Cellophane

Sensitive Content: Mental Health, Thoughts of Self-harm, and Violence/Death.

This story has three possible endings.

My soul had been bruised that day. Depressed. Downtrodden. Damp. A nor’easter had soaked me to the bone with the help of late September winds. Enveloped in an icy jacket; stepping through the door to my apartment, water continued to drip. Droplets falling from my long hair, it burned my eyes as the gel I’d used that morning slid into the corners of my sockets. My fingers had wrinkled, and my shirt clung to my chest.

I sat on one of the kitchen chairs — the only kitchen chair. My flesh feeling as though it were melding to the cheap laminate. Forgetting to take my medicine that morning, I had suffered through a withdrawal headache most of the day. Out of the corner of my teary eye, I noticed a low shadow. My cat was licking where the water had pooled on the kitchen tile.

The apartment was palatial, and lonely; I could only wonder how the cat felt. “Well, I am out of a job Brûlée.” the cat jumped into my wet lap. She didn’t mind, it beat the street I found her on. “AI is going to be replacing me.” I rubbed the area between her ears, and pet to her tail, scratching right before the appendage. She was as loyal as cats come, and she was the only one that made me smile that day. “On the subway today I thought about it Brûlée, gave it real consideration. I thought that I would give you to my sister, head to the top floor, and take the fast way down if you know what I mean. But I don’t think I can. I love you too much. I just want the pain to stop, you know? I was already feeling worthless, and now I’m going to be replaced, just like that.” I snapped my fingers. “I’m see-through.”

The wind that had been rattling against the windows abated. The rain ceased. I looked at the safe across the room. Knowing what was inside. “We might lose everything Bru…” I caught a whiff of myself, “I smell like wet dog.”

She continued to purr. He loved her black and brown pattern. She was so affectionate. “First a shower. Change of clothes. Would you like to go for a walk once I’m ready?”

Boston at night was beautiful. Lights shown all around, made brighter by the pitch black alleys. Brûlée walked beside me, and at times I’d hold her, or she would perch on my shoulder. The apartment was on Beacon street, but she loved Storrow — the north side at least.

I had managed to dress for the city. There were three looks; homeless, hot, or sporty. People either looked like they had just come off of a sidewalk, or they were dressed to the nines, or they wanted to show off the body all the running had gifted them. I wore a blue canvas shirt that was a bit scratchy, chinos, expensive boots, and an old green windbreaker. A cigarillo hanging from the moister of my lip, I walked slowly — each individual step echoing up and down the Boston buildings. Brûlée’s bell bouncing along, many people stopped to say “hi”, and I would say, “she is very sweet, that is why her name is Brûlée!” That would usually elicit a giggle, I would smile, and she would stay to receive some free pats. I’d get to the end of the street, whistle, and she’d come running.

The two of us made it to the Charles River, just west of the Night Shift beer garden. “Hey Clint! Hi Bru-Bru!” Ronny from the bar shouted. The beer garden was open late, later than usual. The place typically closed at nine, but after the renovations there was an event until midnight — it was eleven-thirty, and the place was hopping.

I crushed hard on Rhonda. She was short, and had beautiful chocolate colored curls. A nose piercing, tattoos, and a thin stripe of white through her mane only added to her allure. She had olive skin that seemed to shimmer like amber at night. The two of them always had chemistry, and they were both single. “Screw it.” I whispered to myself before shouting, “Rhonda, can I take you out tomorrow?”

“What?” she shouted back.

“I want to take you out tomorrow! If I get any closer, I’ll get all tongue-tied. Instead, I am yelling it to you from here so that the whole city hears!”

There was raucous laughter, as a table of bikers, and a large group of tourists appreciated his confession.

“I’m off at eight tomorrow!”

“I’ll be here!” I said as Brûlée got distracted and I had to dash after her. I could hear John shout from the kitchen, “Finally!”

I just needed something. I needed something to keep me from reaching for that safe, from taking that swan dive, from jumping in the traffic. “I’ll get back on track Brûlée, I promise.” With that, I crouched down to the pavement and she jumped to my shoulder. As I walked through the plaza of the Hatch Memorial Shell venue and past the Union Boathouse I saw something strange. A man was carrying a bride; at least it seemed that way.

What was odd was the noise. There was none, except for the din of the cars on Storrow, and the occasional seabird. There were no sounds of glee or jubilation. I walked on the grass now trying to mask my steps - I didn’t want to interrupt, or get in the way if they were taking some photos. The man was dressed all in black, black baseball hat, and shirt, and pants, and shoes — odd. His bride was shimmering in the light, her form semi-visible in the moon and street light; the dress would glint and glare suddenly.

