The Comfort Of The Knife

Applause surrounded me. Everyone I knew had arrived for my birthday party. There was Amber two-fisting beers. Melissa in a gown of silk that rolled with the curves of her body. Sphinx stood at my side with a pleasant smile on its face. Even Secretary was there making out with some other guests. Beyond them it seemed like everything bled into shadow—I blame the sparklers that filled the table. They cast chalcedony embers everywhere.

Then the curtain of shadow parted as my parents carried in a grand silver platter. Their faces wide with joy that they could be here. They set down the platter with a gentle thud. I could see my face reflected in the stainless steel of its lid. My face was only softly painted. The barest hint of color to my lips with a touch of gloss and dark smokiness that framed my eyes—the most I normally went for when playing with makeup.

Those same glossy lips opened in a subtle gasp. This Nadia’s head was framed by a halo of aged blood. It pulsated with spikes like the volume meter on one of dad’s radios. Beyond the bloody trim was what seemed to be a world of knives and edges—the violence of division.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” Mom asked.

I leaned into her palm. She smelled peppery and sweet. I focused on that.

“Yeah, Mom, totally,” I said. “Let’s eat!”

The crowd cheered and my dad smiled. He tossed the lid from the platter and shook his hands for the big reveal. It was a head—her head—atop a mound of assorted limbs and viscera. So this was where the things that Atomic Glory consumed went.

Dad’s voice broke up with mini coughs he used to cover his tears. “Oh Dreamdrop,” Dad said, “when they told me you killed them I couldn’t’ve been happier. Trust me, I was a bit skeptical initially. I said, ‘my little, Dreamdrop, killed all of you? Nooo, she could barely crush a bug.’ In the end though, it was hard to deny them. You were very prolific.”

“Dad, who told you I killed anyone?” I asked.

“That’d be us,” her head said.

The crowd parted and a small army marched into the light—the cultists. They waved to everyone, just so happy to be there. When they were fully in the of the sparklers they took a bow, and as one said, “Thank you, princess.”

“For what?” I asked. “I-I killed you.”

“And proud of it we are,” her head said. “To be known forever in your story as your first.”

“First?”

“First kill. First massacre even. Call it pride, but I don’t know if you’ll be beating our record anytime soon. You want to know the exact number?” her head asked.

I crossed my fingers and loosed the Atomic Glory onto her head. Burned it again. Stumbled back from the table. Mom looked so concerned for me. Dad looked down at the platter.

“Tsk, Dreamdrop, don’t tell me you’ve begun one of those silly diets. Old World magazines are not to be taken as trusted advice, we’ve been over this.” He shook his head. “We do not have enough space for you to leave behind leftovers—there’s four more platters.”

I wheeled backwards from the table. Slammed against cold metal—the Angler Knight.

“Come on, Nadia, don’t you want to be big and strong?” the Angler Knight asked gently.

I whirled about in surprise; my feet slid from the ground and I fell up into the air. He caught me with a dip, and then tossed me corkscrewing into his arms. He carried me back to the table.

“Forget about even beating me,” The Angler Knight said. “How many people do you think you’ll have to kill—consume, if you want to beat them.”

A spotlight swiveled over to the crowd. The people melted around the beam of light to reveal my parents’ killers at the bar. They raised their drinks high and screamed, happy birthday. One of them waved their glass to the room.

“I’d first like to say, I can’t wait to get like you my boys,” the masked killer said in deference to the army of my first-slain foes. “Next, for the birthday girl, you better appreciate all that good killing. It’ll be a long road to get to us, so best bulk up.”

My mom took a spoon to the absent ashes of the head—an eyeball remained. She scooped it and flew the eyeball to my mouth like she did when as a little girl.

“They’re right. You need to eat up,” my Mom said.

The Angler Knight squeezed open my jaw. Mom tilted the eyeball onto my tongue. They forced my mouth shut. The jellied eyeball squished. It tasted of hopes and dreams, treasured memories. I knew her name. It was—

“Suzuka,” I whispered to the ceiling of the personal suite my dad apparently had with Every Train And Its Rails.

“Hmm,” Sphinx hummed.

It turns its eyes away from the window—floor to ceiling—and the painting of the countryside that flew by in impressionistic streaks. I pushed myself from the bed. Stumbled to the window-view table Sphinx sat beside. I took the pitcher of water and let it fall into my mouth. Gulping and gulping to clear a taste that sat in my spirit—still, sits in my spirit.

Water dribbled down my chin and neck. Merged with the drops of sweat that marched across my skin. I returned the pitcher—a third lighter in weight—and met Sphinx’s eyes.

“Poor dream?” it asked.

I frowned, “Don’t tell me you can see into my dreams.”

“Was that a request, or just the dialect you learned in whatever nightmare you woke from?”

“What’s your problem?” I asked.

“Yours.” It said, “I can advise you on more than vengeance if you want. If you’d let me.”

“Sure, what advice do you want to give me now to follow the torture of your last great hit: end the engagement with my childhood love?” I asked.

