Anthology Two Presents
Jack Crowley:
"Passing Magdalene"
By Jericho Vilar

The room sat on cat quiet haunches. An eerie stillness squarely hovered over it soaking every inch, ever fiber, every stick of woeful, dust-encrusted furniture with an air of finality long since reserved for morgues and cancer wards. The deep tick tocking of a novelty cuckoo clock unnecessarily keeping time no one was going to use or care about reverberated from one of its four empty corners. Strays of neon glitz pulsated through the turned down Venetian blinds. The effect bathed its contents in crisp checkerboard shadows. Outside, Hollywood waited in the middle of the night for something exciting and dangerous to happen, not satisfied with the events that have already occurred mere hours ago. Below it, a street named Vine slumbered, clouds of winter billowing out of curbside gutters softly into the night air.

The room overlooked the sleeping city from its third story perch. The warm traces of motion had all but dissipated from its guts and chest cavity. A rumpled old bed played centerpiece in its nameless, faceless stage. An odd formation sprouted from underneath its valleys of cheap, gaudy duvets creating a chaos of mountains and molehills from its once flat, military cleanliness. Depression and deceit emanated from headboard to baseboard. The stench floated on molecules above it seeking refuge in some unlucky visitor's uninvited lungs. A limp, lifeless hand peeked out from under the covers.

That was where the body of Nora Magdalene was finally laid to rest.

Her body was an empty husk, an empty container drained of all of its energy, devoid of all of its luster. Her arms and legs were situated in odd right angles, the placement of which could only have been achieved due to the body's lack of tension and vigor. An explosion of wild, freshly colored hair completed the grotesque composition. She was a broken china doll still life. Streaks of mascara, lipstick, and sweat were the only sources of color in the otherwise stark, two toned display. Her half open eyes and twisted, misshapen mouth made it known that this wasn't the result that she had intended. This wasn't the way that her night was supposed to end. The messages fell on deaf ears. The room had ignored her plaintive screams and somber sobs all night. The ticking of the cuckoo clock was all that was left.

The ticking stopped and was followed by the hollow yell of the clock's wooden inhabitant marking the coming of five o' clock. Seconds later, when the bird's chorus had ended, the sound of the door creaking shattered the stillborn silence.

Jack Crowley entered the room soft hallway lighting framed his thin and lanky silhouette. He sighed in his usual dejected manner. His nostrils were introduced to the rich atmosphere. His lungs took in a gulp of the thick stew of dead fragrances and noticed the slight hint of women's perfume as sharp as daggers. He closed the door in the hopes of keeping the room's unique aroma inside. It faintly coated the sterile hallway much to his dismay.

He sighed again and casually made his way to the body. His dirty gray suit melted into the dirty gray walls and made the illusion that he consisted of nothing but a floating dress shirt with a black tie noose and a creased scowling head on top.

"Oh, Nora, Nora, Nora," he whispered to no one in particular and someone specifically at the same time. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

The stillness and shadows not enough of a reply to him, he stopped and bent down to get a better look at the body. With a careful sculptor's touch, he ran a finger over her forehead moving a strand of hair from her eyes. He blinked and focused his gaze into her blank retinas still waiting for some kind of response to his question. His fingers traced a path along her cheek and stopped when it reached her mouth. He noticed her lips were streaked in blood and beauty products.

Something inside him snapped. He struck her face in one quick motion.

The ferocity of the action turned his open hand into a blur. It impacted with her cheek with a loud slap that reminded him of a butcher packing meat. Her face remained expressionless. He was left alone to deal with the consequences of his actions. She didn't look like she cared.

"I was getting close, you know?" he told her as he caressed her face from cheekbone to jaw line then repeating the procedure like a long lost lover would.

"I had him in the palm of my hands. I was just about to get to the bottom of things and then this happens. You happened again, doll face. I just thought that you should know that."

Her skin felt awkward against his. Beneath her flesh, he saw veins filled with congealed blood and muscles in the midst of rigor mortis. She felt good once, he assured himself. The thought of her being like this before sent electric sparks down his spine.

"Love isn't supposed to be like this. You knew that. Why did you have to find out for yourself? I could've told you that. All you had to do was ask."

From outside, he heard people awaken. Motorcars and pedestrians would soon begin to fill the streets and hallways of America. His time with her was almost up. He accepted this and answered by lighting himself a cigarette. The small glow from its tip cast him in an all too familiar light. He was the tragic hero. In the year the calendars have named 1954, he knew that his kind was in abundance.

"I need you to talk now," he whispered mid drag. "I need you to tell me a story."

He stepped back and waved an open palm in front of her face. Under his breath, he spoke in forgotten languages he learned in buried places taught by dying elders. This was the only trick he had left in his shivering sleeve, the last one that he could show her.

Her lips tingled and sparked. Streams of saliva oozed from its bent corners.

"Jack?" they sputtered. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, angel," he smiled back. "It's me."

Her mouth moved independently from the rest of her body. Her words tasted like bile when it hit the room's stale air and disappeared soon afterwards. He narrowed his eyes into slits and concentrated on the invisible lifelines that he was somehow manipulating behind her jawbone. They were thin and had the consistency of tinsel. They were pushed and pulled during the act of strange ventriloquism.

"It's dark, Jack. I can't see," pleaded her lips.

"You're dead, doll face," he answered concentrating even further. "Your eyes don't work anymore."

The lips let out a low frequency whine that managed to break his heart. Inside, her tear ducts wanted to burst but couldn't. He stubbed out his cigarette on the stained carpet with his shoe.

"No, baby, no. It can't be. It just can't be."

The whining persisted, but he wouldn't have any of it. His face became granite as thick and cold as the streets below.

"No time for that now, doll face. I need you to tell me who did this to you."

He shifted his weight from one knee to the other and adjusted his crouch. The interrogation had begun.

"Who was with you tonight? Was it that dick, the bloody gumshoe? What was his name? Paul? Paulie?"

Her lips quivered then coughed. It sent droplets of sticky sick liquid crashing onto his suit coat like so much sad Hollywood rain.

"No. Not Phillip. I can't be him."

"Don't protect him, doll face. Don't you dare protect him for doing this to you," he whispered. His voice lowered to a rumbling bass.

"No, it was the other man. The one who was following me. The one that Phillip protected me from. The one he fought for me."

Her lips pursed. The upper half bit the lower half the way innocent schoolgirls did when accused of false wrong doings. She had no reason to lie to him now, he thought.

Not anymore.

"Okay, baby. I believe you," he told her and meant it.

The star lit lines of tinsel began to fade. He cursed himself for making her endure another moment of unforgiving finality that night.

"Tell me, Jack," the lips spat out.

"What's that, angel? What do you want me to tell you?"

The lines ebbed and waned, behind it the new day sun shone through the Venetian blinds.

"Was this true love?" they asked.

He shook his head, the gesture unseen. He stayed there, silent, and watched the last remaining brilliance of her tether to this world succumbing to darkness. It departed along with the night and left her lips still shaping the syllable of her final word.

He sighed one last time before standing up. He took measured steps towards the door respecting the murder scene. He opened the door and commanded his fingerprints to exit with him. He closed the door and felt her eyes close with it.

He had no more tricks to show her, no more witty remarks or shows of gallantry. He walked towards the elevator.

He had one more thing to tell her.

"I hope not, doll face. I really truly hope not."