BLOODSMILE

By Ellison Wade
I
Something had changed. His eyes adjusted to a damp and empty room, devoid of light,
save for the pale streaks of moon light sneaking their ways through a split in the curtains. The
room was humid and sticky with the summer nighttime heat. A sheet draped over his body was
fused to his back with sweat; he threw it off, sitting up on his bed wearing nothing but beads of
salty wetness running down his front and back with a weight heavier than usual. Thoughts were
shooting around in his mind differently now. Deep inside his guts, he felt a sense of urgency, like
he had to be somewhere. A panic had splashed over him in his sleep. The outside of his body felt
cold, but his guts were burning. He could feel the beating of his heart in every inch of his body.
He clasped his face in his hands as tightly as he could.
That dream. A woman was peering back at him from a cold concrete floor, pupils fixed
and dilated; red trickled from either corner of her agape mouth into a bloodsmile. His gaze
moved down her body, over the neck, across her breasts and down her belly. An incision had
been made at the base of her naval and travelled downward joining her vaginal slit, creating a
single line, as though it were meant to be. Blood oozed freely from the wound, the thickness
flaunting itself as near black. That dream. Deep red coated the floor, casting reflection like a
violent finish. Small clusters of air bubbles rode along the red surface like tiny boats sailing on
the sea of his kill. He got down on all fours, naked, feeling the exhilarating contrast of the cold
floor and the warm blood. And lying next to her, he turned her head towards his own and looked
into her eyes. That was the dream and it was only a dream, but he couldnt get the images out of
his mind. It felt so real, too real. He ran his hands down his chest, feeling the wetness, and
thought is this her blood? He stood up and crossed the dark room and found that his legs were
trembling, weak. He located the light switch and flipped it upward. Sweat. No blood. It was only
a dream. The words repeated in his head like a mantra.
He stood shaking in the room, a single naked bulb in the center of the ceiling. Dingy
yellow light saturated the walls and floor. In another setting the lighting might have been seen as
ambient, but in the bare bones room it was just another testament to the destitution to which he
had grown so accustomed. The walls were crafted of gray unpainted concrete and abundant with
cracks. The head of his flattened mattress sat against the wall, off center. The mattress sat
directly on the floor, no rails, no box spring. He sat back down putting his hand on the dark spot
of the sheetless mattress. Rubbing the spot made him feel closer to her. Only three months prior
his mother had died. At 55 she breathed her last vile breath and expired right there on that very
bed, emptying her bowels and leaving her son that spot as a keepsake. He ran his hand over the
spot again, missing her. He recollected on the times they spent together in that bed. The old
woman, to speak of, the only woman he had ever truly known. A mother, a wife all in one, he lay

in bed touching himself, memories passing, recollections of laying face to face with the old
woman, fondling her, caressing her breasts, and eventually putting himself inside her. The
memories made him swell and expel within the same moment.
The nighttime pulsed and beat inside the walls of his arteries, calling him out of the box.
He moved across the room seamlessly, grabbing his pants, shoes, socks, shirt, and coat, from the
floor, putting them on. A level of insecurity had perpetually inhabited his fibers for as far back as
he could recall, but not tonight. Tonight his movements were sure, implicit. The larva had fully
realized its metamorphosis, and he was every bit a fly in his own mind; the insect he had
regarded for all of his time as a maggot. The fly moved out of his room and through the living
room, out the door, and onto the sidewalk, making his way out into a real world he neither
understood nor appreciated. He moved down the sidewalk, rubbing his hands together, spitting as
he walked.
Carl Slade walked the broken sidewalks of his apartment complex. His tan Member's
Only jacket was the sole coat in the vicinity. He wore the gift everywhere, even in the summer
heat. High rise apartment buildings shot up from the ground, layers of grime coated the exterior
and the smell of garbage thickened the air for a mile in every direction. Tall indeed but wider
still, the complex resembled flea bag hotels more than apartments. Rooms stacked upon other
rooms like a tower of old and forgotten shoeboxes and trash from a thousand others piled up
some ten stories high. He walked past the mounds of waste feeling at home among the deposits.
Garbage folks, old and young crawled amongst the piles of trash on all fours, spitting, gnawing.
Some old, haggard beards dreadlocked and eyes dead, some young, children, yet still wore
beards of filth. If the inhabitants of the stacked apartments felt down on their luck the garbage
people never knew of any such concept of luck. Slade strode across the sidewalk with ease,
knowing every place to step, and more importantly where to elude. He walked cocksure, and for
all intents and purpose, pissing in the direction of the less fortunate. A change was showing.
II
The boy's mother was a whore. She pulled him along where she went. That evening he
called home a dirty orange bean bag where he watched his mother screw on the bed across from
him. Whether for drugs or money, he didnt know. His brown hair was messy, sticking up in the
back, curling upward, greasy and wild. His mouth half open revealed his crooked teeth, never
brushed, but not yet beginning to rot. Mother straddling a man the boy had never met before, she
made a sighing kind of noise, as though trying to pull off a shoe that was too tight, least that was
the sound his nine year old self equated it with. The man beneath was the only person in the
room with any true sense of the world around him. The boy's mother Marlene: bored, distant.
The boy saw without taking interest. He watched the same way a student would watch the clock
tick. Any minute now the man would have his spasm and Marlene would collect, something, and
they could go.

