Behind the Curtain

I was a bit of a wimp as a kid. Average activities became horror stories for me. Thanks to the fear of something in my closet or under my bed, Falling asleep was a challenge. Thankfully I grew out of all of them, all but one. 

When I stepped into the bathroom, I came face to face with the last remaining evidence of my childhood paranoia. The shower curtain hung motionless, obscuring anything that could’ve been on the other side. I chose to ignore it. If I could suck it up, use the restroom, and get out, maybe I wouldn’t feel like a five-year-old every time I had to take a piss. 

As I lifted the toilet seat, I heard something that made me stop in my tracks—the unmistakable sound of thin plastic rustling. My head turned so fast that my neck could’ve broken. It had to have been my imagination, but the terror had already set in. It was too late to go back to disregarding the curtain. My hand reached for the edge of the plastic. I took a deep breath and yanked the curtain back as fast as I could. There was nothing there. No burglar or monster crouched in the tub. 

However, The tub was halfway filled with water. Ripples traveled through the water but came from the center of the tub. Like something was in there disrupting the otherwise still pool. I  pulled the drain, and the water spiraled down as soon as I closed the curtain; sloshing noises emanated from the other side. The tub was full again. Tiny waves still made their way across the surface.  I fixed my eyes at the end of the tub, took a moment to prepare, and then moved my hand to the drain for the second time. 

My hand touched a bony foot sitting on top of the drain. There was nothing to see, but that’s undeniably what the feeling was. I jerked my hand away. The shock forced me backward, and my body slammed onto the floor. The curtain whisked closed on its own. I sprinted out of the bathroom as quickly as possible. I mentally regress. I might as well have been that five-year-old child again terrified of monsters in the closet. I jumped into my bed and shoved my face into the pillow. 

Splat splat splat. 

Wet footsteps moved across my tiled bathroom floor. I  shirked underneath my covers, too paralyzed to move. I hid, hoping that my thumping heart wouldn’t give me away. It had been a while. No sounds, If there was ever going to be a time to make a run for it. That would’ve been the time. Turning onto my back, I exhaled and pulled the covers off of me.

Wet strands of hair licked my face.

The Assassin

The Assassin pulls her sword from its sheath. She runs her finger along the blade to test its sharpness—crimson blood spills from her thumb. She grips the hilt and twists the sword around in her hands. Moonlight bounces off of the bright metal. The blade was a one-of-one. A katana explicitly made for her father. It was funny. Her father thought it was a sword made for him to use. Years later, the assassin knows the bladesmith made the sword that would kill him.    

Sayaka walked the New York City streets silently like she wasn’t making any steps at all, like a snake stalking her prey. Her serpent eyes watched her target turn down an alleyway. She usually would expect payment for her services, but this one was free. Sayaka had made a tremendous amount of money from disposing of the former enemies of businessmen and aristocrats. None could escape the assassin's grasp, whether they were political leaders, career criminals, or fellow hitmen. Sayaka turned the corner and hastened her steps. Her gaze locked on the midnight blue of the man’s suit. She was at her most dangerous when she was like this, the moon could fall to earth at this very moment, and Sayaka would pay it no mind. All that mattered was the kill. 

She now stands right behind the man. She’s no longer just the assassin. She’s become a predator ready to strike. The blade whizzed through the air, but the man ducked at the last minute. Did he just react in time? No, he must’ve known she was there. He punches, but Sayaka drops to the ground and sweeps his legs. The man falls onto his back, and the assassin pounces on him driving her sword deep into his chest. The man starts to scream, but Sayaka covers his mouth, silencing him. Teeth break the skin on her palm. However, she grits her own teeth and fights through the pain. Sayaka reaches into her back pocket, brandishes a knife, and in one swift motion, severs the man’s throat. Blood gushes from the wound before petering out. 

Sayaka rises and stands over her fallen prey. She pulls the sword out of his chest and sheaths it once more—another victory for the assassin. One more job left, and that’s to kill her father. 