“Is this how you wish to have this conversation?” it asked.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Maybe, is not a firm enough answer,” my gatekeeper said. “Open the gate or don’t. Just don’t take it out on me when you’re the indecisive one.”

I whipped the pitcher off the table—it crashed into a wall somewhere in the kitchen. Shattered.

“Like you can ever give firm answers. Revelation isn’t teaching and all that. You can just be annoyingly cryptic.”

“I speak clearly, but you’re the one who seems to entomb my words.”

“Okay, then let’s put that to a test. What am I?” I asked.

Sphinx didn’t miss a beat, “Divided. As is your nature.”

“Gah,” I roared.

Snatched a robe from a nearby chair—it was pink and fuzzy—and tied it off as I stormed off to the elevator in the suite. Slammed a button and l screamed one more time. Sphinx just stared at me, so disappointed—I thought at me—then turned aside its face.

It said, “I forgive you.”

* * *

When the doors parted I stomped out into whatever floor it had deposited me. My feet hit soft velvet—the floors were red as spider-lilies. The design of the rug was a field of them after all. Yet, by whatever magic Every Train employed, when I looked up the design moved with me. All those flowers projected up like some hazy illusion that you couldn’t help but believe in.

The rest of the room was a bar. There were a few high-tops about the floor, but it had seats at the bar proper—a slab of black marble with silver in the cracks. In a trail down the bar stools I found Amber atop a plush silver one. I took the gold one next to her. She had her hand around a crystal glass with an amber colored drink—whisky maybe. I chuckled at that.

“Temple, what’s the joke?” she asked.

“It’s bad,” I said.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Your name’s Amber,” I said. “The drink is amber colored. You’re like, self-cannibalizing.”

Amber’s lips pursed as they tasted my joke. Glanced to the glass then back to me.

“That is bad.”

We both laughed at that.

I pressed my chin to my hands. I didn’t look her in the eye when I asked.

“What happened with the lindwurm?”

Amber sipped her whiskey. “That’s not what you want to talk about.”

“It’s not, but I have to work myself up to the actual thing.”

“Okay,” Amber said. “I was caught off guard. No matter how good you are, that's normally how you die.”

“Didn’t you say you had to have at least one attack spell?”

“You’re not going to let that go. Temple, I also said smarts mattered much more. Maybe I don’t have one because I never needed one,” she sipped, “because I was a traditionalist in that way and that way only.”

“Sphinx says maybe isn’t a firm answer.”

“It’s not,” she said. “So, maybe, I was just too fixated on you. Making sure you didn’t die from the half-a-dozen entities that would’ve nabbed you during our little quest. A little too focused on why you were lying to me. Choose a story Temple, because I’m not firm on why it shook out the way it did.”

She gestured with the drink at the options.

“I could give you more reasons, but at the end of the day we were caught unaware without the gear needed to fight a Baron. Let alone in a stand up brawl when fighting isn’t my specialty.”

“Pick a story, huh?” I asked. “I think I’ll take the one where you just froze and became an idiot. Had to rely on my quick wit and hardy spirit to smash through that door.”

Amber shoved my shoulder playfully.

“You’re only getting away with that one cause you look way too good in that robe.”

I realized that the only thing I was wearing was the robe and the underwear I slept in. My cheeks burned as I blew out my embarrassment. I glanced at Amber, she was in this shimmering tuxedo that drained the red of the carpet like some vampiric thing. Her bowtie hung loose around her neck—just a snatch to whip it off.

“Yeah, well, what about you?” I asked. “Who packs a tuxedo for the Lodge exam?”

Amber smirked. “Someone who expects good parties, or the chance to be with a beautiful woman.”

“We’re the only people here,” I said.

“My point exactly.” She ignored the reignited heat in my face, asked, “Are you able to talk about it now? Taking your first life.”

I scoffed, “Oh really, what says that I did?”

Amber glanced at my lap. “Maybe the fact you started rubbing your hands on your robe once I asked? It’s not going to get the blood out.”

My body was always my biggest traitor. I laid my hands against the bar.

“Then tell me how to ignore it,” I said.

Amber smiled, “Temple, from how you act around Melissa, I don’t think ignoring things works for you. Ignoring this wouldn’t work if you tried.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Cause I’ve seen how ignoring this destroys a person. Do you want to destroy yourself, Temple?”

“No.”

“Then what comes after you get your grand revenge?”

I saw black. A void where a dream should go. Amber took two fingers and guided my chin until I faced her. She found the void down through my eyes.

“You can’t ignore this,” she said.

I didn’t know if she meant the void where my future should’ve gone, the ghost flavor that I could still taste—the deaths, or some other questions in my spirit.

“Any of it,” she answered. “Ignore none of it.”

“So then how do I deal with it?” I asked. “The deaths, first.”

Amber winked. “That’s the easiest answer. You take those faces and names, and scratch them out. Replace it all with a blur and the name, Other.”

“Other?” I asked.

Amber nodded and took another sip of her drink. Then she offered me some. I reached for the glass, but she pulled back—a cheeky smile already on her face. Adjusted her grip so the glass balanced against the pads of her fingers by the base. She laid the glass against my lip—the whiskey was smoky, it was cinnamon—and tilted. It was the perfect amount, not to slow or fast, just a gradual trickle down my tongue. Now that cut through the ghost-flavor.