Less than an hour later and they were headed home in something someone would have
described as a car. A silver, tiny thing, rust spots adorned the back and sides, splashes of
corrosion marked the concern for care on the outside as well as in. The gray haze of the evening
had tapered off into the black of night. Stopped at a stoplight the boy looked to his mother. "I'm
hungry," he uttered. Her eyes fixed straight ahead, his statement went unacknowledged. The boy
was used to this, he rarely got any response from his mother, and when he did, he often wished
he had not. It was hot in the car, and there was no air conditioning. Both windows were rolled
down, but the air blowing in was sticky and hot. The boy was wearing no shirt, and his back
stuck to the seats. Sweat trickled down his face and he licked it as it touched his lips. Salty he
thought.

When the boy and his mother reached their apartment, they walked in together, up the
stairs to the twelfth floor. The stairwell was mostly concrete and the graffiti on the walls was
opaque. No hint of the concrete was visible. There were great flashes of color forming strange
figures and fantastic stings of letters that made no sense to the boy. They rounded the stair case
until they reached their door, it too masked by layers of sprayed paint. Apartment 12-44. The boy
entered the room and went straight for the couch, his bed for the night. Marlene took the only
bedroom in the home. She stood at the sink letting the water run, putting a glass underneath the
stream, pulling it back, gulping it down, and then filling it once more.

"Are we gonna eat?" he asked.

His mother, standing in the kitchen finished pouring herself the second glass, then
stopped, turned the faucet off, and spun around to face him.

"Boy, if you ask me about food one more god damned time, I'm gonna slap hell out of
you, got me?"

The boy knew this tone, and he wasn't afraid of it anymore. All the same he felt no need
to cause trouble. She wasn't worried about his food today, this much was obvious, this much was
typical. She turned back around and began filling her cup back up. She stood at the sink for a
moment and sucked it back until the cup was empty.

"It's hotter than bloody hell in here," said Marlene.

The boy thought to respond back with a smart ass comment but caught himself at the last
minute.

"Yeah, the fan done broke," he said.

The two sat in silence for a moment. Marlene spoke.

"Well I'm going to bed, boy." And with that, she left him to his devices.

The boy slept on the couch when no one else was sleeping on it; he slept on the floor
when someone was. Today he was lucky. Lying on the couch he stared at the ceiling of the box
for a few moments, it was coming apart. Sometimes unknown liquids would pour from the
cracks and land on his face. He hoped that wouldnt happen tonight, and then he was asleep. The
apartment was still dark when he awoke some hours later, but the covered window adjacent to
him showed small hints of sunlight coming through, forming an outline of a square on the wall
opposite. The box was empty. Marlene had left, he didnt know where she had gone, or when she
would come back. Today's mission was food, it had to be found. In the last two days his only
sustenance had been half a Slim Jim he found laying on the ground outside a convenience store.
This was an excessively long time to go without food, even for him. Hunger was not an
uncommon feeling, but it was beginning to transcend the normal hunger pains. He made his way
into the kitchen and opened the cabinet by the sink. The pink package of a shrimp flavored
ramen grinned back at him from the cupboard, impudent. He put it in a bowl and crushed it up
with his fist, but when he tried to turn the water on nothing came out. No water today. In that box
and throughout the whole building it was always a guess as to whether or not anything would
work. He pulled the pieces of dried noodles from the bowl and began eating. The noodles
crunched in his teeth and for a moment he imagined them tiny bones snapping under the pressure
of his jaws. He finished up the entire bowl and threw the package in the floor with the rest of the
filth, contributing to the trash layer, which acted as a carpet.

