the hall.
Second door on the left.  I remove the long thin piece of steel from my sleeve, careful not to prick myself with it's needle tip.  Pushing open the door I brace myself.
There is a bed, under the window.  It's a crib.  Above it hangs a mobile, still playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star In the tired sort of the way that tells me that it's been unwinding for a while now. I creep over, careful not to step on a plastic fisher price monkey or a set of stacking blocks strewn across the floor.
The baby is maybe a year old, clutching at a tattered blanket.  It snuffles and stretches an arm out before settling back into sleep.  Poor child, almost innocent.
I close my eyes and see the old image, hand around my throat, my head bouncing off walls; those beautiful eyes, beautiful eyes, beautiful eyes.
Open my eyes and plunge the rod down.
It slides easily into the soft flesh, I feel the satisfying *pop* of a lung.  It recalls the childhood joy of bubble wrap in relatives Christmas presents.  These bones don't crunch so much as snap, so pliable still.  I linger over the left side, drawing out the pleasure before thrusting down again.  The child expires with my hand over it's mouth, blood covering the blanket still clutched in it's hand.

For tonight, at least, I know I am alive.

Born again

I have a new lover, and a new lease on life.  The stage is a fickle mistress (Mister?) but damn it I've missed you theater. 
I think this summer will be an endeavor in auditions.

First play

Last play

Also: Having discovered the new photo formatting tools it will be hard not to over-post photos just because I can.  Damn you blogger, damn you.

Liberal Art's Education, Part II

Part two of Liberal Arts Education

"Hi, my name is Anna and I'm a sophomore English major here! It's wonderful to meet you all. We're going to start our tour today with a look at one of our sample housing accommodations-"
Anna cringed inside. The father was wispy and looked like one good cold would finish him off; his son was round and could have been the poster boy for the "before" acne treatment photos. His mother was short and sensibly put together, it was this that made Anna want to run screaming back to the Tour Guide break room. Everything about the woman, from her sturdy walking shoes to her short practical hair cut and her matching separates pegged her as an Interrogator. Sure enough, as soon as Anna stepped into the dorm hallway the woman started with "How are the bathrooms here, REALLY?" followed by a quick analysis of the RA's "quaint floor decorations" and moving without pause onto a diatribe on how her son's intelligence was far superior to any of his classmates. Anna turned autotron and fired back answers and witty comments, a familiar song and dance that was perfectly timed and executed.

Exactly 52 minutes later Anna collapsed into a swiveling office chair and unstuck her magnetic name tag.
"Bad tour?" A girl with cropped blond hair and square rimmed glasses paused her work at the computer.
"Crazy mother."
"She ask anything fun?"
"Yeah, what we're doing to bring organic foods to the school." A snort of disbelief.
"Better to start with cutting the cases of food poising to under 50 a month."
The girl went back to her CEEB codes and Anna pulled an old yearbook out of her bag. She knew she should really get stared on her paper on the Canterbury Tales, but this personal research was much MUCH more interesting. Back in 1936 the yearbooks had been run not by an administration that was concerned with equal representation, but by the students themselves. There were racy songs and student written cheers, anecdotes  about poor freshman girls losing their reputations and boys having unfortunate collisions with drunken sidewalks.
School was, once upon a time, a place for mistakes and learning the hard way how the world worked. Now it seemed things had been sterilized.
She flipped languidly though the pages, mentally rating the girl's hair and the boy's half grins. Turning back towards the beginning she paused. The dedications always interested her, who had done things of enough merit to be mentioned FIRST and FOREMOST. This one, however, was different.
"This book is in memory of Grace Turner, who's bright smile always lit the room and who kept the jazz in her step always. You will be missed."
Beneath a simple black and white photo. Grace was standing by the school gates clutching a stack of books, her head thrown back in laughter. It was a perfectly posed candid, she was full of beauty and life and it was suddenly obvious why the campus had adored her.  Anna turned to the middle of the book where the student pictures were organized by greek membership, followed by the "independents."  Sure enough, there Grace was wearing the familiar little black pin.  She was in the center of the composite, her chin turned up and a pretty poised smile on her lips.
Remembering the note penned on the back of the article, Anna flipped back to the photos of the men.  Tony something, something that begun with a P, Tony...tony...tony... The very last fraternity was Delta Tau Gamma, one that still had a house on campus today.  Tony Parson starred up from the bottom row of men.  He had hair parted to the side and eyes that stared into the camera with intensity.  No doubt about it, Tony Parson was a catch.
Paging forward Anna tried to pick Tony out of other groups, other pictures.  He was on the football team, but this no great accomplishment in a school with a permanently losing record.  Still he looked good in his jacket.  He was also pictured in a candid at the fall dance, which must have taken place in what was today one of the dinning halls.  He had a girl on his arm, a pretty dark young thing who was staring up at him in utter adoration.  She looked familiar, and a quick scan of the Theta composite confirmed Anna's suspicions; they would have been in the same pledge class.  Her name was Rebecca Mallory, she had been Vice President of communications.  It seemed that Tony wasn't a "going steady" kinda guy. 

