Chapter 13
In Memory of Erin O Keefe
Night.
Inside a dingy suburban abode there is a chamber ten feet wide wall to wall. The flooring is a matte of carpeting the color of curdled cream cheese that’s in dire need of vacuuming. To the right, there’s an ugly sofa that was once the color of lichen but now more closely resembles a shade akin to Regan’s projectile, pea-soup vomit from The Exorcist. An unpainted IKEA coffee table sits at the foot of the sofa; littered with crumpled fast food bags and a turquoise Crosley Cruiser (one of those suitcase looking turntables you might find in the back alley of an dilapidated Urban Outfitters). A black vinyl discus spins at 33 rpm's under the blunted tip of a needle, transmitting sound waves vaguely resembling a sad synthesizer out out the half-blown out speakers; followed shortly by the emboldened voice of Billy Idol.
I'M ALL OUT OF HOPE,
ONE MORE BAD DREAM...
COULD BRING A FALL?
Up against the wall, opposite the sofa/coffee table combo, stands an inauspicious homemade home entertainment center constructed out of what looks like five different bookcases taken from five different yard sales; all haphazardly cobbled together with bent nails and sugar skull duck tape. Its shelves are lined with the half-disintegrated spines of numerous paperback pulp fiction novellas, VHS tapes, framed photographs of a pale girl aging from picture to picture, and a 20-inch boob tube television. On screen a black and white Hollywood starlet (Vera Miles to be precise) can be seen pushing herself through a dusty, basement door before staring directly into the camera as if it were a deformed baby giraffe.
WHEN I'M FAR FROM HOME,
DON'T CALL ME ON THE PHONE,
Adjacent to the room is a white tiled kitchenette, seemingly sterile if not for the towering stacks of plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery that’s been “soaking” in the sink for almost a week. Its walls consisting of a sole analog clock set to military time. Its hands read: 23:11:08. Beneath the clock there lies a breakfast/lunch/dinner table that’s literally the same model as the coffee table only bigger (but also unpainted), and with a similar variety of clutter strewn on top. Amid the empty cans of sugar free Red Bull and torn chopstick wrappers there rests an open, outdated laptop with Nora’s hands and eyes glued too it.
TO TELL ME YOU'RE ALO-ONE,
The heater’s been on the fritz lately so Nora’s wearing eight layers of long-sleeved shirts and sweaters. Her hands are a pair of stiff, aching claws. Her eyes are bloodshot. Working on Windows Movie Maker, (the best video editing software for the budgetless auteur) since 13:02:01 will do that. A visible breath of frigid air escapes Nora’s partially gapping mouth, (muffled deep beneath the folds of her second hand angora turtleneck), as she double-clicks a little rectangular icon on the far left corner of the screen labeled, CLIP-0430-scene-34-D-take-12.avi.
IT'S EASY TO DECEIVE...
A tiny, circular loading-icon blips on the monitor and proceeds to spin as the video playback window in the the upper right hand corner flashes to the first frame of the clip. It’s a close up shot of Slug’s beautifully bizarre head, wrapped up in an emerald green keffiyeh. She's sporting an eyepatch for each eye, and a cherry red “ג” marking her forehead with lipstick.
IT'S EASY TO TEASE...
IT'S EASY TO TEASE...
Slug opens her mouth, revealing a set of grills fashioned out of chewing gum foil before delivering her line.
BUT HARD TO GET RELEASE...
“If it moves, it dies. If it dies, move on,” video-Slug belts in a forced cockney accent.
Glaring intensively, Nora analyzes in silence.
LES YEUX SANA VISAGE...
When was the last time we saved? She ponders as the strength of her eyelids simultaneously start to falter. Before she can answer her own question, Nora’s hoarfrost cheek finds itself colliding with the keyboard as her mind lowers itself into the dark, sunken addles of the subconscious abyss~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A knock at the door.
IMAWAKEN!!! Nora exclaims, jolting back into her chair with a fresh set of computer-key shaped dimples imprinted in her face.
EYES WITHOUT A FACE...
Nora takes a quick glance at the excessively numeric timepiece reading:
23:11:21
(Make a fucking wish!)
Amanda shouldn't be retiring for at least another forty-nine and a half minutes.
Is this odd?
A second knock, louder, snaps Nora's head to its disturbance.
Is this odd?
LES YEUX SANA VISAGE...
EYES WITHOUT A FA-ACE...
A third knock, softer, more like a light rasping of knuckles, actually.
“Hold up, let me fix my hat!" Nora shouts rubbing her eyes, attempting to ignore the weird tingling sensations prickling out from her yet, still slumbering legs. She scans the disaster that is the tabletop but there is no hat to be found.
LES YEUX SANA VISAGE...
With a grunt she peels herself out of her chair, cracking her joints in the processes. She exits the kitchenette, glancing back towards the television set to see Vera Miles approaching the backside of the hunched over woman siting in her wheelchair; in the corner of the basement.
“Misses Bates?” The starlet inquires.
Nora opens the door. An officer stands before the threshold; a man in his late forties, hatched faced, , gap-toothed, thick-set. Nora almost snickers aloud at how overly cliche he looks, then she notices the hat he's holding in his hands as if he has troubling news.
On the television, Verna Miles stares in horror as Norma Bate’s decomposing head stares back with her empty, mummified eye sockets and the starlet screams her little histrionic heart out!
