Sex and Violence in Hollywood (67 page)

For a moment, Adam could not move. A million horrible things flew through his mind, but none of them lit.

“Please don’t be mad at me Adam please don’t be mad,” she said, pressing her wet, trembling hands together between her breasts. Her nose was running, eyelashes clumped by tears.

Hot water continued to hiss from the faucet. Steam billowed furiously into the air.

Adam said urgently, “I’m not mad! Why would I be mad?” He moved toward her slowly, arms outstretched. His hands trembled, too, from fear. The hair on the back of his neck was rigid. Gooseflesh sprang up all over his body. Something was wrong with the kitchen. It looked, even felt, darker than the rest of the house. As if even the waning, steel-colored day outside would look darker than it was through that room’s windows. “What’s wrong, Alyssa?”

“I know we were gonna do it together but I just got fed up and couldn’t take it I couldn’t take it Adam I couldn’t take it and I snapped.” She stopped only because she ran out of breath. A couple more sobs, a deep breath, and then: “I’m so sorry Adam I wanted it to be perfect and wonderful but I spoiled it and I’m so sorry I’m—”

“Stop,” he said, “stop it, you’re gonna rupture something.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Reached down and turned off the faucet. He had hoped for a smirk, maybe a snort of laughter. But her body was stiff and quaking, as if she were feverish. Her shirt was wet, clung to her skin. Adam panicked and put an arm around her. Held her tight as he tried to lead her out of the kitchen, saying, “God, Alyssa, you’re soaked, come lie down, we’ve gotta call an ambulance, you’ve got a bad fever, where are your parents?”

She resisted, rolled away from him, out of his grasp. Adam glimpsed his right hand. Did a double take. Held up his left hand. Both were splotched and smeared with what could be only one thing. He smelted its sticky old-penny odor, forever connected in his mind to the bicycle spills and skateboard crashes of his childhood. He looked at her shirt again, closely this time, and recognized it as her white Bugs Bunny T-shirt. The wascally wabbit gazed blearily at Adam through all the blood, between the tiny red peaks of Alyssa’s erect nipples.

“I wanted it to be just the way we said it would be,” she said with such deep and painful disappointment. “But I snapped and I’m sorry and I don’t know what else to say except that we should probably go right away, y’know? We should get out of here right now.” Brightening a little, she added, “I packed a bag!”

Adam saw it everywhere then. Spattered and streaked on the watercolor-yellow and -blue tiles. Dripping slowly from the brass handles of cupboards. He moved toward her again, slower this time. “Alyss-lyssa, a-are you bleeding?” His voice took a low dip, then shot upward a couple times as he spoke.

She shook her head erratically. “No, I’m fine, I’m not hurt, really.” Looked down at herself, shook her head angrily. “I’ve got clothes in the suitcase.” She peeled the bloody shirt over her head. Wadded it up and tossed it into the sink. “I’ll put something else on, but I think we should go now, Adam, if...if you’ll just tell me you aren’t mad that I snapped. I’m so sorry.” Alyssa was calming down, pulling herself together. “But I’ll have to make it up to you later because I think we should...don’t you think we should go?”

He stared at her breasts, lightly smeared with blood. Even there in the dark, bloody kitchen with something very, very wrong, Adam was gripped by the urge to touch them. Squeeze them in his hands. Brush his lips over her hardened nipples. “Go...where?” he asked.

Her eyes widened slightly and she rubbed a wet, soapy hand over her face nervously. A lump of bubbles clung to the tip of her nose.

“C’mon, Adam, I...I mean, I thought we decided to go north. Up the coast. Together.”

Adam could not speak for several seconds. Her words sounded as familiar as they did insane. “Alyssa, you...are you talking about that...you can’t be serious, Alyssa, you can’t—”

“What do you mean, I can’t be serious?” She screamed, “It was your fucking idea, Adam, don’t you fucking do this to me, you were the one—”

“—tell me you took any of that seriously!” Adam shouted. “That was fantasy, that was bullshit, you knew that, Alyssa, Jesus Christ, I didn’t mean any of that and neither did you! I came to pick you up so we could get married, and you’re telling me you thought we were going to—we were just bullshitting, we were fantasizing, what’ve you, what’ve you done, what’ve you—”

“—who wanted to go to around killing parents, Goddamnit, that was your idea, don’t tell me it was fantasy, don’t you fucking do this to me, Adam, you told me—”

“—done to your parents, Alyssa, where are they, what have you—”

A wet sound from the dark side of the kitchen was just loud enough to bring an end to their panicky shouting. Then it happened again. A quick, wet glorp sound, followed by a long, gurgling gasp. A cough, then whimpering that gargled in something thick: “A...A...lytha?”

