Breadcrumb #15

Bob Raymonda

They stand around the tape recorder like a pack of vultures waiting for a meal to finally expire before they feast. They are not a subtle duo when they’re this close to what they’re looking for. They will linger until both of their appetites for justice are satisfied. And can you blame them? What they heard on that tape recorder was despicable. And the things the suspect says in defense of himself? Pathetic.

•

It was a rickety little machine. Having survived decades that seemed to promise its continued existence was futile. But its digital counterparts could never count on the novelty of the physical object. When the suspect revealed the victim’s love of the real, the tangible, proof of its existence became top priority. And when it was found tucked beneath the mattress and the bedspring, a collective sigh of relief was uttered by all around.

•

She was heard, never seen, because the archiving of audio interested her far more than watching a video. She screamed out, goading him on to go faster, harder, to cause her more pain until she shrieked in what sounded like pleasure. She is a masochist, and the tape proves that. Correction, she was a masochist, because now she lay cold in the morgue.

•

He sat in the middle of the room on a cold metal chair with his hands behind his back. He hyperventilates as they play the recording for him. To them, this was proof of his guilt, even after he explains himself. It was an accident, he screams with ragged breath. Please, turn it off. It was never supposed to happen this way, and he’d done it to her a thousand times before. He didn’t want to hear it, because he was there when it happened.

•

Our daughter was a good girl, despite what they say they heard on it. Our daughter would never get herself into this kind of trouble willingly. Our daughter would have brought him to our home, shared her life with us. Our daughter would still be here today, if it weren’t for this deviant. That is why justice won’t be served until he’s prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

•

I have prosecuted perverts like him countless times, and he is no different. Pay no mind to his crocodile tears. I’ve looked in the eyes of men and heard their tails of the impressionable young women that take part in kink. He’ll tell you that she asked for it. He’ll tell you that she told him to do it. And I’m here to tell you, he’s lying. Who do you believe? Her caring and attentive parents? Or the man that inflicted the wounds you see in Exhibit J?

•

You will not enjoy what you are about to hear, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. It is private, it is pornographic, and it is proof that he isn’t entirely responsible for her death. Partially, for certain, but you’ll be able to tell from this recording, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was a consensual act. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are not being asked to give him a free pass. You are just being asked to be sympathetic to the fact that he was very much in love with her. That this was an accident, and that he’ll live with the burden of her death for the rest of his life.

•

We spend no more than an hour and a half in the cramped private chambers of the courthouse. Not a single one of us thinks that he is an innocent man, though none of us thinks he’s fully at fault either. We deliberate long enough to earn our free lunch, and in a pile of empty Chinese food containers and evidence, we make up our mind. We return shortly after eating and deliver our verdict. We find the defendant guilty of murder in the second degree.

•

They stand in the back of the courtroom with their hands at their hips. They’re satisfied that their detective work allowed her parents some sense of closure. Even if it didn’t bring her back to life.

•

It is ushered back into its clear plastic evidence bag. Normally, it would be offered to her family, but due to its voyeuristic nature, it would end up forgotten in a dusty cardboard box at the precinct.

•

She is buried on Wednesday. Her casket is ornate — her parents spare no expense. Only the best for her. Her friends and family huddle together in the cool autumn morning and mourn together. Some cry, some stand silent, all remember her.

•

He is sentenced to twenty to life. His lawyer is confident that he can reduce it with an appeal, but he doesn’t care. He’s lost the one he loves, and it is his fault. No amount of legal finesse will change that. At night, in his cell, the sound of his sobs are pitiful.

•

Our daughter’s killer is going to rot in hell for the things that he put her through. Our daughter’s jury made sure of it. Our daughter died by his hand, and he deserves whatever happens to him.

•

I haven’t received a paycheck this big in years. Clearly the kid was innocent, but I can talk a man into sawing his own arm off. I think I’ll buy myself a new boat, or a car, or something else that’s flashy. I’m worth it.

“I think I’ll buy myself a new boat, or a car, or something else that’s flashy. I’m worth it.”

You are soulless bastards, you know that? This kid was as much a victim as she was, but since her daddy was rich and her mommy cried theatrically, you put him away for life? You’re disgusting. You’re… You…

•

We are never going to see each other again. And that is a good thing. Being on a jury wasn’t on a single bucket list among us. We’ll go to our separate homes, take a shower, and forget the look on his face doomed him. It doesn’t feel like justice. It feels like revenge.

