“Boris, is that you?”
By Kylee Walton
Boris, is that you?
I watch the man cross the street several times. He goes back and forth, sidewalk to sidewalk. The street is residential, not many cars pass. My wooden front steps are sunken, rotting from the inside. I sit, smoking and watching him. I’ve just finished mowing the lawn and the grass has stained my jeans.
His brown hair is wispy, twisting around as he turns to cross again. The corduroy pants he is wearing are worn at the knees. Before crossing each time, he clenches his fist for a few seconds and releases as he steps off of the sidewalk.
I flick an ash from my cigarette. The sun is beating down on both of us. My jeans cling to the back of my legs. Somehow, the man is dressed in thick layers and doesn’t appear to be perspiring at all.
The man crosses to my side of the street, picking up his pace. I watch as he slides his hand into his pants pocket and pulls out a small pen. As I stub out my cigarette, I realize that the man now has his eyes on me, on my body. His lips twist into a half-formed smile.
I stand and walk up a few steps. A baseball bat, scuffed and unused for many years, becomes my sanctuary as I wrap my fingers around the handle. I rush down the steps. He is halfway up my lawn.
The man flicks his wrists. A blade protrudes out of the pen. It’s a pocket knife.
I raise both of my hands and bring the baseball bat down onto him, striking his knee. He falls onto the freshly cut lawn, the clumps of grass sticking to his corduroys. The man starts to laugh. I plug my ears with my fingers, hoping the sound will disappear. It doesn’t. He continues, throwing his head back and stretching his mouth so wide that the corners of his mouth begin to
bleed. He cries like laughing is killing him, but he doesn’t stop. His voice grows hoarse.
The man rips off his shirt, then his pants, then everything else, piece by piece, until he is sitting in front of me naked, still laughing. He takes his pocket knife, rests it on the top of his left shoulder, and begins to peel. The cut skin falls limp to the ground, melting in the summer heat. I start to bite my hand.
His mouth is open, still laughing, but no sound is coming out. Sometimes a creak escapes his throat, but nothing more as he skins his arm in front of me. Once he finishes, he lays down and stares up at me. The red, fleshy mass of muscle rests on the grass, staining the blades.
The sun is like a heat lamp and we’re burning beneath it. The man’s arm boils in his blood, bubbling like oil in a fryer. I reach down and rest my bitten hand on the red lump of meat.
It’s very warm.
Kylee Walton’s favorite activity is to put googly eyes on various items. She loves Bugles, writing, and Franz Kafka. She’s currently hunched over a desk writing a longer piece with magical realism elements.
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