Chapter Text
Over the course of the following months, their routine remained much the same, with the exclusion of Holland’s hookups, now replaced with love-making between the two of them. Pinky still could not to find work, for an entirely new reason: he would suffer bouts of hemorrhaging more often, making his eye visibly red and putting a dangerous target on his back. Along with his eye, his gums and vagina bled profusely, and the skin on his hands began cracking at the joints.
Holland faced less bleeding, but far more hallucinations. Sid appeared more often, even in Pinky’s presence, which often resulted in him wandering away or lashing out. The exorbitant amount of money he spent on food alone chained him to each town for far longer than he wanted, especially coupled with the ensuing winter season and his lay-offs from poor behavior.
They crossed Pennsylvania and entered New York just as spring approached. Holland carried Pinky in his arms the whole way. “We’ll get an apartment here,” he whispered one night. “We’ll settle down. We’ll have our own kitchen, our own room, and our freedom.” Pinky’s hearing had progressively worsened; he couldn’t understand him.
Upon arriving in NYC, he visited every place Trent could have possibly gone to, including bars, casinos, hotels, etcetera. No one knew who he was talking about; some turned him away immediately, as he visibly looked sick. The wandering only worsened the further he went into the Bronx. Sid would point him in various directions, only to come up empty-handed on Trent’s whereabouts.
His feet were blistered beyond recognition. One afternoon, when he tended to his open flesh wounds outside his motel room, Sid stood by him. I know where he is, he said.
“I don’t believe the shit you say anymore.”
You’re not in a position to argue. Do you wanna pass up on this chance?
“Why can’t you just tell me? Don’t you want me to find him?”
I have a condition for you.
The bug split in two far faster than usual. “You could have just fucking told me instead of being childish!”
I need you to die as soon as the job is done. Knife to your throat the moment Trent breathes his last.
“Fine.”
… Fine? You will?
“I don’t have the time to bullshit with you. I can’t see you if you don’t tell me where this fucker is.”
Promise—
“I fucking promise!”
Sid wasn’t happy, but despite the juvenile games he played, he wanted to feel Holland’s touch again. He’s on the coast. In a trailer park.
“Trailer? Didn’t he want to ‘live big’?”
Hell if I know.
“How do you know he’s there?”
Ghosts can kinda feel the presence of people at the end of their days, I guess. He’s in better shape than you in terms of the disease, but he developed some bad habits, I assume.
“‘Assume’?”
I can smell the alcohol.
Holland stood up and went back inside. Pinky was in bed, his mouth covered in blood. He lay on his side so he wouldn’t choke. Holland sat beside him and stroked his thinned hair, now grown out down to his shoulders. “How are you, baby?”
“Feeling metallic.”
“Have you taken your iron supplements?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll, uh… I’ll be back, alright?”
“Working?”
“No.”
What little light remained in Pinky’s eyes dimmed. “Okay.”
“Listen, I’ll be quick—”
“You always say that.”
“… This is for your father, Pinky. I need to—”
“He’s dead, and he’s been dead for years. I’m still alive.”
Holland wished he could stay by Pinky’s side, but according to Sid, Trent was only a few miles away. He couldn’t give up when he was so close. “Get some more rest, alright?”
“Please, don’t go.”
“… I… Pinky, I have to.”
“… Don’t go…”
“I’ll be—”
Pinky began to cry. “Don’t go… Don’t leave me, please…!”
Holland gave him a prolonged kiss on the forehead. “I know you’re in pain, but I’ll lie with you as long as you want when I’m done.”
“If you… If he’s not there… Stop looking. Stop with this, I beg you…”
There were too many lumps in Holland’s throat to reply. He simply rubbed Pinky’s shoulder and left.
Sid led the way to the trailer park. Holland’s lack of a backpack and a companion made him a prime target for authorities to capture him, but his mind was too hazy to care for the danger.
The trailer park was old, crusty around the edges, and dirt-cheap. Many poor folks lingered near the mobile homes, sitting in folding chairs, playing fetch with large dogs, or standing around with beer cans. Some were as bloody as he was; police were known to avoid areas with large gatherings of Eugene’s victims in fear of catching the disease themselves. He walked up to a dirty man with alopecia. “Evening,” he greeted. “I’m looking for someone. You know your neighbors?”
“‘Course I do,” the man replied.
“Trent Shrader. Know him?”
“Ah, that guy. You here to kill ‘em?”
Holland had to pinch himself to contain his excitement and relief. His glee was that of an oxy high. “… How many people are out to kill him?”
“I’ve seen that bitch-ass nigga bringin’ kids around here. Only reason we ain’t kill ‘em is ‘cause he pays the most out of everyone. He’s why this park ain’t shut down yet.”
“Sorry, but I have to kill him.”
“I’d love if you did, but we got our homes to look after.”
“I understand that, but I knew him back in ‘72. He molested me as a kid.”
