A Study in Red

Cathy doesn’t wait for the door to swing shut on its own. She spins at the threshold, gropes for the handle, and yanks it forward.

Click.

The pulsing light and the throbbing sound from down the hall die; the party, the smoke, the terrible music, the red plastic cups, the late hour, the guy in the blue baseball cap, his twitchy hands, his shadowed eyes (watching, always watching her), his sweaty armpits—all is locked away. Blocked by the intervening wood and brick and tile.

She twists the lock—another click—then checks the handle. It doesn’t budge.

The silence is so abrupt, her ears ring.

A sob breaks free. A tiny hiccupping sound she has been pressing down as she walked (don’t run, don’t run, don’t run) down the hallway, her own red cup in hand, the color of the smile she has painted across her mouth.

“I’ll be back,” she’s promised Jess, the not-smile showing every one of her lipstick-stained teeth, but her roommate isn’t looking, her own mouth on the jaw of a guy whose hands are sneaking under the hem of her gauzy top. “I’ll be back,” Cathy says again, louder, but the guy is the only one who glances her way. His eyes slide off her like cold sweat, leaving invisible, sticky residue, but he pulls one hand from beneath Jess’s top. Crooks a finger. Join.

Cathy flees.

The baseball cap follows.

She’s looked over her shoulder only once (doesn’t want anyone to mark her, label her the crazy girl), but she knows he is there, stalking forward, the weight of his shadowed eyes like hot, wet breath on Cathy’s neck. It tickles her ear. Sticks her tight white dress tighter to her spine. Close. Closer. He is four feet away when she turns to shut the door.

Now, he is right beyond it.

Cathy doesn’t need to look to know that it’s his twitching fingers that seize the handle from the other side and press, his weight against the wood. Fuck. Has he taken her coming to the bathroom as an invitation?

The metal rattles. The cracked wood groans. Cathy’s sobs stutter. The air is coiled tight in her lungs, clenched between her teeth like a gag. There is a moment of anticipation, tense, silent.

The door holds. Another rattle, harder. The door prevails again.

All falls still.

The gag wriggles free, a breath sliding through the gaps between Cathy’s molars (Is he gone? Is he waiting?), and she backs away until her naked calves hit something cold. She jumps and wheels around. Stares in disbelief, then disgust. A urinal. In the dark, she has failed to read the sign. Fuck. Fuck. This isn’t even a female bathroom.

Too late to switch. She is trapped between the door and the filthy bowl crusted with stuff she chooses not to inspect, wishes she could avoid smelling.

Sleeve to her nose, she drifts to the mirror, a narrow window for her eyes to escape into, and does her best not to notice that whatever had crusted the urinal has also splattered the glass.

Cathy leans closer and stares into the mirror. The girl in the mirror stares back.

Neither likes what she sees.

Blond curls that have taken an hour to arrange are damp and drooping; her mascara is smudged in one corner, trickling down to smear her left cheekbone. Her ruby lips are still perfect. The scarlet cup is still clutched in her hand. She dumps the water into the sink, crumples the plastic, and drops it into the urinal. Not low enough. Its bright rim remains visible in the mirror. Of course it does. Cathy’s mirrors are always a study in the shades of red.

The door handle rattles again. Cathy flinches and bites her lower lip—two white, sharp peaks dimpling the ruby flesh in the mirror—but doesn’t look away.

A male voice says something from beyond the door. There is a knock.

“Think,” Cathy orders her reflection in a hiss. “Think.” She has been stupid (stupidstupidstupid) to lock herself in. She should have gone the other direction. Should have left (And if he follows?). Her phone is in her bag, dropped carelessly on some beer-soaked couch. It’s the first week of college. She doesn’t know anyone but Jess, and Jess doesn’t seem to want to know her.

Time runs away. Seconds trip into minutes.

A second voice joins the first. This time, Cathy captures the shape of the words, the tang of feigned worry. Mouth to the door slit: “Hey. You alright there?”

Laughter. Some sarcastic comment Cathy doesn’t catch.

The same male voice: “Hello? You are holding the line.”

More laughter, something about better places to snuggle. Something about needs, and beer, and hey, man, hurry the fuck up.

How long has she been here? Minutes trip into longer minutes.

Is the baseball cap one of the voices? Does he— One of the voices. There are several. Cathy’s lips stretch until they match the paint. Several. Several is good. Several is as safe as can be (surely).

The girl in the mirror pats her droopy curls and wipes the mascara off with a tissue. Through the glass, she watches the smeared white paper join the cup in the urinal. Cathy takes a deep breath and reaches for the door.

Click.

Music surges forward, crests over her, breaks against the tile at her back like a wave. The spray sends the base thudding through her palms, the soles of her shoes, her temples. A heartbeat twinning her own. It’s too slow. One for every three. She looks around (Where? Where are you?). Turns right, left, right. One for every four.

“You alright?” The man is thin and dark-skinned (doesn’t wear a baseball cap), and Cathy turns the smile on him, lets it slip into a drunken simper (so silly, wrong door, so very silly), walks past the muttering line, heads for the exit. The door is right there, down the hallway and to the left, and if she can only get to it, get out, run four blocks to her dorm, she will be fine, all will be fine, all will have ever been fine.