He got down on his hands and knees and began scouring among the strewn dreck for
nourishment. A crumb was found, a dried piece of white bread, nothing of real substance. He
turned his head to the right and noticed under the refrigerator was a long whitish object. The
refrigerator didn't even work and stank so bad when he opened it he didn't dare endure that
rancidity again. The white colored object resembled a french fry. He stuck his hand up under the
refrigerator and pulled it out. The boy stuck it in his mouth and chewed. It didn't have much of a
taste to it and was rubbery, he swallowed and then resigned to the idea of that being the high
point of his day.

The box was boring and filthy and perhaps filth was his home, but boredom was his foe.
His thoughts ran a million miles per second when it idled and so it was prudent for him to keep
busy. Thinking was not something the boy liked to do, as it lead to actions that frightened and
confused him. As soon as he was sure there was no food left to scavenge, he made his way out
the door and down the stairwell to the parking lot. The parking lot of the complex resembled a
kind of playground that might have been found in hell. There were children everywhere and
generally running rampant. Playing? Yes. Having fun? No. They were grungy and hardly
dressed. This wasn't regular play, but survival. The other children were highly energetic and
without pity or compassion. The concepts of right and wrong were not philosophies by which
these children lived. Vicious beatings, theft, and sexual exploration, both invited and uninvited,
were commonplace in the project.

Children's toys were scattered about the grassless yards, mixed in with the high stacks of
tossed garbage bags. A cosmos of mud and concrete, the remnants of what used to be a
playground in the center of the complex was mostly a collection of twisted rusty steel. Children
swinging from the jagged monkey bars couldn't hold on for more than a moment as their hands
would be cut from the cheap and broken metal. The boy, standing at the edge of the walkway
leading up to the building, looked down and noticed the head of a Barbie doll half buried in the
mud. He leaned down and dug it out of the ground, wiped it off on his cutoff jean shorts, and
stuck the head on his left pinky. The boy observed the head for a few moments and looked up
just in time to see Scotty, a boy from the project one year his senior walking up to greet him.
Scotty was 10 years old and had a short, buzzed haircut. His freckles were the dominant facial
feature and really brought out the gap between his two front teeth.

What you doin playin with doll heads? said Scotty.

I just found it laying here, the boy replied.

"Gimme it."

No, I found it.

It's my sisters, she done lost like five of those fuckers, give it to me.

The boy pondered the head for a moment. He had been down this road before. Scotty was
annoying and stupid, but he could fight very well. The boy didn't know how to fight, he only
knew how to take a beating and he'd become a pro at that. Still, the prospect of another black eye
or bloody nose wasn't especially enticing. He knew if he came home with one black eye, his
mother would give him another to match. The boy popped the head off of his pinky finger and
handed it over to Scotty. Scotty took the head and looked back at the boy.

You're a little pussy, Scotty said, a malicious grin widening to show his teeth.

You got any cigarettes? The boy hoped to change the subject.

No and even if I did you couldn't have any, I don't give cigarette's to pussies.

I'm not a pussy, Scotty, why don't you go fuck your mama.

The boy knew this remark was going to get him in trouble, all the same he took enough
shit from his mother and her boyfriends, and he wasn't about to take it from Scotty Culman.
Scotty let loose a fury onto the boy's face, punching him mercilessly until the two were on the
ground. The boy swung back swatting Scotty in the face sporadically, but what landed, landed
weak and served only to annoy Scotty more. Several of the other kids were becoming aware of
the beating and began rushing over to bring the already hot water to a rolling boil. Within a few

seconds a crowd of dirty, unloved children had formed around the two, screaming and cheering
for a winner. The children were in a mad frenzy. A small blonde girl in a filthy one piece bathing
suit and no shoes screamed KILL IM. The crowd roared louder. Scotty pinned the boy's arms
down against the ground with his feet and swung once, twice, a third time, a fourth, rocking the
boys head harder with each blow. The children of the dirt were now a seething mob of
cannibalistic crazies. A young boy with a tattered black cape tied around his neck, swim trunks,
and no shirt broke loose from the crowd, running up to the massacre and kicked the boy in his
ribs, then lifted his fists to the sky in victory, screaming a cry of mad delight, then disappeared
back into the violence crazed crowd as quickly as he appeared. The boy struggled to get up but it
was impossible. Scotty stopped punching and locked eyes with the mud covered boy. Today he
was a gladiator, triumphant and proud of feeble runt he had smashed beneath his boot. He looked
to the crowd for support. The childrens eyes burned with desire. They began chanting his name.
He bathed in the adoration and then lowered his head back towards his victim. He puckered his
lips together and a wad of spit slowly leaked from his mouth and landed on the boy's right eye.

