JOSEPH BANKS

By Prithi Srinivasan

My grip tightened as I clutched the sturdy mahogany edge before me. I had to take a couple deep breaths to steady myself, but I was unable to escape the rank odor that permeated the basement air. I forced myself to look down into his face. He once lay peacefully, wearing the ghost of a smile. Once the maggots came, he was completely unrecognizable. His skin was pale, mottled with purple bruises, pulling away from the bones beneath. The collar of his suit was pulled back slightly, revealing even paler skin beneath, and his crisp white shirt was covered with a deep brown-red stain that stretched across the left side of his body.

I looked away, feeling bile rise in my throat, and turned my attention back to his face. It had begun to come apart around a deep line etched from his hairline to his left eyebrow. Something small and white wriggled across his forehead. Oh, how miserable. I traced my fingers across his cheek, closing my eyes at the picture of decay before me.

In death, the man was calm. Calmer than I had ever seen him. The faint scent of smoke and whiskey had begun to vanish with the maggots. His unrelenting fists had finally relaxed, and his knuckle bones were poking through the soft skin above. I looked to his feet, his clean black shoes scuffed at the tips.

It was general consensus he tripped that day. A fatal accident—unfortunate, but unavoidable. Oh, but it was perfectly avoidable. If I had chosen to withdraw my hand at the last minute…but there’s no use dwelling on the past. I hated him for making me do it, but I had to. He had come stumbling across the pavement, mind clouded by whiskey. As he passed me, I stepped forward and thrust my hand into the small of his back. His entire body pitched forward and fell unhindered onto the pavement. I seamlessly melted into the rest of the bystanders. He began to pull himself up, resting his entire weight on his fists. “Sir! Sir!” The distressed shouts began almost immediately. I schooled my expression into one of concern and stepped forward, pushing through the clamoring pedestrians with a gloved hand. Allow me to help you, I said smoothly, wrapping my hand around his forearm. He reached up instinctively, but as he caught sight of me, his eyes hardened. You. He recognized me. He recognized the same glove that had handed him his drink every night for the past few months. The same eyes that had watched his every move in the dusky lighting of the bar. I hauled him to his feet. He’s going to be fine, I said warmly to the many curious onlookers. He struggled to free himself from my grasp. Now, Mr. Banks, it’s quite all right, I told him, smiling graciously at the crowd. I reached carefully inside my coat, retrieving something, bone-colored and ornate, from the inner pocket. Then I stretched my hand outwards, wrapping it around his waist and squeezing tightly. I always did like a spectacle. In one sharp move, I flipped the blade open and rested the tip in the space between his fourth and fifth rib. He breathed out a sigh, but then his eyes widened in realization. I smiled widely back at him. The further we walked, the further the

EYE, NO LIFE MICHELLE CHEN

blade dug in. The spot of blood had begun to spread further across his side. It was a much brighter shade of red then. Not the deep brown-red stain it is now. The blade sunk deeper into his side. As we approached my door, he collapsed. I half expected him to get back up, to turn his fists against me. But when he hit the ground and his eyes closed, he finally looked at peace. A peace that lingered like disease over his dying body.

Every time I find myself on the street, I can’t help but imagine how things would have been if I had remained in the shadows instead of approaching him. But I couldn’t help it with him. I really never seem to be able to help it.