Sayaka enters her small, sparsely decorated apartment. She was never someone who enjoyed extravagant displays of wealth, and besides any art, tapestries or plants in her home would be a distraction from her primary goal. She opens her fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine, the only distraction she would allow. Without considering pulling out a cup, she opens the bottle and begins to drink. Sayaka has a drinking problem, a habit she picked up from the man who killed her mother and left her stranded while he went to live a happy life on the other side of the world. Back then, she was just a hatchling, stupid enough to think that the kingpin or a drug trafficking organization would be a good father. Now she knew better. Now, the legend of the assassin that’s eliminated more than 400 men has spread far and wide. With an impressive kill count like that, they’re always expecting an older man over 200 pounds, and they’re surprised when they’re met with lightweight nineteen-year-old Sayaka. She walks around the apartment, allowing a waterfall of wine to flow into her. Even when tipsy, her steps are silent. 

She enters her bathroom and looks into the mirror. Would her mother be proud of the woman she’s become? Probably not, but she’ll never know for sure. He took that away from her. The woman Sayaka has grown up to be is the result of learning a hard lesson. Some people deserve to die. Ordinary people walk around with compassion in their hearts, naively believing that everyone deserves a chance at life. Sayaka knew the truth. Someone must deliver death to those who deserve it but evade it anyway. That is the cause she gave her life over to, but now it's come to an end. She’s tracked down the one man who deserves it the most. First, she eliminated his old business partners. Next, she’ll come for him.

“It will be over soon.” She whispers to no one. 

Four men carry Daisuki’s coffin to his final resting place in the rain. Very few people had arrived for the ceremony. Only a couple of coworkers, his wife, and an old friend had shown up. Droplets of rain masked the tears falling down their faces. The men moved slowly to avoid slipping in the mud. They stop and lay the coffin down above the pit. The priest begins to speak, but Daisuki’s old friend isn’t listening.  Hibiki Kato had been bawling his eyes out.  He stood silently as the priest said his piece. He knew that what he wanted to do was scream and punch his fist through a wall—anything to unleash the anger he had built up inside of himself. Hibiki was shocked that a man he had just gotten eaten dinner with a week before was now lying dead in a coffin. Despite not being the perpetrator himself, Hibiki couldn’t help but think that this was his fault. He and Daisuki had come to America together to escape their old life, and it seemed to have followed them here. Who else would have to murder a man like Daisuki? Back home, he was involved in a criminal enterprise, but here he was, a loving husband and a good friend. The wails of Daisuki’s widow fill the open air. Hibiki looks away. He can’t face her. How could he? If Daisuki had never worked for him, he’d still be alive. It’s all too much. Hibiki can’t take it anymore. 

He turns around to leave, but someone catches his eye in the back of the crowd. It’s Hibiki’s own wife. He walks towards her, and the two lock eyes. He can’t help but let his tears flow once more. His wife wraps her arms around him, and he mourns in her embrace. 

“It’s not your fault.” She tells him. This does very little to appease him. He knows it isn’t true. He’s responsible for creating a widow. His family back home probably doesn’t even know. 

Later that night, Hibiki goes on a walk to clear his head. In times like this, he wishes he hadn’t given up drinking, but he knows he can’t go back to that. Hibiki sighs and turns a corner, oblivious to what is following him. He looks around and notices that the streets are surprisingly empty tonight. It is late, but still, he’s in the city that never sleeps. His heart begins to pound for no reason. A street lamp uneasily flickers before the light slips away, leaving Hibiki in the dark. A chill manifested in his upper back and slithered down his spine. He’s walked in New York before he’s seen these streets. There shouldn’t be anything to be afraid of, but despite this, he couldn’t stop his instincts from telling him to run, but he would do no such thing that would be ridiculous. 

There’s a crash in an alleyway, and Hibiki jumps. His head swivels to see what made the sound. Only to see a raccoon squirm its way out of a trash can. Hibiki laughs at himself; maybe it is time to go back. He’s too on edge.  The walk had done its job. All day he had been upset about Daisuki’s death. That’s a normal feeling to have, and he’s processing it. He was only on edge because of how his friend had died. 

A small knife darts through the air, narrowly missing Hibiki’s head. He doesn’t wait to see where it came from, he just starts to run, but it’s too late. Another knife strikes Hibiki in the shoulder. He falls to the ground. He grabs the knife and shuts his eyes to prepare himself for the pain. Hibiki yanks the blade from his shoulder and lets out a yell. His vision blurs, was there something on the knife? He stumbles to his feet. He tries to walk, but it’s like a baby deer taking its first steps. He’s sure of it now he’s been poisoned. He grabs a wall and uses it to guide him to his feet. 