Fuck my mama? said Scotty, maintaining his signature evil grin. My brother pays
your mama five bucks and she sucks his dick. He said when I get to be fourteen he's gonna pay
her to suck my dick, for my birthday. How bout that?

The boy wasn't surprised by what he heard, in fact, he didn't doubt that Scotty was telling
the truth. Still, what he said, and the fact that he said it in front of the crowd was as painful as
any punch thrown that day. Scotty stood up, but when the boy tried to stand Scotty kicked him in
the face as hard as he could. The crowd of children hooted and screamed, wild with energy. The
boy fell back to the ground hard. Scotty laughed and walked away, breaking through the crowd.
The crowd slowly began to disperse, but there were some lingerers. When the boy sat up one of
the kids noticed that he had a bloody nose.

You need a tampon for that came a young boy's voice. Though, the situation had been
so bewildering he couldn't tell who had said it.

Carl sat in the mud, covered. It was thick and gripped him tightly. Blood leaking from his
nose ran in an unobstructed trickle. He couldnt wipe it without smearing the mucky stuff all
over himself. His blood pumped, spreading shame to the tips of every extremity. Maggot, he
thought.

A girl, Grace, dirty and in torn clothes, long red hair and freckles, quite possibly the only
nice person living in the complex, was the closest thing he had to a friend. She was nine too and
very soft spoken. After the fight was long finished she made her way over to Carl. She sat down
with him in the mud.

I seen you get your ass whooped. she said, half smiling.

Yeah, well, fuck him, he'll get his.

What you gonna do to him?

I'll fuckin kill 'im is what I'll do.

Grace smiled and helped Carl to his feet.

Well come on let's go to my place. she said.

I'm all muddy, you dad don't want me in there. Carl replied

You can take a shower there. Ours is on the other side. Waters still on.

Y'all got anything to eat?

Yeah she said, probably.

Carl stood up. Mud covered the back side of his body. His cheeks wore streaks of the
mud stretching back to his wild hair, marking each and every spot where Scottys knuckles had

dragged. Sunrays were reaching down from the sky and obscuring his vision, so he shielded his
eyes with his hand and looked out the opposite way of the complex. A few other identical
apartment buildings stretched high into the earths ceiling, out and to the left like different
departments of perdition. He looked out further still, seeing the freeway, packed with vehicles
and seemingly still. In the distance, other side of the freeway, he could see the skyline of the city.
The black glass buildings stood tall and proud, symbols of success and heckling the high rise
boxes the boy called home.

The girl was abnormally empathetic, few people around those parts showed kindness.
Unlike the other children, she cared for people. She didn't condescend to Carl the way others
had, she merely wanted to help him however she could. Carl knew very little about her. He didnt
know what made her tick and he didn't want to know. He didn't understand the concept behind
friendship. What made people want to be together? How do I pretend to like someone? These
were questions he had asked himself many times before. Towards the girl, though, he almost felt
something. He could feel the want and a desire to relate, to care, yet he couldn't, he only knew
that he should.She lived on the fourteenth floor. When they entered, the her father was sitting on
the couch reading a newspaper. He was staring straight through the words and into another
world, into something no one could see but himself. The man's deep stare was interrupted by
Grace shutting the door behind her, Carl stood to her left. He turned to take in the sight.
Good God, what in the hell happened to you? He said in an almost concerned tone
Scotty beat him up. Grace said.
What did he do? Bury you in a fuckin mud hole?
No said Carl... I just fell.
Marty, Grace's father stared at the boy, taking him in for a moment in silence.
His side ofthe building aint got water, she said.
Well Im not running a hotel here, but I guess you can use ours, just clean up the mud
out of the bathtub, yeah? said Marty, as serious as he could be.
The hot water felt incredible. It had been weeks since his last shower. His clothes were
still messy, but if he got home before his mother did, he could change them before she noticed.
He had been long clean, but stood in the shower letting the hot cascade keep him feeling warm,
safe, a feeling experienced not nearly enough. For just a moment, he felt the world, maybe as it
should have been. Out of the shower he dried off and got dressed back into his muddy clothes.
He walked back into the living room to see Marty staring back at him with a look of annoyance
and slight concern.

Kid, what is the point of taking a shower if you're gonna put your dirty clothes back
on?
I didn't have anything else to wear Carl replied.
Grace got up from the kitchen table and walked the boy to a room at the other end of the
apartment. The room was out of place. It was a room for a little boy, his age.
My twin brother, Abe, she said softly. "This used to be his room.
What happened to him? Said Carl
He died. Mama shot him. Shot herself. Woulda shot me and daddy, but we didn't come
home in time, I guess.
Guess youre glad she didnt then.
Sometimes I think daddy wishes wed have come home in time.
You think that sometimes?
All times.
The two stood in silence a moment.

