November 2008

Comet Press open for submissions

Our print division, Comet Press, is currently accepting submissions for horror, suspense, and dark crime novels and novellas. Visit www.cometpress.us for details.

Available for order from Comet Press

DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us

As Close As It Gets
by Karina Berg Johansson

I can’t wait.

I’ve been yearning to go for quite some time now. The atrocious feeling I had about seeing him has vanished; in its place there’s a deep longing to be close. For him to hold me close. Glancing out the window, I catch my reflection in the rain-stained glass. A distorted smile filled with trust.

Only one more night to get through. The cab will be here to pick me up at 8 am sharp.

As I start packing, I’m not sure what to bring. I open the drawers, the closet, pick some random items, fold them and then put them in the avocado green bag that rests on the rosy pink quilt covering my bed. The colors clash wildly enough to make me nauseous. The instant the bag is full I pour it all out and start over. It’s a never-ending process.

Hours later the bed is covered with every piece of clothing I own, and even some I don’t but that I have chosen not to take back to my sister’s. The pink bedspread is no longer visible. If for nothing else, for this I should be grateful.

The mirror jeers at me from the bedroom wall, making fun of the pudgy arms and flabby stomach reflected there. I refuse to even look at the stocky legs, the dimpled cheeks. The scales showed 100 pounds this morning. By tomorrow it will be down to two figures. Walking up to the mirror, I jerk it loose and place it face down on the floor. The glass scrunches under my boots as I crush the contempt and accusations, causing myself another seven years of misery. It is all worth it.

“Why the hell am I going through with this?” The loud whining startles me. I didn’t know I had that in me. Nice, well-behaved miss Goody Two-Shoes never complains, does she? Maybe pre-travel stress, pre-touching anxiety, has caused a change.

As long as I breathe deeply I can ignore the cold sweat that covers me like a veil.

I fold each item; build neat stacks of jeans, sweaters, t-shirts and underwear, dresses, skirts and socks, placing it all in color-matched rows. I go on to place everything according to possible events when each item might be worn; dinner with prospective parents-in-law, date night for two, movie and pizza, shopping with a friend. Then I line it all according to match-ability; pink shirt and red skirt, greenish sweater and blue jeans, striped socks and a polka dot bra. The list goes on.

Two hours later I give up. The bed is still covered in clothes, the empty bag silently accusing me from the hard wood floor beneath. The green looks a lot better away from the pink bedspread, resting against shattered pieces of glass.

Who am I kidding anyway? No matter what I bring, what I wear, he will look at me once, then turn away in disgust as he sees my chunky cheeks, the flabby tummy. A groan starts deep within, makes my limbs tremble as a wave of hunger rattles me. Pinching my eyes shut, I will the stupidity away.

I need something else to think about. I head for the bathroom to draw a hot bath, wanting to wash away that pungent smell of ammonia trailing me like a shadow. Maybe sweating it out is what I need to lose another pound or two before I leave, I think, not acknowledging the fact that I will be leaving first thing in the morning. I sprinkle the water with bath salts, light scented candles and sticks of incense, and make sure the bathrobe is close to the tub. Then I undress quickly, folding everything instead of leaving it in the intended heap on the floor.

I just lowered myself into the scolding water when the doorbell rings.

Water drips all over the place as I tiptoe into the hall, careful not to slip. Passing the sideboard by the bedroom door I bump into it, hurting my hip and causing a stack of books to crash before my feet. I swear quietly, one loud outburst is enough, and rub my sore flesh as I lean in to look through the peephole, wiping away a drop of hot water-induced sweat running down my face.

A guy is standing outside; dark and handsome. I have never seen him before. I am absolutely certain. My skin prickles, from cold or fear I can’t say. What am I to do? Ignore him? Not open the door? I blush at the mere thought. Besides, he must have heard the stack of books falling, so he is sure to know that someone is in here. Still, I don’t want to open the door to a complete stranger. I’m all wet, dressed in nothing but the threadbare robe I picked from my father’s hanger after the funeral.

Again I lean in to the peephole. I see him reach out, assume that he is putting his finger to the doorbell although I really can’t see if this is what he is doing. Then the buzz echoes through the tiny space of my life once more.

“Who is it?” I ask, putting my mouth to the mail slit in the door, pried open by fingers slippery with scented salts. For the second time tonight the sound of my own voice startles me. Crouching on the floor, I can see his legs and feet, faded jeans and brown leather shoes that look worn, but expensive. He is slightly turned to the left, but as I speak he moves, and I imagine him facing the door.

“Hey, there. I thought no one was home. I was just about to leave.”

His voice is as handsome as his face; dark, velvety honey penetrating my mind.

“Okay,” I say slowly, wanting to stall whatever is happening. I tilt my head, trying to see more of him through the slit. “Who are you?”

“I’m your next door neighbor.” The honey has given way to something else. “I just wanted you to ask something.” Concern, insecurity? “See, I’m going away for the weekend and I have no one to take care of my cat.” Weariness. “I wondered if you might be able to feed her once or twice while I’m gone.” Incredulity. “I’m Pete by the way.” Now the voice has turned into an apology.

I get up from the floor, reach for the lock, and open the door. A narrow crack, allowing me to see him, not for him to see me. The robe falls open and I don’t bother closing it.

“Hi,” I say. Seeing him in full view I notice that he is very tall, tall enough to touch the ceiling of my apartment if he wanted to. If I let him. “I was just about to take a bath. Would it be okay if I came over when I’m done? To discuss details.”