Hibiki isn’t worried. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to kill him. They always failed. He’s no stranger to poison, either. At the opening of an alley, he sees his attacker—a small and slender form. The figure walks closer and comes into view. It’s a small girl.

“Who are you?” Hibiki croaks out. A fist slams into his jaw, knocking him onto the ground.

“You really don’t recognize me?” The girl picks him up by the shirt and looks him in the eyes. His vision finally consolidates, and he can finally see. The eyes, the lips, she does look familiar.

“Sara?” No, that’s stupid. Sara’s dead. His attacker cracks her head against his and drops him to the ground.

“Don’t say her name!” The girl unsheaths a katana with a bright red hilt, and it all clicks. It’s his katana. Is he looking at his daughter? “Every time, you mangled her face, left her gasping for air, and you have the nerve to say her name?” 

“Listen, Sayaka.” He attempts to lift himself off the ground, but the assassin kicks him causing him to fall back down.

“Now you remember.”

“I’m different now. I’ve-” The girl jumps on top of him and punches him again.

“Changed? I know.” She punches him again. “Do you think I care?” and again. “That you remarried? That you’re sober? That you’re a good man now?” Hibiki can barely move. Sayaka drags his body and makes him sit up against the wall. She takes the sword and holds it to his neck. “My mother was a wonderful forgiving woman. She didn’t deserve to die, but she’s dead. You were an evil man who killed many innocent people, but you think you deserve to live a happy life? You don’t get to take back what you did, Hibiki. You left your own daughter to rot. Did you even care where I was? ” Hibiki can’t answer that, honestly. He didn’t want to think about where she was. She was a walking reminder of everything he was trying to escape.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know you are.” The sword cleaves through his neck, allowing blood to escape. There was no gurgling. There was no screaming. It was just over. 

    Sayaka wrapped the body of her final target in gauze with a determined look in her eyes. When she’s finished, she grabs a gasoline container and empties it onto him. She then throws a match onto the body, watching it burst into flames. This wasn’t about making sure she didn’t get caught. He simply didn’t deserve a proper burial. She looks at the burning corpse, and a single tear travels down her cheek. Then a smile creeps across her face. Her mouth opens, and laughter spills out. 

    Back at her apartment Sayaka looks into her bathroom mirror. Surely her mother would be proud of her now. As Sayaka looked at her reflection and looked into the snake's eyes staring back at her, she felt nothing but disgust. She’s not even proud of herself, but why? She’s finished the plan. He deserved to die. Her mind returned to the woman wailing at Daisiki’s funeral and Hibiki’s wife consoling him. 

    Her fist hurls through the air cracking the mirror. The shards fall into the sink bowl. 

    “NO!” She screams. She punches holes in her wall again and again. This is the only time she wishes she had decorated the apartment. She could use more things to break. She drops to her knees, tears falling from her eyes.
“He deserved it.” She says. “He deserved it.” She curls up in a fetal position, repeating the phrase. A phrase she’s not even convinced of anymore.

Hive

Katy’s been bizarre lately.  

I had just finished unpacking our things into the new bedroom. I must admit I enjoyed our stuff being together in one room; it was an imperfect marriage of our belongings. That’s what I loved about it. Her beautiful mosaic lamp, contrasted with my dull, monochromatic alarm clock, filled me with a surprising amount of happiness.  

While scanning the room, my eyes landed on her bright pink diary, which sat on top of my solid black journal. Creeping from the dark leather and onto the rose-colored book was a spider. Neither Katy nor I were fans of bugs, but she hated when I killed them, so I did my best to avoid it. I cupped my hand and ushered the spider into the center of my palm. I walked through our barren, but soon-to-be filled living room and dropped the little guy off outside the apartment building. The car was still pretty much filled to the brim with boxes. I twisted the key, gripped the bottom of the trunk, and heaved it open. 

An artificial beehive sat in the trunk of my car. How it got there is beyond me; somehow, I hadn’t noticed. Maybe the car running drowned out the buzzing? Or, perhaps it was the excitement of finally moving in together that distracted me. Either way, it wasn’t mine. But nothing about the hive seemed to be Katy’s. The dull, gloomy color of the hive would repulse her. The hums of the hundreds of insects inside were a gruesome tune.“Katy, did you know there were bees in my car?” I ask her. She laughs a little. 

