Bloodlust Paradise

By Richard Rose

After their mother passes away and their home is demolished, three psychopathic brothers embark upon a diabolical murder rampage. How many will perish to satisfy their unquenchable thirst for blood? Who will deliver justice unto their unrelenting monstrosity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Plagiarize This Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087915531

Richard Rose

Richard Rose is the Artistic Director of Tarragon Theatre. Prior to joining the Tarragon in 2002, Richard was Founding Artistic Director at Necessary Angel (a position he held from 1978–2002), Associate Director for Canadian Stage Company, Director of the Stratford Festival Young Company, and spent ten seasons directing at the Stratford Festival. He has directed plays across Canada, the United States, and in London’s West End in styles ranging from the environmental to the classical. Richard is well known for developing new work, including four plays that won the Governor General’s Literary Award and nine other nominated plays. He is a four-time Dora award winner for direction and production and has had numerous nominations.

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Also by the author:

Vaguely Vivid

Jesus Christ!

Before the Aftermath

Tobias & Osaze

Tai/Dice

Saint Anthony’s Firestorm

Tribal Vengeance

The Zoa

Rose City Catastrophe

Rose City Revisited

Two Feet Under

BLOODLUST PARADISE

by

Richard R. Rose

Dedicated to Allison Chang

Chapter 1

An Atrocious Night

This it. This the end. Sweet boys, Queenie said.

The clouds were thick in the sky above. The shade of night; black like ink. The branches of the live oaks in the yard creaked and groaned as the cooling winds rushed through their leaves. Insects; screaming their cries of romantic intrigue- almost inaudible when juxtaposed against the cacophonous chirping of the treefrogs’ own vocalizations of desire. Here, an ever-encroaching jungle of palm fronds and seashore scrub surrounds a decrepit plantation style home of relatively diminutive build. A long sandy driveway leading out into and through the grasslands and back to the paved road is the only way in or out; unless by boat from the tributaries. Within this hollowed out patch of the forest resides the Quaid family; three boys and their mother. The home was painted white long ago- with black columns and shutters- but the paint has half chipped away. The house is, of course, mostly invisible in the midnight gloom. The floor of the balcony is sinking down through the ceiling of the porch. The exterior of the home has no lights on, nor on it. And no light comes from any of the windows, except for from one upstairs bedroom in the rear corner. Which is the bedroom of Queenie Quaid. More commonly referred to as ‘Mama.’

Mama, no, said Quin.

Don’t go, Quinton said.

We need you, said Quincy.

A predominately maroon Seminole tapestry of symmetrical geometrical designs rests upon the shade of a nicotine stained porcelain lamp. Similarly, the whites of her dresser, her vanity, and her walls also possessed a slimy film of nicotine stains. Through open windows the cool of the night wind pushed out the residual heat of the day. Queenie wore her white nightgown; stained yellow with the sweat of countless nights of being bed bound- and stained with nicotine, too. She was beneath a white sheet beneath a thick navy blue quilt she’d- years prior- knit for herself. Her blonde locks- drenched with sweat- stuck to her skull and throat. Only one year before this, Queenie had been a beautiful woman of a certain age. This night her face resembled the bony countenance of the grim reaper; cheeks sunken into the skull, eye sockets like craters, and skin stretched tight and marred by wrinkles. A hazy film had formed over the blue of her eyes. Side by side, her sons sat beside her bed in the chairs from the kitchen. Quin held her hand in his hand. And she grasped his hand, but without the strength to grip it whatsoever. Quinton and Quincy held onto her wrist and forearm with one hand each.

Queenie said, I’m just… so happy... you’re…. and she trailed off. And her eyes set themselves off toward some other direction and stayed there; no longer searching for her boys’ faces.

