Trembling With Fear 1-14-24

Almost, by Michael Subjack

He followed her through the alley, his brain foggy from too many drinks and a long-dormant libido. How long had it been since he was with a woman? The number was too embarrassing to think about, so he focused on her, who was leading the way to what he hoped was a sexual encounter that was as satisfying as it was overdue. 

“Are we close?” he asked. 

She offered him a coy smile. 

“Almost.” 

This had become the refrain since they had left the bar and gone in the direction that was opposite his apartment, indicating they were likely headed to her place. That was something he told himself he could handle, but as they had weaved through countless alleys and side streets, the sounds of a bustling, lively downtown on a Saturday night became more muted with each turn, which was a bit unnerving. 

“Where do you live?” he asked in a feeble attempt to keep his tone light. “In the desert?”

“No,” she replied, sliding up next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. “But I like the view at night. Don’t you?” 

He thought about her hypnotic blue eyes and full lips and decided that he did. The only other thing that was sort of troubling was her smell. He couldn’t quite place it, but it had a chemical odor akin to rubbing alcohol or ammonia. Maybe she had a particularly stubborn brand of nail polish that needed removing. Either way, focusing on it seemed pedantic. It hadn’t bothered him back at the bar, but then again, he didn’t think the smell was coming from her at that point. She had accidentally knocked her purse to the ground, and he had dutifully bent over to pick it up, along with the assorted bric-a-brac that had fallen out of it. As he scooped up tissues, lipstick, and breath mints, the strange smell stung his nostrils. He chalked it up as a perfect storm of spilled drinks and who knows whatever else as he sat upright and handed the purse to her. They finished their drinks shortly after that, and when he made the fateful suggestion that they get out of there, she offered him a shrug and an amiable “Sure”. 

Despite how easy the conversation had been at the bar, it was fairly limited now, which he chalked up to anticipation because it had been a while. Maybe too long. His head was really starting to swim, which was bad. He usually watched how much he drank when he was courting a woman, be it for that night or beyond. How many he had downed, anyway? He tried to count, but his brain was becoming increasingly foggier. 

“Are we getting close?” he asked. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Almost,” she promised, pulling him even closer. The strange chemical smell was still present, but so were the faint, flowery strains of her shampoo, which was much more pleasant and alluring. He took several deep breaths, which steadied him slightly. 

“So what brought you here?” he asked. 

The noise from downtown was all but a memory now. The only sounds were their scraping footsteps on the wet black pavement as they navigated their way down yet another alley. She replied with something he couldn’t quite make out. And it wasn’t because she spoke softly or incoherently. There was a roaring in his ears, which he imagined was the rushing of his blood. It just happened to be going in the wrong direction. The lights, dim as they were, began to flare in a way that was harsh and obtrusive. Then there were his legs, which no longer felt connected to his body as he fell into what he imagined was a modern-day take on the St. Vitus’ Dance before he collapsed entirely. 

To state the absurdly obvious, something was wrong. He attempted to retrieve his phone, but his spasming hands prevented him from getting a firm grip on it. He managed to look up, hoping to see her panicked and sympathetic face as she dialed 9-1-1, but there was no one. He was alone. Almost alone, anyway. From somewhere far away or perhaps too close for comfort, he heard the cautious movement of footsteps. 

And then….

He awoke to find himself prone on something that might have been a plush mattress or a bed of spikes. He had no way of knowing, as there was absolutely no sensation of any kind in his body. He attempted to make a sound but only a labored croak emerged. 

And then there she was, standing over him wearing a rubber apron and a plastic face mask. His head flopped to the side where he noted a metal table with a number of glass containers on top, all of them filled with a clear fluid. Some had strangely shaped masses floating inside them. Was one of them a kidney? He honestly didn’t know. It had been a minute since high school biology. A tingling in his throat followed as his vocal cords loosened. Some of his agency had returned, but as his brain still felt like it was wrapped in wet plaster, there wasn’t much he could offer. Just a question – the only one that made sense in his current state. 

“Are we close?” 

She held up a scalpel and smiled, her eyes not meeting his. As sensation slowly continued to return, he had just enough energy to raise his head and see what her gaze was fixated on, a decision he immediately regretted. It was his glistening, still-beating heart inside of his open chest cavity. In the time it took him to start screaming, she cooed a reply barely louder than a whisper.  

“Almost.”