A Promise of Grim Death, Chapter Two
First, Hi. This is has been five months in the making and I would like to thank everybody for their kind words for Chapter one.
Second, this one is a little bit longer than the first part, so strap in, grab a snack and relax.
Third, please pay attention to the trigger warnings; although if you’re fucking with Terrifier- I’m sure you’ll be alright.
TW: Smoking, Obscene language, sex, masturbation, gratuitous (and I mean gratuitous) violence, death, gore, stalking, voyeurism, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of animal death (honestly it’s fine blink and you miss it), murder, and finally Art himself baby.
Dear Sienna,
It read.
This is a slightly unconventional way of contacting you, but you know me, when has anything we’ve done been conventional?
He didn’t like it. It sounded like they were friends. He mulled it over for a second or so, dissatisfied but at a loss for how else to start it. He gripped the pen tightly, he knew he shouldn’t have left it until the last minute. But the Little Pale Girl visited him this week, and he was tired. Which was in fact, the exact opposite of how he wished to be this Thursday evening, but needs must. And that girl needed blood.
So Sienna,
Art continued.
I need you to understand that I still want you dead, as I’m sure you want me. Dead that is. But I am requesting a small parlay. Just for the holidays. I have something I need to do, and I would rather you not get in my way. In turn, I will stay out of yours too. You will not see me, hear from me and you need not fear me until the new year. I give you my word. Which, I understand may not mean much. But as a voiceless clown, it’s all I have. I know, the irony is not lost on me either.
Art laughed at that, he wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. God, he killed himself.
That notwithstanding, if you meddle in my business I will not hesitate to make you suffer. So please just do us both a favor and chill the fuck out.
That’s it.
Happy holidays!
-ART xo
Finally satisfied with his work, he licked the envelope, making sure to spit inside of it before he sealed it shut. He wrote Sienna’s name as neatly as he could on the front and slipped it into his black bag.
The chill of a moonless night had descended as he pulled up outside of Sienna’s apartment. Art checked the clock in the van, it was 22:36, that left him just enough time to finish his business here and hot-foot it across town to catch Daphne at the bar. He wanted to get there early, but not too early. He wanted a good enough seat, but he didn’t want to be distracting. He felt very conflicted about it all indeed. This, coupled with the fact that he had left the house without his usual attire had him feeling so unlike himself. He pulled the mirror down over the passenger side of the windscreen and studied his appearance. He wore a baseball cap over the top of his mask, which in turn covered a smattering of salt and pepper hair which interestingly enough, he didn’t know he had. The last time he remembered having hair, it was a chocolate brown. Blue eyes stared back at him, it felt almost wrong to see them without the dark black rim, choosing to forgo his usual dramatic paint. He pulled his cloth face mask higher on his nose, Art felt content with hiding the rest of his face. He couldn’t risk being recognised.
It wasn’t easy getting ahold of his outfit either. He scoured for hours with the Pale Girl for someone of his size and stature. She seemed to sense that something was up, or amiss more like. She was skittish and moody, and downright belligerent sometimes. Art wasn’t a particularly patient man, if you could call him a man, but he had to really try with her this week. The man he had ultimately found had been a sex worker in the end, roundabout Art’s age too. He toyed with the idea of getting a service before he mutilated him, but decided against it. Jack the Ripper was indeed an idol of his, but Art was anything but a pastiche.
After he had made the man strip, he pulled out his intestines and the Pale Girl had used them as a jump rope. The more he thought about it, it was actually rather fun. He thoroughly enjoyed the way they kept slipping out of his hands as the dying man flailed and twisted.
He found the face mask in a trash can behind The Speakeasy, he’d scouted the outside a couple of nights ago, checking for all the ways in and out. He’d bumped in to Sienna too, all patched up and ship shape after their little têt-a-têt the previous week. She shoved a broom handle so far into his mouth and down his throat, it nearly came out the back of his head. He got her back though, a pair of scissors to the eye was a nice touch on his part. It was an improvement actually, he thought.
The worst part about this though, was that he knew she’d be fine. He was going to have to become creative with his plan to dispose of her. Whilst that wasn’t a tedious task by any stretch of the imagination, in fact he devoted a lot of time thinking about ways he would hurt Sienna, he had intended on spending his time stalking Daphne. He was upset by how little of that he’d been able to do. He hadn’t even been able to find out where she lived, and at this point in the day, the day of her next gig that is, he was severely behind schedule.
Art fiddled with his baseball cap. He found that in the trash too, and pulled it low over his eyes. He brushed his hands nervously down his chest, the unfamiliar cotton of a Walmart T-shirt was setting him on edge. He refused to even acknowledge the denim on his lower half. Awkwardly getting out of the van, he fished the letter out of his black bag and made his way up the steps to the list of tenants in this particular building. He walked uncomfortably in the dead man’s shoes; they probably were a half a size too small for Art, but needs absolutely must. Plus, he was so used to his oversized badboys that anything smaller than a yard and a half simply wouldn’t cut it.
Art scoured the list of names until he found 7- Shaw/Davies. Interesting, Art thought, roommate? Boyfriend? Either way, he added a mental note to come back and kill them later. He flexed his index finger twice and then pressed the buzzer. He hadn’t anticipated Sienna living in a nice place, but it definitely wasn’t a shitbox either. The top of the buzzers had a camera and he stood expectantly with the envelope clear in its sight. He waited a little while before pressing the buzzer again.
Nothing.
Art rolled his eyes, but before he could press the buzzer a third time, the front door of the property opened and Art nearly fell backwards over the railing.
“Hi! Sorry, I was on my way out when I heard the buzz! Figured I’d just meet you down here,”
Art blinked twice in sheer disbelief as Daphne Loveday stared at him expectantly. Her smile didn’t waver as Art’s stomach did backflip after backflip, his whole body trembled. She was just so…she was just so, indeed. “Is that for me?” Daphne enquired pointing at the letter in Art’s hand. She offered to take it, and Art passed it over carefully ensuring not to touch her in any way. He knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it. Daphne inspected the outside and Art cringed at the visible stain from his spit inside the envelope. Daphne either didn’t notice, or was too kind to mention it. “I’ll uh, see her in about 25 minutes so I’ll pass it on to her, okay?”
Art nodded slowly, desperately trying to regulate his breathing. In and out, he thought, in and out. “Sorry,” Daphne said, flicking her wrist out from under her green coat. “I’m sort of in a little bit of a rush, so I better jet.” She offered him an apologetic smile, and he pressed his back up against the wall to give her enough space to pass. She made it a good four steps down before she exclaimed in frustration and turned back on her heel, up the way she came. “Every fucking time,” she muttered, pushing her keys into the front door and disappearing from view. Art stood frozen in his spot, his nose thick with the scent of her as she breezed past him. It was inebriating.
Outside of the building, a cab appeared. It slowed to a stop, but its engine continued to run. The driver honked the horn twice, and Art looked to see if anyone was coming to claim it. Just as Daphne reappeared in the doorway, this time pulling the same heavy black suitcase she had struggled with the last time he saw her- the cab pulled out away from the sidewalk.