His tense face breaks into a smile.

“Sure,” he says. “So you’ll think about it then?”

“Of course.”

I am about to close the door when I change my mind, flinging it open, letting him in on who he is talking to. A flash of interest glitters in his eyes, before I pull the robe tighter, covering up the milky white of my chest.

“See you later then.” A wide smile and then the door is closed.

***

When I ring his bell, it only takes him seconds to open. I can’t help thinking that he must have been pacing the hall, waiting for me to get there. The rug lies in a heap beneath his feet, the evidence of an hour of trudging.

“Hi! Welcome!” Too cheery, too happy, every word followed by an exclamation mark that makes me uneasy. “Please, come in!”

I almost back off, deterred by an overwhelming smell of loneliness and overcooked cabbage.

He walks ahead of me, leading the way into a kitchen even tinier than mine. I didn’t know such a thing was possible. I look around to see traces of the cat I have come to take care of, but there is none to be found. No bowl for food. No scratch marks. Not even a stray hair.

“Do you want anything? Coffee, tea?”

He is so anxious to please, so adamant about doing the right thing. A scolded child eager to make amends. I make my smile encouraging and sit down on the high stool he offers me.

“Tea would be nice. If you’re having.” I haven’t forgotten all my manners.

“Yeah, sure.”

Turning the tap, water splatters all over the front of his sweater, but if he notices it, it doesn’t show. He merely fills the kettle, and then busies himself with preparing the tea, bustling with cups, saucers and spoons to conceal the awkward silence that fills the narrow space.

When he sits down opposite me, a board not wide enough to be called a table separating us, the wet stains have already faded, leaving a vague pattern that in another place, another time could have been a Rorschach. His voice is honey all over again, and I relax, enjoying myself as I listen to him talk about nothing in particular. Now and then I glance at the clock hanging above the door behind him, watching the seconds expand into minutes. Still, no tingling urge to leave.

Then something shifts.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while…” His voice trails off, and he clears his throat. A gurgling sound, revealing way too much phlegm. “I mean, I’ve seen you around…”

The remains of my tea are cold, its depth murky by dissolved sugar. I stir it to pass time, hoping beyond hope that his words will dissolve too.

“Would you like to go out some time?” he blurts out, taking me by surprise. The spoon stops mid-movement. Using the cat was a dirty trick. I don’t even try to hide my resentment.

“I really do need someone to take care of the cat,” he hurries to say as if he can read my thoughts.

I get up, imagining throwing the cold tea in his face, watching it trickle down like tears, mixing with the now dry stains of water on his sweater. I trusted you, I want to scream. I let down my guard because I thought you were different. That you weren’t like him.

The room is dead quiet, and my cup rests undisturbed.

“I’d better go.”

I get up and just stand there, waiting for him to grab my arms, to squeeze them until his fingernails draw blood.

“Did I say something wrong?” He looks at me, the child turned bewildered now, but he can’t fool me anymore. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

His words release me, and I start walking towards the hall, the door.

Still no sign of the alleged cat.

Stopping by the door, one hand on the handle, I turn, holding out the other to get his key. I swallow, struggling to play the part for just a little while longer.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Going out, I mean. Not just right now. I have things to see to first. Let’s talk about it when you get back.” Perfectly normal. The tremble in my hand grows worse. “But I’ll take care of the cat. For the weekend. Promise.”

He plays along, dropping the key in my open palm, making sure not to touch as if he is suddenly afraid of catching something.

Then, just when I thought he was safe, he touches the back of my hand in a silent goodbye.

***

I turn the key, carefully opening the door and silently closing it behind me. The flat is pitch dark, not even the lights from the street reaching in to make a difference. The rug still lays crumpled beneath my feet. Standing in the hall I wait, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Pain throbs in the back of my hand, the bandage wet with blood, his touch still there although my skin is no longer.

When I move forward, the floorboards creak beneath my feet, betraying me. Outside the bedroom door I stop and wait until I hear him get out of bed, heading my way, disturbed, I assume, by this nightly visit.

As I push the knife into his soft white stomach – as white as the skin I offered him before – I expect him to cry out, to put up a fight, to ask me why. Instead he merely lets out a puffing sound as he looks at me, huge eyes filled with dark surprise. Stumbling backwards he is floating through air, taking the lead in our first and final dance.

For a moment he holds on, his hand touching mine still grasping the handle of the knife, and then he falls, sprawling across the bed.

I lean over him, my face close to his, my eyes wide enough to take it all in. My breath caresses him, our hearts beat in perfect rhythm, but I don’t allow my fingers to touch. Not yet.

Silently, I watch him die.

I resist the impulse to put the knife in my mouth, to let his blood mix with mine, sealing this unity between us. I don’t need to – I can taste the metallic bitterness without it. The heavy smell fills the room. He doesn’t take long. Small red bubbles burst out of his nose and mouth with every breath. The cat comes into the room at one point, its furry body rubbing against my bare leg to get attention.

Then he is gone.

I stay with him until dawn. Stretching out beside him, as close as I will ever get, I let his chilled body warm my naked skin. I caress the back of his head and hum a since-long-forgotten lullaby that I think he would have liked. When the early morning light finds its way through the blinds, he looks so peaceful, almost sleeping.

***

The zipper of the bag gets stuck as I try to pull it shut with trembling hands. Clothes fall out, strewn across the floor in disarray, as the cab pulls up outside my window. The bandage will take some explanation at first, but things like that no longer matter. This sudden ability to be close makes my skin tingle with anticipation.

I can’t wait.