Why did she do it? Carl asked.

She was crazy. Dont you know crazy people don't need reasons to shoot someone in the

head?
Guess thats true.
He has some clothes in the closet. They ain't doin no good sittin in there. Find you
something you like and put it on.
Grace left the boy to dress. Carl pondered the sight for a moment. What must it have
looked like? He envisioned a skinny woman, naked, curly hair, and covered in blood standing
over the body of what used to be a child. She was screaming and crying, but not out of sadness.
Some look of crazed joy was prevalent on her bloodstained face. Is this what a crazy person
looked like? Carl put on some black shorts and a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it and walked out of
the bedroom to the smell of eggs cooking. Marty was in the kitchen. An egg sandwich with
mayonnaise was lying on the kitchen table. Carl stared at the sandwich and then looked to Grace,
who was sitting in the living room on the couch. She looked back at Carl. "That's yours," she
said. He ran to the table without so much as a thought and began shoving the sandwich into his
mouth as hard and fast as he could possibly go. He ate everything. The eggs, the bread, the crust,
and when that was all gone, he licked the mayo and butter from his fingertips. Marty and Grace

stared at him, nearly speechless. He felt embarrassment again in the pit of his stomach. A wave
of cold washed over his body.
Goddamn, did you inhale that? Said Marty, from the stove, a half grin pulling on his
face
I guess Said Carl. Can I have another one?
Carl had not meant to say this. It was almost as though the words had been sucked right
out of him.
I guess you can Said Marty.
Carl having his fill and not wanting to overstay his welcome, left to go back home
sometime later, perhaps an hour, maybe two. Shuffling back down the dangling spiral of the
concrete stairwell, his stomach swung back and forth as though filled with lead, he descended.
Moments like today were fleeting. The sandwich, the shower, just an embrace he was
now shrugging off as he grew nearer to the flat bottom of the involute steps. They wound with
form and purpose. Bits of color streaked the walls and railings, gang tags going as far back as 30
years, covered up by newer tags and those newer tags covered up with fresh ones. One color
crossed on top of the other crisscrossing in every direction, up the wall across the ceiling,
indecipherable, even if he could read. Carvings in the walls made with shanks were filled with
old paint, spelling out odd strings and decorated the stairwell from his feet up. He descended into
the sea of color. He reached the bottom of the staircase and walked across an empty hallway. The
building was split into two halves, an east side and a west side. The two did not connect except at
the very bottom of the staircases. Grace lived on the east side, Carl crossed the exposed hallway,
completely open to the outside on either end and found the bottom of the staircase, a high rising
crooked spiral leading to his box. The climb of the stairs was always a challenge for Carl. He
found the trip exhausting both physically and mentally. Climbing this many flights of stairs was
far too long to dread arriving some place, made the trip that much worse. There was an elevator,
technically speaking, in the lobby of the complex, but taking it was never even seen as an option.
He banged on the door, at first a normal knocking pattern, then a little harder. He balled
his fist up and pounded with the bottom of the hand, knocking flakes of paint off and vibrating
the cold steel door as hard as he could. He kicked the thing and pounded more with his fist. This
had happened before, she wasnt answering, and she would not. Not tonight. Rather than belabor
the fact that he had no home for the evening, he set off down the hallway pushing on doors he
knew to be entrances to vacant apartments. Two doors down: locked. He moved on. Three more
doorways, and then one he knew to be vacant: locked. The hallway stretched out maybe fifty
yards. Each door he pushed met him with resistance. He turned a corner at the end of the hallway
and tried more. Almost all of the apartments were abandoned on this end of the building, and