"Um, hey Anna, you know it's quarter past five, right?"
The girl with the glasses was looking over from her swivel chair.
"Oh damn, thanks Emma.  I'm supposed to meet people at Bunker for dinner in five minutes."
"Better hurry, the lines are going to be forever long by the time you get up there."
Anna swept the yearbook and the untouched Chaucer into her bag and hurried off across campus to the same building in which Tony Parson once attended a fall social.

Dear "Anonymous"

I'm sorry I didn't notice your comment from two months ago until just now.  I wonder who you are.  Do I know you?  James, Michael?  You're not Erica or Zoe I think, or Nico even.  I wonder how in the world you found your way back into my archives; more importantly how did you stomach that much angst?  In reality I don't really want to know who you are.  It feels the same as in high school when Sarah made up a secret admirer and slipped notes into my locker.  In the end it was a wonderful birthday surprise from good friends, but the best part was letting my imagination go before I knew who it was.  Maybe you are Sarah or Elan.  We wrote enough together when we were younger, and I miss the companionship of fellow writers.
Whoever you are, thank you for your comment, it is a delicious mystery. 

Slipping

She stood there in the kitchen pathetically clutching an apple and listening to the soft laughter echoing in from the drive.  The pie was on the counter in all it's half-baked glory, a messy symposium of flour and oatmeal and sliced apples (skin still on.)  It was his favorite kind of pie, she thought.  Nine years ago that pie had brought him through a blizzard to her dormitory door; as he shook the ice off his sneakers she had known that he was the one that would make her mounds of student loans worth it in the end. 
He was The Perfect Man, the man of her dreams.  This is what she had told her family as they watched her pack all of her shabby things in the old sedan and driven away with a kiss and a prayer that the car made it over seven states and twice that many hundreds of miles.  When she had arrived they had kissed and fallen into the bed and they stayed there until they were both dizzy from exhaustion and lack of food. 
For the first few months life was a working class fairy tale.  It was enough at the end of the day to come home to a warm hug and warmer words; shared glasses of wine and television shows and playful wrestling matches on the too-small mattress. 
She couldn't say what the first thread to unwind was.  It was the computer, probably.  Every night after work she would pull together food and maybe throw a load of his once white t-shirts into the washer; losing herself in the maintenance of their untidy life before finally falling sleeplessly into bed.  He was there too, headphones on staring at the bright screen.  People talked into his ears, people that she didn't know who shared some bond with him that she could never understand.  Sometimes he would laugh, and when she asked what the joke was he never seemed to hear or that's what he told her later anyway.  Soon all their conversations were about this half-life of his, he would tell stories and smile at things she didn't understand.  She smiled too, because it seemed the right thing to do. 
The sex got shorter and he stayed on that computer longer, and soon the only things they talked about were the Problems that had to be fixed.  His mother, her loans, the car, rent, her mother.  One day on the way to the store she crashed the car against a guard rail at the bridge between their town and the next.  The pleasant police man said wasn't she a lucky one, a few more feet and over she would have gone.  Funny place for an accident too, with no sharp turns and the great weather they had been having and all.  She nodded and agreed, sufficiently grateful to providence or god or good luck for saving her to cook another day.
After that she tried to talk to him, and when that didn't work she tried other things.  She brought a picture from when they first started talking to a salon, a picture that he said he loved.  The hairdresser cried as she cut off her long dark tresses, but she sat stony faced and resolute in the seat.  When he came home that night he flicked the monitor on and then looked up at her expectant face.
"Oh, yeah I was supposed to mail that letter to your mother today.  Sorry about that."  She went to bed and curled her fingers around her new bangs, making one small ringlet at a time. 
Two weeks later she did the most humiliating thing of all.  The local mall only had a few stores in it, the essentials.  She had never been in Vanessa's Vixens before, but she knew the town's elderly ladies liked to sit on the bench across the court and take note of who entered and how long they spent in that pit of sin.  There was just one old bird there that Thursday afternoon, but she still walked around the fountain three times before she had the courage to dart inside.  A sea of lace, reds, blacks, pinks.  A corner seemed devoted entirely to feathers, there was a fantastical fan and duster sitting on a shelf above the register.  One side was full of black shiny vinyl; she felt her cheeks redden as her gaze fell on a woman modeling one of the garments on the plastic package.  Keenly avoiding the salesgirl's eyes she set towards the least imposing rack where silky gowns in plain colors hung. 
"You could really pull off the red you know."  The girl had crept up on her while she was distracted by tags. 
"Not many people can actually wear red, but you're complexion is just pale enough to do it."  She made a noise that was halfway between a cough and a smile, but the girl seem pacified and went away to continue marking down bustiers.   Thrust into the middle of the rack was a little black chemise, satin with a sweet bow draped across the back.  It would hit her just above her thighs, probably.  She brought it to the register without glancing at the price, and signed her name on the slip as quickly as she could.  Tucking the bag under her jacket she fled the store, head bent in a vain attempt to keep the old black crow from noticing. 
That night she straightened her hair and tried to put some makeup on.  It had been years; her mascara was all dried up and she slipped with the eye pencil and so had to start over.  Finally she dabbed some lipstick on and returned to the bed, staring dubiously at the gown laid out so unassumingly there.  She pinched herself, counted to five, and then slipped it over her head. 
She had already finished most of the dinner preparations in the kitchen, the chicken was in the oven and she had been sure to cook the potatoes just the way he liked.  Only the pie left.  She was standing at the counter cutting apples in her black slip when she heard his treads in the driveway.  She peered from behind the curtains, staying out of the line of view to hide her ridiculous getup.  He was there, sitting in his car talking to another silhouette.  It was a girl or woman, she couldn't tell from the outline, but she was laughing and he was laughing with her.  He was leaning towards the figure and they seemed to be caught up in some serious and ridiculous conversation.  She let the curtain fall back of it's own accord and stood there, holding her apple.
Of course, he had worked late tonight.  Most nights he worked late she went to bed in the spare room so that he wouldn't wake her when he returned.  He was usually gone again the next morning before she was up.  This was the way the weekends went. 
By the time the passenger car door had closed with a quiet thunk the black slip was in the trash with the rest of the meal. 
He only stopped to smell the kitchen momentarily, then decided that she had made another one of her chicken microwave dinners tonight.  As he rounded the top of the steps he thought he saw the light go off in the second bedroom but when he opened the door silently he could see her sleeping form on the bed.  He turned on his heel and thought with slight annoyance that she hadn't even had the decency to put out leftovers for his dinner.  