“Save some for me,” she said as she pulled it back. “And yes, Other. Humans don’t like killing, but we are very good at it. It’s our great dichotomy I like to think. Why those of us who love it too much are both more and less human.”

I stared in confusion—the drink burned in my chest.

“I digress,” Amber said, “we don’t like killing but we’re good at it. Cause we’re the best liars, Nadia, especially to ourselves. You just get up in there and tell yourself, ‘they’re not a person. Just some other thing.’ Lie until you believe their name is Other, until you block out their faces when you recall them, and believe that they were empty inside. That you spilled nothing.”

“Wouldn’t that be carrying the thread?” I asked. “That kind of stuff is what they said made the Old World so bad. They taught us to never forget that we’re all people.”

Amber narrowed her eyes—her smile didn’t reach them. “That’s good advice for those who have the luxury to live with clean hands. It’s a world that’s not for you anymore.”

“Maybe, but it’s still a philosophy that should’ve died in the Old World, right?”

Amber scoffed. “Temple, I thought you got it. The New World’s a joke. If it was half of what it said it was you wouldn’t be here on this train. Your parents would be alive.”

My hand whipped toward Amber’s face—she was faster. Caught my wrist. Then slowly guided my palm to her cheek.

“I went too far,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

She let go and I took back my hand. She sipped her drink.

“I just, things about the New World are too hard for me to believe sometimes. That, ‘No Carrying the Thread,’ rule the Godtenders put down was just one of them. How could we not carry the Old World with us? It’s in our languages, the art we preserved, and even the way we act with one another. A lot was bad about the Old World, but much of it was just us. To deny that is, well, you’re the one who can’t sleep.”

I said, “And you’re here drinking. Doesn’t instill much faith in your advice.”

Amber joked bitterly, “Oh, Temple, this right here is the glue that holds it all together. You scratch everything out with Other, and wash it clean with liquor. Keeps memories from re-emerging and crusting over.”

She swiveled in her chair, and swiveled mine. Drank in my bare legs and the way my hair glistened with sweat. She slid the glass over to me.

“When you get real good at it, the faces will be blank long before they’re corpses. No different than rabbits you kill for a good stew. Make it easy for yourself, Temple.”

I raised the glass—it caught the light so well, was so beautiful in its simplicity—and drained what remained. Let it clink against the bartop. Slid it back to Amber. Marveled as it refilled over the trip to her hand.

“Thanks, Every Train,” Amber said as she raised it in a toast.

I laid my head in my hand. Admired the freedom for any traps in her heart.

“Is this how you get all the girls?” I asked.

She shook her head, “I don’t get many, Temple.”

Took a deep sip of her drink. Slid her gaze along the rim until our eyes met.

“I have a bad tendency of wanting what I shouldn’t have. What I don’t deserve,” she said. “I’m doomed in that way.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” I said.

Her eyes burned when I said that—the flame of hope and want that seared me. I recoiled, threw myself nearly off the seat. Amber caught my hand. That burn was gone. Snuffed out by my inability to withstand the heat within her.

“Good night, Temple.”

I slowly rose from the seat, and made for the elevator. Stopped in front of the metal doors—finger hovering above the button—only to spin back toward Amber.

“Did you kill people?” I asked. “During the Changeover.”

Amber rolled her head. Glided to her feet and on sharp heels led her glass down the bartop, around the corner, until we were only a few hands apart.

“Temple, the only people who didn’t were the lucky and the dead,” Amber said. “And I’ve never been lucky before in my life.”

“There must’ve been a lot,” I said. “You’re always drinking.”

“I go until I’m sated. Until they’re sated.”

“Can I help?” I asked. “Please, it’d make me feel better.”

“Fine. Drink,” she said.

Held her glass to my lips—this again. I didn’t break her gaze as I sipped.

“Don’t swallow,” she ordered—I didn’t.

Just sipped until my mouth was full. She removed the glass, breaking the boozy flow. I heard it tap against the glass. Only heard because soon all I could see was the endless gradations of rose within Amber’s eyes when her lips met mine. My lids closed instinctively. My back arched up toward her as my hands clung to the lapel of her suit. Her tongue stirred the liquor around in my mouth—stole some for herself. Then we both drank having forgotten in whose mouth the whiskey had started within. She pulled back first—she always pulled back—and ran her thumb to catch a stray trickle from the side of my mouth. I heard the ding of the elevator. Felt my shoulders touch air as the metal doors parted.

“Was that it?” I asked.

“I’m sated, Temple,” she whispered. “Are you?”

My body was so hot—the drink molten in my gut and fire on my lips. My breathing was heavy.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Come back when you have a firm answer,” she said before pushing me—gently—into the elevator.

The doors closed. I hit the button for my suite. Then let my legs give out. My knees hit the floor and my head was never foggier. I couldn’t even marshall my thoughts together if I wanted to. Let alone construct the guilt I didn’t want just to torment myself.