CUT THROAT SILK

The night is filled with creatures; slender metal glints from the crooks of their arms. Their heads lull back, mouths gape at the sky. I've seem them, huddled creatures in the park aliens with the remnants of humanity. They have become common place now and I'm beginning to wonder how long it will take for them to be thought normal.

Only the creatures inhabit the park, the respectable people have long fled, they take the safe road; (are there any safe roads, nowadays?)

The park isn't the only place I go; sometimes it's the Old Tin Bridge. There are creatures there too. Their bodies litter the rusted metal surface, mouths open, eyes closed against a dirty roof. Pigeons chattering from above. If you're patient like me, you'll catch how the skin shivers over their bones whenever a train thunders by. It's like watching ants' seethe beneath loose soil.

I fear seeing Ellis.

Tonight I'm at the bridge. There's a difference now. The creatures have gone; they have retreated to their secondary haunt - the park - if you've studied them the way I have, then it's easy to know. I'm the shadow they don't know they have.

I approach the steps and go up. I turn, the bridge stretches before me, dark, holding its pigeon-fragrant scent greedily to its haggard frame. Except the bridge isn't empty; I see a form near the exit. It could be refuse bags or a vagrant. It could be anything. Irrationally I believe it is Ellis, (still needing) fusing metal to his skin.

Shaking my head, I make myself remember.
Blood splatters on enamel.


Before approaching I check my pockets, making sure I've left identifying items at home; how bad it would be to leave my wallet behind. I imagine a cop picking up a worn leather wallet, turning it over before flicking it open. His eyes putting my face to memory, my name: Sarah Bell. Shaking my head, dispersing the image, I hurry along the bridge. It's colder now, November has sharpened her teeth.

At first there's only a grey coat. With my eyes adjusting to the gloom, I begin to make out more. Someone has placed bags at either side of the bundle; a sad attempt at disguising something shameful. I bite my lip, disturbed by their utter lack of conscience. I'm thinking of the creatures again. It always comes back to them. About to bend down, to pull the coat away, I hear a clatter of motion, asylum laughter. I rush down the steps, breathlessly waiting at the bottom, urging whomever it is to hurry.

There are three of them. They appear at the mouth of the bridge, seeing me their expressions turn baleful.

"Late fer you, lady," one chides.

"Not late enough," I reply, waiting for them to come down. They have ignored the tattered coat, maybe they didn't even see it. With a rush of demonic energy they pass me. The last one, his clothes mimicking loose skin stained in garish colours, jars my shoulder knocking me into the wall. I bite back anger. I need to be faceless, inoffensive, someone in a crowd.

Once they have gone I return to the bundle. The bridge begins to tremble, noise obliterates the silence metallic and huge. I lose my footing and grab onto the rail. Beneath me, a train charges through; its vibrations diminishing as quickly as they come. My bones throb, I kneel gratefully and take hold of the fabric. The roof blocks the moonlight, but a shard has managed to find a way in through the shotgun-speckled holes in the metal. Tugging the coat away, the moonlight lays its bullet kisses on the creature's face. His vulnerability touches me; sickness broils in my gut and leaning back I shut my eyes.

I think of Ellis, his bleak eyes scanning our parents' living room for something to steal. I think of my parents, playing make believe with their china cups and weak tea.

I release a breath. My thoughts return to the dead creature and the living ones that hid him; pulling the coat across his face, placing the bags by his side, remembering to keep from the bridge until the police discovered the jumble of fabric and plastic. I run my fingers over his eyes, down his cheek, under his jawbone (his mouth closed) to his throat.

Standing over Ellis, watching him in his unnatural sleep; his need fattening the air.


There is silk, red and vibrant at his throat, imitation blood. It's knotted like a choker, the only pretty thing on him. Someone cared enough to put it there. Like Ellis, his need no longer fattens the air. Uncovering him completely, I leave the bridge. I don't look back. I fear to see Ellis lying there, his mouth opened wide.

The park is silent. Going in through the gate I catch the figure on the Roundabout. There are others, dotting the park in clusters, mouths unhinged. The Roundabout slows its twirling, the creature's feet drag across the safety rubber. I go to him. Touching his skin, running my hands from his forehead, down his cheek, under his jawbone to his throat. His pulse throbs against my palm; his eyelids flutter.

My parents screaming at the watered-blood lapping at the rim of the bathtub. Their make believe shattered. Ellis floating, a naked doll bled white.


Somewhere, metal cries. A rusted swing jumps in the wind. I take the knife from my coat pocket. Moving behind him, hugging his head in my lap, I stroke his hair for a while; ash blonde. I cut his throat; his blood chases away the November cold. From my pocket I remove a strip of silk. I loop it round his neck and knot it tight; the blood already abates.

Made pretty now.

Absorbing his face, I see my brother's. I put my fingers to his jaw. His mouth clicks shut.

It's the only way to stop their need.