Saturday Night Special
This piece was originally written to be published in Rowan's Avant, a literary magazine. Now that
it's been published (read it in the latest issue!) I've decided to post
it here.
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Ethan and I used to take Rorschach tests just to fuck with the psychiatrists.
“What do you see?” asked Dr. Cirello, green eyes blazing behind her glasses. She held up the first card and for a moment I was distracted by the chunky rings on her slender fingers. “Adel?”
“Right,” I said, clearing my head and peering into the inkblot.
“What do you see?” she repeated. What I saw was a bat but what I said was--
“A skull.”
Dr. Cirello jotted something down in her notebook with a red pen. “What kind of skull?”
“Cattle,” I answered. “Like the kind you’d see as some redneck’s mantelpiece.” She continued to write, nodding along with my words. Shuffling through her briefcase she retrieved another small card and slid it across the table.
“And this one?”
An elephant.
“A scythe,” I breathed, pointing to the sickle of ink my head told me were tusks. The doctor’s blonde head bobbed away as she scribbled. Finally, the last card, this one plagued by crimson blotches as well as black. Easy.
“A murder,” I whispered, desperate to sound disturbed by my own answers. And then, stifling a laugh, “What does it mean, Doctor?” I drowned the desire to smile, knowing that Ethan was in the opposite room doing the same thing.
Eyes glued to her papers she said, “We’ll discuss that at our next meeting, Adel. Thursday at five?” I nodded, knowing I’d probably never see this woman again as long as I lived.
Ethan was sitting in the waiting room reading a magazine upside down, the receptionist watching him with growing curiosity. She clutched at a silver cross around her neck. Ethan grinned hugely as I walked out, the white teeth nearly splitting his head in half, and threw his arm around my shoulders as we trudged into the streets, bristling as a cold wind threatened to rip through our clothes.
“So,” I said, tossing a few dollars in change to a bum warming himself on an air vent, “what did you see?” (“May fortune smile upon your souls,” the old man called after us.)
“I started off easy,” he said, pulling at a lock of brown hair. “First I saw a dragon. After that, 9/11.”
“And the one with the red spots?”
He laughed, music spilling from his lips. “Losing my virginity.” I laughed with him, sidestepping a few cracks in the sidewalk. We walked shoulder to shoulder, slow despite the cold, Ethan’s natural warmth radiating like a space heater in the dead of winter. Save for us, the streets were empty. Snow clung to naked trees in the dying light, the white powder disturbed only by the lithe little feet of hungry cardinals.
There was something I loved about Ethan. Something about his creative answers and the fact that he’d come all the way to the bad part of town with me just so we could get a few giggles teasing the psychiatrist that was sometimes known to accept drugs instead of cash for her services. We weren’t dating, and we weren’t lovers, but in a way Ethan loved me too.
I just never knew it until he died that night.
We rounded the corner and smacked into the barrel of a six shooter.
“Don’t either of you move,” said the man holding it, his voice liquid smooth, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Our assailant was dressed in black, his face obscured by a werewolf Halloween mask, and he slipped from the neighboring alley like a shadow. I trembled, feeling the hungry revolver’s muzzle rock back and forth between Ethan and myself. Ethan was calm; his expression unreadable, blue eyes like slabs of ice gleaming from his face.
“Are you going to kill us?” He asked, still cool. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. The gun swung to and fro like a deadly pendulum and the muffled mirth that escaped from the werewolf’s snarling maw told me that he was. Sweat pooled in my extremities.
“Only one of you,” growled the wolf-man, the hard on in his pants bulging at the zipper. “Tell me—who will it be?”
Ethan never hesitated. “Get out of here, Adel.”
I dropped my frozen stance to protest, briefly forgetting the gleaming revolver until its silver muzzle made contact with my temple. Whimpering in pain, beads of blood welling around my hairline, I backed away and watched as our attacker placed the barrel of the gun against Ethan’s white forehead.
“Get along now, girlie,” he rumbled. “You don’t want to see this.”
Ethan’s eyes sought mine in the darkness. “You’ll be okay, Adel.”
“No, I won’t.” Tears stung my eyes. “Ethan, please.”
The gun turned its gaping mouth towards me and I yelped, fleeing the alley and abandoning Ethan forever. But before I sprinted down the streets, waving my arms and screaming until my throat would take no more, I heard the wolf-man ask Ethan a question.
“What do you see?”
And from my mind’s eye I watched Ethan’s face split in that ear to ear smile, gaze glued to the weapon on his forehead, and he said,
“An empty cylinder.”
