We need to do something, p.7
We Need to Do Something, page 7
“How did you know it wasn’t me?”
“What?”
“You said you knew right away. How?”
“Easy,” I tell her. “The girl in the video, she was naked.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“She didn’t have any scars.”
“Oh.”
I’d never heard of deepfakes until Amy explained them to me after everything calmed down. Basically, you take dozens (or hundreds) of photos of someone’s head, upload them into an algorithm for like twenty-four straight hours, then you’re able to replace the head of a person in a pre-existing video with the head you uploaded. Internet dickheads do it a lot to troll people they hate. Make it look like their “enemies” are having sex on camera. “Revenge porn is big with these nerds,” she told me after school that day. I’d come running to her house in tears and she’d met me at the front door, took me around back to the tire swing behind their garage.
“That’s what this is?” I asked her. “Revenge porn?”
And she nodded. “He uploaded it on all the major sites. Emailed everybody at school. They think it’s me.”
“But it’s not.”
“You know that doesn’t matter.”
“We have to do something,” I said. “We can’t let him get away with this.”
Back in the bathtub, Amy nods. “And we did do something, didn’t we?”
“We took it too far,” I whisper. “Everything just kept getting worse.”
“Do you want me to apologize?”
“No,” I tell her. “Please. Never apologize.”
She laughs. “Motherfuckin’ tongues.”
And I return the laugh with one of my own. “Motherfuckin’ tongues.”
“I guess, in retrospect, substituting had been a bad idea.”
It isn’t like we were left with much choice. The spell called for a beef tongue and we’d tried to obtain one. What we hadn’t expected was how expensive they’d end up being. The cheapest one we found locally cost over twenty dollars. And, since butchers typically did not accept Hot Topic and iTunes gift cards as valid currency, that left us shit out of luck.
And who knows? That could have been the end of it, right? Except I couldn’t let things rest. Joe had to fucking pay. I started thinking about Spot, still fresh in the grave in our back yard. The Amazon delivery incident had only occurred a couple weeks ago at that point. It wouldn’t cost a dime to dig him back up. Why would anybody notice? It’d be easy. And it was. That very night, I snuck out with a shovel, spent fifteen-to-twenty minutes unearthing the ground. We hadn’t even stuck Spot in a box. Just chucked him in, unprotected, for the insects to feast. A much bigger challenge followed, however. Prying open his mouth and pulling out his tongue far enough to cut it off. Doing all of this without puking in his tiny grave. I kept expecting Spot’s corpse to suddenly lash out and bite my fingers. I would have deserved it.
The next day, I got up early and met Amy at her house. By then we were skipping school like it was a hobby.
“Who needs school?” Amy asks in the bathtub. “Anything you want to know can be found on the internet.”
“Like spells?” I respond, a little snide maybe.
“I wonder how grumpy all those old magicians would get if they discovered one day their secret grimoires would be uploaded as PDFs for the whole world to look at whenever they wanted.”
“Probably pretty grumpy.”
“Oh well,” she says. “They’re dead now, anyway.”
“Aren’t we all?” I ask her.
She ignores me and kisses my cheek again. “When you brought me the dog’s tongue, I couldn’t believe it.”
“You didn’t think I would do it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“You never get a bad feeling for absolutely no reason?”
The spell was simple, Amy assured me. People did it all the time, especially the mob. The mob? I’d shouted in her empty house. And she nodded, explained sometimes people tried testifying against them in court, so what did they do? Performed a beef tongue spell on the witness. Real bona fide hoodoo. Suddenly the witness no longer wants to testify. What this spell does, she told me, is convince people to stop talking shit about you. It gives them a stern warning that you aren’t someone to be fucked with, or else.
“So,” she said, taking the plastic bag holding Spot’s tongue, “let’s give this motherfucker a warning, shall we?”
Trying to remember the ritual now gives me a headache, or maybe I already had a headache. Starvation is rotting me from the inside out. “You already had the supplies ready,” I tell Amy in the bathtub.
“I’m a collector. It’s what I do.”
“A collector of what?” I ask her.
But she only grins, then sticks her tongue out and licks the tip of my nose.
I stood aside and watched her get to work, like she’d performed the spell a thousand times before. Slitting open Spot’s tongue lengthwise and setting it on a glass saucer. “Back to you in a second,” she’d told the tongue, as if it were still alive, as if it could hear her. Then, on a small piece of brown paper, she wrote Joe’s name three times in a stacked column. After rotating the paper counterclockwise, she then scribbled SHUT THE FUCK UP across each use of his name.
“I remember you asking me if I was sure it was going to work,” Amy says, lips next to my ear in the bathtub. “Wasn’t it fun, back when there was still room to doubt each other?”
“I never doubted you.”
“But you could have.”
“The stuff you dabbed on the paper. The one you wrote Joe’s name on. What was it?”
“Shut the fuck up oil,” Amy says.
“Ha ha.”
“I’m serious.”
“You made it?”
“From a recipe I found online. Slippery tongue, deerstongue, nettle, sassafras, and . . . bloodroot, I think.”