• • •

Breadcrumb #14

Bob Raymonda

There is something special about the time she spends calf deep in the murky waters of a basement flooded by burst pipes. She takes her time, methodically searching for the source of the damage. With the water turned off, it isn’t as easy to discern as one might think. Especially when everything is so thoroughly wet. She wears her grandmother’s fading waders to keep dry, but secretly wishes to wiggle her bare toes in it. She has before, but resists the impulse, as this is a house call, a favor, and if she would like to keep making money, she has to remain professional.

     “Everything all right down there?” her temporary employer calls down to her.

     She takes a moment to survey the damage. Turning a full 360, she sees collapsing cardboard boxes, floating papers with splotchy running ink, and a small island of towels doing its best to soak up some of the newfound sea. She responds, “Might take a few hours to get the water out before I can really say.”

     An exaggerated sigh follows. “I was hoping to finish my laundry today.”

     She rolls her eyes. “Not quite sure if that’s going to be possible.”

     “Please do your best.”

     She wishes she could scream, I’d do better if you’d shut your goddamn mouth and let me do my fucking job, but instead says, “Why don’t you get yourself some lunch or see a movie? I’ll take this from here.”

     The widow upstairs, a friend of her uncle’s, slams the door without responding. Elle shakes her head and wraps a fist around the wrench at her hip. She’d love to take the wrench to the widow’s few surviving dry possessions, but she resists. She is sure to stomp some of the floating papers further into the depths, though the satisfaction it gives her no more than an empty gesture. No amount of time in the sun would have restored these documents to their original function. But no matter, she tells herself she had a brief hand in their demise.

“But no matter, she tells herself she had a brief hand in their demise.”

     She wades toward the stairs and climbs them, tracking grimy footprints on the steps behind her. She stops herself when she gets to the top and considers taking off her waders to walk barefoot through the widow’s home. “Mrs. G,” she calls out. “You here?” She takes the silence as permission and walks through the kitchen and out the front door to retrieve a Shop-Vac from her van. The destruction her waders leave is only temporary, she tells herself. She’ll have it cleaned up as soon as the water is out of the basement and dumped out in the flower bed in the backyard. 

     The back of Elle’s van is a treasure trove of power tools and toilet snakes. She has toys of all varying sizes to get a person’s shit to where it ought to be and out of their clogged pipes. This fills her with pride. Her kid brother may have his award-winning books and beautiful children, but she at least had the comfort of knowing hers was a trade that wouldn’t go out of style until humans figured out how to stop defecating. She’d never have to worry about her publishers shooting down her new idea, or her children growing up to hate her. She’d just have to keep taking her certifications once a year, and the cash flow would be steady.

     Armed with her giant water vacuum, she returns to the widow’s temporary basement ocean to do her work.

• • •

Breadcrumb #13

Anna Picagli

I. The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

Everything in your apartment smelled like rosewater and oranges. Sometimes it smelled like black licorice and your perfume or grated cheese and ginger but it never smelled like anywhere else. When you lose your breath, you speak in circles and hear things that aren't there. When I lose my breath, I speak in circles and hear things that aren't there. For years, I could not bear the weight of you or the sad irony of genetics. I found your loneliness prophetic and haunting and trite. I watched you grapple to hold things, always. I watched the fruit rot in your tiny kitchen. You'd always pare off the brown spots and eat it anyway. No one lives with you. No one can answer the phone when your ears are ringing.

II. Peaches

I can't remember what you look like in daylight. All my memories are in hushed evening mutes, ghost tones, clouded in anxiety, filtered in desaturated colors. There were poems, though. There was romance and rhyme and everything else I thought love was made of then. At performance practice, you made her recite the same line repeatedly until anger could swell in it: You're like a peach, you bruise easy. A few days later, I walked out in a snow storm to get milk for our coffee. When I returned, rosy-cheeked, ice in hair, you were reading me again. You're a peach, you said, joking, reaching.

“At performance practice, you made her recite the same line repeatedly until anger could swell in it: You’re like a peach, you bruise easy.”

