Dead End | Clyde (Part Two)

“You told me to come,” I say. My stomach will not stop kicking.

She flicks her wrist again and the razor falls out of its socket – dangles like a dislocated jaw. “You can’t be here,” she says and walks toward me, keeping the razor at her side. “Victoria –”

She lifts her pointer finger to my lips. “Shh.” Her doll eyes widen. “It’s our little secret,” she whispers. Victoria sketches a smile across my stomach with the straight razor. “Aren’t you happy you came?”

My tucked-in shirt fills with blood and filters through the rips she made. Blood is dribbling onto my tool belt, down my pant leg and onto the floor. I’ve been making a blood trail since we left the kitchen. The gash on my stomach keeps swallowing air and it burns like Chap Stick. I am standing atop the stairs that lead down to the basement. The basement smells like mold. Or does it smell like dead people and pig butts? Do I smell like dead people or pig butts? Vomit is rushing up my throat like water filling a hose. I feel the straight razor impale between my shoulder blades. Vomit shoots out of my mouth; my body falls forward; my back curves. I roll down the stairs and my vomit falls like confetti. I hear the door close behind me. I am lying on my back. This concrete floor makes me miss the hard sponge mattress. My tool belt is disheveled: nails escaped their designated pockets mid-roll; hammers and screwdrivers were freed from their loops. A couple nails stew in my stomach gash; a Phillip’s head is beneath my cut’s upper lip.

I came here to fix her house, not myself.

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