Alyssa shouted, “Oh, shit, will you look at this, now?” She paced back and forth rapidly a few times, feet stomping on the hardwood floor. Stopped and glared down at something on the floor on the other side of the island. “What does it take? Goddamnit, what does it take!”

A moist rustle of movement beyond the island was what finally made Adam move. Someone was alive over there on the floor. Someone was hurt, something had to be done. But he could think of nothing specific to do or say. Without realizing he was doing it, he quietly repeated Alyssa’s name over and over as he moved forward. Clutched her upper arms and pushed her back away from the island. “Alyssa. Alyssa. Alyssa.”

She started to cry again as she jerked her arms away from him. “Don’t touch me, Goddamnit!”

Adam watched the movements of her breasts. In spite of everything, his penis began to harden.

“How could you say that to me, Adam?” Alyssa’s words faded to a whimpering sob. She took a deep breath. “After everything we talked about, everything we planned! I mean, I fucked up and I’m sorry, but we can still do this! We just have to leave now!” Her lips peeled back over her teeth as she turned away from Adam, and glared at something on the floor. Leaned forward and buried her fists between her thighs as she screamed, “Except this fucking cunt is still aliiive!” Alyssa’s cry was filled with hatred and anger, but ultimately it sounded pathetic and crippled. She pushed Adam’s arm and shoulder, knocking him back a step. Pressed a hand to each side of her head, as if to hold together her fracturing skull. “Where is it?” she shouted. Her head jerked this way and that as she scanned the kitchen. Walked to the counter, searching. Erratic and speedy, like a video being fast-forwarded then stopped, fast-forwarded then stopped. Talking to herself frantically. “Where’d I put it. Goddamnit, where is it, where’d it go?”

Adam turned to see what was on the other side of the island. He knew that was a mistake when he saw the blood. Everywhere. On everything. Cupboards, floor, stove, dishwasher, cat bowls. Dribbling down surfaces, dripping from edges.

In the instant before he fell, Adam saw them, naked in the kitchen for the last time. Sunny slumped against a cupboard door, arms limp at her sides. Heavy, stretch-marked breasts hung to each side. Her right breast had been severely gashed at the top and was barely attached. Looked ready to peel the rest of the way off and tumble drearily over the two rolls of fat bunched together around her waist. Legs splayed before her. Mitch lay facedown across her knees. Right arm stretched out as if to pull himself forward, left arm down at his side. Everything was dark red, covered with it. Smeared with handprints, lumpy with tissue. Caked in Sunny’s thick hair. As if they had been playing in spaghetti sauce. Erotic foodplay gone terribly wrong. Both of them were covered with ugly wounds. Deep gashes, flesh sliced back like thick coldcuts. Sunny’s mouth cut open like a melon, almost back to her ears. Blood poured from it and her jaw did not hang correctly. And yet she was alive. Part of her tongue still moved and slapped around in the blood as she tried to speak again.

At first, Adam thought Mitch’s left hand was clutching Sunny’s foot. No, only a momentary illusion created by the fact that the hand had no fingers. Those were scattered over the floor in front of Adam’s feet along with something else. Tiny gray lumps in the blood on the floor. Teeth.

When Adam realized he was standing in the spreading pool of blood, he moved too quickly to back away. Feet slipped in opposite directions. All the way down, he heard Alyssa’s rising and falling voice.

“Where did I, Goddamnit, where is that fuckin’, Jeeesus Christ, you can’t find anything in this fucking kitchen!” On and on.

Found it! a mad, cackling voice in Adam’s head declared when he landed next to Mitch and saw the hefty wooden handle of a meat cleaver protruding from the back of his skull. Adam rolled onto his back. Sunny’s floppy face tipped forward and grinned down at him. He tried to crawl face up, crab-like, away from the bodies, but froze when Alyssa leaned into his field of vision from above, upside-down. Her face floated in the dangling tunnel created by her hair.

