Part 3

“Please don’t cut me.”

“I must. I need to make you real,” Harlan said and grasped her tighter. He longed to cut her open.

“Please, mind my arm. I’m injured. Please.”

She was too perfect – too ill. The answer to whether she was real or haunted hid within her skin that glowed like a silky pearl. A master glassmaker had blown gleaming perfection into that polished feminine surface of carefully moulded porcelain that haunted him through starless darkness. He had to cut through her surface and see the red flesh. Make a deep cut into her warmth to make her real. Just one cut. Just pull the blade across that fragrant skin and watch it split into a gash, and the blood would come, and he would grow back to sanity. He didn’t ask for much, just a little blood, a small proof of his madness, and a little sleep.

“I must cut you.” The knife grew cold in his hand.

“Don’t,” Lila cried, her voice hollowed by fear of being exposed. Her hands no longer protected her; they hung down, and her black eyes moved rhythmically from side to side. She didn’t breathe. Harlan sliced across the cheek. He sliced, and the blade slid across the surface. The sound of the blade scraping against hard clay resonated within Lila’s hollow head. The blade scraped the ruby cheek and exposed the glossy underlay, barely missing the glass eye. Harlan grasped her tighter and ran the blade against the cheek again. The hollow scraping sound returned. The knife slid across the surface and took most of the ruby blush away, revealing more white clay. Lila grew motionless, and her head hung heavy in Harlan’s arm, heavier than the soft body that hung like a duvet. He loosened his grip. The head plopped forward and down, dragging the light body. For a moment, she lay motionless in the snow, arms akimbo. The jacket slipped off her shoulders and revealed the neck where large, jagged, black twine stitches connected the head with the white bodily fabric.

Harlan screamed and stepped back. Lila stood up, facing him. Her wig slipped down over her forehead. She corrected it.

“Your madness did this to me,” she shouted, and gave him an angry look. Precisely at that moment, Harlan stabbed Lila where a heart exists. The knife swished through fabric, and synthetic stuffing stuck out of the hole in her chest. Lila looked at him again. She grabbed her bag, pulled the grey hood over her head and scarf over her face all the way to her eyes. She tucked the fibres back into her chest and closed her coat. Harlan screamed again.

Alive, Lila turned and ran across the frozen snow toward the cold lights in the parking lot. He stood for a moment, unsure of reality. He looked at his hands. One held the blade, and from the other he extended his index finger. The blade sliced. The finger bled and blood dripped into the snow. At last, he slept that night.