almost all of them were locked. Almost. It might have been the tenth or eleventh door he pushed,
but one finally swung open. Vacant.
Years of dust and dirt littered the floor. Dead insects and live ones, strewn about, he sat
down, back against the closest wall to the door frame. He looked around the room, silently taking
in his home for the evening. Over in the corner he saw a wadded up piece of cloth in a ball lying
amid the dirt. He stood back up and crossed the room compelled to pick it up and investigate.
Covered in dirt, he shook the thing off and particles of grime fell off at his feet. A dress, yellow
with colorful little worms wearing smiley faces looking back at him. This was a dress for a small
girl, maybe nine or ten. Cheap, probably purchased from a thrift store, the cloth was light and
had a few tears in it. Carl undressed. He stripped down to nothing and then put the dress on
himself. He had never worn a dress before, but had often thought about it. He wasnt sure if he
liked it or not, it made him feel strange, like he was doing something forbidden, but yet there was
a certain rush to it, a certain satisfaction. He crossed the room again, back over to the wall,
keeping on the dress and sitting down. He closed his eyes for just a moment and then he was
asleep.
I got some weed. He heard a boy shout from outside a room.
He jerked awake, not knowing how long he had been sleeping.
Good, I can't stand you fuckers straight, yelled another voice.
He sat there in the vacant room, immobilized with dread. The door swung open and from
around the corner came four boys around the age of sixteen, three of them being led by the tallest
one, Glenn Culman. Glenn was Scotty's older brother. His black leather jacket was unzipped so
that his bare chest could be seen. His tight, torn blue jeans had always seemed strangely
impractical to Carl. Glenn had long, black, curly hair, down to his shoulders and he always wore
sunglasses, Carl had never seen him without them. Glenn looked amused to find Carl in the
room, hugging his knees. His friends all seemed rather surprised to find anyone there at all.
The other boys were younger average punks. One, Jamie, wore a sleeveless jean jacket
with a plain white wife beater on underneath. He had spiked up hair and a safety pin stuck in the
right side of his lip. Another, Doug, wore a plain black t-shirt, jeans, and other than the atrocious
acne on his face, looked rather normal. The last, Anthony, was wearing no shirt, had long stringy,
wet looking, blonde hair, and had a boom box gripped by the handle. Glenn was the obvious
leader, a grease stain on the carpet of society, but a God among the lost children. Glenns
utterances were law.
What the fuck are you doin back here, kid? Said Glenn.
Just sittin here, Said Carl.
Well get the fuck outta here. said Doug.

No one yet seemed to recognize the fact that Carl was wearing a dress.
Shut the fuck up Doug, Glenn snapped, turning his head and giving Doug a look of
warning.
Glenn looked Carl over for a moment.
What are you doing back here? Glenn asked again
I'm just waiting for my mom to let me back in the house.
Why'd she kick you out for? Said Glenn
Probably because he wouldn't lick her pussy, Doug interrupted.
Glenn stopped and looked back at Doug.
If I have to tell you one more time to shut up, I'm gonna bust your head, bitch. Glenn
turned back to Carl. Why did she kick you out?
Carl thought for a moment. Maybe they wouldn't notice he was wearing the dress, he was
sitting down. Maybe he could talk his way out of standing up.
Cause I smoked all her cigarettes. Then when she asked where they were I told her to eat
shit. Said Carl.
The boys all had a laugh. Glenn stood stern staring Carl down, his eyes peering over the
top of his sunglasses. The laughter slowly died off.
Tough guy, Glenn declared..
This kid don't fuck around, said Jamie.
Yeah, I bet he can whip some ass, Anthony said.
Glenn continued to stare at Carl, his intensity radiated.
Yeah we got us a tough guy here, Glenn continued, never breaking his stare.
Carl stopped looking at Glenn and began looking at the ground. This entire thing had
been an exercise in futility. Carl knew it was coming.
Stand up, tough guy, said Glenn.
Carl didn't bother protesting. He just stood up, dress and all. Everyone laughed except
Glenn.
That's a cute dress, Glenn said, his lips flattening into a satisfied smile.

Cute as a button, said Jamie

Looks good on you, said Glenn.
The boys continued to laugh silently to themselves. Glenn walked closer to Carl. He put
his index finger under one of the shoulder straps, pulled it towards himself, and then let it go.
You a model? Glenn asked.
No, Carl replied.
So why are you wearing a dress?"
Carl was silent for a moment. He had no answer.
"I dunno."
I think you're a model, Glenn said.
I ain't no model.
The smiles and laughter had left all the other boys.
You know, your mom sucks dick for money right? Sometimes she sucks my dick like
shit, and I have to punish her. I know youve seen the bruises. Maybe she's punishing you by
making you come out here and do some work for her. Maybe she's tired of suckin my dick.
Maybe she figures it's your turn.
Carl was confused. He didn't know what Glenn meant. He didn't want to know. He stared
at the ground, pretending not to see him.
Walk for me, Glenn demanded. Walk back and forth like a model.
Carl had no idea what Glenn meant by that. He continued staring at the ground. After a
moment he felt Glenn's hand make contact with his face. It hurt far worse than when his mother
hit him. He had a ringing in his ears and couldnt see straight. The room seemed to tilt and he
stumbled.
I said fucking walk, mother fucker. Glenn yelled.
Carl turned and walked toward a wall, stumbling all the way, barely able to keep his
balance. When he reached the wall he turned around again, and walked back towards
Glenn.
Again.