“Where the hell did you even get all that?”
“I told you. I’m a collector.”
“I didn’t know you were so good with needles, either. The way you sewed the paper into Spot’s tongue, it was all very neat and professional.”
“Aww, thank you, baby.”
Sewn it, yes, but also tied the remaining black thread around the tongue like one would restrain a prisoner. Then she carved Joe’s name into a black candle, along with SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, and dug it into the tongue, using its rotted meat as a makeshift base.
She dumped the rest of the shut the fuck up oil on the tongue.
After she lit the wick, she had me sit across from her, and together we prayed over the flame, reciting words that made sense in the moment but no longer sound intelligible here in my parents’ bathroom. The wax melted down the candle, sizzling against the tongue and conjuring a grotesque scent of decay. Once the candle was finally spent, she dropped the congealed tongue into a glass jar of vinegar. This way, she explained, anything Joe tried saying about her would be turned against him. This is how we really make him suffer.
The next day at school, our homeroom teacher informed the classroom Joe had passed away in his sleep. She didn’t specify how, but I already knew the truth.
“He choked to death on his own tongue,” I whisper in the bathtub, holding Amy so tight I’m afraid she might break.
“He got exactly what he deserved,” she tells me.
“Is that what we’re getting now?” I ask her. “Exactly what we deserve?”
Her response arrives with zero hesitation: “Yes.”
***
In the bathtub, I close my eyes and when I open them, Dad has materialized in the center of the bathroom, staring down at Bobby, who’s sleeping flat on his back. Dad nudges Bobby’s ribs with his foot and he stirs away, gasping at the sight of our father above him.
“D-D-Daddy?”
“Get up.”
“Why?”
“When I tell you to do something, do you do it or do you question me?”
“I do it.”
“Then do it.”
Bobby slowly stands, eyeing Mom across the bathroom, who’s just woken from all the commotion.
“What are you looking at her for?” Dad says, tapping him hard on the back of the head. “I’m the one talking to you, right? Look at me.”
Bobby looks at him, tears in his eyes.
“What’s going on, Robert?” Mom says. I don’t utter a word, praying they forget I exist for the time being. It seems to work.
“Bobby and I are gonna try something.”
“Try what?”
“Calm the fuck down.” He sneers back down at Bobby and says, “Come on,” then leads him to the semi-open bathroom door. He waves at the gap with one of his injured hands. “You see that?”
“See what?” Bobby asks.
“The goddamn opening. Do you see it?”
“Ye-yes.”
“I need you to go through it.”
Bobby glances up at him, incredulous. “Wh-what?”
“If anyone’s gonna fit through it, it’s gonna be you. C’mon now.”
“I . . . I can’t.”
“You haven’t even tried. Can’t you at least try? What’s it gonna hurt to just try?”
Bobby attempts to look around Dad to our mother, but he reaches out with a discolored hand and guides Bobby’s jaw so they’re maintaining eye contact.
“Why do you keep looking at her, huh?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m your daddy, right?”
Bobby doesn’t say anything.
Dad clenches his jaw. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t you trust your daddy?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you trust me?”
“Yes. I trust you.”
“And you want to make me and your mommy happy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to help us get out of here.” He gestures to the opening again. “You need to squeeze through.” His voice lowers into a whisper. “Please.”
Mom leans forward. “Robert . . . ”
Dad grits his teeth and says, “Shut up,” then, back to Bobby, “C’mon now, boy. You can do it. I believe in you. Do it.”
Bobby hesitates several more seconds, and I’m debating trying to put an end to this, but a part of me is also curious to see if he can actually squeeze through the door. My brother isn’t the tiniest little boy on the planet, but he sure isn’t the biggest, either. Him making it to the other side may sound unlikely, but it’s far from impossible.
He steps forward, closing in on the crack between door and doorframe, and stretches his arm through it, then his leg. His foot and calf manage to make it through, but his thigh gets lodged between the wood. He pauses and glances back at our father.
“I’m too big.”
“You aren’t even trying.”
“But . . . ”
“You can fit. I know you can fit. You have to fit, okay? So just quit being a baby and . . . and just fucking do it, okay? Okay?”
“Okay . . . ”
I don’t understand why Mom hasn’t put an end to this. She’s sitting on the floor, watching them, and I’m doing the same. Then I realize she hasn’t done anything because she’s also waiting to see if it works, hoping he can fit through and get help. It doesn’t matter if Dad’s being an asshole about it. Someone needs to escape. It only makes sense to start with the smallest in the family.
Bobby presses his head against the opening and attempts to squeeze through. Little success is reached. He groans and continues pushing. Nothing happens. He gives up and starts retreating when Dad grabs the back of his head and pushes it harder into the opening. Cramming my brother’s skull through like expired meat into a garbage disposal. Only a small diameter of his forehead makes it through. Bobby’s limbs start writhing and flailing as he screams, helpless.
“C’mon, goddammit, squeeze, you can do it, fucking squeeze . . . ”
Bobby’s screaming louder now, trying his best to fit through the opening, but there’s no way in hell any child, no matter the size, is going to fit. It’s simply not wide enough.
