She by Clay Even the music seemed to come out backwards, or at least he heard it as such, blaring from his speakers in waves and deep, thrumming beats that he could feel in his fingers and his toes even as the words washed over him, meaningless. It continued on, endless, until the soft and final shutting of the door freed him, and only in the silence could he think once more. Or rather he tried. For the city had a music of its own, unintrusive in its own right, but in his heightened and near-delusional state, Nick could hear it all in separate and startling clarity. Car horns sang a melancholy tune three blocks down, the television in the bakery flashed colors and lights that clicked and screamed into place, yet whispered of the woman dragged from the river earlier that morning. His own shoes slapped the dark pavement, damp from the afternoon’s sudden shower and shining in the multicolored lights the city insisted on bathing him in like a spot light. Yet the most insistent sound, the one that haunted him with every step and every shallow intake of breath was the muted click of the gun’s safety, flicked on and off in an incongruent rhythm. He cradled it almost lovingly in his palm, the barrel shoved deep within the pocket of his overcoat, and even as he began to sweat, the gun, a Smith and Wesson model 36 revolver, something he favored for her size and low kickback, would cool his palm as though she knew. She knew just how much he needed her just then. She would take the sound and song away, and she would set the world to rights once again. So when Nick found himself ambling past the dilapidated row homes tucked into the shadow of the bridge, he knew it was exactly where he was meant to be. The beach was a joke, more a strip of dirt and debris than anything, and it seemed fitting somehow. It seemed right. It was here that he slipped her from his pocket and held her to his temple. The music of the city was vague at best, nothing but whispered words that didn’t quite make sense, but still they persisted, touching on the tendrils of nerves that slept between large expanses of somatic tissue, and he knew that she was the only one to silence even the most determined song. When he clicked off the safety one last time, it was with an immeasurable sense of peace. “What are you doing?” Nick paused, a frown tugging down the corners of his lips. His chin tilted in the same direction, swung down past the darkened bridge towering above him, over the water, black in the night, past the headless dolls and shredded tires, the bottles and cans and god knows what else scattered at his feet to the face of the girl before him. She sat cross-legged in the sorry excuse for sand, cradling a rag doll in her lap. One hand smoothed the faded yarn locks, a soothing gesture, as though the doll itself was frightened. And yet it was the girl’s large, dark eyes looking up at him, her own lips parted, her own breath coming in unhindered, shallow breaths. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the gun, pressing the metal to his skin until he couldn’t feel her for the cold. He kept his eyes on the little girl, and her own gaze traveled from his face to the gun and back again almost lazily, belying her words and the tension strung throughout her small body. By fractions of an inch, the gun eased herself from his temple until his arm hung limp at his side. “What are you doing?” Nick asked the girl, and she tilted her head curiously, watching his eyes as she continued to stroke the doll’s dim, red locks. “I asked first.” He almost smiled. He could feel the twitch of muscles but schooled them accordingly. Still, little had touched him in recent times as quickly or completely as three words from a young girl. Her naivete and stubbornness were like a breath of fresh air, and he only relaxed further, going so far as to perch in the dirt himself. “I’m going home,” he told her, hefting the revolver’s familiar weight until it was settled comfortably in his lap. She didn’t take her eyes from his, though her slight shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. This was something she could understand, something she could relate to. “Where do you live?” she asked, stilling her hand over the doll’s hair. Nick shrugged and looked away, down the river, over the row homes toward the pink-grey haze that hung along the horizon. “Not here.” She didn’t answer right away, and so Nick looked back to her curiously, only to see her frowning at him now in deep disapproval. “It’s dark,” she told him after a moment, her soft voice clipped with anger. “You have to go home or your mom’ll be worried.” Suddenly Nick found himself smiling, and no amount of discipline could keep the joy from his mouth. Riding on the tail of that smile, however, was the song of the city, growing louder now, the whispers more intense. This, Nick knew, was important. “Where’s your mom?” he shot back, cocky now, settled back on his elbows as though the grit and the broken glass were of the softest down. She lifted her chin defiantly; Nick could see the fear in her eyes so vibrant now that even her doll, clutched tight in whitened knuckles, could do nothing to allay it. One hand lifted confidently, swung back to point at the house across the way, it’s greyed and cracked siding and glowing, yellowed windows a mockery of everything Nick had come call home. The litter across the lawn was no better than that of the beach, and even if the shades were drawn back to allow those inside to see the girl, see them both, out there along the water’s edge, the flicker and din of the television, even at a distance, let Nick know that they were very much alone. “She lets you play out here at night?” he asked her, taking the revolver in his palm once more as he slowly regained his feet. “She...,” the girl started, hesitating once he was standing. Still her eyes stayed locked with his, writing off the gun as though it were of little consequence, no more dangerous than the doll clutched in her lap. Nick almost commended her. He had no doubt the girl would finish her explanation if left alone, but he had no use for her words, and the city was singing loudly once more; he wouldn’t have heard her anyway. Instead he heeded her wishes, looking up toward the starless sky as he closed his eyes; he had no need for them. “I killed a woman three days ago,” he told the girl. “I shot her and threw her in the river, and this morning they found her.” He opened his eyes then, looking to the girl and smiling genuinely at the sight of her, so still and perfect. “They won’t find me,” he added after a moment. He frowned then, dipping his head down, shaking it slightly. This is what she wanted; he was sure of it. But still the music grew, arching along his synapses, bright and titillating and crying with need, and Nick gripped the hilt of the gun tight again, swinging the barrel up to his skull, pressing it into the flesh. He’d given her what she wanted, and still the music played on, and there was only one option left. “I’m sorry.” Nick’s eyes snapped open. The girl had gained her feet as well, and she stood, so slight and beautiful amidst the debris. The doll remained clutched tight to her chest, but her words were so honest that they cut through the city’s song without effort. There was still fear trembling her limbs, but her compassion overrode it to find her here, taking one more step toward him. And the music faded to a whisper, to her whispering against his skin, along the shell of his ear, sweet and warm and suddenly, finally, clear. He took the gun from his temple, smiled as he straightened his arm, locked the elbow and pulled the trigger. The girl crumpled to the ground, boneless as her rag doll, and there was silence. Nick turned and shoved the gun back into his pocket, whistling his own tune. End.