The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

for not taking the trash out and taking too long to clean the toilet. I can smell the alcohol on his breath and feel the stubble against my cheek. Christ, my esophagus feels as though it might snap—I can't get any air. Everything is beginning to fade, darkness drawing in. I’m back in the cupboard again, and I can almost taste the mustiness. Let it end, please.

Finally, he lets go. “I had to tell you, Paul. You need to know these things.”

Doubled over, I begin to gasp in mouthfuls of air as I stagger towards the kitchen.

“That’s it! Run! You never face up to anything—that’s the problem. That’s why she walks all over you in those big porno heels!” Jed shouts.

But I have no intention of leaving this. I’m raging, adrenaline flowing, and mind exploding with thoughts of hate and revenge. I reach towards the knife block and pull out the one I know to be the sharpest.

“Oh, shit. He’s got a knife, everyone. Pauly’s balls have finally dropped!”

The war cry is strange and garbled as I bring the knife across his face. He puts a hand to his cheek and studies the blood that is rolling to the floor. I go at him again, in the chest, and this time, it induces a satisfying shriek. Again—this time in the leg. He’s not even putting up a fight anymore. I’m disconnected from pain now, and the squelching sounds don’t seem real. He falls to his knees, hands stretched towards me, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Shit! What have I done?

“Jed!” I scream.

My best friend, the one who has stayed loyal through it all. “I’m so sorry!”

I collapse to the floor in a heap and reach for my friend, squirming in the blood that bonds us.

“Paul!”

The voice seems distant and distorted.

Slowly, I open my eyes. My head is pounding and full of thick fog. I try to move, but my body sings out in pain.

“Paul, it’s okay—the ambulance is coming.” Jacqui’s face is moist with tears as she holds my bloody hand into her lap. “What have you done to yourself?”

I look down to find my grey shirt is saturated with blood. “Where’s Jed?” I sputter.

She looks at me, eyes wide with fear, and says nothing.

“Where’s Jed,” I utter again.

“It’s okay. I’m still here,” he replies. “Her tears, Paul—it’s just guilt—you know that. Don’t let her fool you.”

“I know. It’s you and me, Jed; I can see that now. You’re the only one I can trust.”

“You haven’t been taking your tablets,” Jacqui says. “You’ve had an episode, Paul.”

“I can smell them on her; those other men,” Jed rasps. “I can smell their sweat and their cum. They were probably laughing at you while they were doing it.”

“Remember, Paul. You told me about Jed. How you made him up to get through those days locked in the darkness.”

“She’s full of lies, Paul. They’re all against you: everyone,” Jed hisses.

I no longer feel so alone. I’m glad he’s back.

“Don’t worry, Paul. She won’t get away with it. If we make it through, I’ll sort her for you,” he smirks. “I’ll cut her up good.”

The Coffin

Victoria Dalpe

It shouldn’t have been empty.

It hadn’t been empty.

She sat up with a gasp, clawing at her bed sheets. It was 3:30 according to the alarm clock near her head. Diffuse orange light spilled in from the streetlights. Silent. The whole world still asleep, except her.

The dream skittered away fast, leaving only its ghost pressing on her mind. Dark things, things long buried, dry and scratching things. And the staccato beep of a heart monitor before flat lining.

David slumbered on, undisturbed, and for the hundredth time she envied his ability to sleep through anything. Even on this night, this terrible night, his face was smooth and unlined, not a care in the world. In the hospital he had been like that. Death surrounded them, choked like a noose, and he slumbered away, propped up in a chair. How many sleepless nights did she stare at him while he slept and she kept watch.

Ever since the funeral, she battled for sound sleep. Most nights, she lay awake next to David’s snoring frame. The funeral was a year ago today, and he hadn’t even remembered.

Funerals. Coffins. She shuddered, reliving their day today in all its maddening detail.

It was Street Sweep Day: a miserable Brooklyn bi-weekly event that consisted of having to move the car from its coveted near-the-apartment-spot, forcing them out hunting for spaces on distant streets like a starving shark. David acting as runner, face against glass, scanning for vacancies, while she drove, squeezing the steering wheel, hungry for parking.

“There! There!”

“This street? Are you sure? This area is pretty shitty, I don’t want my car broken into.”

“God, Helene, it’ll be like two hours max.”

He hopped out to direct her around a hollowed-out shell of a sofa, no doubt overflowing with generations of bed bugs. She gagged at the thought, all the while judging the type of people who leave their garbage on the street in front of their homes, like animals. It’s a simple call to get a couch picked up. Don’t you want to live someplace nice? Why can’t you take care of your neighborhood? Why must we all suffer for your laziness? Her mind flashed to the manicured suburban lawns of her youth and felt the fresh twist of white guilt in her gut.

She cut the wheel and eased in when all of the sudden, CRACK.

“David what the hell!?” She hollered, but he wasn’t looking at her; he was looking behind the car, at what she hit. His face unreadable and suddenly pale.

Please don’t be an animal, or a child, she prayed. She got out and there it was.

A coffin. Dusty, earth covered, the fabric lining yellowed and tattered. The lid open. Empty.

Her mouth was suddenly so dry, it felt filled with cotton wool. She looked to David, his expression a mirror of her own. Helene was suddenly aware of how hot it was, how