“No no no no!” Daphne exclaimed, doing her best to rush down to the cab. She took one step onto the stairs and lost her footing, it was slippery out and the little heels she wore were no match for the November slick. Without thinking, Art reached out for her. He thrust his hand out under her armpit, stopping her from careering down the stairs, pulling her close to his chest. “Fuck-”
Daphne’s forhead collided with Art’s bicep, as with momentum she was forced to face him, her hands instinctively coming up to grasp onto the fabric of Art‘s shirt, her fingers bunching around the material. Her eyes flew up to meet Art’s, her face was a picture of shock. “Holy shit,” she breathed, Art blinked as her breath fluttered across his face. He hadn’t noticed his face mask had slipped in his exertion, she smelled sweet. “It’s you.”
Art spent a full half second in confusion before realising that Daphne’s eyes explored his face.
“The clown,” Daphne breathed. Art’s mouth fell open slightly, a tiny breath escaped his lips as his heart began to thud against his chest; with how close she was to him, he was sure she could hear it. “Well aren’t you going to say anything?”
Art didn’t particularly like her tone, there was a bite to it that instantly irritated him. He felt the all too familiar heat behind his temples, a precursor to bloodbath. Daphne’s furrowed brow faltered slightly, transforming into a softened, yet equally suspicious look. “No?” She questioned, an eyebrow slightly raised. Art struggled to shake his head amid the sound of the blood in his ears. He imagined pushing his fingers deftly into her throat, further and further until they broke the skin. The blood would gargle and splatter, he thought. It would drench him. He wondered if he’d be able to get ahold of her oesophagus. Whether he’d be able to rip it from her body before her heart stopped beating.
“Are you…unable to talk?” Daphne’s question split through his fantasy like a knife. His hand had already closed the gap between them, she noticed him jerk it away and Art began to panic. He shook his head and placed his hand against his throat and then made an X with his arms. He wasn’t lying either, because he couldn’t. He used to be able to, he could right the way up until Halloween of 2016. Something about putting a bullet in your skull to be resurrected by a dark entity fucked with his vocal chords, or some shit along those lines. What used to be a schtick, a gimmick even, was his reality, and it had never bothered him before. Until now. “I see,” Daphne said after a while. “I’ll make sure Sienna gets the letter. But I really have to go, I’m running super late.” She turned away from him once more and carefully made her way down the stairs, her heavy suitcase weighing her down with each step. Art remained frozen in place, he couldn’t believe that after a week of trying he had finally found her, and not only found her, she’d been under his nose all along. He watched as she stood on the very edge of the sidewalk, trying and failing to hail and cab. Against his better judgement, and probably hers; he trudged back down to the van and honked the horn. Daphne turned in the direction of the sound and Art waved. Why the fuck did he wave? He went around to the back of the van and opened up one of the doors, showing Daphne there was room for the case if she wanted to use it. Please want to use it, thought Art. Please.
She was hesitant. He didn’t blame her either. Daphne eyed him warily before checking the time on a dainty gold watch at her wrist.
“Fuck,” she muttered. “I have my location settings turned on if you try and murder me, you won’t get far.” Art blew out a sigh, the irony not lost on him for a moment. He nodded and loaded her suitcase into the back of the van as quickly as he could. Daphne was already climbing into passenger seat by the time Art had finished, he clambered to gently close her door before getting into the driver’s side. He noticed as he hurriedly pushed his seatbelt into place, that Daphne had squeezed herself as close to the window as she could, she cleared her throat as Art surveyed her- her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second.
“Could you uh, drop me off on Maple and third? It’s the old bookstore, it’s a bar now.” Art nodded his head as if he hadn’t already input the address into the van’s gps a week ago. Daphne rooted around in her pocket and pulled out Sienna’s note, she flicked it over in her hands and cast a sideways glance at Art. “Sienna never mentioned she knew…a clown.” Daphne stated and Art shrugged his shoulders, his grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “She never really talks about anything.” Art wet his lips, half of him wanted to be able to converse with her- and yet, he didn’t know what he would say even if he could. It was a kind of cosmic punishment he thought, he had spent hours of his time talking to Sister Anne. He remembered how she would stare at his mouth, how he would over enunciate his words just to keep her big brown eyes on his lips. Her face would darken as he spoke about all things; politics, the economy, how the way Sister Monica’s crucifix hung between her tits made his mouth water. Sister Anne lapped it up, every word. Then she would lap at him, like she had never had a drop and Art would let her.
“Hello?” Daphne said, her eyebrows raised high on her pale face. He noticed the little freckles littered there. He melted. Art smiled sheepishly, at least he hoped it was a sheepish smile. Daphne rolled her eyes. “I asked how long you’ve known Sienna.” Art counted in his head, three, four years? Nearly half a decade of hatred at least. God how time flies when you’re having fun. He held up his left hand with four fingers extended. “Four months?” Daphne asked. Art shook his head, he moved his finger in a circular motion. “Years?!” She exclaimed, Art nodded eagerly at her understanding. Daphne sat back with a satisfied smirk, relaxing into her seat. She seemed to mull over this information before barking a laugh and shaking her head. “You think you know somebody.” She said, more to herself than to Art- but he nodded nonetheless.
He tried to concentrate on his breathing and not the sound of Daphne’s tiny hums as she gazed absently out of the window. He was sure she didn’t know she was doing it, but she filled the space with a lilting melody and his heart thundered in his chest. She was so close, so dangerously close. He could touch her if he wanted, and fuck, he wanted. He remembered driving the Reverend Mother’s car one Easter, he was taking clothes to the poor house in town and Sister Anne had been his chaperone. She had let him drive which had been so exciting, especially when she had pulled her skirt up and spread her legs-
Art shook his head.
Daphne cleared her throat and Art watched her closely, acutely aware that they had precious few moments left of the drive. She seemed aware of this too, she pulled her purse from the footwell and placed it on her lap, Sienna’s letter sat neatly on top.
“I’m Daphne, by the way.”
Art looked directly at her, she offered him a soft smile. He returned it immediately, his cheeks warmed under her gaze. “I’m Sienna’s roommate if you hadn’t already guessed. Thanks for the ride and saving my life back there,”
Art’s breath hitched as he remembered the way her fingers grasped onto the fabric of his shirt. He shook his head and made a gesture as if to say “it’s nothing.”
“What’s your name?” A cold chill passed over Art’s body from his head to his toes. His name was in his mouth, his lips forming the word but with no fucking sound, it was entirely pointless. He rooted around in the side compartment feeling for a pen, for anything. He made a writing motion with his free hand and Daphne made an exclamation. She pulled her purse open and produced a lipstick, she then pulled out a crumpled poster- the same one that sat under Art’s pillow, only you could snap Art’s in half with how often he had painted it. She flipped it over and smoothed her hand over it, and using her thigh as a makeshift table; she handed Art the lipstick.
Pulling the van to a stop, Art took the lipstick with a hand that betrayed a slight tremble. His hands had never shaken. Not once. Not even the first time he had killed. His mother had stared with wide eyes at her little boy as Art held the lifeless kitten in his hands. She had wretched as Art had smiled, proudly swinging it from side to side by its black tail.
Art pulled the top from the lipstick and rolled the bottom up slowly, the red wax protruded like an obscene joke. It was the same colour that Daphne wore on her lips today, velvety and dark. It took everything within Art not to sink his teeth into it, that thing that Daphne had rolled across her lips, he wanted to feel it on his too.
