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Twenty-Three
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House of Sighs Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWOSarah nuzzled Michael’s neck.He smells like Bill. Perhaps the two men even shared the same taste in cologne. Was it Old Spice, she wondered, or maybe Imperial Leather?Something with a ship on the bottle, sails unfurled and billowing in a breeze. It didn’t matter either way in the end; this wasn’t an attractive evocation. If anything, the familiarity startled her—and then it dawned why. These matching colognes were artificialities masking the natural, a musk to hide almost dead things, to hide fear.Bill.Thirty-nine years of marriage. While the majority of that time had been well spent, the skeleton of their relationship weathered dislocations more than once. In 1960, Bill, for some reason, thought it was okay to indulge in his newfound penchant for younger women. Caught in the act, he said that regardless of the error, his heart was hers forever, but owning it came with a caveat: he demanded she acquiesce and accept his flaws. Only human. Humans made mistakes. Bill com
House of Sighs Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONEReggie caressed the air where her daughter’s cheeks should have been, were she to still possess a face. “Don’t look, baby,” she said, her voice syrupy with phlegm. “Daddy’s got his gun. Who’re these friends you’ve brought home? You should have told me so I could’ve had dinner cooked for them.”Wes stood over the remaining passengers as they dropped to their knees. He felt dissociated from what was happening, the gun a strange weight in his double grip—it teemed with energy he didn’t think could be controlled. Comprehending what he had done proved a struggle, let alone what he knew he was about to do. That awareness sparked from a simple question, one he kept circling back around to: Who were these strangers, these people with their grotesque pantomimes and prayers? A shudder ripped through him, and Wes’s mind re-entered his body. The answer didn’t matter anymore. And he wanted it to stay that way.He gripped the gun, sneered. It was he who couldn’t be controlled, not it.
House of Sighs Twenty
TWENTYJed heard everything happening downstairs from the bathroom. Cringing, he stepped into his jeans. They slipped over his jagged hipbones with ease. He didn’t bother with underwear or a shirt; they were in a wet, red pile in the corner. Water still ran from the showerhead. A single scarlet thread dribbled down the side of the tub.Fingers formed a net in front of his face, a lattice between him and the mirror. His heartbeat raced as though he’d gotten “wet”, but he was sure the drug was no longer in his system.Pain and bleeding cuts and images of people flying apart in slow motion. His sister running at him with open arms.He recalled how Liz came to him earlier that morning to say goodbye, as if she’d known these were her last hours. He’d seen a similar frightened and confused look on her face when they had gotten high together that one time in the shed, the day he’d lost control. He’d slammed her in the face with the heel of his foot. She didn’t bleed until after she hit th
House of Sighs Nineteen
NINETEENWes jabbed the twin barrels of the gun against the side of Jack’s head. “You want to kiss my daughter, you disgusting piece of shit?” he hissed. “You gonna marry her? Did you fuck my daughter?”Each blow hurt but Jack resisted pulling the knife from his pocket. He wasn’t going to risk blowing this bet until he was positive the timing was right. Chances didn’t exist in this house, if indeed they ever did. The final smack of metal against scalp echoed loud and hollow. “Stop-stop it!” Jack said.“Stop? You dare say stop to me?” Wes stared, incredulous. “Okay, you said it.” Wes recoiled then spat a heavy wad of spit on the man kneeling before him. He pointed the gun at the old woman instead. She recoiled in shock, arching backwards, stopped her fall by slamming palms against the carpet. Her exposed throat.“Why don’t you tell me to stop, lady?” Wes inquired.Sarah felt no pain, even though her body contorted into a position no woman her age should attempt, let alone accomplis
House of Sighs Eighteen:
EIGHTEEN:Jed Bleeds“Dad!”Wes swung towards the staircase and the gun swung with him.***“Dad!”Wes saw his eight-year-old son standing in the shadows of the hall, a line of paper dolls holding hands in a downward smile strung across the archway above. It seemed impossible that such a huge yell could issue from someone so tiny. Wes clutched the carving knife, watched Jed crouching low.Anger danced with disgrace. These bloody kids had him wrapped around their little fingers. That wouldn’t stand. A lesson had to be taught, and so a lesson they would receive—just as Wes’s own father had taught him. One day his children would understand. Character was carved.It paid to bleed out the bad if that was what it took.A father had a right to discipline his children.Liz sprawled on the ground at his feet. Shirt ripped open at the collar, one of the denim suspenders of her overalls unclipped.Jed began to cry.***“Stop crying,” Wes told his son, huddled at the top of the stairs
House of Sighs Seventeen
SEVENTEENWes rushed at the little boy framed by paper dolls.Which will rip easier? he wondered.He laughed a little, even though a part of him was sad.He brought the knife up and before he knew what he was doing, lashed out to see his power enacted upon the world in the flesh of his son. Jed lifted up his hands to shield his face.***The wounds winked at Wes, and he stopped, lowering the gun.Jed’s slit wrists crisscrossed before his face.“I’m sorry, Dad.”The arm holding the gun fell to Wes’s side. He looked up the staircase. Along the walls, over the balustrade, were dark red smears and splashes.Jed shied away from his father. He was getting dizzy. Incredible pain—he could never have anticipated such hurt. How long did it take for a person to die from such wounds? He hoped he’d snipped all the right veins; though he was sure he had.When he slid the six-inch shard of broken mirror through his flesh, there had been an instant spray that freckled the ceiling. The thumpin
House of Sighs Sixteen
SIXTEENWes watched his attacker raise a bloodied fist. It lingered. Descended, bringing the blade down with it, razoring the air, whistling as it went. Blood like red stars falling and exploding against his face. Wes didn’t feel the square-ended knife slip inside his cheek, nor did he feel it snap against his gums. Almost casually, as though there was no such thing as agony, he reached past the splayed books for the shotgun. Fingers latched onto the barrel and wrapped around the trigger. He heaved it up, but the bastard on his stomach caught the blur of movement and halted his movement with a forearm block.An explosion of light and sound; a hole opened in the ceiling. A huge cloud of plaster dust wafted over them.The helix in-curve rim of Jack’s external ear disappeared, the wound cauterized by the heat of the blast. His hand shot to the side of his face to touch the part of him that remained, and he shrieked.Wes dropped the now useless, empty gun. Punches were all he had left.
House of Sighs Fifteen
FIFTEENThe old man attempted to grab Jack’s hair but it was too closely cropped to hold on to. Instead, those thick fingers latched to his shirt, tearing it at the collar.End this not because you have to, but because you want to, said the voice in Jack’s head. The tone was sweet and low and comforting. You have to end this because you were put on this earth to end it all.Jack had the father pinned underneath him once again. He smashed the face with a tightly clenched fist and heard the nose shatter.***Jed was on his side at the foot of the steps, bleeding to death. His world darkened, but not quick enough. It left him wondering how much longer he had to live. So silly—Jed assumed it would all blink out in an instant. Of course, he thought to himself almost wryly, a swift mercy would be denied. He’d never had the luck of the Irish. Not with girls, not with gambling, and not now when he needed it most, here in his final moments.Though moving remained difficult, he could still
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