Among the Living by Timothy Long Page A

kind of a gas leak it was or how dangerous it was. They just blew them off as cool as you please with a “We’ll have more information available tomorrow.” But it has been two tomorrows since.
    A shot rings out on the street below, startling her out of her chair. It is loud and different than the fireworks she’s been hearing all week. She nearly knocks over her beer but grabs the rim of the bottle at the last second, picks it up and goes to the window. The street is bare of people, and there are only a few cars passing by. She cracks the window, and instead of the controlled chaos she is used to hearing—people shouting, cars screeching, bottles clanking—she hears barely a peep. Another gunshot rings out, and she is so startled that she slams the window shut and takes a deep pull on her straw.
    A banging on her door scares her so badly that her lips come off the straw mid-sip, and some of the beer dribbles onto her t-shirt.
    “Fuck me.” She stares down at the stain. “Who is it?” she calls out and wonders if she locked the door.
    “Hey, kitty cat, just seeing if everything is cool,” Bob calls, his voice muffled by the heavy door. She used to tell him that she hated it when he called her kitty cat, but the truth is she loves the nickname. It’s just a good thing for him that he doesn’t know about her real-life claws.
    “I think it’s unlocked,” she calls out.
    The door pops open, and Bob’s straggly face pokes inside. He has a glass of wine in one hand but looks concerned. “You okay?” he asks, his eyes doing their best not to wander over the short t-shirt that barely covers her ass. She looks down at her state of dress and turns bright red. She hurries to her bedroom to find a robe or pants or something that covers her from head to toe. Bob comes in, quietly, and closes the door with a click.
    “Oh my God, Kate, are you all right?” He is right behind her. His arm goes to her shoulder, and she spins around to knock it off, how dare he … but when she turns, his eyes are indeed on her legs, but they look far from interested.
    Oh fuck!
    She whisks the robe off her bed and slides it over her shoulders, letting the pink cloth cover her just past her knees.
    “Who did that to you?” His eyes wide open, downright fierce. He stands back as if afraid to touch her, as if she is the victim of an assault. She knows that he is trying to be considerate of her feelings, but he has no idea how deep her masochistic tendencies go. He can’t understand what a release they are. She can make up some lame story about falling and put up with pity looks for the next month, or she can tell him the truth … well, part of it at least.
    “Um, Bob, I know we’re neighbors and friends and shit, but you really don’t know much about me.”
    “I know enough. Now who the hell hurt you?” he demands in that voice that sends a shiver down her spine. She wonders for the first time if she can screw him and not want to kill him. Then she wants to giggle at how fucking stupid that sounds.
    “Wait, let me explain.” She sits down on the edge of the bed and crosses her legs. The robe falls open so that her thighs are exposed, but she is going to come clean. She stares down at her pale, smooth skin and runs a hand over the welts that will become bruises.
    “It’s this thing, it’s … it’s consensual, okay?”
    “What?”
    “Don’t be so fucking naive, Bob. I like it. I have a friend … she” and she almost slips and says ‘he,’ “ties me up and takes a belt to me. Then she uses a flogger.”
    At his confused look, she goes on. “It’s like a whip, but it has a bunch of tails on it. It’s like having your back scorched by a trail of fire ants over and over.”
    “Fuck, Kate, I don’t know if I’m confused or turned on.”
    “Shut up!” She struggles not to smile.
    “So the secret Kate lets one loose. What next, are you going to tell me you like to dress up in furry animal costumes and have