My Something

His skin was warm, you know. It used to be smooth and supple under my fingertips, moving as he smiled. I used to spend hours each day sitting there, just casually touching his face.1

It's the only way I get to know people, you know.2

Since I can't see and all.3

Life's a blob of something. I have no idea what, though. I mean, it could be black or gray or red as blood, but I haven't seen those colors in awhile, so I'm not so sure.4

Let's just say it's something.5

He was part of that something, hovering in every twist and churn of it. Every day, he came upstairs and opened my door. They let him because he worked there, so visiting hours didn't apply, really. He'd sit at the edge of my bed with a little creak and pull out something for me. It was flowers usually, sometimes chocolate. But all that didn't matter much to me. The roses had thorns that dug under my skin and the chocolate left thick sourness in the back of my throat.6

I didn't care for them much, I was too into getting to know his face.7

I already knew all the doctor's faces. They had bumpy, smooth, rough and polished. All so easy to box up in my mind. But his was something else.8

I could feel every rise and fall, map out every plane. I'd always remember little things about him, like the bump on the bridge of his nose or the tiny rough patch of skin on his chin, which he claimed was a scar, but how would I know?9

I didn't know much back then.10

I guess that's why I trusted him.11

~12

I've never been good at adjusting to new things.13

When they first sent me to the hospital, I used to lie awake at night, sweating into the sheets as I heard the clusters of footsteps banging by. My head was soothed as I learned to memorize the doctor's orthopedic tennis shoes, the way the squeaked against the polished floor. The nurse's spool heels, clacking like a parrot.14

And his tennis shoes, sliding, soft as a mink, against the hallway.15

Anyway, the church was something new to me. Joshua had promised me a fat paycheck if I did this. I'd agreed, of course.16

Money's always nice, especially when you can invest it in little pills that take the edge off the something, the slime out of the blob that makes up your life.17

So, for money and money alone, I waited in the confessional, back pressed against the slick wood. When I was three, before the accident that robbed me of my senses, they'd told me I'd gone to church every Sunday with the parents I once had. Even now, as I close my eyes, I can hear the rustle of hymn books, the cleared throats and dust motes. 18

But I really can't get used to the church. It's part of my adjusting problem, I guess.19

Maybe it's because it's so silent. In the hospital, it was always loud, rumbling and sharp and metal.20

Out on the streets, it's weed smells and laughter, sweaty bodies crushing the oxygen out of the shallow night air.21

In the church, silence, thick as death pressed down on my lungs. I bit down on my lip and patted my thigh, where I'd tucked a gun into my thigh-high. The quicker I got this over with, the happier Joshua would be. The more money I'd get.22

I needed to stay focused.23

An obnoxious creak alerted me to the door opening. I crouched down and cocked the gun without pulling it out of my stocking.24

The all-too-familiar sound of tennis shoes slid against the polished floor. He was making his way down the pews. I say he because of the weight he put on his feet, weight a woman would not put.25

He was getting closer, his shallow breathing filling the cavernous, empty church. I pulled the gun out of my garter, envisioning Joshua's smile beneath my fingertips and handfuls of little white pills.26

He stopped.27

"It's you."28

His voice. Should I have been surprised?29

"Got any chocolate for me? Any flowers?"30

He stayed silent.31

"Didn't think so. Couldn't stand that stuff, anyways. I just liked that you came and visited me."32

Hesitation, and then a slow exhale. "You're the one they sent?"33

I took a step forward, hand outstretched, and it brushed fabric, encasing a muscular chest. I reached up, picturing the warm skin, the bumpy nose, the scar.34

My fingers met porcelain, thin as an eggshell and unforgiving as a priest.35

"You're wearing a mask."36

"Hmph." He sounded pleased. "Can't let people see my face, now can I?"37

"I guess not." My voice didn't quaver, but my palms were oily with sweat, the gun sliding down my fingers. I held onto it tighter and stiffened.38

At the moment, I couldn't think about the fact that I was about to kill the only person who'd ever cared about me. I couldn't even think about the fact that he'd done things to deserve it.39

All I could think about was the mask he wore, the cover.40

It was like a knife, stabbing and shredding my something.41

I kept my hand on that cold, smooth cheek. He had no warmth now. No smile. The mask was bare, I could tell, eyeholes and a gap for the mouth. No place for bumpy noses and scarred chins.42

"I guess it's a small world." He seemed more sure of himself now. "After you got sent out, I thought I'd never see you again. Christ, you look like a mess. What have you been doing to yourself?"43

"I needed something to help me get through all this." Something for my something.44

He chuckled. "All right. Sure. Fine. I surrender."45

I put a hand to my forehead. It came away sweaty. "Why'd you come visit me all the time?"46

He sighed. "Are these gonna be my last words?"47

"Yeah. So say them."48

"When they brought you in, you seemed so...I don't know, afraid. You had trouble fitting in. You were scared of every little noise. I guess I felt sorry for you." He inhaled deeply and continued. "I figured I'd be your friend for awhile. And then, it got kind of addicting. Seeing how happy you were when I came in. Your laughter. The way you'd just kind of pat my cheeks." Here he took one of my hands and placed it on his masked face. I flinched away from the slick ceramic.49

"So I watched you grow up, every day. And I saw you for the beautiful woman you were going to be. I felt something strange inside me, when I looked at you. A yearning, a..."50

"Desire?" I filled in, trying desperately to hold on to my something as he inadvertantly tore it apart.51

"Desire. Yes. Perfect. It was desire, and maybe love."52

"Maybe love?" It was my turn to laugh, and I did so, derisively.53

"Laugh all you want. It's true." I could feel a smile in his words, and I fought back the urge to touch his face. "So, am I going to die now?"54

I bit my lip. Fought back a gag at the thought of the mask. Tried to drown myself in my something, think of paychecks and pills and places full of people, not derelict, empty churches.55

"Yes."56

I pulled the trigger.