From the alley, a gunshot roared.
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Ethan and I used to take Rorschach tests just to fuck with the psychiatrists.
“What do you see?” asked Dr. Cirello, green eyes blazing behind her glasses. She held up the first card and for a moment I was distracted by the chunky rings on her slender fingers. “Adel?”
“Right,” I said, clearing my head and peering into the inkblot.
“What do you see?” she repeated. What I saw was a bat but what I said was--
“A skull.”
Dr. Cirello jotted something down in her notebook with a red pen. “What kind of skull?”
“Cattle,” I answered. “Like the kind you’d see as some redneck’s mantelpiece.” She continued to write, nodding along with my words. Shuffling through her briefcase she retrieved another small card and slid it across the table.
“And this one?”
An elephant.
“A scythe,” I breathed, pointing to the sickle of ink my head told me were tusks. The doctor’s blonde head bobbed away as she scribbled. Finally, the last card, this one plagued by crimson blotches as well as black. Easy.
“A murder,” I whispered, desperate to sound disturbed by my own answers. And then, stifling a laugh, “What does it mean, Doctor?” I drowned the desire to smile, knowing that Ethan was in the opposite room doing the same thing.
Eyes glued to her papers she said, “We’ll discuss that at our next meeting, Adel. Thursday at five?” I nodded, knowing I’d probably never see this woman again as long as I lived.
Ethan was sitting in the waiting room reading a magazine upside down, the receptionist watching him with growing curiosity. She clutched at a silver cross around her neck. Ethan grinned hugely as I walked out, the white teeth nearly splitting his head in half, and threw his arm around my shoulders as we trudged into the streets, bristling as a cold wind threatened to rip through our clothes.
“So,” I said, tossing a few dollars in change to a bum warming himself on an air vent, “what did you see?” (“May fortune smile upon your souls,” the old man called after us.)
“I started off easy,” he said, pulling at a lock of brown hair. “First I saw a dragon. After that, 9/11.”
“And the one with the red spots?”
He laughed, music spilling from his lips. “Losing my virginity.” I laughed with him, sidestepping a few cracks in the sidewalk. We walked shoulder to shoulder, slow despite the cold, Ethan’s natural warmth radiating like a space heater in the dead of winter. Save for us, the streets were empty. Snow clung to naked trees in the dying light, the white powder disturbed only by the lithe little feet of hungry cardinals.
There was something I loved about Ethan. Something about his creative answers and the fact that he’d come all the way to the bad part of town with me just so we could get a few giggles teasing the psychiatrist that was sometimes known to accept drugs instead of cash for her services. We weren’t dating, and we weren’t lovers, but in a way Ethan loved me too.
I just never knew it until he died that night.
We rounded the corner and smacked into the barrel of a six shooter.
“Don’t either of you move,” said the man holding it, his voice liquid smooth, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Our assailant was dressed in black, his face obscured by a werewolf Halloween mask, and he slipped from the neighboring alley like a shadow. I trembled, feeling the hungry revolver’s muzzle rock back and forth between Ethan and myself. Ethan was calm; his expression unreadable, blue eyes like slabs of ice gleaming from his face.
“Are you going to kill us?” He asked, still cool. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. The gun swung to and fro like a deadly pendulum and the muffled mirth that escaped from the werewolf’s snarling maw told me that he was. Sweat pooled in my extremities.
“Only one of you,” growled the wolf-man, the hard on in his pants bulging at the zipper. “Tell me—who will it be?”
Ethan never hesitated. “Get out of here, Adel.”
I dropped my frozen stance to protest, briefly forgetting the gleaming revolver until its silver muzzle made contact with my temple. Whimpering in pain, beads of blood welling around my hairline, I backed away and watched as our attacker placed the barrel of the gun against Ethan’s white forehead.
“Get along now, girlie,” he rumbled. “You don’t want to see this.”
Ethan’s eyes sought mine in the darkness. “You’ll be okay, Adel.”
“No, I won’t.” Tears stung my eyes. “Ethan, please.”
The gun turned its gaping mouth towards me and I yelped, fleeing the alley and abandoning Ethan forever. But before I sprinted down the streets, waving my arms and screaming until my throat would take no more, I heard the wolf-man ask Ethan a question.
“What do you see?”
And from my mind’s eye I watched Ethan’s face split in that ear to ear smile, gaze glued to the weapon on his forehead, and he said,
“An empty cylinder.”
From the alley, a gunshot roared.