Quincy stood up, knocking his chair over, shouting, No! No! Fuck! Fuck! No! And he began punching the old rotten walls. Over and over; his fist easily breaking through, and he just kept punching as the wall came apart. Quin stood up to grab a hold of him and say, Stop it, man! You ain’t helpin’ nothin’! Quincy shoved Quin off of himself and charged away, into the house. Quin turned to find Quinton laying over Queenie’s bed, with his arm around her waist, his head on her arm, his eyes closed, and crying like a child. Then Quin looked at his mother’s face. Her mouth remained agape, disturbingly. And she’d died with her eyes wide open; looking for heaven. Quin walked around the bed- over to her face- and he closed her eyes, and shut her mouth by lifting her chin, and then he collapsed against the wall; sobbing into his hands. The floors; covered in grit and grime after months and months of the boys walking up in there with their boots on. Nursing her illness. Bringing her her meals. Bringing her her cigarettes. Dying of respiratory failure- and she smoked until her final day.

Eventually; Quinton stopped crying, sat up, and looked at his mother’s emaciated face. The crying resumed immediately. Quinton lifted her blankets up over her head to cover her. Quincy came back into the room with a bottle of Tennessee whisky; having a swill. And he handed the bottle off to Quinton- who had to stop dry-heaving and retching long enough to have some. The burn distracted his mind and calmed his nerves. His crying abated. Quinton handed the bottle to Quin. Quin had regained a semblance of composure. He took a drink and handed the bottle back to Quincy. Who was observing the sizable holes he’d punched through the wall. He’d exposed the frame in places. Quin saw Quincy’s eyes were bloodshot like he’d gotten pinkeye all of a sudden, and then realized his eyes must be bloodshot, too. From the tears.

Quin still had his dark green overall waders on. He’d planned to go out for an evening of hunting alligators. Alligators which he’d then sell to the fish market who in turn would sell them to the locals, the tourists, or to the local touristy restaurants; his primary source of income. However, a few hours before now Queenie had had Quincy stop Quin from leaving that night; intuiting that it’d be the night she would pass away. For years it had been difficult for her to breathe. Extremely so in recent days. All she needed to do was to quit trying so hard. And then it was over. This was her decision, having consciously chosen to avoid hospitals since before the sickness even began. Her only remedies were those she and her boys could procure themselves; apple cider vinegar, hydrogen peroxide, licorice root, celery, and black market albuterol inhalers. Among others. She never thought to quit smoking. For a while the sons passed the bottle around in silence. Dumbstruck and speechless. Sitting and staring at their mother’s form beneath the quilt.

Each of them with an expression of grief and misery smeared across their faces. All three brothers had the same face, more or less. They all looked exactly the same, with the exception of a few key differences. Quin wore his sandy blonde hair cut short. And wore a lot of camouflage, because he also got money from hunting varmints. Quin only had to motor his boat out into the swamplands and he’d easily find something to catch or shoot and sell; catfish, turtles, opossum, squirrel, raccoon, bore, deer. Frogs. Snails. It didn’t matter. There was always something to pull out of the wilderness and if he couldn’t sell it then he could feed the family with it. Quin- like his brothers- was 22 years old this year. Like his brothers he was tall and strong; lean, but muscular. Women were invariably attracted to the boys. Their faces were immaculately sculpted with chiseled jawlines and blockish skulls, yet still conveyed an air of river rat redneck greaseball. A look shared by many people in the region. Quin’s eyes were thoughtful, and he seemed to see everything; always watching. Always hunting. For an idea, or a clue, or a good guess.

Similar to Quin, Quinton was also wearing his work uniform. Because Quinton was called home from work when Queenie announced that she had resolved not to go on any longer. Quinton worked at a car wash. His uniform was khakis with an aquamarine polo shirt with his employer’s palm tree logo on the back. Quinton wore his hair shoulder length, straight, and kept tied in a ponytail. His eyes differed from his brothers’ in that they were soft doe eyes, and always looked watery for no reason at all. This gave him a pitiful puppy dog sort of demeanor. He always looked as though he was about to cry. And, granted he’d just been crying- it was not as though crying was something he did very often. If at all.

