Going: Psychological Thriller Short Fiction By K.A. Liedel

If the bouquet had been just a bouquet, a real bouquet, Orla wouldn’t have bothered cradling it across the hospital parking lot. What did she care for flowers? She could hardly tell a daisy from a daffodil.

But these flowers—well, these had utility. Particularly the thin hollow between their stems. The item she’d hidden there was just six inches long from tip to handle. Easy to conceal. Not so easy to keep from poking about.

So, two hands it was.

As long as the shiv stayed unseen, it’d get the job done. That’s what she was telling herself, anyway. Two days ago, her secret parcel was still a Westforge flathead, something Father had used for a decade-plus to knock items off his honey-do list. All she’d done was make it a little more deadly. Whittled the blade a bit. Taped up the acetate handle. Surely that wouldn’t void the famous Westforge lifetime guarantee?

Surely not.

So it was that she, Father, and the precious bouquet made their way past Anderlin’s glass facade and up two sets of carpeted stairways. There, in the hospital’s wide, fresh-smelling atrium, they waited for the elevator in silence. It’s how they’d been spending most days as of late.

Father passed the time by rubbing his thumb on the nickel crucifix that hung from his chest. Praying again. For his ears only. In times like these, he felt no closer than the moon.

“I don’t rightly know what to expect,” he said once they were in the elevator and racing up to the eighth floor. He’d already uttered his amen. “We must proceed with grace, come what may.”

Father passed the time by rubbing his thumb on the nickel crucifix that hung from his chest. Praying again. For his ears only.

“And what about him?”  Orla asked. “Does he have rules, too?”

Father cleared his throat. “But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

“I’ve read Matthew.” She’d gone through all the apostles, in fact.

Father watched her. Not straight on, but through her reflection on the burnished steel surface of the elevator wall. He said nothing.

Orla tightened her grip on the daisies. It didn’t matter. No proverb written or unwritten would make any difference now.

She knew where they were headed as soon as the elevator door slid aside. There was a plainclothes cop standing at the end of the corridor, one hand eased into his belt, the other embellishing his endless quantities of small talk with a Styrofoam cup. He’d been at their house two weeks ago, looking just as careless as he did now.

“He won’t let us in,” Orla said.

Father touched the crucifix to his lips. His face was gray in parts, red in others. “Faith, Orla.”

She didn’t tell him that the last few scraps of her faith had gone into making the shiv.

The detective noticed them from about two doors away. With a long and labored sigh, he diverted his attention away from the nurse he was boring, tossing the cup aside. He needed both hands to shoo them.

Orla had no patience for polite coercion. She looked straight through the detective—through his glossy badge, his frayed belt, his white socks stuffed into his penniless penny loafers. He was the picture of tedious authority. The wall behind him was far more interesting. The brass plate near the door, in particular. It was etched with the numbers 8-1-0, each stroke limned in white.

“Mr. Henning,” the detective said.

“Detective Lin.” Father was still walking.

“We talked about this.”

“We did. Are you a man of God, Detective Lin?”

Lin sighed again. “You’re gonna hafta stop…”

Father did, just inches away from Lin’s outstretched hands. Orla never saw him so resolute. Not even during the incident was he this determined.

“It’s a simple question, Lin,” Father said.

Lin swallowed in resignation. “Occasionally.”

“Well then perhaps you can find it in your semi-pious heart to let us absolve this man.”

“Mr. Henning, listen…”

“Please.”

“…I know it hasn’t been easy—”

“We’ve come to forgive, Detective Lin. To pray for the health and soul of the accused.”

“Right.”

“There’s nothing more to it. No schemes. No anger.”

Lin threw a quick glance over to Orla. Even under the searing light of the hospital’s fluorescents, his eyes were as dull as a cow’s.

“It’s not your anger I’m worried about,” he said.

“You have my assurances—”

“It’s a no. I’m not saying I wouldn’t’ve done same as you. Hell, I would’ve probably done worse. But I can’t let you in there.”

The words bore down like concrete. Orla felt her face go hot. Even with all the second-guessing she’d done of her Father’s puerile aims—not to mention his laughable use of the word accused, as if there was any doubt!—she was hoping against hope he’d succeed. The only thing that mattered now was getting into Room 810.

“You could come in with us,” Father suggested.

“It’s against protocol,” Lin countered. Orla could tell he was waffling.

“Detective.”

“It’s against every goddamn ounce of common sense in my body, too, if you’ll pardon my French.” The detective’s starched face softened for just a moment. “Listen—I know it hasn’t been easy.”

“You said that already,” Orla pointed out.

Lin shot her two penknife eyes. He wanted to tell her off. She could see it plain as pudding. The detective’s neck was slowly bulging over his collar, his hands magnetized to his pockets. The contempt was a big bite to swallow. Orla nearly laughed.

“This is just gonna make it harder,” Lin told Father, finally getting it down. “Turn around, for your own sake.”

“I’m not here for my sake,” Father said in his best preacher’s cadence. He put his hand around Orla, splitting a look between her and the door to 810. “I’m here for theirs.”