He was hesitant in his pressure, the wax glided across the poster with ease, but it was impossible for him not to feel the heat of her body beneath his hand. Her thigh separated from his touch by a flimsy piece of paper, he squeezed his own thighs together in a thin attempt to assuage the ache that appeared in his crotch. Oh god, he thought, don’t forsake me. He fought with every fibre against the pressure, the strain against the tight denim around his groin. With each movement of his wrist, more of Daphne’s thigh came in contact with his forearm- she didn’t flinch, she didn’t shrink from him, she didn’t tremble, she was warm under his touch. Human.
When he’d finished, Daphne pulled the paper toward her. “Art,” she read aloud, “I like that.” She folded the paper neatly and popped it into her purse. Her gaze swept from Art’s face to the lipstick he still held, she plucked it gracefully from his hand and brought it to her already reddened lips. With a fluidity Art had only dreamed of, she swiped a line first across her bottom lip, then her top and sensually brought her lips together. “This is me.” Daphne stated, gesturing out of the window. Art had parked in the exact spot he had the week before, right up close to the minivan he had loaded Daphne’s gear into. She unwound the window and extended her arm, knocked on the window of the minivan, her body leaning away from Art giving him a heavenly view of her backside. He swallowed slowly.
“Make yourself useful will you?” Daphne said, she used her thumb to gesture to the trunk. A man, if you could call him that- Art thought, rolled his eyes and gave Daphne the finger. A sharp spike in Art’s head was the telltale sign of the burning rage that usually simmered right behind his eyes. He didn’t care that that was probably a totally normal thing for Daphne and this man. But some cretin had disrespected this woman. His woman.
Art flinched. He could taste the metallic sourness of blood and he realised he had bitten the inside of his cheek into a bloody mess. He released the pressure and used his tongue to investigate the wound, he’d live, obviously, but he hadn’t felt possessive over another person a day in his life. In fact, he was proud of his rigid indifference. You win some, you kill some. That’s it, that’s all his life had been for as long as he could remember. But he’d be a fool to admit that that just wasn’t the case here. Not with her. And that scared him.
The man grunted and swore as he pulled Daphne’s suitcase from out of the trunk. She giggled and gave herself a once over in the mirror above the windscreen. When satisfied, she turned to Art- he basked in her loveliness, content to watch her, to commit this to memory. He’d use this tonight. At home, he’d balled up a towel and tied it closed with a small opening just wide enough to fit his cock into. God, he could spend hours just lazily sliding himself in and out of it. He thought about her while he did it, thought about her gripping him the way she did a microphone. What it would be like to force himself into her mouth and have her sing. The man who flipped Daphne off, or Lucas as Art overheard, opened the passenger door of Art’s van. Art’s mouth fell open at the familiar way Daphne pressed her hand against his cheek in thanks. He felt his lungs burn. Every breath he inhaled was like ice against his throat. His mouth turned into a snarl, rotten teeth bared to this awful, pretty man. Fuck, he was so pretty. Lucas looked like every boy from every poster on every teenage girl’s bedroom wall. He had sandy hair that fell slightly into blue eyes, a wide mouth that parted into a dazzling white smile, dimpled cheeks and one on his chin. The fucker. Art breathed through his fury. His knuckles white against the steering wheel once again, his knee bobbed up and down rhythmically. Soothingly.
Lucas wrapped an arm around Daphne as she exited the van. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, the unfastened trestles reaching just above her ass. Art’s eyes followed the length and imagined what it would look like wound around his fist. She stood then on the sidewalk, one arm on the open van door; the other wrapped around Lucas’ midriff and smiled at Art. A glorious, beaming smile that made Art’s breath catch in his throat and his grip loosen.
“Thanks again for the ride,” she said softly and Art acknowledged her with a slow nod. She was breathtaking. “See you around, Art the clown.”
Art stayed in the van. He couldn’t move. He stared unblinkingly ahead, his gaze trained intently on the The Speakeasy. She was in there now, probably coming to the end of her set.
Daphne.
His lips moved around her name, savouring the way his teeth grazed against his lower lip. Art rubbed his face, his chest moved heavily with laboured breaths. He moved his hand slowly downwards and wrapped his fingers around his throat. Art squeezed, applying a delicious pressure that made his eyes flutter closed. He strained against his jeans, his cock pushed achingly against the zipper and he needed friction. Art sustained the pressure around his throat, and with his free hand cupped his groin tightly. A jolt of pressure immediately surged in the pit of his stomach, and he rolled his hips slowly. He considered his surroundings. It was late, the small parking lot barely lit and scarcely populated was quiet. It was cold too, he hadn’t seen a passerby in a while, more than likely tucked up in their beds out of the winter cold.
Art slowly unfastened the zip of his jeans, his swollen cock retracted against the release in pressure. He eyed it wistfully, it really was a pretty thing. He could hold it in two fists comfortably, with an upward arch he knew was built only to please. And please it did, all those girls with lips that spread for him with barely the gentlest of touches. They would drip for him, and he would exult in their offering- a tender kiss to the most sacred of shrines. Then he would ruin them. Of course he would, he would fuck them so hard, so rough, so thoroughly that he knew that there could never be anyone else for them. Every fuck they had after him would be but a pale imitation of Art, what he perhaps lacked in conversation he more than made up for elsewhere. Whether that be with his cock, or his fingers, or fuck it- his mouth. He would drink so completely it would run down his chin, he would drown in it if he could. Art was baffled that in his re-invented state, that he’d never once had the urge to devour a pussy, he was ever so good at it after all.
His movements were quick and desperate. He tugged relentlessly, each time pulling his foreskin over his tip, a breath of pleasure falling from his lips. Art watched the door to The Speakeasy, his eyes narrowed as he imagined Daphne on stage, her body wrapped in fabric that hugged each and every curve. He imagined her moving sensually with the music, her green eyes cast down until she could sense him. She would look at him with a piercing gaze that bore under his skin. She would look at him with a such a visible desire, it would be wet upon her lips; and he would beckon her to him. His arms outstretched to welcome her embrace, his hands ready to explore the planes of this woman soft and warm.
When he came, it was through gritted teeth. He covered himself with his seed, as it landed in great splatters over his stomach. Art’s head rolled back against the headrest, and his hands fell to his sides. He flexed his fingers and allowed his breathing to return to normal. A wave of sheepishness swept over Art. He regarded himself in the drivers side mirror and grimaced. There, covered in his own semen, Art looked even more rancid than usual. In this fleeting moment of clarity, he tucked himself back into his jeans and tried to smooth his hands over his shirt. It was then that he noticed movement from the alleyway. It was him. Lucas.
Art crept silently along the alleyway. His too-small shoes were tight around his feet, but still Art persisted. Lucas spoke into his phone, his voice was raised and his tone sharp. Art watched as the man wandered further into the darkness and followed dutifully, keeping close to the shadows.
“…and I’m telling you,” Lucas spat, “I’m not doing any of these bullshit gigs in the new year. We played Milkfest last year, you want us to stay barely breaking even forever?” Lucas stopped, his back to Art. With two steps Art was on him, the fury like ice in his veins. It exploded through him in a flurry, inching through each fibre of his being as if he were turning to stone. With a steady grip, Art plucked Lucas’ phone from his grasp and shoved it into the un-expecting man’s mouth. There was no resistance from Lucas, Art found this odd as he grasped him by the shoulders and turned him so he could meet his gaze. Lucas’ eyes were wide with shock, his phone still wedged into his mouth. With a sickening grin, Art pushed the phone further and further, exerting more and more pressure until he could hear the tendons in Lucas’ jaw begin to snap and break. Blood pooled through the slim openings of the man’s mouth and dripped down his chin. Still, Art pushed. He continued pushing until Lucas’ back met the brick wall behind him. Art pressed his cheek to his, the metallic tang of the rich crimson a welcome sight for his eyes. He traced one finger along Lucas’ cheek before plunging that finger into the musician’s eye.