All the brothers had the same pasty white skin, but- living under the tropical sun- they each tanned according to their lifestyles. Quinton with a farmer’s tan from his work clothes. Quin with a full upper body tan from being out in the marsh with no shirt on so often. Quincy typically tanned the most because his favorite thing to do when he wasn’t working down at the garage was to lay out on the dock and drink beer in his underwear. This night he was in light blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Quincy wore his hair shaggy and at the length of his ears. His eyes; perpetually suspicious and always outwardly hostile. All three brothers kept their faces clean shaven.

Quin got up to walk out of the room. Going to change out of his rubber overalls. Quincy grabbed his arm, saying, What are we going to do with her? Quin stopped- with second thoughts about changing his clothes- and replied, You know what she wanted. That’s fucked up. You can’t be serious, Quincy objected. Quin emphasized, It’s what she wanted. Quincy said, She was drunk this whole last year. She wasn’t in her right mind. Let’s dig her a hole in the yard. Like normal people. She’ll always be there. We can always visit her. We can get her a tombstone. Quinton said, Mama didn’t want to do what normal people do. Quin is right. We got to do how she asked us. You fuckin’ people. I swear. I don’t know how you’re all so fucked in the head, but I wish I could get me a family who wasn’t. I ain’t goin’ out there. I’ll say my goodbyes at the dock. I don’t want to see that. Quinton asked Quincy, You think we want to? You ain’t got to! Quincy yelled. ‘It’s what she wanted!’ Quin and Quinton yelled back, simultaneously.

Quin grabbed one of his mother’s Marlboro Lights from the nightstand and used her red Bic lighter to light it; having decided not to change out of his hunting gear. Being as that he’d be going out into the marsh after all, anyway. Queenie- at 54- had had no family. And the boys didn’t care about any friends she may or may not have had. To their minds there was nobody to inform about her demise. She was their whole world, so- as far as they were concerned- they were hers, too. The Quaids had lived a somewhat isolated life. There’d be no funeral, no ceremony, no authorities. All that was left to do was to dispose of the body. Quin took the bottle of whiskey out of Quincy’s hand and had a long swill. Then he handed the bottle to Quinton, asking, You’re comin’ out there with me? Yeah. And, I think you ought to come, too, Quinton told Quincy. Quincy had to think about it, and said, Alright. I’ll go. I don’t want to regret not goin’. Quinton handed Quincy the whiskey. Quin started nodding, saying, Good. Good. Mama’d be mad- you weren’t there. Now come on. Let’s get this over with. One of you grab the green flashlight on the way out. Quin snuffed his cigarette out in the ashtray and stretched the quilt out over his mother. Then he thrust his arms down underneath her and lifted her warm corpse up into the air; carrying her through the hall, down the stairs, and out the door- even though he couldn’t see anything; suppressing the nausea in his guts and the sadness in his eyes. His brothers walked silently beside him. Quinton turned the light on as they approached the edge of the wood, and he walked out in front for the others to follow. Quincy hung back. Taking small sips of whisky every minute or two, as they walked along the trail to the dock. The trail was narrow- with a height clearance just above their heads. The tropical vegetation grew like a solid wall and ceiling. Quin had to twist his body so as to fit his mother through there sideways, and he walked the entire stretch in that manner. The green flood flashlight illuminated the area ahead extraordinarily bright. Quincy walked back in the blackness. All of them knew every step of the way as if by muscle memory. From the depths of the forest beyond the trail could be heard the scuffling of critters reacting to their presence; some running in fear, and others approaching with curiosity. At the end of the trail- at the water’s edge- the tunnel opened up into something of a partial dome where the flora was cut away to make space to stand around a fire pit at. An old wooden dock stretched out over the river some. The dock sat high above the water; well made, but old and rotting. Lashed to the dock was an aluminum skiff with a trolling motor at the flat forwardmost edge of the bow and a small outboard motor at the stern. Carefully, Quin placed his mother down on the edge of the dock. Then he climbed down into the skiff and lifted her down in there with him. He laid her out on the floor of the boat. It was filthy, but the sun had evaporated the water, so at least it wasn’t wet. He tucked her quilt all around her. Then waved his arm for his brothers to get down in there with him. They did so, as Quin untied the two ropes. Quincy sat on the front seat facing front, and Quinton sat next to him facing the rear, and Quin sat on the rear seat to operate the handle of the motor. Quincy passed the whisky back. The engine roared to life; decimating the serenity of the quietude of the placid jungle swamps. Quinton handed the flashlight to Quincy, who pointed it forward. The engine grumbled and the whirring blades gurgled as the boat moved through the water. From the shorelines- and from the waters, too- various sets of eyeballs could be seen glowing with metallic green reflections. The trees hung overhead in the tight passage- imperceptible through the night- but, as the river widened the sky opened up and cooler, fresher, air flowed into the channel; brushing across their skin- refreshing them a bit. They followed the rivulettes to the backwaters, almost to the bay. To where- even with the cloud cover, and even in the dead of night- they could see the features of the land in contrast to the features of the water and sky. Quin knew right where he was going. And his brothers knew he knew. They kind of knew, too. It was a long ride, but there was only a couple places in the area which would suit their purposes and the other one was further in the opposite direction. The came upon endless expanses of clusters of reed beds which only Quin- who worked out there on a daily basis- could have been expected to navigate through.

