blood porn
act one
A loft apartment cut apart by shadows. Rain falls outside, the low murmur of static. Hardwood floors and bare walls. At the far end is a stripped mattress on rough wood frame beneath a barred window. Slash of light from the open bathroom door. At the near end is living and kitchen area. A breakfast table with two chairs. Pete Valentine sits at the table. He wears a cheap blue suit and his head is shaved. He has two black eyes. In the living area is a heavy dark red armchair, broken rocking chair and small coffee table. A loveseat in center, facing a large old-fashioned television set. On top is a fat black and gray cat, asleep. The television screen has been smashed to bits. Among the dark chunks of glass lies an ordinary household hammer.
The toilet flushes and Jesse Moreau comes out of the bathroom, a cigarette in one hand. Thick black hair hanging to her shoulders. Pale skin and no jewelry. She wears black vinyl bell-bottom pants and a sleeveless black shirt. She is anorexic in appearance. She begins to pace, circling toward Pete. He turns slightly in his chair. His right cheek is swollen, bruised. He holds an unlabeled pint bottle of clear liquid. There is only the sound of bare feet touching wood, then silence.
Are you going to answer me? she says.
Pete opens the bottle, drinks. Begins coughing.
This is shit, he says.
I hope it kills you, she says.
Pete looks at her. I'm sorry.
She spits at him. Thin white streak appears on his lapel.
How old was she?
Please, says Pete.
Sixteen, she says. Was she even sixteen?
Jesse. Don’t fucking start.
I can see her, says Jesse. In my mind’s eye. She wore white socks and a little plaid skirt. Her knees were bruised from playing kick the can.
I was just talking to her, says Pete.
Her hair was blonde, says Jesse. Am I right?
She was sad, says Pete. Her rabbit died.
And she smelled like toothpaste, says Jesse. Like mint.
I asked her what the rabbit’s name was and she started crying.
Her little chest was smooth as a stone.
I told her the rabbit was in heaven, says Pete. With all the carrots he could eat.
She was a baby, says Jesse. Still forming.
I told her she would see the rabbit when she died. Then she started screaming and everybody on the bus went crazy.
There is a long silence.
She wanted to trust you, says Jesse. She was afraid to ride the bus alone. Then you get on and you sit next to her. A nice man in a suit.
I am not a nice man.
I trusted you once, says Jesse.
You were safe with me.
No, she says. But I wanted to love you.
You were safe, he says. Twice I saved you.
I didn’t want to be saved.
What, says Pete. What did you want?
I wanted to love you.
Pete laughs. I gave you my heart and you crushed it like a grape. You sucked the juice from your fingers.
Jesse smiles. She moves toward him. I watched a nature show this morning, she says. On television. Did you know that raccoons wash their food before they eat? The hilarious part is they eat garbage.
Come here, says Pete.
She stops out of reach and sways back and forth.
Come closer, says Pete.
And now you look like a raccoon, she says. Like you’re afraid of the sun.
Pete explodes from his chair, knocking it backward with a crash. Jesse turns to run and he chases her across the room. Breathing hard and fast. Jesse scrambles across the mattress and into the corner by the window. She raises her hands to defend her face. Pete stands over her, fists at his sides.
I don’t want to hurt you. But I can if I have to.
You’re bigger than me, she says. And stronger.
Pete crouches down.
Tell me it’s okay, he says. Tell me everything is okay.
Pete reaches for her hands. Jesse is laughing silently, her eyes wild and bright.
I dream about you dying, she says. Every night.
He shakes his head and pulls away. He begins to cough.