YOUR EYES WITHOUT A FA-ACE,
FA-ACE,
FA-ACE,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"That’s her alright.” Nora discloses to the coroner, trying their best not to yawn.
Nora can't blame em', it's just after midnight and they haven't gotten to the paperwork yet.
Nora can't blame em', it's just after midnight and they haven't gotten to the paperwork yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hatchetface presses a folded piece of paper into the palm of Nora's hand. It has a time and location she has to remember but she only needs to memorize the time, she knows where she's going.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ridding in the backseat of someone's car, again. Whose driving? The coroner? Hatchetface? Sexy Jesus? What difference would it make? She makes it home alive and unmolested.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back in her dingy abode. She glances at the television set, blank screen. Billy Idol seems to have run out of record, as the turntable's silent and as her mother’s pulp paperbacks...
... Nora’s pulp paperbacks, now.
She looks up at the clock.
01:35:47
She rereads the officer’s note:
... Nora’s pulp paperbacks, now.
She looks up at the clock.
01:35:47
She rereads the officer’s note:
Merryhill Morgue
(1521, Stonewall ave, Merryhill VA, 12345)
Breakfast - 08:00
Service - 08:30
Whomever wrote this has the penmanship of a quadruple amputee, Nora internalized.
She B-lines to the breakfast/lunch/dinner table, sits her ass down. Tapping the laptop with an agitated finger Nora awakens the struggling work of hardware out of sleep mode and back to the timecode of her magnum opus. She double-clicks, CLIP-0431-scene-34-D-take-13.avi, and Slug pops up again on screen, still wearing her "Cuy Huntress" costume.
“If it moves, it dies. If it dies, move—
. . .
A twitch strikes Nora's eyelid...
...she closes the window...
...drags her cursor to the next video clip in the sequence, double clicks and-
Nora can hear her eyeball's last remaining blood vessel explode from sheer rage, followed by a tsunami of curses and profanities flying out her mouth like water from a cracked fire hydrant.
Then calm. Almost zen.
Then calm. Almost zen.
This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened, AND you know how to fix it. But first, get the memory card out of Sofia.
Nora agrees with herself (as she often did) and reached for the Nikon and grabbing fistfuls of air.
Dread.
Did you take Sofia with you to the autopsy?
"Yes."
"Yes."
Dreader.
Did you bring it back?
Nora screams.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An ashen cemetery, day.
A basket-headed tombstone stands askew with writing carved into its face:
________
ERECTED
-IN-
MEMORY OF
ERIN O KEEFE
DAUGHTER OF
JOHN-NINA O KEEFE
WHO WAS EATEN BY
MOUNTAIN RATS
IN THE YEAR 1876
________
Nora and Slug sit with their collective backs up against this ancient gravemarker as they’d done so countless times over.
“But how did you feel? And how are you feeling? It's okay to be open about this, you shouldn't have to give yourself emotional constipation on my account."
A groan from Nora's end.
"But it's weird to share feelings! Especially when they suck."
"Don't keep yourself tethered to the suckyness, that's how people start seeing ghosts."
"That sounds awesome. I wanna see ghosts."
"No you do not. Now are you going to spill your feels or am I going to have to squeeze them out of you?"
A gruff from Nora's end. Slug could crack a watermelon with a bearhug if she wanted too.
A groan from Nora's end.
"But it's weird to share feelings! Especially when they suck."
"Don't keep yourself tethered to the suckyness, that's how people start seeing ghosts."
"That sounds awesome. I wanna see ghosts."
"No you do not. Now are you going to spill your feels or am I going to have to squeeze them out of you?"
A gruff from Nora's end. Slug could crack a watermelon with a bearhug if she wanted too.
“I don't know what you want me to say. I guess I feel...the same? I don't know. It's like I'm numb, mentally, or something. It's easier to go over what I don't feel, if I'm being honest. I'm not pleased about it, but neither am I all that sad. I'm not angry, disgusted, relieved. I'm nothing. Truth be told, I'm mostly confused, but only as to why I'm having such a detached reaction to this whole ordeal. It isn't like I haven't considered this being a possible outcome or anything. Maybe I’ve played the scenario in my head enough times that the real deal just can't cut it. Or maybe I’m just sleep deprived to the point where emotional complexities become totally atrophied. At least I'm not hallucinating, yet.
“Then why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Slug suggested.
"Or you can crash at my place if you’d prefer.”
"Or you can crash at my place if you’d prefer.”
“I appreciate your offer, but we can't stop now. Not when we're so close to artistic glory! Which reminds me, did you bring your GoPro? I texted you that, right?"
Slug sighs and removes the itsy bitsy "sports-sized" recorder and shows it off.
“That was about the only coherent message you sent in the span of seven hours. Do you even read what you write before you send? It's mostly just incoherent ramblings and gibberish. I still have no idea what you're even planning."
“Well, upon the realization that this’ll be my first up close and personal funeral, I found myself bombarded with...ideas...photographic ideas...creative ideas."
Slug nearly shudders at the thought of Nora getting "creative" in a place like this, at a time like now.
“Oh dear,” Slug mumbles.
“Tell me, how much time do we have before the service?” Nora demands.
Slug checks the digital Adventure Time watch attached to her wrist, it reads:
08:15am
“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”
“Perfect! That should give us ample time to review my insomniatic scheme before the big shoot. But first, I’ll need a ladder and a shovel. Do you remember where the groundskeeper keeps his shed?
“This is going to get chaotic, isn’t it?”
“Only if we’re lucky.”
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