After about an hour of macabre boating, Quin shut off the engine and quietly slipped the anchor into the water. Nobody said a word. Quinton lit a cigarette and they passed it around silently. Quincy surveyed the area with the green light. Only a minute or two later and the first set of eyes poked up out of the water, like two tiny mirrors shining their light back at them. A few seconds later and another set appeared. Then another. And another. And another. Not long after and they were surrounded by these reflecting eyes keenly observing them. This was the largest and most formidable congregation of alligators Quin was aware of. There were at least two dozen gators they could visibly account for, but for each of those- they knew- there were another ten or so underwater, in the reeds, or just nearby in other areas. We’re keeping the quilt, to remember her by, Quin said. Quinton began to cry again as Quin knelt down beside his mother. Quincy felt it, too. And Quin couldn’t keep his composure, either. All three wept openly, but strained to do so quietly- to avoid spooking the gators. Quin said, We love you, mama, took a deep breath, and threw the blankets off of her. Quincy had been shining the light on the woman, but swung the beam away at the sight of her. They’d all gotten a fresh look and were choking on their tears and snorting their snots in a futile attempt to retain composure. It didn’t work at all. All; weeping, groaning, and whining- as Quin lifted Queenie by the shoulders, draped her over the ledge- her back arching unnaturally- and let her slip down into the water. Quincy kept the light pointed away, but they watched her dim outline float there like driftwood until not long after when her corpse suddenly jerked and went part way under. Quincy turned the light off entirely. Quinton buried his face in his hands. Queenie was hurriedly pulled away from the boat; her drag creating a wake behind her. A splash breaks out at her position. And then more splashes. They couldn’t see what was happening. But, beneath the sound of the agitated waters they could hear the guttural growling of big reptilian throats and the snapping of their jaws and the violent thrashing of their feeding frenzy. They could hear bones breaking and tendons snapping. Quin had some more whisky, pulled up the anchor, started the engine, turned the boat around, and motored them away. Quincy worked the flashlight.