She is rounding the corner when she feels the hot, wet breath on the back of her neck again. She doesn’t turn to search the shadows. Doesn’t need to. Doesn’t stop (can’t).

The heavy door gives way beneath her weight, and a clean October night rushes in to chase away the smoke. Cathy runs down the three porch steps. Music flails after her for the first two, then stumbles, as drunk as those who blast it. It soon drowns beneath the howl of the wind.

Cathy picks up the pace. Her heels snap a staccato rhythm against the sidewalk. It fails to mute the second, heavier set of steps behind her. She doesn’t need to look to judge the distance. The steps grow louder with every block. She can practically hear his thoughts chasing her, riding on the air, his desire like a vile scent. Such a short dress, all alone, at night. You’re asking for it.

The wind wicks the moisture off Cathy’s hair, her skin, her eyes. Her thin dress is a poor shield against it. She should be cold—isn’t. Hasn’t been for a long time. Doesn’t remember how long. Tries to remember now—fails.

The failure tugs at her as strongly as the wind. Follows her as doggedly as the steps. It’s taking every bit of her resolve to fight it. She resists for a block. Two. And then…

Fuck it. She can’t do it.

Just past the third crossroad, Cathy pauses and takes off her shoes. They dangle limply from one cold, hooked finger. She slows, straightens, licks her red-stained teeth.

The shoes drop at the entrance to an alley. She leaves them there. The baseball cap steps over them as he follows her in. He is a tall black silhouette against yellow streetlight. Confident. Leering.

His grin slips when he finds the alley empty. His head swivels right, left, right. His three heartbeats to her one.

Should have looked up.

Cathy’s bare foot scuffs the brick of the wall, a gentle hiss. She adjusts her grip, a low scrape.

He spins around. “Who’s there?” Five heartbeats to her one.

Cathy let’s go, drops and lands silently between him and the exit. A short black silhouette against yellow streetlight. Confident. Leering. Smiling genuinely for the first time that night.

The man flinches. He is the first one to truly look at that smile, to see beneath the paint.

“Such a long chase,” Cathy purrs and steps forward, closing the distance between them. Two bodies in the alley. One cold and one warm. “Alone. At night. You are asking for it.”

“No, I… Please.”

He tries to run away (they always do). Doesn’t know he is already dead. Alone, at night, he asks for other things too. Mercy, freedom, his fucking mother.

His blood matches the color of her lipstick perfectly. His twitching hands finally still as Cathy drains him, gulp by greedy gulp. She is so hungry. Two months without feeding make every drop bloom on her tongue, a tiny crimson flower. She drinks until there’s enough for a fat bouquet.

The thump of his body against the ground is muffled by the blanket of small sounds in a large city. Two bodies in the alley. One cold and one cooling. Cathy turns to leave. She takes a step, then pauses, bends to pick up his blue baseball cap.

There is a dark window shop just to the left of the alley entrance, and Cathy stops to study her reflection. The cap hides her ruined curls perfectly. Almost coquettishly. She adjusts it, twirls this way and that, smiles. The blood on her teeth is wet and glistening and brilliantly scarlet. Cathy’s mirrors are always a study in the shades of red. Sometimes fresh, sometimes rusted, but always bright.

She forgets her shoes in the alley. Her feet should be cold—aren’t. Cathy walks all the way to the dorm barefoot.

Light seeps from beneath the door of the room she shares with Jess. Her roommate and her companion must have taken a cab. Must have hurried to beat her here.

Cathy pushes the door and strides in. Almost trips over a discarded gauzy top. They’ve taken her fucking bed.

“What are you—”

“Cathy!”

The wind is no longer there to whisk away the screams, and she is too hungry to be careful. Both manage to cry out as her teeth find purchase in the soft curves of their necks. Him first—for glancing at her as he had, her second—for not doing just that when Cathy needed her to. For letting her fall off the wagon.

Heels stop kicking.

For a long minute, Cathy listens, motionless, waiting for alarmed voices, opening doors, creaking floors. No one comes. The two have been making similar sounds for a while now. All Cathy did was raise the pitch.

The ruby smile grows. The sharp teeth prick her own lower lip, and she wipes the cold drop away without tonguing it. She knows it tastes like rot.

Cathy looks around. Looks down. Red embroidery vines up the cuffs and collar of her white dress. Again. One by one, Cathy licks her fingers clean.

She has fought so, so hard this time. Has put doors and distance and night between herself and the temptation’s clutch. Has literally sweated with the effort.

She musses her drying hair, gathers it into a tail, and threads that through the back of the baseball cap.

It’s alright, she tells herself. She will fight harder and start anew (there is always time to start anew when there is always time). She will try again.

Tomorrow.

Tonight’s wagon has already gone. She returns to the party. The pulsing light and the throbbing sound hide the stains, the smile, the soft click of the door locked on the inside. She lets it swing shut on its own.

By morning, every plastic cup in the smoky house is red on the inside, too.