All American Horror of the 21st Century

Under the Skin. Nicholas Kaufmann-2

Alan asked Karin to the dance instead, and her sister agreed to go.

“You know he only asked you to get back at me,” she said, leaning against the doorframe of Karin’s bedroom. “Because you look the way I used to.”

She eyed the clock by the bed. Only half an hour until Alan came to pick Karin up for the dance. And what would Christine do then? Hide in her room until her sister and ex-boyfriend were gone? Sit in the bathtub and—

No, she thought. No more cutting. But in her head she saw the blade glinting prettily and wondered if it would feel as good now as it did the first time.

“I don’t care,” Karin replied, applying mascara at her makeup table. “I always thought Alan was a hottie. Is there anything I should know, like is he a bad kisser?”

“You’re going to kiss my ex-boyfriend?”

Karin shrugged. “You had your chance with him, but you f****d it up with your stupid dyke haircut. Accept it and move on. Besides, it’s almost the end of the year, and there’s no way I’m going into Senior Year a virgin.”

Christine furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”

Her sister rolled her eyes, opened a drawer in the table, and pulled out a condom in bright yellow wrapping. She held it up so Christine could see, then dropped it into her sequined purse. “Duh,” Karin said.

Mom appeared in the doorway behind Christine. “Don’t stay out too late tonight, Karin. We have your father’s Jewish thing tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Karin said. She locked eyes with Christine. “I’m sure I’ll be in bed early.”

Christine clenched her fists. Something moved under her skin.

No way was she going to wait around for Alan to pick Karin up. She went downtown to get lost in the crowd instead, weaving around all the hand-holding couples and looking away whenever a white stretch limo drove by. The sound of muffled laughter behind the tinted windows disturbed her, as if each limo held Alan and Karin, as if they were circling the block, driving past her again and again to rub it in her face. First they were kissing in the back seat, and then, when they drove by again, Alan was whispering in Karin’s ear, “It was always you I liked, not Christine. She’s a freak. I just did what I had to do to get closer to you.” And then, the next time, his hand was inside the top of her dress, and the time after that he was lying on top of her, doing things they’d never done while the driver tried not to watch in the rearview mirror.

“Like I care,” Christine muttered. She walked the razor’s edge of the sidewalk, hugging the buildings and keeping a buffer of people between her and the passing limos. She stopped in front of a storefront. “Wildside Tattoo & Piercing” was stenciled on the window. The glass shelves displayed all kinds of bulky silver jewelry: earrings, navel rings, lip rings, eyebrow rings. The store was practically empty, just a couple of college students looking through the tattoo design books and giggling nervously. Behind the counter, a big, bald man with a long beard and tattoo-covered arms looked bored. He met her gaze and raised one eyebrow.

Christine pulled open the heavy glass door and stepped inside. It smelled like cigarette smoke and ammonia. “Slow night?” she asked. Her own voice sounded too high to her, too young, and she made a show of clearing her throat.

“There’s some kind of school dance or something,” he said with a shrug. She liked his voice; it was thick and smooth like honey. He eyed the college kids shuffling closer to the door. “They’re not gonna get anything tonight. I knew it the moment they walked in. Gawkers.”

“f**k ‘em,” she said. “Total poseurs.”

He looked at her disdainfully. “And what are you?”

“The real deal,” she said.

He looked her up and down. “If you say so.” He introduced himself as Satyr. Christine nodded like it was no big deal, but secretly she thought it was the coolest thing she’d ever heard.

Five minutes later she was in the chair in back, ready to get her eyebrow pierced. Satyr switched on his iPod and stuffed the earbuds in his ears. Bobbing his head to music she couldn’t hear, he washed his hands in the rust-stained sink and dried them on his leather vest. He wiped down the area above her left eye with alcohol. He pulled the skin away from her skull, held it there with a small clamp, then took a needle and a small metal hoop out of the drawer.

“Hold still, real deal, this is gonna hurt,” he said.

“Pain and I go way back,” Christine said, though she doubted he could hear anything over the music. She wished he would take out the earbuds and pay attention to her. He had the deepest brown eyes she’d ever seen. Just as she was wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through his beard, he pushed the needle through the skin of her eyebrow.

Her fingernails dug into the upholstery of the armrests. She felt a drop of blood roll down the side of her face. He put the ring through the hole he’d made, then removed the clamp. He leaned forward to dab the blood from her face. Close up, his mouth looked soft. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him, but then he swiveled away on his chair to wash his tools. Christine released the armrests.

Satyr turned off his iPod and left it on the lip of the sink. He picked up a small, frameless mirror, then turned back to her. “What do you think?” he asked, though it didn’t sound like he cared what her answer would be.

“Perfect. How much do I owe you?”

“Forty,” he said, putting the mirror back under the sink.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and put a hand on his thigh. “That’s a little steep. Maybe we can work something out?” She’d seen it in a movie once, though now she remembered the actress had said, “Maybe we can come to an arrangement,” and her voice had been lower too, smokier, more seductive. Christine wished she could start over and do it again the right way.