Seven months later; Quinton and Quin are sitting on the tailgate of Quincy’s vintage 4x4 turquoise primered Chevy pickup. Quincy is sitting on the sand, leaning up against the tire. They’ve each buzzed their hair down to peach fuzz and appear effectively indistinguishable from one another. Quinton hangs out over the bed to hand Quincy the bottle of Tennessee whisky. The truck; parked on the side of their sandy driveway. The late morning sun had been roasting the area, but clouds were moving in from the west and the afternoon rains would begin soon enough. They were trying to make the best of a bad situation, catching rays and catching a buzz; wearing jeans and no shirts. Because if they weren’t laughing they’d be crying. Their white wifebeaters thrown into a pile on the front seat. They liked to dress the same, not only because they bought the same clothes at the same time from the same places, but also because it was a habit from their childhood when their mama would dress them in the same outfits almost every day of their lives. Spanish moss hung from all that it could hang from. And the lovebugs had returned, but- by some miracle- they weren’t bothering them right then. Plastic yellow tape had been stretched out around the glorious live oaks and around their house. Basically shutting off the whole property. The tape says, ‘POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS.’ Inside the tape there are two county sheriff cruisers, one dump truck with an attached trailer, and the excavator that had come in on the trailer. The truck had broken apart some of the beautiful- ancient, gangly, sprawling- branches of the oaks just to get in there and get positioned. The home had been boarded up on the day after the cops threw the brothers out, and all around the domicile were bright orange eviction notices stapled into the plywood which now covered the windows and doors.

The excavator had a hydraulic clamp attached to the bucket. The dump truck driver was also the excavator operator; severely overweight, in a white hard-hat, wearing a neon green t-shirt, and wearing blue jeans barely held up by struggling suspenders. How’s this fucker even goin’t’ get his self up in there? Quinton asked. As they watched the operator struggling to get his leg up high enough to reach the first step. Which he was able to, but barely. There he goes. He got it, Quin remarked. The forest-green uniformed sheriffs- there were three of them, each ridiculously mustachioed, wearing their stupid wide-brimmed hats, and also all overweight to some degree- they’d been talking amongst themselves, but when the excavator started up they turned their attention to the triplets. Who just glared back at them; drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, with identical disgusted expressions on their faces; their lips snarling, compulsively. Their concentrating upon the unspoken exchange of mutual contempt was promptly shattered by the gut wrenching commotion of the excavator’s bucket digging into the front left corner of the house; breaking through the roof and tearing the roof down through the patio. All six of the bystanders looked up at it. I’d say mama’d be rollin’ in her grave, ‘cept we fed her to the fuckin’ gators, Quincy said. The boys shared a chuckle at that. Shit, that ain’t no joke, said Quin.

When Queenie died, a certain series of events was set into motion. Mostly what this series of events entailed was litigation and bureaucracy beyond the realm of the boys’ understanding and which carried on unbeknownst to them, anyhow. Queenie- single, unmarried, and unemployed due to her health issues- had received state aid to support her family. And with that state aid she paid the mortgage on the house. However, to get the state aid she was required to visit the social security office every month. After her death, she no longer attended her mandatory monthly meetings. Thus, the funds were not delivered to her bank account and even if they were she wouldn’t have been alive to access them and make the payments. The bank foreclosed on the property and put it up for auction. The town bought it and opted to demolish the structure. After evicting the current occupants, of course. The Quaid brothers- while not happy about it- opted not to fight and not to resist. It wasn’t their house any longer, because mama was gone. The amount of money required to stop the bank from foreclosing had been an unrealistic amount to conjure- especially in the short amount of time given to make the payment. There was no way.

