Dry

With one hand, he pressed down on the pump top as he held the other hand under the nozzle when he heard that all too familiar “splat” sound. “Fuck!” he said as he looked down and saw the little amount of lotion the pump squirted out. The bottle was empty, and his ashen skin felt dry. He rubbed what he had on his hands. They burned as he rubbed the lotion in. He knew this sensation well and had come to crave it. The burning was followed by sweet relief of what he called the dry.

The sensation didn’t last too long in this heat. Gary preferred cool air and usually had an air conditioner and humidifier running, but they shut his electricity off last month. He had gotten his state check the other day, but it was gone already. The rent wasn’t cheap, and the check barely covered it. Since then, “The Dry” had worsened as it had deepened into summer. The Air had gotten increasingly dryer as the days got hotter. There was a drought, and he knew it could be a while before any real rain would come and knock some of this heat and dryness away. “Damn, I’m dry.” He said to the empty house.

He went upstairs to where he thought there was maybe another bottle of lotion. He opened the closet door in the bathroom and searched the two shelves but found nothing. He then searched his room and again found no lotion. He found an old box cutter in a drawer next to his bed. Gary Bertrand smiled, grabbed the box cutter, and went back downstairs. “Damn, I’m dry.” He repeated.

He grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the lid, wiped all the lotion off the pump straw, and began cutting the plastic bottle open. He had wiped and wrung every drop of lotion from the bottle and rubbed it into his arms. ”Damn, I’m dry.” He said again. The burning sensation returned, and so did the relief. His arms and hands were feeling good, normal, but the rest of his skin was still dry, and it felt like it was getting tighter by the second.

He had imagined his skin cracking and splitting as it dried out. In his mind, he could see his bloody red muscles where the skin was torn open from the dryness. He grabbed the box cutter off the table and put It in his pocket along with a package of tissues, the small portable kind with lotion, and headed across the street. He hoped Malcolm would be home. He was sure either Malcolm or his grandma would have some lotion or maybe a few bucks he could borrow to get some.

“Damn, I’m dry.” He said as he crossed the street and bound up the few stone steps to the front door. The house was the same as his except blue. His house had been blue at one time, but the paint had cracked and faded, like my skin, he thought, and he knocked on the door. A few moments later, the door swung open, and a long, gangly, tall man stood before him.

”What up, G?” Malcolm asked.

“Man, you got any lotion?” Gary asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “I’m dry as a damn desert.”

“I gotchu. This summer has been dry as hell, bruh. I think Granny’s got some upstairs. Come on, I get it for you.” Malcolm said as the two men stepped inside the tiny room and began to head up the stairs. Malcolm said when they reached the top, “Granny’s room over here.” There were three rooms upstairs. The bathroom was across from the big bedroom, which served as Granny’s room, and then next to it was the little bedroom. Gary knew this because his house was set up like every house on this block and because he had been friends with Malcolm for almost 20 years.

“Man, your nose is bleeding,” Gary said, looking at Malcolm and digging a tissue out of the pack he had put in his pocket before crossing the street. The tissue was the kind with lotion added. He held it up to Malcom’s nose as the blood dripped out. The tissue caught most of it, but blood dripped on his hand, and he felt the burning sensation, followed by the sweet relief. The relief seemed to come even faster than normal and to Gary it felt deeper like it had gone through his skin to the core of his dryness. “Damn, I’m dry.” He said under his breath.

He suddenly had a flashback to last Halloween while still having electricity and cable, back before he had hurt his back and lost his job. He remembered watching the History Channel about some crazy white lady from somewhere in Europe, way back in the day, and how she had bathed in the blood of virgins because she thought it would keep her skin young. He now wondered what he had wondered back then, that maybe she also suffered from “The Dry.” He couldn’t remember her name, but now he understood why she did what she did. He let Malcolm grab the tissue as he tilted his head back to try and stop the bleeding. With lotion added, Gary put the package of tissues back into his pocket and felt the box cutter. He pulled it out. “C’mon, let’s go to the bathroom,” Gary said as he guided Malcolm.

When they reached the bathroom, Malcolm, with his head still tilted backward, entered first, followed by Gary. Now holding the open box cutter, Gary reached up and drew the sharp blade across his friend’s throat. Blood began to pour and squirt out as Malcolm’s eyes widened with shock. His hands went instinctively to his throat. Gary then forced him over the tub to allow the blood to collect in it. He reached down and closed the drain. “Sorry, bruh, but I am so damn dry.” He said to his old friend. He then began to squeeze Malcolm until the blood stopped flowing. He pushed the dead man aside and stared into the tub. It wasn’t even a third of the way full. “Fuck!” he said. It wasn’t enough, and he knew it.

“Malcolm! Malcolm!” he heard a familiar voice coming from downstairs, and he began to smile. “Shirley, just go on and take a seat. I will be right back. Gonna run upstairs and see if that boy is up there. I tell ya what, if he knows what’s good for him, he better not be doing what I think he is doing, and he better have that damn trash out.” He heard the two old women laugh and heard the footsteps as she climbed the stairs.

“Damn, I’m dry.” He whispered.

He heard her knock on Malcolm’s door. “Malcolm, you in there?” he heard her say as she opened the door. Then he heard her cross the hall and began to knock on the bathroom door. “Malcolm, you in there?” he heard her ask as he turned his head to look at the dead body of Malcolm on the floor. Yes, he is, he thought and swung the door open. He saw her face look surprised, and she tried to figure out why Gary was in her bathroom. Then he watched her eyes grow wide as they looked past him to the floor behind him. He took the blade and sliced her throat as quickly as a cat before she could utter a single sound.

“Sorry, Miss Marla, but I am so damn dry.” He said as he picked the old woman up, placed her over the bathtub, and watched her drain out. The tub was now a little over half full. He then crept downstairs and saw Miss Shirley sitting in the chair in the living room. Her back was to him, and he slowly and quietly got behind her. He had taken his belt off, quickly put it over her head, and began to choke her with it. He pulled hard until she quit fighting, then released her. He checked her pulse. It was faint but still there. Good, he thought. He wanted her alive; it was easier to drain her that way. He carried her slim body up the stairs, positioned her over the tub, and slit her throat. As her blood drained into the tub, He picked up the corpses one by one and put them in Miss Marla’s room across from the bathroom. He returned and squeezed every last drop out of her he could and then pushed her onto the floor.

Unable to wait any longer. Gary stripped and climbed into the tub. It was still warm from the fresh blood. The thick liquid began to rise as he sat down. His body burned as he slid down until nothing, but his face was above the surface. The burning quickly subsided into that sweet relief. He sighed with relief and pleasure.

As he lay in the warm, fresh blood, another thought occurred to him: I’m no longer dry.