     When you left, the whole street flooded and you did not say good-bye. I was calf-deep in water. Things were lost, everyone cried, the key broke in my hand. Your car was parked next to ours. You kept slamming your trunk shut and ignoring me. I am a peach, I thought.

III. The Harvest

It hasn't been summer here in at least six years. I'm starving. Love bites fade and loneliness is trite. There are a thousand faces besides yours left for lamenting, but yours always seems to fit. Did you know: I broke her car keys. They snapped when I tried to turn them; no one knows why. We fixed them, but she never came back. I can plant seeds until my fingers bleed but nothing ever grows.

    The fruit rots in my tiny kitchen. I pare off the brown spots and eat it anyway.

• • •

Breadcrumb #12

Bob Raymonda

Lewis spent the majority of his free time on the forums. In fact, he spent much of his time on them during working hours as well. His boss knew, even though he liked to pretend he was stealthy about it. The theme of the forums, at first, didn’t matter. He’d hit the random button on the top of the homepage and voraciously read about other people’s passions. Once he’d had enough, he’d put in his two cents. Usually something along the lines of, “haha, go kill yourself.” He didn’t have to be eloquent, he didn’t have to debate. He just had to throw OP’s focus off themselves, for just a minute. Just long enough to make them question the validity of the thing they felt they knew better than anything else.

     Lewis was a troll. It’s what he did best. This might have something to do with his crippling fear of others, and the outside world in general, but he would never admit it. He thought of himself as powerful — as xenophobic, overweight, and privileged basement dwellers are often wont to do. The time he spent belittling others from the safety of his computer screen felt like retribution. Retribution for the time he spent as his neighbor’s playground punching bag. He’d never forget the way it felt the first time he stopped a conversation in its tracks, tapping his fingertips together as a serious discussion devolved into nothing more than a 30-post dick joke.

     That was until he found the sex advice forums. When he stumbled upon those, on a Tuesday slurping down his third glass of Mountain Dew, he felt like he’d walked into a chamber full of secrets. Here were the plebes he spent so much of his time looking down upon asking for advice on how to initiate a threesome within a long-term relationship. He was aghast; he couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of one person sleeping with him, let alone two. He decided quickly not to post here with his regular username, Th3M4st3rACE. He didn’t want his comment history to tarnish the advice these frequent fornicators might have for him.

“He didn’t want his comment history to tarnish the advice these frequent fornicators might have for him.”

     Sex was both a familiar and elusive act to Lewis. While he remained physically a virgin, he wasted hundreds of hours growing up watching pornography. Amateur, hardcore, softcore, web camming, hentai, BDSM — you name it, he’d devoted at least a week of his life poring over it. He wanted to be sure of what he liked when he finally lost his V-card. Especially since he’d always fully expected to pay for it. Until now.

     Lewis dipped his toe into the board hesitantly at first. He made a fresh handle, BigShyGuy99, and wrote: “I’m an overweight 20-year-old with excellent computer skills, but I’m lacking in the social department. How can I get a date?” The answers poured in, and he didn’t know whether to be angry or touched. They ranged from short and sweet, like “Confidence is key my friend,” to outright disrespectful, like, “Throw on that fedora and Hawaiian shirt combo you love so much, neck beard. Some other goblin is bound to eat you up.” The irony of this last response was lost on him, but he didn’t let it deter his deeper exploration. He was confident that someone here had similar feelings and would maybe even meet up to try the glory hole he’d drilled into his bathroom wall.

     He spent days talking with people he’d never met. He started cutting back on the Mountain Dew (three glasses a day instead of seven… Progress), and going for walks around the block. He didn’t stop eating pizza, but he was convinced that he was doing enough. But the lack of immediate results eventually frustrated him enough to abandon BigShyGuy99. He returned to Th3M4st3ACE and posted for his first time on the forum. Titled simply “take my virginity (NJ),” he crafted his most eloquent request: “You heard me. Fat, small-dicked loser seeking someone to take away his virginity, ASAP. Anytime, anywhere, anyone, just so long as you host.”

     The utter lack of response broke his bloated grey heart. He amended the post, “EDIT: People are outright ignoring this. Jeeeeeesus that's fucking funny. Literally nobody on earth wants to fuck me. Guess I'm gonna die a virgin, you fucking assholes.” He spent the rest of the week in bed, wearing his collector’s edition Guy Fawkes mask and surfing Craigslist in search of an affordable prostitute.