Y’all want to get out of here? Get away from these fuckin’ pigs? Quin asked. Quinton shrugged, and Quincy stood to his feet, saying, Yeah. Fuck it. Let’s go. They piled onto the bench seat of the truck. Quincy driving and Quinton in the middle. The engine turned over and they drove away. Raindrops began to slap against the windshield. First, only a few at a time- but not a minute later and they were driving through a torrential downpour. Their destination was not far away. At the outskirts of town. Quincy stopped the truck to get out and lock the hubs to engage the 4x4, and then he drove off the road and out into the plains at the edge of the swamplands; kicking up mud and flooring it down the trail- clearly angry. As they all were. Except, only Quincy was expressing it outwardly; with the other two quietly gripping the dashboard or door frame and gritting their teeth. They came upon the area of sandy shoreline where Quin’s skiff was shored at. The rain pelted them like it hated them, and they didn’t notice. They got in the skiff. Quin started it up and they motored out with their backs toward the rain- except for for Quin who, in order to see, had to keep his head down and his hand up over his face like a visor. In this area the river was wide and gaping- more like a shrinking and growing, and shrinking and growing lake. The engine roared, but their weight and the low horsepower made for slow going. Not too many other boats out due to the rains. This is a place where multitudes of creeks, streams, and small rivers- and a couple larger rivers- all flowed together; subsequently seeping through the marshlands and out into the bay and to the ocean. Quin found the tributary he was looking for and veered toward it. Slowing down to creep through the narrow confines. They all kind of sat up and relaxed as the canopy overhead provided shelter from the rains. Just a moment later and the treetops hung so low they had to crouch down. The channel; scarcely wider than the boat and just deep enough to run the propellers through. They dodged and deflected the spines of the stubby low growing palms. From leafy branches the Spanish moss hung in their faces. They swat at and spit out Spanish moss just to get to where they’re going, but soon enough they arrive.

Out here they have set up their Grand Pappy’s WWII era green canvas tent in an area of forest they deforested to camp out in. They’ve got green canvas cots and their black nylon sleeping bags from Eagle Scouts. All three of them had achieved Eagle Scout status, which had caused something of a national sensation when it had occurred. Albeit, a limited and short-lived sensation. That was back when Queenie was still well. They had a yeti cooler with oil, vinegar, spices, and dry goods. They kept the beer in a hole covered with palm fronds. And had no issues living off the land. Quin grabbed three beers. They filed into the tent; relaxing on their backs on their sleeping bags on the ground and drinking their drinks. They stored their boots in empty cases of beer.

That fuckin’ rain was a motherfucker. God damn, said Quinton.

You ain’t whistlin’ dixie. That sucked out there, said Quincy.

You two had your backs to it.

Yeah, but you like taking it in the face, said Quincy.

Fuck out of here. Get your laughs today. ‘Cause you won’t be laughin’ come tomorrow.

That’s the truth, Quinton agreed; talking as he drank.

Nah. Fuck that. You two have bleedin’ hearts. Not me. We’re gettin’ out of this godforsaken swamp. You focus on the negative and you’ll lose sight of the endgame.

I am just glad mama ain’t here to see what we become, Quinton says.

Fuckin’ right. Amen, Quincy snapped.

Amen, said Quin, adding, You’re right, though, Quincy. This a dangerous game we’re playin’, but it’ll be worth it in the end. If we can pull it off.

We got to stay focused. We’re goin’ to war tonight, Quincy said.

I’m good to go, maybe just need some shut eye, said Quin.

I want to go over the plans again, said Quinton.

That’s fine. I got to put an edge on these blades. Gone take at least a couple hours, Quin said. With both hands he reached over and heaved an ominous duffel bag toward himself to where he could work out of it. And he turned on the electric jump box to turn on the lantern so he could see better in the dim interior of the tent. One by one, Quin looked through the items in the duffel bag- retrieving the edged weapons and assessing their condition. A hatchet; which he’d need to file down to sharpen- and he’d have to sand the rust off of, too. A beautiful kukri of gleaming carbon steel; a kukri being a sort of machete knife hybrid. It is the length of a man’s forearm with a cylindrical rosewood handle and a black leather sheath; the blade in need of a touch up on the diamond stone. An expensive Japanese butcher knife from their old kitchen; just a solid piece of steel formed into a glistening fiend of an instrument. Wrapped up in an old t-shirt. Also needing a touch up. His brothers’ spring assist pocket knives; both identical, Kershaw, made in Oregon. And he had one, too, but his was always sharp. Same as his hunting knife; a Buck, 119, with a 6" black cerakoted blade and a luscious cherry wood handle. In a leather sheath.