The dream goes like this, says Jesse. You lie on your belly, face to the floor. Circles of smoke from cigarettes. Windows of light mingle with dust. Your shoulder is sunburned and I peel the loose skin. Lift tissue flesh to the light and it glows like oil. Soft as a condom. I play with it. I close my eyes and I see you in the burn ward. The doctors say sixty percent of body surface is third degree. And your face is a bubble of skin with a slime coat. Left ear black and shaped like a fist. One finger hovers over morphine button. Hands blistered thin purple from slapping fire. Your thighs and ass burned terribly, sticking to the plastic sheet. Nurse lifts you for bedpan and there is a tearing noise. You try to laugh. But your hair is gone and you don't recognize your own dick. It is burned like an egg. Then I’m in a parked car with Bobby, your brother. He’s at the wheel looking through the windshield. I'm in the backseat and my legs are asleep. In the rearview mirror he has your face. He tells me you died at 1:09 a.m. in hospital. Cry if you want to, he says. I take off my shirt. Come fuck me, I say. He laughs at me with your voice. There is a gun beside me on the seat. It's a toy gun but looks real. I hold it to his head and pull the plastic trigger. Blue sky explosion and he turns the key.
Do you have a cigarette? Pete says.
Jesse shrugs. A knock at the door and she goes to answer it. Pete coughs, slapping his pockets for cigarettes. Jesse opens the door. Her lips part to sneer as a tall black man enters the room. He holds a gun at waist level. He is barefoot, with a bloodsoaked bandanna wrapped around the left foot. Jesse closes the door behind him. He crosses the room and Jesse looks down. The bloodied foot leaves one-legged marks like hoofprints in the floor.
Pete regards the man. Do you have a cigarette? he says.
The man stares. No.
Jesse. Give me one, Pete says.
She doesn't answer.
What's in the bottle? the man says.
Pete holds it to the light. Corn whiskey, he says.
How's it drink?
Like poison.
Let's have some, then. If you're of a mind.
Pete gives him the bottle. The man unscrews the cap, glares at Pete.
Don’t stand so close, he says.
He wipes the bottle’s mouth and takes a small drink.
That's okay stuff, he says. He gives the bottle back to Pete, who goes over to the kitchen area and is heard clattering dishes. The man sits down in the armchair. He places the gun on his thigh, then aims a finger at Jesse. She still stands at the door.
Boom, he says. Fall down. You're dead.
Jesse doesn't move.
I'm Charlie, he says. What's your name.
Jesse, she says.
He points at the rocking chair. Sit down then, he says. Like folks.
Pete comes back with coffee mugs, pours them each a drink. Charlie looks around. He regards the smashed television.
What's the matter with this TV? he says.
It's broken, says Jesse. I broke it.
I was late, says Pete.
Charlie laughs. They drink.
What do you want? says Pete.
Charlie picks up the gun and twirls it.
I killed four people down the hall, he says. I killed two, and then two more.
Jesse bangs her drink down and spits. What?
I had to, says Charlie. So they wouldn't wake up. Then the other two come home.
Jesse folds her hands in her lap and stares at the TV.
Pete shakes his head. We didn't hear any shots.
Charlie grins. I used a pillow for a silencer.
And how'd you do that to your foot?
Put it clean through a fancy glass coffee table.
I guess you lost your shoes.
Charlie rubs his thigh with the gun. I took my shoes off so I could walk stealthy. I was robbing the motherfuckers, wasn't I?
I guess so, says Pete. And now you're going to kill us?
Jesse closes her eyes. Why are you even talking to him? she says.
Why not? says Pete. Bedsides, it's a good question.
He looks at Charlie, who looks at his gun.
I might, he says. I might. Don't much feel like it though. And I only got one bullet left.
Seems like that gun would hold at least six bullets.
Shit. Only had five to start with.
Jesse opens her eyes. What do you want then?
I don't exactly know, he says. One thing I don't want is to walk down the street with my foot bleeding like it is.
I imagine we have something to put on it, says Pete. Jesse will look in the bathroom. He grins. Won’t you, dear?
Jesse hesitates, a tendon rising in her neck. She turns, walks into the dark. Her feet can be heard padding on the wood floor.
Charlie looks sly. There a telephone back there?
In the bathroom? says Pete. No. That's the only one, under the table.
Charlie kicks the receiver off the hook. The dial tone is a faint hum.