My lucky stars

I promised myself I won't write about that night-not yet.  The terror is too fresh in my mind to make comfortable prose.  Instead I will try to do something you used to beg me for, write happy thoughts.

I love that you refuse to wear khakis with anything but a button down shirt.  Most guys I know would throw on a polo and dash for the door; You carefully match your belt and your socks before you deem yourself appropriate.
I love the way you kiss my forehead.  Somehow when your lips brush my hair it's so much more intimate then a passionate kiss on the mouth.  When you do that I feel so cared for, so utterly loved.   The same as when you wrap one arm around me and rest your face against my neck. 
I love that you're not perfect.  Your hair has that funny cowlick in the front and sometimes it sticks up at the back of your head.  I might laugh and tease but I hope you never win the battle against those few stray hairs.  I like them that way.
You know just what to say to get me riled up; sometimes you do it just for a good joke.  I'm halfway through defending poor Indonesian orphans before I see the smirk in your eye and realize that I've fallen to your baiting.  I think you like to see my passion sometimes, even if it is sometimes as ridiculous as you claim.  My darling, you may bait me and prod me but I will never be anything but a socialist philanthropy loving liberal. 
I love that gleeful defiant look in your eye when you've done something  that you know I won't approve of.  I can always tell, and I wait for you to pull out the inevitable game or gadget or movie.  Most of the time I can't help but to smile too, if only at your excitement for the new toy.  I love when you completely dork out and go off about tangents that I will probably never understand; I sit there nodding and watching the lights in your eyes. 
Do you remember that chilly night in Meadville, the night that the men in the truck started following us?  I was scared frozen but you told me to run, and we ran and ran across cold lawns, me still in my cocktail dress and you pulling me along.  Later you told me that you were doing your best to think how you could protect me.  I knew I loved you then.
Most of all I love it when you tell me that you love me.  Not the way you say it the little times throughout the day when you want me to stop bothering you while you play the game or before class, but when you actually mean it.  When you look in my eyes and use my full name, "I love you Emily Anna Doherty."  You look at me like I'm amazing and I believe it. 

I love you, even when you make me so mad that I want to cry.  I love you even when  I'm being an infuriating diva.  I love you even when there is a silence between us so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.  I love you always.

A warning.

Don't you dare ever do this to me again.  You're way too much to lose.