Slice Of Cherry Read Free

bleeding. Slashes appeared randomly on their golden skin as though from invisible whips, their blood a golden glitter that dusted the air like pollen, vibrant against the sepialandscape. The golden blood beckoned Fancy to run and play in it, to catch it on her tongue like snow.
    “Fancy!”
    Fancy jerked away from the screen, blinking, trying not to notice the whimpering mess on the cot and failing. “What?”
    “I asked you if you want a turn.” Kit noticed the beige glow of the screen and rushed to the kinetoscope, beaming. “I told you to tell me when Daddy—” The hope in her face faded at the sight of the oddly bleeding statues. “Try again.”
    But as soon as Fancy thought about Daddy, the screen went black.
    “Damn it!” Kit kicked the bowed brass legs of the stand, nearly knocking the kinetoscope to the floor. She visibly reined herself in at Fancy’s disapproving look and took a deep breath. “Tell you what, why don’t you take this”—she held out the gory switchblade—“and put a few hash marks on Buttercup over there. That’ll help clear your mind.”
    Fancy looked at the prowler, shirtless now and covered in myriad bleeding cuts. Some of them looked deep, possibly as deep as the one in his side. His blood wasn’t golden like the statues . . . yet still it glittered and beckoned in a similar way. She turned away from the knife and wiped her sweaty handson the short legs of her romper. “You’ll have to stitch all those cuts,” she said, and her voice only shook a little.
    “Says you.”
    “He’s gone bleed to death otherwise!”
    “So? Death by a thousand cuts.” Kit looked at the blank kinetoscope screen, defeated. “You think Daddy ever killed anybody that way?”
    “You promised.”
    Kit snatched the first-aid kit from the shelf and tossed it to Fancy, who almost fumbled it in surprise. “
You
stitch him up.”
    Fancy opened the kit and noted the sutures and hooked needles, trying not to be excited at the thought of poking holes into the prowler’s skin. She kicked away the bloody rags of his shirt and knelt by the cot, but Kit followed her down.
    “First things first.” She put the switchblade in Fancy’s hand and wrapped her own around it, insistent. “Not until you take a turn. It’s only fair. We do everything together.”
    Fancy’s hands began to sweat again, the prowler spread out before her like an oddly iced pastry, begging to be sliced. “I don’t want to.”
    Kit guided her sister’s hand; the knife slid teasingly down the underside of the prowler’s bare arm as he strained againstthe rope. He flinched from the touch of the blade so near his armpit, as though he were ticklish, even in his fright.
    “We’re practically the same person,” Kit said, like a cartoon devil whispering enticements into Fancy’s ear. “You think I don’t know what you want?”
    Fancy quickly nicked the prowler’s underarm, and just as quickly elbowed Kit away. “There, I did it. I’m done.” She freed her hand from the knife, from Kit, from temptation. “Now go get me some peroxide. I don’t see any on the shelf.”
    Kit refused to be shooed. She stood and set her hands on her hips. “What did I tell you about ordering me?”
    “I’m not ordering. I’m asking. Now go on!”
    Kit blinked at Fancy’s tone, one she almost never heard. “Fine, spoilsport.”
    As soon as the cellar doors closed behind Kit, the prowler went to work on Fancy. “Please,” he said, his voice ruined by tears and blood loss. “While she’s gone. Please let me go. I won’t say anything.”
    Fancy kept silent, carefully threading one of the needles from the kit.
    “I know you’re a good person. You didn’t let her kill me. I know you’re good. Please?”
    Fancy looked him in his eyes until he stopped babbling and really focused on her, really saw her. When he was quiet, she said:
    “Daddy’s locked up, so we never see him. Madda had to start working twelve-hour shifts to support us, so we