For reasons beyond Orla’s grasp, that was magical combination of words that broke Lin’s will. As she stuck the bouquet between her knees in preparation for the detective’s mandatory pat-down, she found herself impressed with Father’s resolve. It didn’t matter that he had so readily condemned her. Not for this great a prize.

The detective’s neck was slowly bulging over his collar, his hands magnetized to his pockets. The contempt was a big bite to swallow. Orla nearly laughed.

Perhaps they were more alike than she had once thought.

Lin snatched the daisies up after he was done checking her, giving the flowers a quick once-over, sniffing them, rubbing the petals between his fingers. It never occurred to him to check the tissue wrap. Maybe he believed few people were desperate or vengeful enough to go to such lengths, and Orla wasn’t one of them.

She was, of course.

But perhaps that wasn’t his reason. It was entirely possible that all the hard work she’d put into gussying up the bouquet had paid off. Whether or not the devil was in Room 810, he’d forever be in the details.

Speaking of, Room 810 was bleach-white and immaculate, as clean a space as Orla had ever seen. This annoyed her greatly. The man lying at its center, hooked to the beeping metal boxes and breathing in ragged sprays, did not deserve clean. He deserved germs and disease and shit. He deserved a fucking plague delivered straight into his veins.

Orla remained composed as Lin led them to the bedside. The detective made sure to drag the two visitor’s chairs a little further away than they’d been placed. His face drained with annoyance as he muttered to himself.

“My mother was a God-fearing woman, rest her soul. That’s the only reason I’m doing this. So make your peace and pray for him and all that, then get out. And never come back. Ever.” He turned. “You understand that, Mr. Henning?”

Father nodded, grateful. He wasted no time doing what he’d come to do, hurrying to the bedside before Lin had even left the room. By the time the door clicked shut, he was half-crouched above the intruder as one hovers over a sick puppy.

Hands still grasping the daisies, Orla slumped down into one of the chairs. She knew one of Father’s life-everlasting spiels was imminent. For him, godawful homilies were as essential as air.

The man’s eyes fluttered at Father’s presence, gradually swelling in fear at the sight of his visitors. Despite her mood, Orla smiled to herself. The ventilation mask didn’t seem to be doing him any good.

“There’s no reason to be scared,” Father told him.

There is, Orla thought.

The man heaved into the ventilator.

“We ask only for a moment of your time,” Father continued. “Just a moment. To pray. Together.”

Orla rolled her eyes.

Father took the man’s bandaged hand in his own and smiled. With the other, he seized the cross from his neck and held it up to the nuclear-bright sodium lamp that loomed over the bed. The crucifix’s dark metal glinted white.

“Prayer is change. A small…perfectly small, perfectly wondrous transmutation, obtained by a mere plea. Can you think of any other transaction where power is gained through humility? To commute with our maker on our knees—on our backs even, in our beds—beseeching that we may forgive others as He has forgiven us? What else comes so simply?”

The man stared blankly.

“Nothing does,” Father said. “Come, pray with me now. God will help you absolve my daughter. Come. Feel it.” And so he began.

Orla heard his words, but she wasn’t listening. The sting of his docile rebukes had long faded. And besides, he was wrong: prayer didn’t matter one bit. It was just another way to humiliate yourself, no different than begging. She’d heard and seen enough of that in her life, even at sixteen.

Staring at the man in the bed was a much better use of her time. It gave her immense pleasure to see him now, to see how much she’d hurt him. Even two weeks old, the agony was raw. His eyes lurched in his head, pain flickering across the lids until the spasms wound down into his nostrils and mouth, turning his lips as sallow as his hospital gown. Orla had hurt him in ways he’d never been hurt before. Irreparably so. That was an accomplishment no prayer could deliver.

Father finished his prayer and rose to his feet. But when he tried to take his daughter’s hand again, Orla refused.

“I need more time,” she said. “Another prayer.”

“Of course. There’s always time for—”

“No. Me and him.” She looked up. “Just me and him.”

Father let a moment pass, his open hand slowly withdrawing. “Can I trust you to do that in the Christian way?”

Orla didn’t flinch. She’d rehearsed for this. “Would it be very Christian of you if you couldn’t?”

Father could never resist a test of faith.

The intruder’s eyes followed Father as he disappeared out the door, then snapped back onto Orla. She smiled and scooted closer to the bed.

“He promised ice cream after this,” she said. “As if that’ll make it okay.”

The man struggled to respond, first gurgling, then chewing his teeth. That was fine by Orla.

“You came looking for something that night,” she started. “I dunno what.”

He coughed. A pink-tinged spittle dotted the inside of his ventilation mask. Still nothing to say.

Detective Lin stole a glance at them through the narrow pane in the door. Always checking, that man. Orla held the bouquet to her chest. The detective stared a bit longer, then turned away.

“We didn’t have anything worth stealing,” she continued. “But I think you already knew that when you broke in.  You just didn’t care.”

The man coughed again. This time words came with.

“You cut me.” His voice was sandy and broken, long unused.

She ignored him. “I’m not gonna ask why you did what you did…”

“I needed over three-hundred goddamn stitches.”

“…because I didn’t come here to find out.”