Lucas began to fight then, his wails of agony the sweetest sound to Art. Lucas’ muffled and gargled pleas began to bubble into nothing in his mouth. Art curled his finger around the back of Lucas’ warm and soft eye, and with a jagged crook, popped it from its socket. Art laughed at this, the way it hung limply on Lucas’ face, swinging to-and-fro with Lucas’ pitiful flailing. It was then that Art used his mouth, wrapping his lips around Lucas’ detached eye and with his teeth- severed the nerve, blinding him. He spat it to the ground, and moved his mouth over to the other side. Art decided to forgo his fingers this time and sucked out Lucas’ other eye straight from the source. He debated on swallowing it. He’d tasted flesh before, but there was something about this that didn’t feel right to him. He wondered whether it was his civilian clothes, he didn’t really feel like himself. Art glanced down over his body and grimaced. To any unsuspecting witness, this was the work of a madman- not a skilled professional as Art esteemed himself to be. With a sigh of resignation to finish the job at least, Art wrapped his hands around Lucas’ throat and squeezed. Lucas fought well, he’d give him that. Now blind and mute, Lucas grappled with Art’s hands and tried to push the clown off. Lucas lunged forward in an attempt to free himself, and managed to create a foot of distance between himself and Art. He fell to the floor, desperately trying to right himself. Art could barely suppress his glee as he wrapped his arms around his midriff and threw his body forward in laughter. Great, body wracking laughs. Art was ecstatic, euphoric even.
Lucas stood upright, his hands outstretched and feeling for Art. Art dodged them and scoured his surroundings, and smiled when he found a discarded brick. Curling his fingers around it, he brought it up and smashed it against Lucas’ skull. The man went down in an instant, though he was still alive. Lucas rolled onto his back, and Art straddled him, bludgeoning him over and over again until what was left of Lucas’ pretty face was sinew and bone. Steam emanated from the mess that was now Lucas, and Art took an exaggerated bow over his creation. His adoring crowd giving him a standing ovation. Art felt a pounding in his temple, it was a roar in his ears and a rush of heat to his cheeks. The release of fury he felt as he surveyed Lucas’ mangled body was like reaching a state of ecstasy, he loosed a breath and grinned. Blood pooled grotesquely from his mouth and Art brought his tongue to his lips, savouring the taste of it.
Just inside his peripheral vision, he saw a figure at the mouth of the alley. A small framed figure with hair as wild as her eyes. The Pale Girl looked on with adoration at Art’s handiwork, and a chill crept up Art’s spine. He couldn’t place it, but a general sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. The Girl stalked towards Art with no real determination, her body and limbs seemed to move independently of her head- though her gaze remained fixed on Art. She held in her hand a grubby draw string bag, it dragged along the floor behind her with each slow step she took. Art’s eyes flickered between The Girl and the bag as his pulse quickened in response. The Girl cocked her head contemplatively as she reached Lucas’ mangled remains, and with swift fingers she plucked his phone from his bloodied maw. Swiping her finger along its screen, she seemingly searched the phone for a second before her eyes lit up and the sound of tinny music filled the space between them. The Girl flung the bag at Art and he caught it rather ungraciously, she hadn’t even looked in his direction. Her fingers tapped furiously on the screen, she’d found different game to keep her occupied.
Art opened the bag hesitantly, and if he could have, breathed a sigh of relief. Inside he found a clean costume, nicely pressed and fresh smelling. His hat lay on top of a little box full of black paint. Dutifully, he disrobed and donned his usual attire, following The Girl’s non-committal instruction to put his old clothes in the bag. With that, Art watched as The Girl returned the way she came; bag in one hand- Lucas’ phone in the other. She seemed to disappear into the darkness, no sight nor sound of her remained. Although Art wondered whether he had simply blinked as she’d turned a corner, this eased his discomfort a little but not wholly. Better not to think about it at all really. When he’d finished dressing, he turned to Lucas. He debated for a few moments what exactly he should do with the body. He usually didn’t really do anything with them once he’d finished playing, but his mind wandered back to Daphne. At any moment she’d be leaving the venue, probably looking for her band mate. Art chewed absently on his lip, before deciding to kick Lucas up close to the alley wall. The view obscured here by a large dumpster, then maybe he’d come back the following night and move him- all being well that was. He nodded in silent agreement with himself, satisfied that that man would never again pull his Daphne close to his chest. That was more than enough for Art.
The armoire in Daphne’s bedroom was large. Large enough to accommodate Art’s body comfortably. He nestled himself to the very back of it, the long plane of his back resting against the hard wood. His eyes scanned along the rack of her clothes, the scent of her was dizzying. Art took a deep inhale and closed his eyes. He waited for any signs of entry before he relaxed, he knew exactly what he was there to do. He wouldn’t cause a commotion, no of course not, he just wanted to watch her. Art didn’t see anything really wrong with it per se, but he didn’t fancy the idea of getting caught. He squared his shoulders slightly, settling in for a long night. It was then that he heard the front door slam shut, a woman’s voice- no two, the jangling of keys, a doorknob being turned.
“…totally not necessary.” That was Daphne, Art spied through the tiny crack in the door. Sienna marched straight into Daphne’s room and headed for the window. He held his breath as Sienna flung the curtains wide and lifted the window from its seal. “Sienna, stop it. There’s nobody out there.” Daphne followed Sienna into the room and kicked off a shoe. Art watched as Daphne removed her thick coat and flung it onto the bed, revealing a far skimpier dress than she wore the previous week. Oh, it would be a long night indeed.
Sienna looked both ways along the street before pulling the window back down with a slam.
“I know, I know,” Sienna said locking the window latch. She pulled the curtains together and faced Daphne with a tight smile.
“Honestly I don’t know what’s got into you! Has something happened?” Daphne said on one foot, she eased off the other shoe. She flopped onto the bed and pulled her purse onto her lap. She rooted around until she produced a packet of cigarettes and pulled one loose with her teeth. Art felt the same stirring of arousal in his core, he placed a hand on the inside of the door as if to touch her. To all that is holy, he wanted to touch her. Sienna sighed.
“No, nothing has happened,” Sienna replied, though she cast her eyes once more toward the window. Her gaze crossed over the room before settling on the armoire where Art hid. Art’s chin raised in defiance, as if he were willing Sienna to find him. Daring her to open the door. She cocked her head to the side as if she heard Art’s silent goading. How delightful it would be to see her again, but Art had already seen his letter poking out of the top of the back pocket of her jeans. He had an agreement with her, or so he assumed. Her eyes remained locked on the crack in the wood of the armoire. Her lip trembled slightly as her fingers flexed into fists. Sienna took a hesitant step, and then another, until finally her fingers grasped the handle and then- “Daph, you know you can’t smoke in here; the Super’ll go nuts.” Sienna whirled round to where Daphne sat on her bed, feet curled round under her ass and a now smouldering cigarette between her fingers.