“Yes, I know,” Katy replies. 

“Are they yours?” 

“Yeah, they’re mine.”  

I can’t believe she gave such a nonchalant answer to my question. I’ve known Katy for two years. In that time, she's expressed nothing but disgust for anything that had more than four legs. I’m also confident our landlord wouldn’t accept pet bees in the apartment. Despite this, I lived with the bees. Katy was adamant about keeping them. I couldn’t bear to see her get rid of something she cared about so much. 

So, I helped her clear out an extra room across the hall from the bedroom, a space I was initially going to use as a guest room. When we were done, the room was blank and lifeless. The pale white of the walls imitated the dried-up skin of a corpse. The lack of airflow created an atmosphere akin to emptied-out lungs. Even before Katy’s buzzing companions made it their home, the room felt threatening. 

“I don’t want to bother the bees unnecessarily, so could you not go into the room with them?”  She asked me this after we had finished transferring the buggers from my car into the apartment. I didn’t question it. Katy might have had a change of heart, but I didn’t. I still want absolutely nothing to do with them. Besides, the room creeped me out. I would stay as far away as humanly possible.  

When we finished unloading and unpacking, I relaxed in our new bed. Katy made occasional trips to the bee room. I was impressed by her gall and fearlessness, to be honest. No protective covering, just plain clothes, she was content, not a single worry. I wouldn’t be surprised if the thought of getting stung hadn’t even entered her head. She’s beautiful that way. The way her black hair framed her face showed off a smile that was so perfect, like an artist had painted it on. That alone made allowing the insects in our home worth it.  

Things only got stranger as time went on. About a week into living together, we decided to go out with some friends. I stood next to the front door waiting for her to finish getting ready. My phone read Saturday, 3:00 pm, 80 degrees.  

We were already late. She might’ve been perfect in other ways, but this was typical; Katy was never ready on time. Losing patience, I stormed down the hallway and turned in front of the bedroom door. As I did, it swung open, knocking me in the head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry” She grabbed my hands. Cold leather wrapped around my fingers.  

“Why are you wearing gloves?” It wasn’t just gloves. She had a beanie pulled down far enough to cover everything but her eyes and a long sweater. “It’s way too hot outside. Are you sure that’s what you want to wear?” 

“Do you want to be even later? I can spend time finding something else to wear.” As weird as I thought this was, she was right. We didn’t have time to make a change; we were already about an hour late.  

We made our way toward the door. A vague hum reverberated in the apartment, and my eyes darted, searching for the sound. A sharp pain hit my cheek; instinctively, my hand smacked my face. Katy stopped walking.  

“What did you just do?” Her voice was monotone but threatening. There was a possibility I could’ve gotten away with not telling her, but parts of the squished bug were still on my hand. I couldn’t just lie. 

“One of your bees stung me and-” 

“And you killed it?”  

“It was an accident.” 

 She ignored me and walked straight down the hallway. I followed behind her. “Katy, where are you going? We have people waiting for us.”  

Without acknowledging me, she went into the bee room and slammed the door in my face. The lock clicked on the other side.  

“Katy, I’m sorry.”  

No answer. The buzzing on the other side was too loud to hear anyone say anything anyway. I went to the bathroom to wash the insect entrails off my palm.  

There was a hole in my face, although that might have been an exaggeration. On the spot where I was stung, instead of the puss-filled bump, I expected, a reasonably large indent on my cheek had formed. I touched it, and it burnt.  

Wincing, I quickly pulled my hand back. At this point, I was already frustrated with today. So, I did what I always do in situations like this. I popped some melatonin and slept the rest of the day away. When I woke up a couple of hours later, my whole face burned. I sprinted to the bathroom to see my entire face covered in duplicates of the original indent. My first thought was an allergic reaction. I didn’t even tell Katy. It didn’t seem like she’d care anyway.  

An hour later, I sat in the white room of the hospital as the doctor shined a flashlight on my face. 

“Any trouble breathing?”  I take a large breath to make sure.  

“No”  

“Do you feel dizzy?”   

 “Not really.”  He clicks his flashlight off.    

“Doesn’t seem severe, but it is a bee allergy. Just get some calamine lotion. It’ll be fine.”  