The man sighed and leaned forward against his knees. “Goddamn, kid. I guess we gon’ die anyway.” He pointed to a trailer on the furthest end of the park. “He’s over there. Help yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Holland sunk his teeth into his own tongue to contain himself as he walked to Trent’s location. Upon walking up the steps, he pressed his ear against the door, and he heard Trent’s grating nicotine voice on the other side. Every so often, the shrill of a young child overlapped. A creak, a cry, and another creak, cycling repeatedly, incessantly.
Just like the day he rescued his beloved, he kicked the door next to the knob, caving it inward. The force he applied made the few intact blisters on his feet pop, soaking his sock and creating a sickly sticky feeling. He did not hesitate to kick three more times before Newton’s third law allowed him entry.
There was Trent, mounting a young black boy who couldn’t have been any older than eight. His hair had returned as red as ever, and his eyes as yellow as Goodwell’s. His body, however, had fattened—true to Sid’s claims of alcoholism. He was thirty-four, but his smoking and other horrid habits aged him fifteen extra years. Holland briefly feared he had gotten the wrong house.
Trent scrambled to cover himself, while the boy remained naked and exposed. His bottom was covered in blood and feces, permeating the air with an acrid stench that paired perfectly with the filthy, claustrophobic surroundings. “You goddamn fuck!” Trent shouted. His voice scraped Holland’s ears, and the bug shrieked in fury.
“There he is,” Holland said slowly. “Oh… I’ve been… looking for you all over…”
Trent stood up and went fishing around in the bedside end table’s drawer. “I know who you are, you fucking dick. I can’t believe you’d travel all this fucking way over some petty breakup!”
Holland stepped forward and threw a punch, knocking Trent’s large body to the floor. “I’ll gut you and scoop out your innards if you move.”
“You traveled all this way just to kill me, so go ahead… You look half-dead already.”
Holland turned around and gently scooped the boy off the bed. He ran to the first person he saw, who took the boy out of his hands. When he returned, Trent was on his feet again, shakily loading a standard handgun. He kicked Trent in the back, forcing him to the floor again. “Is that gun for me or you?”
“Get the hell off me! I—I know I f—fucked up and hurt you, but—!”
“You really are a bitch. Just as scared as you were when you killed my dad.”
“Laugh all you fucking want to, but we’re both almost dead anyway! What the hell do you gain?!”
Holland thought about Pinky waiting for him at home. He forcefully took the gun and threw it away. With his right hand, he dug into his back pocket and pulled out a small knife. He stood over Trent, turned to face his legs, and sat on his throat with all of his weight. “You always liked it when I sat on you, but I guess I’m too old to make you cum now.”
Trent gurgled as he fought. He punched Holland’s sides, scratched his arms, and kicked his legs against the floor. Holland aimed the knife at his stomach, and, as he promised, cut a vertical line from his groin to his chest. He then tossed the knife and used both hands to pry the opening further, revealing the visceral fat that lodged between every organ. Trent’s gurgling transformed into guttural screams after Holland released him.
Holland stuck his bloody hands in his pockets and walked out, away from the trailer. Many residents of the trailer park watched in hiding. The man he spoke to earlier silently nodded, and he nodded back.
He limped and stumbled the whole time he wandered. He picked up rocks, stared at squirrels and birds, and almost got caught by police. People who passed by him steered clear in disgust. One child cried seeing all the blood that may or may not have belonged to him—he had no way of knowing for sure.
When he returned home, he saw Pinky sitting on a blood-soaked towel on the floor, watching the news lady praise President Reagan for his unrelenting push-back against the filth that plagued the US. “Love, I’m back,” Holland said quietly. “How are you feeling?”
Pinky didn’t reply.
“… I know I shouldn’t have left. I know you’re mad, and you have every right to be. But it’s over. I… It’s over, Pinky.”
No response.
Holland sat next to him on the floor and gave him a kiss. “We can get that apartment now. I can find a more stable job around here. It’s the land of opportunity, you know.”
Pinky finally looked at him. Maggots crawled inside his sockets. “You left me,” he whispered shakily. “You left, even after I begged.”
Holland didn’t reply. His stomach bubbled at the sight of the filthy worms squirming about.
“I don’t want to see you anymore. Go back to your real boyfriend.”
He grabbed Pinky by the shoulders with far more force than ever. “No! Pinky, I love you! How could you say that?!”
“Leave me alone, you snake…”
“I won’t! I…!”
Pinky’s head rolled over to the side like a toy doll. When Holland released him, his body fell to the floor, unmoving. He had lost too much blood from his menstrual cycle, and his body couldn’t work fast enough to make more. He was dead.
Holland stared down at him for a long time, his breath steady and shallow. The news lady’s voice washed away, replaced by Sid’s. You lied to me, he sneered. You lied! You lied! You lied!
Holland paid no attention to him. He had no strength left to argue, to stand, to eat, or to mourn. He just stared, his eyes burning holes into Pinky’s pallid skin. The bug was quiet.
