Sunday, March 22nd. 839 words. (DWOM)
The dance show finished up, turning out so the voting public kicked off Rebecca’s favorite dancer. She was visibly upset, and looked like she wanted to argue. Gray looked to the lampstand, and pulled an old issue of Reader’s Digest from the pile of magazines covering it. He flipped it open and pretended to read, nodding slightly and chewing on his lower lip, trying to look thoughtful.
“I know you don’t care, but these are real people. These are their real dreams getting crushed, and not for any good reason. Popularity. It’s all a popularity contest.”
“I know that. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just…it’s a television show.”
“Not for them! And not for me. I used to be a dancer, too, you know. A song and dance girl. If these kinds of shows had been around when I was young, well. I might not have ended up where I did.”
“Something wrong with where you ended up?”
“Some days I think so. I’m married to a man who’s married to a train station. Tell me if that doesn’t sound unfair.”
He might have otherwise tried to placate her, to rise and comfort her, because this wasn’t about the dancing show. It was about him. But the package was drilling little holes in the back of his head and he couldn’t be bothered. She would get over it. He was impatient, desperately so, for her to go to bed. So he didn’t say anything.
She left the room in a huff, and he pretended to read for a good five minutes more, even bothering to turn the pages every once in a while. In his head, the package was being opened over and over again, and inside…he couldn’t imagine what was inside. Something dark. Something bright. Something dead. Something terrible. Something from the under layer. The demon lair. He could hear her getting ready for bed in the other room. She was making a point of everything, doing it all so he could hear. Pulling open and shutting drawers, running water, walking so that her heels hit the bathroom tile like rubber mallets. Aggravation, that old game. This time he wouldn’t bite. Wouldn’t stand up suddenly and yell out, “Quiet that noise, Rebecca!” He had more important things to worry about.
He would use a knife. He’d cut on the outside of it, careful not to stab into the thing in case whatever was inside could be damaged by stabbing. A serrated knife, then. He’d cut a seam, then grab hold of each side and peel it back, ripping the covering and letting the thing fall out. But he’d do it on the ground, so that it wouldn’t be damaged by the fall. Whatever was inside might roll out. Slide out. Pour out. He’d lay some newspaper, just in case. And then what? Once it was out, what would he do? He’d have some trash bags handy in case it was dangerous, and then he’d have to get rid of it somehow.
The bedroom door slammed shut. She was getting into bed. Knowing Rebecca, she’d lay there for an hour or more, steeling herself against sleep. If he snuck in and tried to roll up next to her, she’d make him sleep on the couch. He was better off out here, with the Reader’s Digest and the television. To be safe, he should wait until he was sure she’d fallen asleep, and then get to the package. Yes, that would be safe. He put down the Digest and his body pulled itself from the couch. He went to the kitchen and started inspecting knives. This one would do. This one, too. He took four knives and a hand towel to wrap them in. He went beneath the sink and pulled out two heavy black trash bags, wincing each time they crinkled. She wouldn’t come out to see what he was doing, she was too proud for that, but he knew she was listening just the same. He picked the newspaper from the train station up from the counter and tucked it under his arm. Then he went to his study and closed the door as quietly as he could. He flipped the lightswitch.
The package had moved from where he’d left it, wriggling out from under the desk into the open. It vibrated wildly, pulsating and changing shape faster than he could make out. He should wait, it would be safe to wait, but now that he was here with the knives and the trash bags and the package, he couldn’t imagine waiting. So what if she heard him - what would she do? Nothing. She might ask him in the morning what all the noise was, but she wouldn’t get out of bed. He wasn’t going to wait. Gray sat on the floor indian style, spreading the newspaper in front of him. The knives he placed to the side, and felt for all the world as if he were about to carve a pumpkin.