Satyr made a noise like steam escaping from a radiator. He picked her hand up and placed it back on her lap. “I think not. I have enough poseur girls who want to f**k me to piss off their mommies or boyfriends or whoever, I don’t need another one. So why don’t you break out the credit card you stole from daddy’s wallet and we’ll take it from there, okay?”

For a moment, she couldn’t react. Then she turned away from him, angry that he might see her chin quivering. She asked if there was a bathroom, and he waved vaguely in the direction of the graffiti-covered doors in the back wall. She locked herself in the women’s room, sat on the chipped toilet seat, and rummaged through her bag for tissues. She couldn’t believe she was crying. What was she, a baby? No wonder Satyr rejected her. He probably thought she was just a little girl, utterly sexless.

Her fingers touched something hard tucked into the corner of her bag—a small pocketknife she’d gotten at the Army Navy store for a dollar. She took it out and flipped open the small, sharp blade.

Hello, Christine.

She dropped the knife. It clattered on the water-stained floor between her feet.

You remember what to do, don’t you? Pick up the knife.

“Leave me alone,” she whimpered. But her skin itched for the cut.

It’s only natural, Christine. The whole world is cut up. Your parents. You and Alan.

Everything is cut up and rearranged out of order.

It was true. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be.

Pick up the knife and take control.

She bent down and retrieved the pocketknife from the floor. She unbuttoned her camouflage pants, pushed them down past her knees.

Do it, Christine.

She held the blade to the skin of her right thigh. Shapes writhed eagerly beneath it.

Set it free.

“Oh God,” she screamed, dragging the blade across her leg. It stung hot and cold at the same time.

Someone banged on the door. “Christ, kid, what are you doing in there?” Satyr’s voice.

“Oh God,” she cried again, the pain bringing relief. Ecstasy.

In pain you are perfection, Christine. Irresistible. All you have to do it take control.

She reached from where she sat and opened the bathroom door. Satyr rolled his eyes when he saw her sitting there with her pants down. Then he saw the blood, and the pocketknife in her hand. He stepped into the room.

“Oh Jesus, what did you ...?”

She kicked the door closed behind him. The cut on her thigh bulged, puckered open. An oily black eel pushed its way out and slithered across her lap, landing on the bathroom floor with a heavy splat. It reared up like a cobra, its head splitting open into a terrible, spiky mouth. Then it sprang, disappearing under Satyr’s vest.

He cried out, convulsed, then quieted.

He straightened up and looked at her expectantly.

The muscles of his face were slack. His eyes had clouded over a milky white. A black ichor oozed out from between his lips like paste.

Now, Christine.

She stood slowly. Satyr didn’t move. Was he dead? What had the eel done to him? She touched his cheek. His skin felt cold, and he didn’t react. She reached up and ran her hand along the hairs of his beard. So smooth, just like she knew it would be. This was the kind of man for her, not that wuss Alan Healy. Wusses were for Karin. This was a real man, and real men were for Christine.

Take control.

She felt tendrils of energy emanating from inside her, connecting her to Satyr, or maybe to the eel that had burrowed inside him. It was like holding a marionette in her hands. Pull a string and the puppet raises its arm. If she wanted to, she wondered, could she make him ...

He lifted his hand and inserted one finger into his nose before she even finished the thought. She giggled. His finger stayed there until she told him to drop it.

What do you want him to do, Christine?

“Pay attention to me,” she said haltingly, uncertainly.

Satyr’s mouth opened. More black ooze trickled out when he said, “So beautiful.”

Christine smiled, her confidence building. “Do you ... want me?”

Make him, Christine. Take control.

She pulled him closer and made him kiss her. The black ichor coating his mouth tasted like hazelnut. She moved her hands down to his belt buckle. If Karin was going to lose her virginity tonight, so would she. Maybe she would even be first. She glanced at the hands of her watch to mark the time.

She pulled his belt free and let it drop to the floor. The first time was supposed to hurt, and that used to make her afraid, but not anymore. She wondered if it would feel as good as the cut did. She wondered if anything could feel that good.

Turning her head, she caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror: the shaved and dyed hair, the ring through her eyebrow.

“Tell me I look good,” she said. “Tell me I look better than Karin.”

* * *

Mom drains the last of her Passover wine, not bothering to dip her finger or put drops on her plate. She slams the glass down on the table so hard Christine thinks the stem might break. “Say it to my face, Matt! Come on, call me a bad mother to my face!”

Christine’s heart pounds. She glances from Mom’s red face to Dad’s redder one.

“I’m not saying that,” he insists. “It’s just ... well, look at her.” He gestures at Christine. “How could you let her do that to herself?”

Christine, panicking, glances at Karin, but her no-longer-identical twin laughs, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

“Let her?” Mom snarls. “You think I want my daughter looking like a freak?”