“Oooh the Super!” Daphne mocked, she bent, and tapped her ash into a readily awaiting ashtray on her bedside table. “Hey,” she righted herself. “Did you see what happened to Lucas? He left right after we finished and didn’t come back. Left all of his gear in the venue, Toby was pretty pissed.” Sienna shook her head.
“No, I didn’t.” Sienna glanced once more at the armoire, her face a sickly shade of white.
“Weird. I knew he was a little pissy but still, I didn’t know he’d fly off the handle like that.”
“Well that’s why we shouldn’t get rides with strangers.” Sienna replied, casting her eyes over the room. She shuffled uneasily from foot to foot.
“You sound like my mom,” Daphne moaned, blowing a great plume of smoke into the room. “Now if there’s nothing else, kindly fuck off so I can get some sleep.” Sienna screwed her face up into a sarcastic smile.
“Anything for you, your majesty.” Sienna turned to the door but stopped just short of the threshold. “If you need anything just uh, just call.”
“You’re being super weird.” Daphne said, she reclined on the bed, supporting her weight on bent elbows. So at ease here, Art thought. Seeing Daphne in her own space was like seeing an artist at work, every movement of her body, her hands, was like it had been meticulously thought of to drive him mad. “Weirder than usual which is saying something, Sienna.”
Sienna simply shrugged and offered Daphne a small smile as she closed the bedroom door. Finally alone, Daphne exhaled and put out her cigarette. She flopped backwards on the bed and rolled her ankles in small circles. “Shit.” She hissed. She jumped up from the bed and rooted once more around her purse, she pulled out her phone and frantically tapped the screen, then pressed it to her ear. Daphne fidgeted while she waited for whoever to answer, pulling at invisible threads on her bedclothes.
“Hello?” She said after a while, she got to her feet and began pacing. “Did you get back ok?” Daphne listened intently. “And Lucas?….No, me either,” Art began to grow tired of hearing that fucker’s name mentioned over and over again. “Well if it’s in storage you can just send him a pin when he wants to stop acting like a pussy.” That’s my girl, he thought. “No it’s fine, you can drive us back in my car from Mom’s on Sunday and then get an Uber back to your place, that okay?…Well I don’t know either, you want to go halves on a cake?” Art tapped his fingers impatiently on the inside of the door. “Alright Toby, sounds good. Ok, gotcha. Cool, 4:30, got it. Ok. Goodnight, Tobes.”
Daphne plugged her phone in to charge and stretched her arms above her head with a great yawn. She turned her back to Art and he craned his neck to get a better view. When she turned to face him again, she held in her hand the poster which bore his name. Daphne looked at it, tracing her finger over the letters; A R T. She popped it onto the bed and grasped the hem of her thigh-length dress and pulled it over her head. Art inched closer to the crack in the door. Daphne tossed her dress to the floor, and stood in her underwear and pantyhose. She moved her hands across her stomach, her skin pale and flawless. He watched through gritted teeth as Daphne made her way to a chest of drawers and rummaged through, until she pulled out an oversized T-shirt. She removed her bra and Art hardened immediately. He cast his eyes over her breasts, they were blissfully large and he watched as her pink nipples stiffened in the cool air. They jiggled as she moved and Art subconsciously licked his lips. He watched as she removed her pantyhose, the way she rolled it down her legs, letting him see inch after glorious inch of her body. Art was beside himself with glee. She was there, she was right there, and Art began to palm himself over his costume. He began to think about what he would do to her first, what it would be like to kiss her. To run his fingers through her hair, to feel her mould herself around his touch. He would kiss her throat and make his way down until he could take one of those pretty pink nipples into his mouth. He would suck it, and lick it, and with his fingers trace a delicate line down to her panties. He would take a single finger and dip it below her waistband and instantly feel how wet she would be. She would have soaked herself in anticipation of him, and he wouldn’t deny her any longer.
Daphne pulled the shirt over her head and lay down on the bed. She pulled her phone out from its charger and began scrolling. Art’s lips twitched into a smile as the unmistakable sound of someone getting fucked emanated from Daphne’s phone. Art couldn’t see the video, but he felt like he was stood on a live wire. The woman in the video moaned and groaned as skin slapped upon skin, Art resumed his touching, as Daphne ran her fingers up and down her thigh. The same thigh that Art had touched only hours before. He shuddered. Daphne pushed her hand beneath her panties, he watched as her back arched against her fingers, her mouth open slightly. He watched as her movements increased in speed, how her brow knit together. The softest of moans fell from her lips as she fucked herself. Art was on the edge of his undoing, he could barely contain his orgasm, though all he was doing was rolling the tip of his clothed cock in his palm. He was astounded by her, by her effect on him. He let his forehead rest on the door as Daphne brought herself to completion, hips bucking up to meet her fingers. Art joined her, spilling his seed inside his costume, it was hot and abundant. He would have given anything to fill her with it, to keep his cock pushed into her while he emptied himself within her walls. She slowed then, closing the video and letting her phone fall against her chest.
It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep. She lay completely still on her back, but her soft snores filled the room. Art waited what he felt may have been an hour before he pushed the armoire door open and silently crept from it. He made his way to the foot of her bed and watched her. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest as she entered into a deep sleep. Even in the dim light, he could make out the perfect planes of her face, the small peppering of freckles and her lips ever so slightly parted. Art stayed there for a while just watching her, taking in every inch of her body and desperately trying to remember it all. How her hair fell onto the pillow behind her like a halo of fire, her dusky eyelashes that brushed against her cheek. How she’d fallen asleep without even removing her make up, in all of this, she was perfect to him. A perfect soul that needed to be protected. But did he need to protect her? Was he in a position to be protecting anyone? Art cocked his head to the side and breathed in deeply. He could smell her desire hot and thick in the air. His eyes lingered on her panties which he knew covered the answer to all of his problems. Then, she stirred. She rolled onto her side away from him and lifted her legs up into the foetal position. Her phone fell over her shoulder and Art paused. Just underneath her shoulder was the poster where he had written his name. He smiled widely, a sense of pride bursting in his chest. She did that, that wonderful show on his name, on top of him himself essentially. He took her phone and pressed the screen, it didn’t recognise his face- go figure, but three smiling faces looked him dead in the eye. Daphne was on the left, a man he recognised from Daphne’s band on the right, and in the middle a blonde girl, younger than the pair either side of her;- she had Daphne’s green eyes and the man’s strong mouth. They were dressed for the sun, a sprawling garden lay behind them. The man wore a name badge: Toby. Siblings? Art carefully plugged her phone back into charge and laid it gently on the side table. He contemplated getting back into the armoire but ultimately decided against it, he couldn’t bear the thought of her finding him in the morning half cocked and sleepy eyed. Because with a yawn, that’s exactly what he felt. He’d had a long day and his little cot bed was calling him. It felt rather nostalgic feeling this wave of tiredness, he wasn’t sure if he felt human or perhaps had convinced himself he was beginning to. All of this stuff with Daphne had reminded him that perhaps there was more to the afterlife than just senseless killing; there could be senseless fucking, kissing too. Maybe even a soft embrace if one took the fancy. Even in the time before, Art had truly never been one for “love”, whatever it was that that meant. He loved people for a while, until they gave him a reason not to- which they always did. The funny thing was, which Art had recently found himself pondering, was did he love Sienna? Not in a romantic way, oh fuck no. Not even in a platonic or familial way, but did he love to hate her? To loathe her? He found himself thinking of the twisted relationship they shared and wondered…was that in fact a version of love? Art scoffed and shook his head.