What's your name?
Pete.
I'm Charlie. She your wife?
Sort of. Look what she did to my TV.
Well. That looks like it was a nice TV. Now you haven’t got one. What the hell is wrong with her?
Pete waves a hand. Nothing. She gets tense. Paranoid sometimes.
I know the kind, says Charlie. Crazy.
I'd say killing four people is crazy. If that's what you did.
Charlie points the gun at him. What's that supposed to mean?
Sorry. Where's the stuff you stole, then?
Fuck you, boy. I stashed it.
Stashed it, huh. Pete nods. Where?
Charlie's mouth twitches. You want to change the subject before I shoot you in the face.
Sorry. Forget about it.
Where's your TV smashing wife at?
She's not really my wife.
Jesse returns carrying a bowl of water, a dry towel, a roll of gauze, a bottle of peroxide. Her eyes are touched with shadow, her lips fat with dark lipstick.
Charlie stares at her. What were you doing back there?
She bends to unload the medical things, then hangs up the telephone.
I took some aspirin, she says.
Pete dumps more whiskey in his cup. You look beautiful, he says.
She smiles without teeth and offers Charlie the bowl of water.
What is that for? he says.
To wash off your foot, she says.
Charlie points the gun at her. First get that shit off your face, he says.
Excuse me?
His eyes are dead moons. Look like a whore. I never trust a woman with a mouth whored up like that. Wash it off now. Look just like a damn whore.
Jesse dips towel into water, sullenly rubs her mouth and eyes. Her lips now appear bruised. She shoves the bowl splashing water onto the table.
Charlie wiggles the gun. No, he says. You’re gonna do my foot.
Why should I?
Because I asked you. And you seem a nice girl.
Jesse looks at Pete, then clicks on a bright white lamp. She kneels in front of Charlie and unwraps the bloody foot. Pete extracts a cigarette from her pack. Jesse looks up and says softly that the foot has glass in it.
Charlie lifts his foot to examine it. Well.
Pete blows smoke. You need to get that glass out, he says. Else your foot is gonna turn black and fall off like a turd.
Jesse, says Charlie. Let me see your hand.
She holds out her right hand and Charlie leans close. She has long white nails on her thumb and first two fingers. Charlie nods. What I figured. You can dig the glass out easy with these, he says.
Jesse pulls her hand away. Go fuck yourself.
She starts to get up and Charlie pushes the gun in her face.
I am serious, Charlie says. I'm serious as I can be.
Pete, she says.
Pete cools one black eye with his coffee cup. I'm sorry, he says. The lipstick was your idea.
Charlie waves the gun. I'd like to not shoot either of you. It's just some strange blood and tore up flesh. He points at Pete. You'd do it was it his foot.
Jesse laughs. Is that right, Pete?
She wouldn't spit on my foot, he says.
Neither here nor there, says Charlie.
Jesse looks at her nails. This is going to hurt, she says.
I expect it will. I'd like some more of that shine.
Pete refills his own cup then slides the bottle across the table.
Jesse bends over the foot. Pete is restless, his foot bouncing. He stands and begins to pace. There is silence for a minute. The light shines hot in Charlie's face. Pete moves in a broken circle around them.
I'm trying to visualize this, he says. Charlie, you say you took off your shoes and broke in on some people down the hall. What apartment was this?
Charlie shudders. The end. On the left.
Number three? says Pete.
Three, says Charlie.
Are you sure.
Yes, I’m sure.
That would be Jones. He works in the bookstore. And his friend, what's his name. Do you remember his name, dear?
I don’t, says Jesse.
Never mind, says Pete. Let’s say they were in bed, sleeping. And you shot them with a pillow for a muffler. Then you started looking for valuable shit and they didn't have anything.
That's right. Charlie spits. Two slick talking queer boys and they got nothing worth stealing.
Exactly. One bullet each. Then two other people came in and you say you killed them too. One bullet left. Because you only had five. How'd you happen to step through the coffee table?