Carl repeated this several times. When Carl finally turned around to walk away from
Glenn the fourth time, Glenn reached over, and pulled up the dress, exposing Carl's ass.
Look at that, said Glenn. Shit looks tight.
Carl turned around as fast as he could. He was shocked and humiliated at what had been
going on. Glenn balled his fist up and swung so hard at Carl's face, it knocked him straight to the
ground. Glenn lunged on top of Carl, rolling him over onto his stomach. Carl, nearly senseless,
was unable to fight back with any kind of resistance. The other boys, watching, knew the score.
There was no talking to Glenn at this point. Best thing to do was leave well enough alone.
Turn the radio on Glenn yelled from the ground.
Anthony complied with the demand. He pressed play on the tape player. The song She
by The Misfits came on over the speakers. Anthony cranked it as loud as it would go. Carl's face
was pressed against the floor, pieces of dirt and dead insects grinding into his cheek. He felt the
room slip away. He closed his eyes.

III
His steps were sure. Up the stairs he climbed, this time heading a different direction. He
didnt know why the thought had never occurred to him before. It was so simple, obvious.
Dancing before him since the day he was born, and yet somehow it took him nine years end up at
this simple conclusion. The dread was gone and there was no fear in his heart. He rounded up the
staircase still in the dress, paying no mind this time to the colorful art surrounding him. The
ascent was tiring, but a worthy endeavor. He reached the end of the line, the highest step in the
building. It stood before a brown steel door. He twisted the knob. It didnt turn. He kicked it. He
kicked again. He pounded with his fists. He stood in front of the door, stubborn and refusing to
leave. He screamed the scream of a mad person. He screamed so hard he thought his throat
would grow raw. The pounding only increased. Five minutes passed, ten, never did the thought
of stopping cross his mind. He pounded more hitting it with his shoulder and then it swung open.
The sunlight from outside might have been a kick in the face. It blinded him. A hand reached into
the stairwell from outside and grabbed the boy by his throat, pulling him out the door. He still
couldnt see, but he was being dragged by his neck, in which direction he didnt know. He felt
his body slam against something hard, an edge. He tried to open his eyes, the figure was out of
focus, he squinted and blinked, still everything was a blur. The figure was dark and just as he
thought maybe he could focus, the boy felt another hand slap him across his cheek. He winced in
pain and then turned his gaze back toward the figure. He blinked rapidly and with every flutter of
his eyelids the shape slowly came into focus. After a few seconds he paused and took in the
sight. It was a man, a black man, maybe thirty-five years old. The man wasnt happy. He was
looking at Carl like he wanted to kill him. Carl then realized the man was holding him over the

side of the apartment complex. Hundreds of feet up in the air, he could see the landscape littered
with people and cars off in the distance. He turned his attention back to the man.
What da fuck is you doin up here boy? Said the man.
Carl stared back at the man confused, yet angry.
Let me go, motherfucker. Carl replied.
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a blade, the sun reflected off the thickness
of the dull edge. This was more than a knife. It was bigger than any knife the boy had ever seen.
At least ten inches in length and probably four inches wide, the man pressed the sharp edge of
the impressive piece of steel against the boys throat and spoke again.
This is my fuckin house, boy. What da fuck is you doin up here? I ask again, I aint
gonna ask all sweet-like, not like I am now. Ill put dis blade in your fuckin face and den drop
you over just to be sure. Long way down boy. Think you can bleed out fore you slap out on the
bottom?
Carl, unmoved by the mans words peered back with repose and took acceptance to the
mans offer.
Go ahead and do it. Its what I come up here for anyways. You aint puttin no fear on
me, aint nobody. I aint got none no more, not that I can tell anyways. You dont throw me over
the side, Im jumpin my damn self. All the same, I dont want you to put that knife in me first.
Think Id rather just hit the ground.
The man was struck by the boys demeanor.
Aint this about a bitch? He said. All youda had to do was beg me not to, and Ida
gladly thrown you over, now you got me wonderin.
He stepped back away from the boy and let the blade hang by his side, still clenched
tightly in his fist. The boy sat back on the ledge and then sat up. He looked over the side and then
back to the man.
Gonna jump, is you? Said the man.
Swhat I come up here for.
Whats that for?
Whats what for?
Jumpin. It aint for nothin. Dont nobody come to that fix, less its for a reason. You
gotta have a reason for it.

You tryin to stop me?