Christine can’t catch her breath. Everything was fine when they were dipping their little fingers in the wine. Why can’t they go back to doing that?

“Don’t call our daughter a freak,” Dad says, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Why not?” Karin asks, snickering at Christine. “That’s what Alan called her in front of everyone at Spring Fling last night. He totally agrees with me that your haircut makes you look like a rugmuncher.”

“Stop it!” Christine cries. She jumps to her feet, her chair scraping loudly on the floor, and runs from the table. It’s a small apartment and the closest room is the bathroom. She locks herself in, slams down the toilet cover, and sits, trembling and scratching at the shapes moving under her skin.

“Oh, Christ,” Dad says, his voice muffled by the door.

“Just ignore her,” Karin says loudly, so Christine can hear. “It’s all about attention with her. She’s a huge drama queen.”

Sliding closer to the door, Christine hears her parents mumbling to each other. Don’t they care that she’s locked herself in the bathroom? Why aren’t they apologizing for the things they said about her? If it were Karin, they’d be kneeling by the door, begging forgiveness. But it’s just Christine, the freak, the weaker twin, the secondborn, so why bother?

Her father’s voice floats softly through the door. “Shchin, boils.”

They started again? Are they really dipping their pinkies in the wine and tapping them onto the plates like nothing happened, like her absence from the table doesn’t mean anything?

“Barad, hail.”

They’re continuing without her like they don’t even care. Maybe they never did. No one had expected her to survive anyway.

“Arbe, locusts.”

Humiliation sticks to her like sweat. Her skin itches for the cut again, but she’s left her bag in the other room. She doesn’t have her pocketknife. She looks around the bathroom, opens the vanity under the sink. There, tucked behind a small leather travel bag, is the old fashioned shaving kit she gave Dad for Father’s Day almost a year ago. The box is unopened; he never even used it. She tears it open and pulls out the safety razor. She twists the handle to open the metal top, then removes the double-edged blade.

Hello, Christine.

“Choshech,” the voice on the other side of the door says. “Darkness.”

This is all her fault. She stole your parents and tore them apart. She stole your boyfriend and turned him against you. Now it’s time for you to take control, Christine. No one else will.

She holds the blade to her wrist. Something moves under the skin, bulging and rubbery.

Make her sorry for everything she’s stolen from you, every name she called you.

She’s so angry her hand trembles. She has trouble holding the razor steady.

“Makat bechoroth,” her father’s voice says. “The slaying of the first-born.”

You can finally be free of her, Christine.

She presses the razor. It breaks her skin, stinging, and raises a dollop of blood on her wrist.

Do it. Show them all how perfect you are.

“In pain,” she says, “I am perfection.”

Show them you know how to take control.

She drags the razor down one wrist, then the other. It feels exquisite. As the blood starts to flow, she sees the eels coiled under her skin. Something’s wrong. There are too many of them. They writhe and twist and fall out of her, one after another.

She’s frightened, confused. This isn’t like before. She opens the bathroom door. Blood seeps from the long gashes in her wrists. There’s red all over her clothes, red all over the floor. She walks trembling into the dining room, arms held out. The others scream at the sight of her, springing back from the table, knocking over their chairs, as eel after slippery black eel drops from her wounds.

Her hip collides with the table, and she crumples onto it, knocking over the wine glasses. She’s so drowsy, she just wants to close her eyes for a moment.

When she opens them again, a steaming carpet of eels writhes on the floor, hissing and snapping their powerful jaws. The lights flicker and dim. Eels must have gotten into the wiring. She pictures them coiled behind the walls like insulation.

A hand touches her back. Her mother, eyes a milky white, embraces her. “You were always our favorite, Christine,” she says in a flat, dead voice. Black paste oozes from her mouth. “We hate Karin. Everything is her fault.”

Her father, kneeling on the floor, repeatedly raises the carving knife and brings it down, sinking it into the bleeding pulp of Karin’s chest. His face registers no emotion. “Makat bechoroth,” he repeats, drooling black onto his shirt. “Makat bechoroth.” The eels nip at the corpse’s fingers and toes, tearing them from their sockets and fighting over the meat.

“Now we can all be happy again,” her mother says.

“Doesn’t feel like before,” she murmurs weakly. “Did I cut too deep this time?”

“Shhhhh.” Her mother strokes her hair. “You did just fine. You are perfection.”

She can barely keep her eyes open. There’s so much sticky red everywhere, and eels keep sliding out of the gashes in her arms. When will they stop? How many can there be?

In the dimming light, she watches the exodus pour out of her. Hundreds of them, thousands of them, going forth to a freedom that was supposed to be hers.

* * *

Cutting and piercing, tats and teen angst ... This one’s as modern as Dr. Phil – and as universal as Cain and Abel, who, as Nick Kauffman’s recent Biblical research has established, spoke a New York inflected version of Yiddish.