The Remaking
by C.J. Subko
The first time I saw you, your toes were tucked over the edge of the railing on the Aurora bridge. You were going to jump.
Your body tensed, calves tightening, hands clenching the other railing for support. Undecided? No. Your resolution screamed at me through your pores. You were sure. You were ready.
You were beautiful, the light from the summer moon cold against your pale throat, bare like a vampire’s plaything, and glinting in your eyes. A painting in red and white against the black ink sky.
I had to save you.
Catlike, I padded towards you. You did not hear me. The cars rushing by stole the sound of my footfalls.
You did not see me. You were too entranced by the sheen of the moon on the grave of the Sound below.
You did not feel me. Not until I clamped my arms around you and wrestled you to the ground. You shrieked at me.
You were safe now.
You would always be safe with me.
With my knife I paint you in a thousand brilliant colors that glitter and strike discordant tempos into the surface of everything. Its tip grazes your flesh; it teases, prying away your resolve and separating your disparate universes: one, two, three, legion. I press—not too swiftly, not too deeply. Not yet.
It is not time. I must prepare you, crescendo your shrieks to ecstasy before the final thrust.
When your raw throat screams release, that is when I pull back and plunge! The knife jostles in between your ribs and pulls out with a suck as you cry, “No, no!” but in my divine profession the universe agrees.
I have no choice; I must unmake you.
So I stab, I slash, and drops of scarlet retribution spray from my hands, and when you have slipped at last into unconsciousness, I saw across your perfect throat. You gurgle a last breath. A geyser of blood surges hot and sticky over me, anointing me in your beautiful essence, and then dies to a trickle. And then, a stillness.
At last. Now, my work can continue.
Taking up the flensing knife, I slice along the seams of your torso, splitting you open to reveal the slippery substances that hide beneath the suit of your skin. Carefully, I separate the skin from pillows of white fat. Dutifully, I trace up to your armpit, your bicep, your forearm, bisecting your lovely body into two perfect pieces.
A whisper inside me rattles, “No, no,” but I tamp it deep down.
I have no choice; I must remake you.
Taking up the needle and cord, I begin, threading it through, stabbing it between the two glorious layers of you and stitching them together. The skin is taut, hearty, not tearing or tugging.
At last, it is time.
It is time for you to rejoin the world, my immortal.
Removing my clothes, I slip into the suit of your skin. I clasp you around myself, inhabiting every crevice you possess.
I am you, reborn.
I am wondrous.
And I will never, ever jump.
C.J. Subko lives in Chicago with her cat, dog, and a collection of (fake) skulls. When she’s not writing, she’s a clinical psychologist. She’s obsessed with tarot, witches, and all things that go bump in the night.
COLD SIGNAL 