Final Rites Fan

by Angelique Fawns

I’m fighting the urge to turn on the rusty stand-up fan tucked into the corner of my studio apartment. Sweat drips from my wild, neglected eyebrows. It is so hellishly hot in August. Gnawed nails dig into my palms. The ragged edges bite into the flesh as a warm swell of blood fills my hands.

Don’t turn on the fan. Turn on the fan…

No. I won’t. Turn on the fan…

Turn on the fan!

The compulsion makes me itch all over. Worse than my need for a hit of coke. More compelling than an alcoholic’s need for that first sip of whiskey.

Farewell to self-agency.

Wiping the blood from my palms onto the stained throw pillows on my third-hand couch, I wince when the hot flesh of my thighs rips from the leather. A disgusting slurpy sound. My trembling fingers act of their own accord. I watch them—as if they don’t belong to me—traitorous digits—turn the rust-caked knob. The unplugged cord lies like a dead snake on the floor. The lack of power doesn’t stop the blades from lurching into motion.

Whisk. Whisk. Whisk.

My stomach drops as more sweat beads pop on my forehead. The gusts of dusty air can’t move the gelled spikes of dyed black hair. Unwashed hair that used to be blonde and thick. But the wind does toss a few of my trophies off the dresser. A stiletto knife. The little bag of cocaine. A money roll transformed into a tornado of C-notes.

 Shudders run through me as I wait for it.

A stuttering, echoey voice squeals out of the fan, “Blaaaaackwoood Meeeemooorial.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. My eardrums vibrate, and I want to bury my head under a pillow. But I know better. The last time I ran and tried to ignore the fan. It increased the decibel level till my eyes bled.

I also know what Blackwood Memorial is. A dreary old funeral home a few blocks from here.

I kick the base of the fan and orange bits of rust fly off like dandruff. “No. I won’t do it.”

It wobbles, but the heavy iron relic won’t be toppled. Or ignored.

“Blaaaaaaaackwoooooood Meeeeeeeemooooooooorial,” it growls.

Why? Why did I have to turn on the fan? I should have suffered the heat, ignored the need for that cool blast of relief. On a winter day, sometimes I can ignore the urge to flick the cursed thing on. Not always… but sometimes. On a steamy, sweaty, soak-your-armpits day like today, I have no hope. Biting my lip, I tell myself I don’t have to listen. But I do. My skin crawls with an itching, desperate need to comply. Degrading your soul is easier to do when high, so I snatch up the bag of coke and bury my nose in it.

Goodbye to sobriety.

One hard snort and my heart rate doubles. Energy flows through my core. I can do this because I am awesome. Why fight the inevitable?

“Blaaaaaackwoooooo–”

I grab the long, thin knife and put it into a sheath that I latch onto my jean shorts. “Shut up already. I’m going.”

Blackwood Memorial isn’t far from my studio apartment in downtown Toronto. The old stone facade is laden with ivy and tucked on a side road. The front door is locked, but I’ve long since learned how to jimmy my way into places with the skinny knife. The overly sweet smell of flowers gives me an immediate headache. Or is that stabbing in my forehead from coming down off my bump? Cocaine highs are short-lived. Either way, I wince as I take in the chapel, all set up for a future funeral service. White lilies share a table with a guest book, donations box, and prayer book. A huge photo of a lovely woman with dark curls and a heart-stopping smile sits by an empty casket. I study her middle-aged features, but I don’t recognize her.

This is always the hardest part. Why did my fan send me here? All my previous “adventures” have involved righting the wrongs of past owners of the vintage item. Did this lady own it at one time? A groan from a vent in the corner of the room interrupts my musing. There’s someone in the basement. The place where they get the bodies ready. Acid churns in my guts, and I wish I could get the hell out of there.

I puff out my chest and look at the front door. Damn it, I am NOT a slave to a room fan! Balling my fists, I run. My feet weigh a thousand pounds. Invisible spiders crawl on my skin. An intense pain stabs my brain. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, make it stop. I fall to my knees, gasping.

There is no escape for me. The headache fades, and the red splotches on my arms disappear. On shaky legs, I stand back up. And turn around. Gotta see this through.

There’s an elevator at the end of the hall, but I’ve seen too many horror movies to climb into one of those. Instead, I find the stairs and descend… one step at a time… careful to walk softly. The metal door to the embalming room is cracked open and I peek in and see a cracked concrete floor, metal tables, and big sinks. The groaning is louder. Puke rises and puddles on my tongue. Since I brought that freaking fan home from the pawn shop, I thought I’d seen everything. Wallowed in the filth of humanity.

This is the worst yet.

The mortician has his pants around his ankles and thrusts his scrawny buttocks into the corpse on the table. Her slender, pale legs vibrate with every pulse. My breath quickens as I snatch my knife from my sheath and rush in. Pungent oniony body odor mixes with the sharp smell of formaldehyde. He has a mole on his back, thick hairs sprouting from the bubbly black spot. I bury my knife in the center of it and plunge directly into his heart. He topples sideways, and I dodge the projectile blood spurting from the wound in his back.

He turns, his wrinkled face contorted in pain and surprise. His rheumy pale blue eyes open wide in shock, and he opens his mouth and mutters few unintelligible words. “Ahhhh, blaaaa.”

I dodge the spittle as I try and decipher his last words. Is he trying to confess? Beg for forgiveness for his sins? Or is he telling me to get the hell out of his preparation room? My eyes flick to the face of his victim. She reminds me a bit of Mom. Not a great mother, but she did the best she could with her welfare check. I lost her when I was thirteen. A shudder runs down my spine as I imagine someone violating her like this after she passed. Clenching my knife with such force my knuckles scream, I plunge the knife into his throat. His mumbles turn to a gurgle, and the necrophiliac funeral director slides to the floor. One final spasm and he’s dead. Gone to whatever special place in hell waits for him.

 An ugly smile splits my face. A rush better than cocaine. He’s violated his last deceased loved one. I take a white sheet from a pile of them in a hamper and place it over the dead woman. She deserves respect. Then I take a moment to pull up the dead man’s pants. Her family doesn’t need to know what happened here.

My eyes rest on his Rolex watch. It’s so shiny. All gold, and tacky in its ostentatious importance. Something worn by a man who needs to scream, “Look at how rich I am. I’m a capitalist ass who profits off grief.”

My mouth salivates with desire. I take it off his liver-spotted arm and strap it onto my own. It hangs off my bony wrist, but I grin at my new trophy. It will look great with my other mementos of these dark missions. My muscles relax like I’ve just had a really good lay. The post orgasmic letdown. Who am I kidding? I feel really alive. Blood pumping… head rushing… tingles in my toes… ALIVE.

Adieu to my last bit of innocence.

The second hand on the Rolex goes tick, tick, tick. Much like the sound of the fan as it revolves in the dusty, dented frame. It’s time to go home. And wait for my next mission.

END OF EXHIBIT ONE! Return to the Order of Attractions.