being told it would be physically dangerous to trust in what she could feel. A child, still trying to unravel the mystery of pain and still absolutely, positively terrified of sounds in the dark.
Afterward, he collapsed. I reached over, snapped off the light.
“I have an early morning flight,” I said, the only words that needed to be spoken.
Reassured, he dozed off while I lay next to him, stroking the muscular outline of his upper arm, concentrating on the ripples of his shoulders and triceps, as if mapping the planes of his body with my fingertips.
I counted off the minutes in my mind. After five had passed and his breathing dropped to a slower, heavier tone, dulled by whiskey, sated by sex, I made my move.
First order of business, snapping on the bathroom light. I grabbed my purse, then moved into the lit space, closing the door behind me. Not thinking anymore. What I was going to do next defied rational thought or well-adjusted reasoning.
What had I tried to explain to my new patient, Detective Warren, earlier in the day? Without balance, difference pieces of Self sought dominance. Meaning even the strongest Manager mind couldn’t run the ship 24/7. Sooner or later, the weak, hurting Exiles were bound to break out and wreak havoc for the Firefighters to handle next.
By engaging in various acts of self-destruction. By creating drama for the sake of drama. By ensuring for at least a brief period of time, the rest of the world felt their pain.
Slim black plastic kit out of my purse. Easing it open. Removing the square packages of lidocaine-soaked wipes. Tearing open the pack, removing the sheet. Holding it in my right hand, while picking up the slender, stainless steel scalpel in my left.
Cracking open the bathroom door. Adjusting until the glowing strip of white light fell across my target’s sleeping form like a thin spotlight. Pausing, then, when he remained snoring lightly, padding naked to his side of the bed.
First, the lidocaine wipe. With light, even strokes, applying the topical anesthetic down the length of the salesman’s left shoulder, slowly but surely numbing the surface of the skin.
Setting down the wipe. Counting carefully to sixty in order to give the lidocaine enough time to do its work.
My fingers, running along the contours of his left shoulder, mapping the muscles once more in my mind.
Then, picking up the scalpel. Positioning the blade. A slight prick to test for physical response.
Then, when my salesman remained snoring blissfully unaware, telling myself this was what set me apart from my family. I was not like my sister. I was not like my father.
I was not driven by a need to inflict pain. I just . . . Sometimes . . .
No sound mind would do what I was about to do. And yet. And yet . . .
My right hand moved. Four quick strokes. Two long, two short. Incising a thin ribbon of skin, approximately three inches in length and not even a quarter of an inch wide. Then, using the blade of the scalpel, wicking it away from the flesh, until it landed warm and wet in the palm of my left hand.
Blood welling up on the surface of the salesman’s numbed skin. I picked up my own black panties and held them against the wound till the bleeding slowed, then stopped.
Moving quickly now, back to the bathroom. Ribbon of skin placed in an empty glass vial. Sealed, then labeled. Used anesthetic wipe, scalpel, everything, tucked into the plastic case, then slid once more into my purse. Hands washed. Face and mouth rinsed.
Heart starting to pound, fingers shaking, as I struggled with each article of my clothing. Finally, skirt on, bra, top, boots. Dragging a hand through my mane of brown hair before sweeping up the loose strands on the floor and flushing them down the toilet. One last glance in the mirror. Seeing my own face and yet feeling like a total stranger, as if I’d stepped outside my own skin. My sister should be standing here. Or my father.
Not the one who looked like my mother. The supposed innocent.
I reached behind myself, snapped off the bathroom light.
I stood alone in the dark. And I wasn’t afraid anymore, because the dark was now my friend. I’d joined forces with it. It had told me what it wanted me to do, and I’d relied on it for cover.
Traveling salesman Neil would wake up in the morning with a raging headache from too much alcohol,