They discussed their plans. And sorted out certain disagreements as to the finer points pertaining to these plans of theirs. These secret plans. These cold-blooded plans. They opened the windows of the tent once the rains had stopped falling. They finished their beers and had some more beers. They smoked halfway crushed cigarettes. Quincy and Quinton walked a game trail to more open waters, and Quincy went for a swim where the water was clear while Quinton went further off toward some grassbeds to catch two modest sized speckled trout. Upon return, Quinton roasted potatoes and foraged vegetables along with the fish. About the time Quin finished with the blades, they ate their lunch. Then they fell asleep. It had been a bad day. It would be an atrocious night.

Chapter 2

The Murmur of a Gurgle

There is a cul-de-sac at the end of Royal Loon Court. Royal Loon Court being a residential street within the housing development of a community called Cypress Crest. This is some of the most desirable real estate in the region. Or, it was up until recently when Texas Phoenix Palm Decline began ravaging the palm trees; decimating countless hectares of palm forests. Turning the green patches of palm forests- which had miraculously survived urban development and suburban sprawl- into vast swaths of grey and decaying vegetation atop withered and rotting trunks. In the yards of the mansions; dying palm trees. In the back yards; dying palm forests. The hour is late. But not yet early.

At the address of 12 Royal Loon Court live Emily and Donald Lee. And their five year old daughter Eliza. Donald is of Chinese descent on his father’s side and Emily is all Caucasian. On either of two nightstands beside their bed, their respective alarm clocks show blank faces. No digital red numbers, as there should be. The clamshell nightlight in Eliza’s wall outlet gives off no luminescence. The light in the foyer is also blacked out, even though it is always left on late at night. The microwave clock. The stove clock. The little green lights on the wall outlets. Nothing is on. The house is entirely blacked out. Even the streetlights outdoors have shut off. This blackout has affected most of the neighborhood, but not one resident of the community has noticed, due to the late hour. Although, the power outage has registered with the electricity company.

Their bed is adorned with purple silk sheets and a lightweight white down comforter. With many oversized fluffy white pillows. They’ve got the softest beige carpeting. Their heavy curtains are red and held to the sides by golden rope while thinner white curtains block out the window. The bedroom is large, but the furniture- the bed and a long dresser and an armoire and a couple comfy contemporary style chairs around a glass table with an old Chinese chess set on it- conspires to make it appear cramped. Donald- a lean and muscular man, handsome, vaguely Asiatic, in excellent physical condition, wearing no shirt and bright red silk pajama bottoms- is asleep with his face buried in a pillow and his arm hanging over the edge of the bed. His bedhead is a disheveled mess of short black hair. Emily’s blonde hair, too, is all out of sorts. She sleeps in a silk nightgown; her ninety-pound body is frail with delicate wrists, twiggy limbs, a childlike torso, and a slender throat. Her bust is flat and her derriere is tight. She has the beautiful face of a southern bell, only more emaciated looking.

Neither of them awaken as the two prongs of a crowbar are wedged into the crack of their backdoor- which is more wood than glass- and the deadbolt of the door is forced to break through the wood keeping it in place; allowing the door to swing open freely. However, Eliza is awakened by this sound. Eliza gets out of bed. She wears one of her mother’s old t-shirts that is dull 90’s pink, says Key West on it, and it hangs down to her ankles. Her room is dark and she can’t see and she is about as asleep as she is awake. Her hair is long and black and straight. She opens her bedroom door and it audibly knocks against the wall. Apprehensively, she walks down the hall, asking, Mommy? Her cheeks are round, her pouty lips are pursed, and her eyes are searching for what made the sound she heard. She walks toward the back door, and into the kitchen. To where- from nowhere- an arm like a boa constrictor reaches down and wraps itself around her throat. And she tries to scream, but the air in her lungs can not escape the grip. She thrashes and kicks wildly and chokes out subdued noises- like a whining dog makes- until when just a moment later her vision recedes and she falls back to sleep. The arm releases her