“Two blood transfusions—”

“You killed my mom, you fuck.”

The man was dumbfounded for a moment. Then, slowly, he found the strength to sneer, leveling it at her from beneath his mask.

“She didn’t need to fight me. Could’ve just handed over her shit…” He stopped himself, swallowing, then coughed again. “You were lucky your dad came in when he did. Otherwise I’d’ve done the same to you.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t care how old you are.”

“I said shut up.” She went to slap him but thought better of it. The notion of touching his skin repelled her. “I’ve got a whole fucking speech planned, and you’re going hear every goddamn word.”

He shook his head, attempting to roll over. Halfway was the best he could do. The tubes distended across his back like a lean-to of snarled plastic.

“People are so stupid about their things,” he said to the opposite wall. “Just let ‘em go. Not worth your life. Your mom should’ve known that.”

“I’m not done.”

“Get the fuck out, will you?”

“No.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You’re scared to face me.”

“I’m not, kid. Go.”

“Scared I’ll make you wait for it, just like you made me,” she said.

The man flashed a confused eyeball over his shoulder. “It?”

“I heard you the moment you broke the window that night, you know. You were wearing those snow boots. Couldn’t tiptoe around. I thought maybe a deer had gotten into the house.”

“Kid—”

“No. Eight minutes.”

“Eight minutes?”

“It took you eight minutes to get up the stairs. To…” She could taste something in her throat. Bile, maybe. “You’re waiting eight goddamn minutes.”

His teeth milled beneath his lips. “Until?”

Gently, Orla snapped the rubber band off the bouquet’s base and reached in to remove the shiv, letting the flowers slump into her lap. She lifted the weapon into the light. The intruder watched the display from the corner of his eye.

“Until I do what I’m gonna do to you,” she said.

He laughed. An honest-to-goodness belly of a laugh, which in his condition, probably hurt like hell. It was probably the first thing he’d enjoyed in weeks. Orla nearly bit her tongue in half.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m impressed. I really am. That thing looks pretty nasty. But it’s over, alright? I’m going to jail for the rest of my life…if I’m lucky.” He returned his gaze to the far wall. “Think about your nice old dad out there. He’d be disappointed if you did anything stupid.”

“If he didn’t interfere the first time, you’d already be dead.”

That struck the man something fierce. Ignoring hiss mass of tubes, he spun back around. His cheeks were flame-red.

“They’ll arrest you if you try anything,” he warned. “They’ll throw you into juvie and you’ll never amount to anything, not a fucking thing.”

“They’re not gonna do anything of the sort.”

“It’d be a pretty clear-cut, kiddo. Only you and me here, and a cop right outside.” He popped his chin at the shiv. “First degree, too, after they get a glimpse of that little beaut. Open and shut.”

Orla smirked at him. She couldn’t help it. “I didn’t say this was for you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I practically screamed at Father when he first suggested coming here,” she said. “He told me all about you. The whole sob story. As if you’re the real victim in all this. God, was that infuriating. But then I realized he’d given me your name. You know what you can learn about person, knowing their name?” She leaned forward, tapping her fingers on some of his tubes, giving each one a squeeze in turn. “How’s your daughter taking this, by the way? Knowing her daddy’s a murderer?”

He glared at her.

“You should be proud. She’s pretty good at cheering. I spent hours watching all her clips on Tik-Tok. Fun stuff. Where’s she go—Del-Mar? I’m pretty sure it’s Del-Mar. I saw the little whaddya-call-it, the mascot, that duck, on her sweatshirt. Del the Duck. Makes sense she’d be co-captain of the team. I mean, all that practice. Four times a week after school! Man. At least the coaches posted the schedule online. Locations, times. Convenient for you. Convenient for me.”

Orla reached over and laid the disfigured flathead atop the man’s chest, watching it judder as he sucked in air. She waited for a response but got none. The intruder stared at the shiv like it was going to bite him.

“People like you think they can start and stop whatever they want,” she said. She’d practiced this part. She’d whispered it to herself as she whetted and filed and packed the shiv, as she crimped the petals and docked the stems. “Doesn’t matter what it is or how horrible. Bad conversation or breaking and entering, either way. But I’ve thought about it—a lot—and I’m pretty sure some things don’t stop as easy as they start.”  She leaned over and nudged the shiv up a few inches, closer to his chin. “Certain things never stop. They just keep going.”  She pushed the shiv further still, letting the blade graze the cleft of his neck. “So anyway. The choice you have now is, either you use this on yourself, right here, right in front of me…or otherwise, at tomorrow’s cheer practice, I’ll use it on the person you love most.”

The intruder was speechless again. But he had plenty to say. Or his body did, anyway. Orla could hear the breath slicing in and out of his throat. His chest pumping like a bellows. The blood pushing through in rust-black waves. She reveled in it. Terror was foaming up inside him, immense and inevitable. All that remained was for him to give in to it, however he deemed.

“I guess this means you were wrong, huh?” She stood. “Some things are worth your life. Sometimes. I guess it’s just up to us to pick what and when.” Orla smiled. “I think it’s been eight minutes. Have you decided?”

*****

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