“You son of a bitch,” she grumbled as she leaned down, reached for Adam’s face with both hands. His hands and shoes lost traction on the bloody hardwood floor as he tried to avoid her grasp, then he realized she was not reaching for him. Alyssa’s hands wrapped around the handle of the cleaver, pulled on it a couple times. Her father’s forehead clunked against the floor with each jerk. The heavy blade came out with a deep, soft, sad sound, with bits of what used to make Mitch who he was clinging to its broad side in bloody clots.

In a high, quavering voice—almost a yodel—Alyssa cried, “Haven’t you said enough, Goddamnit, I think you’ve said enough, you’ve said enough, you fucking bitch!” as she swung the cleaver repeatedly. It swept by inches above Adam’s face. Short, quick arcs that ended in the general area of her mother’s throat.

Adam flailed his limbs, struggled away from the cleaver. Once he had wiggled his way out from under the blade’s arc, he rolled away. Blood drenched him, turned his phony ponytail into a soggy rope, clung to the mustache on his face. Its odor oozed into his lungs. Its harsh taste dribbled over his lips and speckled his tongue as he retched. His empty stomach convulsed as he dry heaved. Again and again his shoulders hitched and his upper body jerked as Alyssa continued hacking with the cleaver. Bile burned his throat, made him cough. He gripped the slippery edge of the tile on top of the island. Got to his feet and found some balance, stability.

The hacking stopped. Alyssa stood up straight, made that odd sound that seemed a mixture of quick sobs and nervous, rapid-fire laughter. Adam turned to her.

Alyssa’s right hand held the cleaver. Her shoulders and head shook as more tears coursed down her blood-streaked face. She turned her head to look at her mother’s, held by the hair in her left hand. In a shrill, mocking voice, she said, “‘We want you to do your own thing, Alyssa. Do your own thing, do your own thing.’ Well how ’bout if this is my fucking thing, huh?” When she said the word “this,” Alyssa threw her mother’s head into the darkness at the back of the kitchen. A pane in one of the windows shattered. Alyssa shouted at the silent darkness, “Want me to make you some herb tea for that fucking headache, huh, Mom?”

“Alyssa. Alyssa. Alyssa.” He could not stop saying it as he reached for her. Tried to sound soothing, friendly. Tried to smother the razored banshee’s shriek that wanted to rip out of him. He grabbed her right arm just above the elbow.

Alyssa joined her hands on the handle of the cleaver. Ground her teeth together as she growled. Swung the meat cleaver up.

Adam lost his grip on the edge of the tile countertop and went down again. The blade landed two inches in front of his face. Smacked wetly into Mitch’s bare back. She lifted it, brought it down again as Adam scrambled away from the spot, grabbed her arm and wrestled with her as he said, “No. Stop. Alyssa. Stop. Alyssa. They’re dead. They’re dead, Alyssa.” His voice became gradually louder, but he did not lose control, did not scream at her like he wanted to. He was afraid if he started screaming, he would never stop.

Alyssa slipped and fell on her side. Adam snaked an arm around her shoulders, held her close. Twisted the slippery meat cleaver out of her hands and hugged her to him. Felt the soft cushion of her breasts against him.

“Alyssa, we have to, we’ve got to, um...we need to...” Adam did not have a clue what needed to be done. He wondered if there was any point in doing anything.

“Yeah, I know, we need to go,” she said. “Jesus, look at this mess. We’ve gotta wash off somehow. We’ll leave a trail.”

Adam let the words leave his mouth at their own speed. If he rushed them, he would stumble over them, stammer. “Let’s...just...get outta this first, okay?”

Every attempt to get to their feet ended in a slip and a fall.

“Don’t move so fast, be more careful,” Adam said.

A slip and a fall.

“Goddamnit, let go of me!

A slip and a fall.

It became ludicrous and Alyssa started laughing. In a few seconds, Adam laughed with her, not meaning to, still wanting to scream instead, at the top of his lungs, but laughter came out of him on its own, without any help from him, because there was nothing else to do. They laughed as they slipped and fell in Sunny’s and Mitch’s blood, onto their dead bodies.

During one fall, Adam grabbed desperately for something to hold onto, something to break his fall. Clutched Sunny’s large bloody right breast. He was unaware of it at first, tried to get a hold, keep from falling. Then Alyssa’s laughter shrieked as she pointed at Adam’s hand.