In his dream he was happy. Mom was in the kitchen and he could smell whatever it was she was cooking, and it smelled good. The sun was low in the sky, and Art had his window open to the soft summer breeze. His stomach grumbled so he dutifully packed away his pencils back into the box ready for dinner. Art loved school. He loved math and science, but he especially loved reading. He’d written a poem for his teacher that he couldn’t wait to show her in the morning;
“Miss Fitton won’t believe I’ve written this.” Art said to nobody, “She’ll be super impressed.” Art grinned and double checked his backpack to make sure he was ready for the morning.
Following the hallway of the small trailer, he made his way into the kitchen. Mom had her back to him and was leaning over the sink, scrubbing hard at something. “Mommy!” Art said, she didn’t look up. “Mom I can’t wait to read you my poem, I worked really hard on it and I think I might win that prize after all-“
Art’s jaw snapped shut as Mom turned from the sink. In her hands she held up a girls dress, it was blue and white and had little daisy’s laced onto the hem. It was also torn and soaked in blood. Art instinctively put his hands behind his back.
“Why did I find this under your bed?” Mom asked, her face was still, calm even. But her voice wavered. Art didn’t say anything, he just shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. Mom’s lips turned into a frown, he hated it when she frowned. “This says Lissie Fielder on the inside collar.” Mom waited for Art to say something, instead he just stared at her blankly. “Lissie. Fielder.” Mom repeated, still Art remained silent. “Her mother called me this morning, said Lissie never arrived home yesterday, asked me if I’d seen her.” The silence was heavy, Art knew exactly what Mom wanted him to say, but he couldn’t. “You said you wouldn’t do this again, honey. I can’t afford to move us again. I’m gonna have to tell them what you’ve done. You need help, honey. I can’t hide this for you again.”
Art felt a heavy rumble in his chest. This was a pain he’d never felt before, but Mom didn’t look scared for long. He’d made it quick, and he was sure Mom didn’t feel any pain, but she sure was surprised to see the knife sticking out of her chest. He tried not to cry as he poured the canister of gasoline around the trailer. He sat down at the table one last time, with a big bowl of the pasta Mom had made for dinner. He ate it in silence and tried not to look over to where Mom lay on the kitchen floor, the linoleum turning red underneath her. As he put his backpack on his shoulders and lit the match, that’s when he allowed himself to cry.
Art had never been a morning person. This had continued on after his death. He just couldn’t seem to make himself function right in the mornings. He supposed a lifetime’s worth of fatal injuries will do that to a person. But in the two weeks since Art had been hiding in Daphne’s armoire at night, he found himself like the walking dead. On the fourth night of ‘accidentally’ being in the same place at the same time, Daphne asked how he always ended up driving past The Speakeasy. Art had slowly typed out on her phone that he had a nearby nightly gig on a low budget, public-access TV show and that it didn’t pay well, had no viewers but at least it got him out of the house. It was a lie, of course it was. But Daphne seemed to understand completely. She understood the plight of the starving artist because she was one.
“Have you always been a clown?” She had asked him.
“In one way or another.” Art had written down.
On the ninth occasion, Art fumbled with the cellphone he’d taken from a woman on the subway. She was stupid enough to stand close enough to the edge that she didn’t even notice he’d taken it from her hand before he’d pushed her in front of that train. He’d written down on a note taking app that he’d be happy to drive Daphne home if she was playing at The Speakeasy, as he was driving that way after all.
“Art,” Daphne had blushed, “You really don’t have to do that. You must be tired after work.”
“Well why don’t you just text me if you need a ride, and if I’m around, I’ll pick you up?” He wrote.
So she did. They texted an awful lot, actually.
Art was careful never to initiate conversation, instead he used this woman’s social media to keep tabs on Daphne. He couldn’t exactly add her as a friend from a dead woman’s Facebook account, but he could watch her videos and wait for the next text.
Sometimes Daphne would just check in, other times she would send him pictures of videos that she found funny. Art never really understood the humour- but he would indulge her and send back laughing faces. Oh, Art had got into emojis in a big way. He’d managed to get Sienna’s number from Daphne’s phone one night while she was sleeping, and every now and again he would anonymously inundate Sienna with countless emojis and gifs. Just to keep her on her toes.
Daphne
What are your plans for New Years? We’re playing a full evening at The Speakeasy. Would you want to come?
Art
I don’t know yet, I might be out of town for New Years.
That was an out-and-out lie, but she didn’t need to know that. His heart swelled in his chest at the idea of her wanting to see him, even though he was playing the long game.
Daphne
Bummer.
Art stared at the message for a while deliberating what to type. He ultimately decided a gif of a sad clown would be apt, but he saw the three dots appear, indicating that she was about to write again.
Daphne
Doing anything nice out of town? With nice people?
Art
I’m undecided if they’re nice yet. We’ll have to wait I see I guess.
A no doubt fruitless attempt to make her jealous. These imaginary people that Art had created must be super fucking nice. Art bit his lip.
Daphne
Well have fun, I’ll be thinking of you.
Art
You need a ride tonight? I remember you saying your brother had the car.
Daphne had since told him that she had been sharing a car with her brother, Toby. It was actually a relief that he wasn’t going to have to murder another one of Daphne’s band mates. Toby, as it turned out, was going through a terrible break up and was using Daphne’s car to move his stuff back to their parent’s house. Art lived for the minutiae of Daphne’s life. In the tidbits of information she fed him, it was like he was a part of it. There were no questions asked of him, she never gave his state of dress a second look and she indulged his fantasies which kept him afloat. It kept him going. It kept the rage away, if only a little.
Daphne
Nah, I have plans tonight. Thanks though!
Hm. Art frowned. What plans did she have? She’d mentioned nothing about having plans this evening, Art resigned himself to another night in the armoire.
Art
Have fun.
Daphne didn’t reply to that, and Art scowled into the phone. He strummed his fingers across the screen and pursed his lips. God forbid he have a quiet day.
Art pulled up into the parking lot outside of The Speakeasy a little after midnight. He parked way to the back almost out of sight, far away from where Daphne and her entourage had parked. His view was obscured but he didn’t care, he could still feel her there.
Art remembered how often he used to sit and wait outside of bars. Sister Anne had taken a liking to a man named Jerry who tended at the local dive bar. The orphanage absolute forbid any of the kids going out after dark, but Sister Anne had the Reverend Mother wrapped around her finger and could near enough do as she pleased. So, Art found himself in the Reverend Mother’s car parked up outside Iron Steel, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Sister Anne had been in there for hours and Art fretted over the state she would be in when she left. Last time she’d made him pull over on the interstate because she wanted him, which in theory was terribly exciting, but in practice- Art couldn’t shake the idea that he could be flattened by an artic wagon at any moment. Then there was Jerry to contend with. Art wasn’t jealous, at least he didn’t think he was; but he didn’t like the way Sister Anne fawned over him. There was something about him that rubbed Art the wrong way.
“Hey!” Sister Anne banged on his window. “Are you ready? It’s fucking cold out here.” Sister Anne stood wearing clothes she’d taken from the pile for the poor. She looked like a slut Art thought, and it made him uneasy. “Can you drop me and Jerry off and wait for us outside his place? We need to…have a conversation.” Jerry’s hand snaked around Sister Anne’s stomach and she leant into his touch giggling. Jerry kissed Sister Anne’s neck and grazed his teeth along it. Art’s stomach turned but he nodded his head anyway.