He laid her on a bench, taking his hat off and wiping his forehead he adjusted her more than once. There was a blinding flash of light from a camera just once and then the groom jogged over to a car and drove off.

I couldn’t help but go over. Was this some sort of game they played? Was this a fetish thing?

The woman was still.

As I approached, it was clear. It was obvious why she shone in the moonlight. The woman was body-wrapped in cellophane. Her hair pulled back, her face drawn into a grotesquely contorted facade. Her cheeks were stretched up in a horrific smile, four or five teeth were missing; it was hard to tell through the plastic. Her nose had dried blood caked around her nostrils.

The woman was naked, I could tell, her body all pressed into itself from the clinging film. Brûlée tried to jump onto her lap, and I shooed her off. Her bell jangled, and she sniffed the air. The woman was missing a finger. I went to grab my phone, beginning to call 911. Brûlée meowed. I noticed something dark by her saran-wrapped feet. The man’s hat.

Ending 1:

A shriek of brakes sounded behind me. I whipped around pressing the emergency button on my phone, “911 - What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Body on a bench by boathouse on Storrow… Someone is coming back!”

“Sir, please remain calm.”

“Just get someone here. Man is six foot, black clothes, Caucasian.” I hung up the phone. The figure in question had come back for his hat — sloppy to leave DNA at the scene. He saw me and broke into a chasing sprint. Brûlée and I ran, her bell leaving an auditory trail for the man to follow. “Here!” I whistled, and she ran up my arm, digging her claws into my shoulder, I wrapped my arm around her and sprinted. Never moved so fast in my life. Reaching up to her neck, I tore the bell and tag from her cheap collar, tossing it in the Charles. My boots clomped on the pavement as I hit one of the bridges leading to the river’s esplanade. Across Fiedler Field I could see the lights of the Night Shift.

I lost whoever the man was, the push of adrenaline piercing through my body. Heart beating. Warmth in the face.

Ronny saw me sprinting, I nearly collided with her, “Someone is after me!” Ronny was skeptical, but told me to take a seat. Whipping my windbreaker off, I cradled Brûlée in it. I tried to blend in. I slowed my breathing, and called 911 again to finish the call.

I’d never felt so alive.

Ending 2:

He’ll be back for the hat. I began to walk away, Brûlée trailing behind. There was a shriek of brakes as rubber squealed against wet asphalt. Lighting another cigarillo, I walked with my back to the man exiting his vehicle.

He approached. The killer taking silent steps toward me. I turned, puffing a long drag off the tobacco. If this man killed me, he might be doing me a favor. I’ll take this chance. “Beautiful evening isn’t it.” And I flipped my hand up in a peaceful wave.

The man’s eyes were alight with pleasure, and sickening smile spread across his face. “It is beautiful.” in his hand shone a silvery knife. To him, I wasn’t see-through.

Brûlée walked over to the man, and he crouched down to pet her; blade inches from her body.

I took another puff of smoke.

The killer looked me up and down once more; he frowned. There was no game, no desire. Something about me gave him pause. I turned back toward the path, “you have a good night now.” I whistled to Brûlée and she galloped back to me to continue our walk.

“Good night sir.” the killer said.

Ending 3:

A shriek of brakes sounded behind me. I whipped around pressing the emergency button on my phone, “911 - What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Body on a bench by boathouse on Storrow… Someone is coming back!”

“Sir, please remain calm.”

“Just get someone here. Man is six foot, black clothes, Caucasian.” I hung up the phone. The figure in question had come back for his hat, I would guess that cat hair was now clinging to film around the victim’s body. He saw me and broke into a sprint. Brûlée and I ran, her bell leaving an auditory trail for the man to follow. “Here!” I whistled, and she ran up my arm, digging her claws into my shoulder, I wrapped my arm around her and sprinted. Reaching up to her neck, I tore the bell and tag from her cheap collar, tossing it in the Charles. My boots clomped on the pavement as I hit one of the bridges leading to the river’s esplanade. Across Fiedler Field I could see the lights of the Night Shift.

I looked back.

The man slammed into me. Piercing fire stabbed over and over into my back, my hands outstretched to Rhonda’s voice — I could hear her in the distance, she was laughing at some unknown joke. “Ronny! John!” I tried to scream; nothing but a dull gasp escaped as air spilled out of the punctures in my lungs.

Brûlée scratched and clawed at the killer. He tried to slice her open, but she jumped back.

I could hear the bar’s music, One of These Nights.

Brûlée stayed with me as I died, as loyal as they come.

She licked the killer’s DNA and my blood out from under her claws, and Brûlée was a stray once more.