Mom snaps out of her daze and springs to her feet. She leaps on Dad’s back and wrestles him away from the door, long enough for Bobby to flee to the bathtub where I’ve been hiding this whole time, equally petrified. I wrap my arms around my brother and hug him close to my body. Dad flings Mom off and she goes sprawling across the floor and everybody’s crying now except for Dad. He towers above us, breathing heavy, studying our tears. A mixture of emotion drains from his face, from total rage to shock to confusion to slow understanding to, finally, depression. He backs against the door then lowers himself to the floor, defeated.
Several hours of silence later, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
***
All four of us gather in a circle on the floor to play a game of Mexican train dominoes. We used to play this all the time when I was younger. We used to do a lot of things as a family. Like eat at the kitchen table. Watch shows. Go on walks around the neighborhood. Back when Spot was still alive, we’d all take him down to the park and get him to chase a tennis ball. But then Spot died. Then Dad started working more hours and spending more time at the bowling alley. If I stayed home, some kind of argument was bound to ensue, so I found myself spending more and more time at Amy’s house whenever possible. Maybe that’s what happened to everybody. Nothing lasts forever. One day you’re playing Mexican train dominoes with your family and the next day you haven’t spoken to your parents in a week besides the obligatory good morning and see ya later.
Until the day came where you were trapped in a bathroom with them all, and nobody came to save you, and slowly you rotted away to nothing until you finally deteriorated from existence.
“How much longer can we survive like this?”
Silence.
Mom and Dad exchanging glances.
Mom clears her throat. “It’s hard to tell, honey.”
Dad nods along with her. “The one thing that’s on our side right now, that we have to remain grateful for, is we have a steady supply of water. I think we can survive a couple weeks without food. But if we didn’t have water? I don’t even think we would have made it this long.”
Bobby gasps, the realization hitting him for the first time. “Are we going to die?”
Mom shakes her head and caresses his cheek. “No, baby. Nobody’s gonna die.”
“As long as we play it smart and don’t act like dumbasses,” Dad says. “Anybody can survive anything, assuming they handle it the right way.”
“Are we handling it the right way?” Bobby asks.
Dad holds up the thermos. “We’re staying hydrated, and that’s the most important thing right now.”
“But it’s making me have to go pee soooo much!”
The three of us giggle.
“It’s a good thing we still have a toilet, huh?” Mom says.
Bobby grins. “Yeah, and you have to all watch me shake my booty as I pee!”
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him.
Bobby sticks out his tongue.
I flip him off.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been...well, you know. Upset. Out of control.” Dad licks his lips as he struggles to figure out his apology. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve ever heard my father apologize. He must have really realized he’s gone out of line here. His body looks weak, fragile. All the fight’s drained out of him. “I guess I’m just scared, just like the rest of you, and I know that’s no excuse for the way I’ve been acting. I should be stronger for my family. For my children.” He glares at Mom. “For my wife.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. I don’t know if I actually think it’s okay, or if I’m just telling him what he needs to hear. His words are sincere. I’ve often considered his rage to demonstrate that of a demonic possession; how he’s able to flip from perfectly nice and caring husband and father to something far more sinister and terrifying. Like right now. How long has it been since he called me a spoiled fucking brat? Now there are tears in his eyes, and looking at them generate some in my own.
Everyone in this bathroom is wondering the same thing. We’re all asking each other the same questions. Are we doomed? What is happening out there? Are we going to die? Questions with answers just out of grasp, like a prisoner jailed inches from the key to his cell.
Sit in the same room with someone long enough, and you quickly realize there’s only a finite amount of conversation starters. Especially when it’s with your immediate family, people you’ve lived your entire life with. We talk about TV shows and movies coming out soon that we’re excited to watch, as if there’s any fucking hope we’ll ever actually get to watch them. Life as we know it has dramatically changed, and the likelihood of a return to normalcy seems slim to none.
This current round of Mexican train dominoes comes to end, and we all count up our hands and announce our scores aloud.
“Why are we even counting? Nobody’s keeping track,” I say. “Especially since soommmebody forgot the pen and paper . . . ”
Bobby sighs. “I told you I was sorry!”
“I’m getting bored of this game, anyway.”
“I’m getting bored of your face,” Bobby says.
“Well, what else would you like to play?” Mom asks.
I pause, thinking it over, then throw up my hands. “We’ve played everything a thousand times already.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“We can keep playing Mexican train dominoes,” Bobby says. “I think I’m winning.”
“You can’t even count up your own score,” I tell him.
“I’m winning and you’re losing! You’re losing, Sis. You’re losing!”
I shake my head at him. No way am I lowering myself to respond to such immaturity. “I wish we could watch TV.”
“Yeah! I want to watch TV, too!”
“Is it Tuesday yet?”
Silence.
“I think it’s past Tuesday,” Dad says.
“What day is it?” Bobby asks.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
I lean back against the bathtub, exhausted but tired of sleeping. “The last episode of The Nightly Disease was supposed to come on Tuesday.”