• • •

Breadcrumb #11

Bob Raymonda

Argus wanders the bazaar with purpose, but allows the flow of wealthy tourists to determine his path. Tent after tent of children’s trinkets and wall hangings assault his eyes, but none catch his attention. He spends far more time looking at the merchants themselves rather than the wares they pedal. She hasn’t yet appeared, but he’s confident she will, even if he has to spend all day in the upper district.

     Everyone here makes Argus uncomfortable, but he’s convinced the endgame is worth it. He tries not to pay too much attention to the navy blue tint of their skin. He even tells himself that the time they spend in the warm rays of sun will kill them, rather than give them a healthy glow. He scoffs when he catches hundreds of his own reflection in a tent run by a straight-backed glass worker. The mirrors scream of his inadequacies, the sky blue of an under dweller’s skin, the wiry frame of a person who hasn’t had three square meals a day since before the upper platforms were built.

“The mirrors scream of his inadequacies, the sky blue of an under dweller’s skin, the wiry frame of a person who hasn’t had three square meals a day since before the upper platforms were built.”

     “Looking for anything in particular?” the mustachioed steward asks. Argus shakes his head and wonders what he would look like with facial hair. The steward rolls his eyes. “If you’re not interested, keep moving.”

     Argus clenches his fist, nails biting into his sweaty palms, but obliges. He can’t speak up the way he’d like, or one of the robed security guards might catch his attention. He doesn’t want anyone realizing he shouldn’t be here, at least not until after he finds her.

     The next tent stops him with the scent of smoking meats. He isn’t sure of what most of it is, as the carcasses are headless, but the emptiness of his stomach doesn’t mind. He points to a skewer of purple cubes and hands over one of the few banknotes he scrounged together for this trip. The flavor eludes him; it’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted. Receptors scream inside his cheeks that he never imagined existing. He lets each bite linger on his tongue before swallowing, unsure of when he’ll have a delicacy like this again. Tonight, he’ll dine with his brothers on the many-legged vermin they’re paid to clear out of Uncle Vernon’s sewer tunnels. It sounds worse than it actually is, as long as you have the right condiments.

     Argus resumes his ascent into the upper reaches of the bazaar. He climbs a chain-link ladder hanging from the highest platform to reach the last few tents. On his trip up, his skewer falls out of his mouth and strikes a child in the face. Argus is almost to the top of the ladder as he glances down and watches her aggravated mother alert a yellow robed security guard of his mistake.

     He hurtles up over the edge and stumbles into the first tent he sees, knocking over a rack of diamond letter openers. A teenager with a pencil behind his ear glares at him, but doesn’t move from his place behind the table, too busy with a sale to fix the toppled rack. Argus takes off running and bumps into several other angry wanderers. They curse at him in tongues unfamiliar. A woman in a yellow robe approaches him from below, but there is no urgency in her movement. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees what he came here for.

     She is the most elegant creature Argus has ever seen, and he wonders what she’s doing up here among these rich scum. Her tentacles hang over her left shoulder and glow the iridescent violet of someone from the western reaches. She frequents the bar his sister owns, and up until this moment, he’s only pined for her from afar. But last night, she’d left behind a satchel, the one tied to his hip, and he made the trip here determined to speak to her. He approaches calmly and with caution. He chooses to ignore the woman in yellow gaining on him.

     Her tent is colorful — there are glass phials filled with orange and green and purple powders everywhere. Most are corked shut, but the few that are open smell vaguely of the sea. He yearns to know what’s inside, to share any common interest with her, but will stick with what he’s got. She smiles at him, a vague look of recollection on her face. His heart jumps up to his throat as he inches toward her, unfastening the satchel from his hip and handing it to her.

     “Thank you so much,” she squeals. “Where have I seen you before? How did you know this was mine?”

     Before Argus can respond, the woman in the yellow robe appears behind him. She clutches his shoulder with a gloved hand, and before he can react, slaps a pair of plasma cuffs on his unsuspecting wrists.

     “Please go about your day, Helena,” the woman in yellow mutters, and drags him off toward the imposing castle in the clouds. Argus should feel a crushing wave of despair right now, but he doesn’t. Because even though he never got to speak to her, she spoke to him, and that’s half the battle.

• • •