One of them tried to fight me, says Charlie.
Jones has a little dog, I believe. Doesn’t he, Jess?
That’s right, she says. Nasty little white dog.
Did you see the dog, Charlie?
Charlie groans, his face bright with sweat. It was under the couch pissing itself. Listen what's your goddamn problem?
Jesse picks methodically at the skin of his heel and blood trickles to her wrist.
No problem, says Pete. A minute ago you said you stashed the stolen shit. Now these poor dead bastards don't have anything. And one thing they don't have is a fucking dog.
Only cats in this building, says Jesse.
Don't want to talk about it, Charlie says.
I'm sorry, Pete says. I'm just thinking, maybe these people aren’t as dead as you made them out to be. If they’re still kicking, you might be in less trouble. He blows a thin plume of smoke from his nose. You know. Attempted murder.
I'm telling you they are dead as shit and I want you to shut up talking about it. Charlie is shaking. His lips pull back to show teeth. You're drunk, he says.
Pete stops and his hand falls on Charlie's shoulder.
I'm not drunk, not at all. He raises his voice. Am I drunk, Jesse?
I don't think so, she says.
Charlie throws off the hand. Don't touch me, boy.
What's the matter?
Just don't ever touch me. You don’t want to do that.
Pete removes the offending hand with a shrug.
I'm finished, says Jesse.
Jesse sits on the edge of the coffee table. She lights a cigarette and lets it dangle in her smeared bloody hand. Pete stands like a shadow behind Charlie, as if reading over his shoulder.
Get the hell away from me. Charlie swings the gun, the light still shining in his face. You two are so close on me I can't breathe.
Pete steps back. I think you're lying about something, Charlie. About the guys you killed, or how you fucked your foot. The bullet. Definitely the dog.
Charlie jerks the gun up. Call me a fucking liar?
Pete is quiet.
Jesse blows smoke. I fixed your foot. Why don't you go home?
Charlie don't lie, he says.
Good for you, she says. Now go home. We're tired of you.
Charlie leans forward, switches off the lamp. Shadows fall on his face and he stares back at Jesse. Stop talking to me. You’re aggravating my stomach.
Fine, she says. I'm going to make some coffee for the police.
Pete laughs. Excellent idea.
Charlie lowers the gun. I need to think a minute.
She’s right you know, says Pete. The cops are liable to kick in our door any minute.
Charlie looks at him. I don't think so. No, sir.
Why not?
Because the door to that place is locked. Those boys don't have no phone and nobody’s gonna miss them. Be a while yet before they come to stink. Nobody knows a thing about it but the two of you. I got the gun. I got the answers.
Charlie rests his hurt foot on the table and leans back. The gun on his thigh. Pete sits down and reaches for the whiskey. Jesse stands by the sink. The hiss and sputter of coffee brewing. She examines her bloody hands. I wish we could turn on the TV, she says.
Charlie looks at Pete. Ever go bowling?
Not since I was a kid.
I love to bowl, says Charlie. Love it. The slick floors and the stillness before the pins crash. Like church. The weight of the ball, like a hammer. And so cool inside the finger holes. He pauses. I don’t care for the shoes. The shoes make me sick if I think about it. Some folks don’t ever wash their feet.
Pete sighs. I always hated bowling. It’s sport for fat guys.
Don’t get smart, says Charlie. I’m telling you a story.
Tell it, then.
Today I went down to my favorite alley. The Paradise. You ever been there?
No, says Pete.
It’s a beauty. They keep those lanes polished like silver. They serve cold beer and they got The Temptations on the jukebox.
It sounds great, says Pete.
Yeah, says Charlie. It’s nice. Anyhow, I was there today. I was throwing strikes, too. Then I met this little redhaired girl. She was dressed up like a tramp and she was eager. She was so wet I could smell it. I got her in the corner and felt her up. Nice titties, soft and fat. She gave me some tongue and said let’s go.
Okay, says Pete.