“You’re the best, kid.” Jerry pointed his finger like a gun at Art and pretended to shoot. Art just stared grimly back at him, he was old, well, older than his eighteen years anyway. Jerry was a portly man in his fifties, with a belly that stuck out from under his t-shirt. But he had shoulder length black hair and a lip ring, things that he knew that Sister Anne found attractive. He’d been a kind-of rock star back in the day, Sister Anne had said, he’d wondered whether she thought this would impress him. Instead it just made him laugh. Sister Anne didn’t like that.
Art waited as the pair climbed into the back seat. They were all over each other and Art scowled into the rearview mirror. Not that he wanted to trade places with him, honestly he wasn’t sure if he felt anything for her; or if it was convenience that brought him back to her bed. But he was tired, he had school in the morning and Father Michael would strike him with a switch if he was late again. Sister Anne’s squeals of pleasure were the soundtrack of his ride. Jerry huffed and puffed his way around fingering her with no concern for other present company and it made Art feel sick.
“So kid,” Jerry said after Sister Anne had finished. She rubbed his cock slowly over his jeans, and Art grimaced. “You work up at that orphanage or what?”
Art shook his head whilst he decided how he wanted to speak to him. Sister Anne beat him to it.
“God no, he’s been with us since he was twelve. Dead mom apparently.”
Art shot a shocked look at Sister Anne’s reflection, she hadn’t even looked up from kissing Jerry’s neck.
“Shit, kid. How old are you now?”
“Eighteen.” Art said through gritted teeth.
“Yeah,” Sister Anne sighed, “He’ll be leaving us at the end of next semester. Catholic charity only lasts until a kid finishes high school apparently.” Jerry laughed at that and pulled Sister Anne in for a kiss. Art could see it was all tongue and teeth. Christ. “Don’t feel sorry for him though,” Sister Anne continued once they’d finished, “This one’s got a hell of a mean streak. Father Michael has tried everything short of an exorcism to get the devil out of him.”
“Is that right?” Jerry asked bemused. Sister Anne pushed herself forward onto the seat and wrapped her arms around Art’s shoulders.
“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “I know for a fact that he’ll fuck anything that moves.” She nibbled at Art’s ear. Art’s breath caught in his throat, he struggled to keep his attention on the road.
“Good for you, son.” Jerry quipped, his hands on Sister Anne’s ass.
“Don’t call me son.” Art spat, though Jerry didn’t hear. He was too busy slapping and jigging the nun’s backside. She giggled, and moaned lightly right into Art’s ear.
“And I heard the Reverend Mother talking to Father Michael once, there’s people out there that think he killed his mom. Isn’t that crazy? It was in the news at the time.” Another moan. Art felt a fury build in his blood, it spread to every inch of his body. It was white hot and singed every sinew as it went. It blinded him, it deafened him, it rendered him unable to speak. “I always thought that he did it, he looks like the type, don’t you think?”
“Shit, I don’t know.” Jerry replied, he eyed Art warily. Art just stared blankly ahead, he was silently being consumed by this fury.
“What I’m saying is, do you not think that if a kid looked like he would kill his mom, he would look exactly like this?” Daphne stuck her tongue into Art’s ear, and brushed her hands down his chest.
“Leave the kid alone, Annie. He’s try’na drive.” Jerry levelled, he wore a look of concern that Art had seen once before. Lissie Fielder.
“Oh he’s fine,” Sister Anne said, “He knows what he is. What he’s good for.” She placed her hand around Art’s throat and squeezed. “Don’t you?”
Art slammed the breaks of the car and it came to a violent stop. Sister Anne was nearly thrown into his lap, but Jerry caught her just in time. Art threw open his door and flew around to the back, his hand in his back pocket and a look of grim determination set hard into his face. He pulled on the handle to the back passenger door, and was met with the alarmed faces of Sister Anne and Jerry. In his right hand he aimed the pistol he had taken from Father Michael’s desk drawer.
“Kid, no-!” Were Jerry’s last words as Art shot him between the eyes. Sister Anne screamed and ducked, but Art was faster. He fired every last round of the magazine into her. One after the other, unwaveringly, unflinchingly calm. His blood felt hot and there was a ringing in his ears he wasn’t sure was from the gunshots or the adrenaline. He dropped the gun on the ground and turned his back to the car and made off walking towards the orphanage. It wasn’t that he couldn’t bear to look at them, it wasn’t. He just couldn’t face another moment in that woman’s company. He was finished being there for her entertainment. He wasn’t a dancing clown.
“Are you stalking me?” Her bright voice carried over the din of his fury. Art turned his head slowly and was met by Daphne’s devastating smile. Her eyes were brilliant in the dimness of the light, with the wrinkles of a pure smile. She was smiling for him. He returned a polite smile of his own, and shook his head. “Oh,” Daphne replied clutching her coat around her chest. “Could have fooled me.” She giggled at her comment and looked past the van down the street. He wondered if she’d been drinking, as she swayed ever so slightly from foot to foot. Art followed her line of sight and then looked back to her. Who was she waiting for? “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my bassist? Lucas? He skipped out on us a while back, but text to ask to meet here tonight."
Art's face was blank. Blank whilst he processed the words, and blank with confusion. Lucas was most definitely dead, Art had seen to it. Unless ghosts could suddenly get a good deal with Verizon how-
Of course.
The Little Pale Girl had taken Lucas' phone. That slippery thing, what was she trying to orchestrate? A pit of unease once again bloomed in his chest. Art again shook his head and Daphne hummed in acknowledgment. He wet his lips and turned off the ignition. Reaching over to the passenger side door, he unlocked it and pushed it open. Daphne’s eyebrows raised in surprise as Art gestured for her to get in.
“No no,” she said, “I said I’d meet him here. Thanks though.”
Art rolled his eyes and mimed being cold, and then once again gestured for her to sit. He couldn’t have her dying of hypothermia. Not until he’d had a chance to fuck her anyway. No, that was brash. Not until he’d fucked her twice. Daphne looked back down the street in front, and then behind her. When she saw no sign of Lucas, she sighed and climbed into the van. Art turned the key and put the heating on max, he turned all of the directional blowers on to Daphne and grabbed her hand. It was like ice, her small hand. It wasn’t until he was holding the other that he realised exactly what he’d done. Art slowed in his rubbing, a purely innocent and slightly innocuous attempt to warm her hands, but he instantly cringed. He met her gaze slowly, but Daphne just looked bemused. “Thanks Mom.” She said with a wink. Art poked his tongue out at her, and placed his hands onto the steering wheel. It was this action that stopped him touching her again. He could still feel her on every part of his hands. Every cell that had connected with hers felt alive, like they sizzled under the surface of his skin. A banging on the hood sliced through Art’s thought with gusto. Three men hollered outside and banged their fists along the front of Art’s van. He screwed his face up in confusion and glanced at Daphne, she too looked concerned. He wound the window down a fraction.
