Cracks
“Ok, ok,” Leinster mumbled. “I’ll see you tomorrow in your office at the end of the day.”
“Sure, Tom,” Boyd was genuinely reassured.
Then Leinster noticed Boyd’s tie, and there was a flicker of recognition. He remembered seeing it years ago, still with the tag on, inside Sheila’s black tote bag. She was in the shower then. He was searching for his set of keys to the apartment and accidentally overturned her half-opened bag, spilling the contents. One of them was the tie with a horrendous red paisley pattern. He thought it was something that Sheila bought for him, but the tie never turned up in his drawers ever since. He had never thought about it until tonight.
Driving home, Leinster remembered the look on Sheila’s eyes when he said that he would be away for a week as his firm’s representative to the annual architectural forum. He had mistaken that expression as that of disappointment for his missing their anniversary, but now, he knew better. It was a look of excitement.
He was not aware that he hit a traffic cone and tossed it sideways.
The streets ahead of him were never completely dark.
~*~
Leinster woke up the following morning. The cracks did not appear this time. He did not know what to think, until he felt a deep-seated itch on his chest. Flustered, he yanked his shirt up and saw the maze of spidery black lines that resembled cracks. The lines burned away the chest hair that they touched. Leinster screamed. Then he wept.
A decipherable face had not formed yet. There would be time for that.
He did not know how long he remained huddled in the corner, staring down at the pulsing black cracks on the skin of his chest. He heard snatches of conversation, but he could not make out what was being said. He heard voices: his son’s, Sheila’s, Dave’s, his father’s, and so many familiar voices.
He overheard their secrets, saw snapshots of their dreams, felt their fears. Maybe, they only wanted the comfort of his warmth…
As usual, Leinster took a shower, shaved, and dressed for work, leaving not much time to enjoy his breakfast: a bagel with cream cheese and coffee. He locked the whispering cracks in his chest.
~*~
Boyd was talking to someone on the phone when the secretary ushered Leinster inside the office.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll get to that, Red,” Boyd said on the phone. With his left hand, he gestured and threw the latest stock market figures to Leinster who caught it just in time.
“We’ve been duped,” Boyd grimaced, putting down the phone and pointing to the stock market sheets.
“I did not come here for this,” Leinster said and set the papers aside.
“Look, Tom, I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupted. “I’ve got the man for you. Just see him for two to three sessions and you’ll see what I mean. Two of the vice presidents here are seeing him.”
“You’ve got to see the cracks to believe. I—”
“Oh, come on, get over it, man. A shrink is all you need. Not that I’m implying—”
“I have them with me.” He took off his shirt in the midst of Boyd’s protests.
“Do you see now…” Leinster stood before Boyd so he could see the first of the faces formed by the cracks.
“Oh, my God… oh, my God…” was all Boyd could say as Leinster’s blood trickled out of the thin cracks on his chest and dripped on the carpet. Boyd saw his face on Leinster’s chest before his screams died down.
Kristine Ong Muslim‘s publication credits and recent acceptances include more than 600 stories and poems in more than 300 publications worldwide. Her work has been accepted in Aberrant Dreams, Abyss & Apex, Dark Recesses Press, Dark Wisdom, Doorways, Not One of Us, and Tales of the Talisman. Kristine has received several Honorable Mentions in Year’s Best in Fantasy and Horror as well as nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Rhysling Award and won Sam’s Dot Publishing’s James Award for genre poetry twice.