This girl, says Charlie. She was nasty. I never raised my fist to a woman before. But this one. She bit me and I had to give her the back of my hand. She got real peaceful after that. She was wearing this little skirt that zipped up the front. She lay there and let me unzip it. I took her panties off and went to eat her but she had her period. I saw that little white string poking out like a snake. And she was saying no all the while. Don’t do it, she said. I told her a little blood wouldn’t bother me and I pulled out the string with my teeth. Then I ate that old pussy ‘til I was sick.
Fantastic, says Pete.
She came alive after that, says Charlie. Thought I was wrestling a goddamn pit bull. You might say it was rape because she was just sixteen. Statutory. But she was willing. Wasn’t she, Lord? She about fucked me to death.
Ringing silence. Pete and Jesse look at each other.
That’s a good story, says Jesse. I like the way you tell it.
What, says Charlie. What do you mean, girl?
I mean it sounds familiar. Even though I never heard it before. Like you heard somebody else tell it and you liked the sound of it so much you practiced telling it in the mirror until it felt good to you.
Charlie’s jaw hangs open.
Maybe it came from a magazine, says Jesse. You look like a guy who loves a dirty magazine. And you didn’t even pay for it. You read it in the store. You stood in the back with your face hidden. You looked at the pictures and read the letters and jerked off in your pocket.
Pete is smiling.
Why would I do that? says Charlie. Why tell a story that’s not mine?
That’s easy, she says. You don’t want us to think you were down in apartment number three because you like boys.
Charlie growls at Pete. Wipe that goddamn smile off your face.
Jesse takes her shirt off and drops it to the floor. She wears a black bra. She is bony and her ribs show. Her breasts are small.
Okay, she says. This was loads of fun. I'm going to take a bath.
Charlie stares at her. What does your daddy think of you? he says.
I don’t have a daddy.
Oh yes, he says. Ever little girl has a daddy.
Listen, she says. Fuck you.
This is what I’m saying. You talk like a whore. Walk around half naked. He must be proud.
My father is dead, says Jesse.
I’m sorry, says Charlie. Was he a good man?
He was a piece of shit.
Don’t speak ill of the dead, girl.
The Christian routine is a bore, says Pete.
Charlie stands up, still staring at Jesse. The bloody bandanna that he wore earlier lies on the table. He picks it up with two fingers. The gun is aimed carelessly at the floor. Charlie moves slowly, stopping behind Pete’s chair. The gun comes up to touch Pete’s face, the edges of his mouth.
I believe you misunderstand what’s happening here, says Charlie.
Listen, says Pete.
Let me clarify it for you, says Charlie. He strokes the side of Pete’s face with one finger. You are my hostage. I might be a madman. So you had best be polite. Or else someone could accidentally get shot.
There is silence.
Don’t you see? says Charlie.
Yeah, says Pete. I see that now.
Open your mouth, says Charlie.
Listen to me, says Pete.
Charlie shoves the wadded bandanna into Pete’s mouth. Pete chokes and jerks his head, wild. Charlie sits back down, the gun trained on Pete.
Now then, says Charlie. I am talking to your wife. Not you. If you move, or interrupt again, then I’m gonna waste a perfectly good bullet.
Jesse has lit a cigarette. She blows smoke at the ceiling.
Charlie smiles. I am sorry, he says. You were telling me about your daddy. How did he die?
He was killed in a fire.
Was he drunk, says Charlie. Fall asleep with a cigarette?
He was in bed, says Jesse. But he was sober.
How do you know?
Because my mother was there. She told me.
What did she tell you?
Jesse stands and walks toward Pete. That he was screaming., she says. That he sounded like a horse.
Didn’t she try to help him? says Charlie.
Pete throws his head back and forth. His eyes are wide.
Didn’t she? says Charlie.
No, says Jesse. She didn’t.
Pete stomps the heels of his boots, cracking against the wood floor like gunshots, and now Jesse pulls the bandanna from Pete’s mouth slowly, like a piece of string.
Like I said. I’m going to take a bath, she says.