Relieved it wasn’t too serious. I checked out before beginning the journey home.  

The apartment door thudded behind me. 

“Katy, I’m home!” 

 The apartment stayed quiet. She wasn’t in the living room, bedroom, or bathroom. The hum coming from the bug room was much louder than usual. Of course, she wasn’t answering me. I reached for the handle, but to my surprise, Katy left the door unlocked. I turned the knob and entered the room. 

The room was dark; the tiny sliver of light peeking through the cracked door barely illuminated Katy. The insects’ whirs were deafening at this point. Searching for the light switch, I slid my hands across the wall, but nothing was there. It must’ve been further inside the room. I didn’t want to get too close to those things. So, instead, I grabbed the entrance door and pulled it wide open. Light spilled in. 

Katy stood facing the corner, naked.  

“Katy?” I only get buzzes in response. I take a deep breath and yell. “KATY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” The weather was still blazing, but the sight of my girlfriend standing there was chilling. Her face was submerged in the darkness, so I couldn’t see what she was doing, but the possibilities filled me with fear. I stepped forward and squinted my eyes to get a better look.  

Katy stood facing the corner, naked. Tiny holes covered the skin on her arms, allowing bees to squirm into and out of her flesh. I backed away from her but lost my balance, which sent me falling to the ground with a loud thunk. Driven by adrenaline, I stumbled to my feet. 

Katy swiveled around to face me. The swarm darted in my direction. I jumped out of the room, turned around, and heaved the door shut. I didn’t even have a second to think before the knob began to move, the door creaking open.  

I jerked it shut again. Katy banged on the door. Her screams barely surfaced over the wretched buzzing. I don’t let go. The knocking on the door slowed down, and along with the buzz, it stopped.  

Despite the silence, I couldn’t bring myself to open the door. My mind raced, and adrenaline pumped through my veins. I calmed down long enough for me to peel one hand off of the door and call 911. I continued my death grip on the door for half an hour while I waited for the police to arrive. I finally released it to let them in.  

Inside the room was a twisted, hollowed-out corpse littered with holes and covered with bees. The once olive skin was now pale and lifeless—an ambulance came to remove the body. The next day, I paid a keeper to take the bees away. 

I reached to scratch my face but stopped myself. I get in bed to avoid thinking about any of yesterday's events. 

I couldn’t relax, let alone sleep. I couldn’t relax, let alone sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, the events replayed in my mind. Her scream, the grey skin, the bees. Every time I blinked—scream, skin, bees. I kept my eyes wide open, afraid to doze off. Knowing that if I slept, I’d have to see Katy again. I couldn't do that. I had to stay awake. I sat up. Only one thing distracted me from the reminder that my wonderful Katy was gone. The insufferable itch. My skin was practically begging for me to scratch it. It didn’t take long for it to become unbearable. Hoping to relieve myself without destroying my face, I rubbed my cheeks, but that only irritated it more. I started tearing away at my face. 

The cushiony skin peeled off my face and pushed its way underneath my hard fingernails. I stopped scratching. Blood dripped down my face and across my fingers. That was precisely what I was trying to avoid. My face was going to look like a pepperoni pizza. 

Before I could do any more damage, I went to the bathroom. It wasn’t too bad. There was a bit of blood coming out of one of the pores, but it wasn’t anything some Neosporin couldn’t handle.  

There was a low buzzing sound as a bee landed on the mirror in front of me. The wretched thing only reminded me of Katy more, how she used to light up a room just with her smile. Her sweet laugh and bubbly personality. The bees took all of that away.  Frustrated, I smacked the bee, killing it immediately. The irritation returned. I winced in pain as I tried to resist the urge to mess with my face.  

The skin wrapped around my face was moving. I could see it clearly in the mirror. That was the final straw. I was no longer worried about ruining my face. I stuck my nails into my skin. The pores stretched and tightened as my fingers glided across them. The sharp keratin pierced my cheeks, causing blood to run down. 

The room is filled with a buzz that only gets louder and louder. My continued scratching doesn’t halt, even when the pores widen, giving way to what was hiding underneath. Bees fluttered from my face. My screams were drowned out by the cacophony of skin stretching and wings buzzing. Tears streaked as the insects clouded my vision. I fell to the floor, the last thing I saw being two bare feet standing over my body.