“Hey look! It’s Pennywise!” One of the men said, he thrust his fingers into the gap Art had created and tried to push the window down. The other two men laughed and circled the van. “God, you are one ugly motherfucker. Can’t see you getting booked for many kiddie parties, ya sick fuck.” Art remained still. His eyes following the men outside. He had his black bag in the footwell behind him, he could get it and shoot these fuckers down in maybe twenty seconds flat, but what would he do with Daphne? “Alright Krusty, out of the van, empty your pockets. I want wallets, phones and jewellery.” When Art didn’t move, the man laughed and kicked his door. “What’s the matter? Got nothing to say? Balloon cat got your tongue?” Art’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“Art…” Daphne’s voice was barely a whisper. Her fingers reached out and she pulled gently on the thigh of Art’s costume. He barely felt it, barely even knew she was there as the fury built in his temples.
“I said out of the fucking van!” The man had managed to push the window down far enough to grab Art by the chest and pull him harshly until his face was mere inches from his own. Without losing a second, Art sunk his teeth into the man’s cheek. The man recoiled in horror, desperately trying to put pressure onto his cheek which now spurted with blood. The other two men froze for a moment before they raced to Art’s door. Art plunged his hand behind him and into his black bag, with a glance over to Daphne’s look of sheer terror; pushed open his door. The men were on him instantly, one had Art in a headlock while the other delivered two swift kicks to his groin. Art felt his body go rigid, as if to stave off the pain. He needed a moment, an opening; and just before he felt the third kick land, he acted. Pulling the trigger, he fired one shot into the foot of the man who restrained him and another into the thigh of the man who beat him. They fell to the ground like dominoes, one into the other. Art panted and aimed his gun at the pair, unable to decide who he would execute first.
“Art,”
Nothing. He would enjoy watching them try and crawl to safety, he would enjoy watching them lose strength with each passing second as they bled out.
“Art,” He felt a warmth around his midriff, he glanced down to see Daphne had wrapped both of her arms around him. She pressed her body into his and held on to him tightly. Art’s breath caught in his throat, as he closed his eyes against the sensation. He felt for her fingers and grasped them in his own, she squeezed hard and whispered again; “Art. Come on.” His right hand still full with his pistol lowered slowly, and the two men stilled. They watched as Art turned to face Daphne, his head lowered to hers. She held him in her embrace, her face lifted to meet his though her eyes betrayed a concern where Art expected to find fear. Her chest heaved with the exertion, and Art looked at her with adoration. No one had gotten this close to him in a long time, no one had held him in a long fucking time. Art gently placed his cheek onto the top of Daphne’s head and returned her embrace. His arms wound their way around her frame and he held her, as she held him.
“I want to go home.” Came her muffled voice after a while. Art wasn’t sure how long they had stayed joined, but the would-be-assailants had long gone, leaving nothing but a trail of blood behind them. He pulled away from her slightly to survey her face, her eyes were bloodshot and her lip trembled. Art’s brow furrowed, but he nodded nonetheless. Taking her by the hand, he led her back to the van.
“My sister is non verbal too,” Daphne said quietly. She looked down at her hands, fiddling with a lighter. They’d driven in silence, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for him- but Daphne had merely chainsmoked the entire way back to her appartement. She didn’t utter a word, just stared out of the window and fought back tears. Art had a troubled feeling in his chest. It wasn’t guilt, at least he didn’t think so- but he had a foul taste in his mouth seeing her like this. When he pulled up outside, Daphne made no attempt to get out of the van, just lit another cigarette instead. Art didn’t dare to move, he continued to stare straight ahead. “In like, the 25 years she’s been alive, I think I’ve heard her say six words. Two of those being ‘fuck’ and ‘off’,” she chuckled sadly. Art chanced a glance at her, his resolve softening. The blonde girl from the picture. “She’s super intense,” she said, looking directly into his face, and he wondered whether maybe she wasn’t just talking about her sister. “But she’s the best. Nobody on the planet makes me laugh like she does. I love her so goddamn much,” Daphne paused again, eyeing Art’s costume. “And back in the city, I used to work at this centre that like, supported kids with additional needs. And there was this kid who was obsessed with Anne Boleyn. And he made this almost button replica of her coronation outfit from all these letters and diary entries that survived, right? And he puts like, a 100 hours into this thing, and I’m thinking it’s got to be for a school project or something, but it turns out, he just wanted to wear it. And he would wear it when I’d take him to Target, or like, to the park. And I just thought that was bitchin’. You know? He didn’t care what anybody thought of him.” She raked a hand through her hair, Art noticed her hand still trembled. “I used to feel so fucking proud of this kid, just doing whatever he wanted, expressing himself however he wanted. I used to wish that I could be like that.” It seemed that Daphne was talking more to herself than to Art, she wore a look that Art couldn’t place. Fear, he was used to. Disgust? Got it. Lust even, he could recognise. But with this thousand yard stare she had unsettled him. He longed to say something to her, to reassure her. He wondered whether maybe she was simply in shock and felt like she needed to fill the silence. Or if she really needed to tell him about this kid. It saddened him.
Suddenly, she reached over and grasped hold of his hand.
“What I’m saying is Art, I see you. And I hear you. And I’m thankful you were here tonight.” Art’s heart thundered in his chest. His mouth was dry, his palms were sweaty. She laced her fingers with his and stroked her thumb over his knuckles. Art shuddered at the touch, so innocent and yet so intimate. She brought their hands to her mouth and placed a gentle kiss to his fingers, before releasing them. Daphne collected her things and opened the van door, but Art lunged forward and grasped her by the shoulder. He couldn’t let her leave, not like this, no, he had to do something, he had to-
Daphne whirled around at the touch, and Art placed his palms up imploring her to wait. He pulled his hat from his head, and tugged at the fabric headpiece. It came away and Art began to claw at his mask, he peeled it from his skin in sections and winced as particularly tight bits pulled away. He couldn’t explain this feeling in his chest, she said she saw him, that she heard him, but what did that mean? She saw a clown, a clown that just shot two people and took a literal bite out of another. What the fuck is she thinking? What is he thinking? Art’s fingers trembled and faltered with the pieces of latex. Daphne placed her hands over Art’s face, covering up the pieces of exposed skin.
“Shh, stop.” She whispered. “No, you don’t have to.” Art struggled to get purchase on the latex, his fingers felt numb. “Art, stop it. You don’t- you don’t have to do that.” Art ignored her still, until he managed to pull the largest piece from his chin. Daphne dropped her hands and looked at him, truly looked at him. She traced a finger from his ear, along his jaw to just under his mouth. Art closed his eyes.
“You’re beautiful.” Was all she said. Art couldn’t look at her. It seemed absurd to him that she, of all people was calling him beautiful. Instead, he placed a hand just behind her ear and deftly turned her head to the side. Art could hear nothing but his heartbeat in his ears as he leaned forward and gave her cheek a chaste kiss. He hoped she understood how important that was. How he couldn’t articulate himself in any other way. How he wanted to kiss her everywhere but he would settle for her cheek. He hoped she noticed how his hands trembled and his breath was uneven, how he couldn’t physically tell her how he felt but he was so desperate for her to know. How he didn’t kill those men tonight, for her. She asked him not to and he listened. No one had ever been able to get through to him, not once. But she did. She needed to know that.
“Goodnight, Art.” She was impossibly close, he could taste her. Art nodded and settled back into his seat, watching as Daphne walked up the steps to her apartment. She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to- but Art watched. He watched her bedroom window and waited for the light to flick on. Then he watched and waited for it to go off again. Only after an hour of sitting in this affected silence did he turn the key in the ignition. He slowly pulled out into the road and made his way home. He was tired.