I aint tryin to stop nothin. You gotta do what you gotta do. But I seen a couple people
come up here to jump. Most of em pussy out. Few of em stuck it, and out of them that did, I
aint never asked not one em why theys doin what they doin. Thought I might ask before you
take a dive.
The boy sat for a moment. He pondered the mans words. Looked him up and down.
Baggy work pants covered the tongues of his crack-ridden black loafers. A plain white t-shirt
draped over his bony frame. On top of his narrow shoulders sat a tiny head with a receding
hairline.
I dont think I much like bein alive.
Thems some serious words from somebody your age. Im about as worn as a
motherfucker can get and you made me flinch with that one.
Best I can figure, bein dead cant be no worse.
So you dont actually wanna die? Said the man.
I dunno said the boy. Does anybody wanna die?
Guess not, but you dont wanna live. So this is the other side of the coin, huh?
Guess thats it, yeah. Might not wanna die, but definitely dont wanna live.
Well if thats how you feel, man up. Aint shit Im gonna say to fix it. Gonna be some
cold shit seein a boy like you take that route, but I guess Ill make it through.
You aint gonna try and stop me? Said the boy.
Guess when you step offa that ledge there, you take on a debt. That's the kinda debt you
can't get out of, not never. You take a walk off here and that ground says you owe it. Eight damn
pints of blood, and it ain't no matter if you change your mind or not. That ground gon' get paid.
Ever damn drop you owe it. I ain't much for supposin' never was, but suppose you get part ways
down that stretch and don't wanna pay up. Makes no nevermind to that ground. Its gonna
collect. So I ain't gonna try and stop you, hell no, not my concern. But I say be sure. Be goddamn
sure.
Think I might change my mind part ways down?
Aint never seen nobody jump that didnt. Maybe youll be the first. Lets watch and
see.
Carl slid down off the ledge and placed his feet firmly on the roof.

Not sure Im that sure yet.

IV
It might have been for no reason in particular, or maybe the fly in the Members Only
jacket knew exactly what the outcome would be, but on that hot Summer night he found the old
hiding place on the roof for the large bowie knife. The knife he hadnt touched in more than a
decade. He regarded his newfound bowie knife with the admiration a child might give to his
father. It was something far greater than he could hope to be, eternal. Unsheathed from that
washed out and browned cow skin holster, the curvature of the blade bent outward naturally. The
flipside was concave, sloped off into a point. The sight made his eyelids sag and jaw loosen. The
handle made of bone was an off white, had a finish about it that reflected all coming near. Two
parallel rods pierced the haft, holding it together; a chrome spine shot up the middle and then
became the cross piece. He pushed the flat of the metal blade against his cheek. The cool steel
was a stripe of relief across his burning face. He pulled it back away and continued to admire
that precision crafted device of violence, savagery. Its primitive design was a testament to the
agelessness of such an instrument. This was not a tool meant merely to hack away at tree limbs
or vines. It was crafted to cater to the needs of the bloodthirsty. Perhaps no amount of blood
would truly quench his thirst, but this blade would draw all he could need for the foreseeable
future, such was its purpose. Bullets were made to be fired from the barrel of a gun, and as such,
this beauty was meant to be wielded. Carl Slade knew nothing of guns, nor did he want to
identify himself among the peasants who fired them. Cowardly men punching holes in their
enemies from a distance, no, to truly know what it is to relieve someone of their existence, one
had to get up close, cut into the body, and hold eye contact for as long as it took for the heart to
stop. He held the cutter proudly. It had a particular weight about it, as though it were guiding his
hand, asking to be pushed down into flesh. He could see in his mind the knife doing its duty and
peeling back large flaps of skin, then carving deeper still into muscle, shredding it into strings
like pork and pulling it from bone and then landing square and appropriate into the vital organ,
perhaps a heart, then further into body, piercing bone, muscle, and finally breaking back through
skin once again and leaving empty space where life sustaining blood once passed through. A
sword that never did such a thing might have been the same as a home never lived in. But for all
the songs it sang to him, it wasnt just the thing of beauty he so desired, for what he held in his
hands was merely a paint brush meant to assist in the production of the masterpieces he felt
destined to complete. He saw a symbol of the longevity of psychotic needs for a billion others
that came before him and of the everlasting torment that would reign supreme in the hands of
every manslayer that might come from that day forth. He clutched it and re-sheathed the archaic
bringer of painful death. The sheath was heavy with the weight of its contents pulling it low and
making Slades pants fall down around his underwear. The man still resembled a boy, but the
knife, a validating symbol of his dedication to his passion, stood upright.