Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3)
Read Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) Online
Authors: Damien Angelica Walters
Praise For
Sing Me Your Scars
Sing Me Your Scars
revolves in the mind’s eye in a kaleidoscope of darkness and wonder. Walters is impressive.
—Laird Barron, author of
The Croning
and
The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All
Damien Angelica Walters writes prose as sharp as a scalpel. With surgical precision, she slices through her characters’ veneers to lay bare the secret scars underneath, the knots of fear and desire twisting them. The women and men in these stories struggle against their own, oddly-beautiful damage, and even when they succumb to it, the narrative is never less than compelling. Anatomist of dreams and nightmares, Walters is a writer to watch.
—John Langan, author of
The Wide, Carnivorous Sky and Other Monstrous Geographies
This anthology is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
Sing Me Your Scars
ISBN: 978-1-937009-28-1
Copyright © 2015 by Damien Angelica Walters
Cover Art and Layout © 2015 by Ange
Published by Apex Publications, LLC
PO Box 24323
Lexington, K.Y. 40524
www.apexbookcompany.com
“Girl, With Coin” © 2013 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Shimmer);
“Paskutinis Iliuzija (The Last Illusion)” © by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Interzone)*;
“Glass Boxes and Clockwork Gods” © 2012 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Electric Velocipede)*;
“Running Empty in a Land of Decay” © 2011 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Niteblade)*
; “Scarred” © 2012 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Fireside Magazine)*;
“Always, They Whisper” © 2013 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Lightspeed Magazine)*;
“Dysphonia in D Minor” © 2013 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Strange Horizons)*;
“Shall I Whisper to You of Moonlight, of Sorrow, of Pieces of Us?” © 2013 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Shock Totem,
and reprinted in the 2014
Year’s Best Fiction, Volume One);
“Melancholia in Bloom” © 2013 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Daily Science Fiction
)*; “Like Origami in Water” © 2011 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Daily Science Fiction)*;
“They Make of You a Monster” © 2012 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Beneath Ceaseless Skies)*;
“Grey in the Gauge of His Storm” © 2013 by Damien Angelica Walters (Originally appeared in
Apex Magazine).
“Sing Me Your Scars,” “All the Pieces We Leave Behind,” “Sugar, Sin, and Nonsuch Henry,” “The Taste of Tears in a Raindrop,” “Immolation: A Love Story,” “Iron and Wood, Nail and Bone,” “And All the World Says Hush,” and “Paper Thin Roses of Maybe” are new to this collection.
*
Published as Damien Walters Grintalis
For Jeremiah and Chloe
All the Pieces We Leave Behind
Paskutinis Iliuzija (The Last Illusion)
Glass Boxes and Clockwork Gods
Running Empty in a Land of Decay
The Taste of Tears in a Raindrop
Shall I Whisper to You of Moonlight, of Sorrow, of Pieces of Us?
Grey in the Gauge of His Storm
When Maurice Broaddus approached me at Killercon to talk about a possible collection, I confess I didn’t believe him at first. Oh I believed his intent, but my dark little pessimistic heart said really, do you think anyone would want a collection from
you
? Sorry, Maurice.
I believed him when he emailed me after the convention. Mostly.
So, Maurice, I owe you a huge thank you for setting the ball in motion. And to Jason Sizemore and Linda Epstein, thank you for making this a reality.
I love short fiction. I love reading it and writing it. It’s a playground of possibility that gives me the freedom to write in any genre, style, tense, or voice. Over the past few years, I’ve had the opportunity to work with some fantastic editors, and I’d like to thank those who originally published the reprints in this collection: John Joseph Adams, Scott Andrews, Andy Cox, John Klima, Jonathan and Michele Laden, Brit Mandelo, An Owomoyela, Rhonda Parrish, Julia Rios, Lynne Thomas, Elise Tobler, Brian White, and Ken Wood.
To my beta readers: Elise, Jake, Ken, Brenda, Rhonda, and Peter. Thank you a gazillion times over. My stories wouldn’t be the same without your input. If I’ve left anyone out, the mistake is mine, not yours.
Thank you to Laird Barron and John Langan for reading the collection in its early stages and for offering your words of support. Beyond measure, you have my gratitude.
And to Al, thank you for your love and support. It means the world to me.
So, the stories… Are they any good? That’s not for me to decide. My ownership of these tales is done. They belong to you, the reader, now. Thank you for walking through the playground with me. Good or bad, these were the stories I had inside me at the time of the telling.
Damien Angelica Walters
2014
Sing MeYour Scars
This is not my body.
Yes, there are the expected parts—arms, legs, hips, breasts—each
in its proper place and of the proper shape.
Is he a monster, a madman, a misguided fool? I don’t know. I
don’t want to know. But this is not my body.
§
The rot begins, as always, around the stitches. This time,
the spots of greyish-green appear on the left wrist, and there is an
accompanying ache, but not in the expected way. It feels as though there is a
great disconnect between mind and flesh, a gap that yearns to close but cannot.
I say nothing, but there is no need; Lillian’s weeping says it with more truth
than words.
The hands are hers.
“Please don’t show him yet. Please,” she whispers. “I’m not
ready.”
“I must,” I say. “You will be fine.”
“Please, please, wait until after the party.”
I ignore her. I have learned the hard way that hiding the rot is
not acceptable, and while the flesh may be hers, the pain is mine and mine
alone. I remember hearing him offer an explanation, but the words, the
theories, were too complex for me to understand. I suspect that was his
intention.
Lillian will still be with us; she is simply grasping for an
excuse, any excuse at all. I understand her fear, but the rot could destroy us all.
My stride is long. Graceful. Therese was a dancer, and she taught
me the carriage of a lady. I pass old Ilsa in the hallway, and she offers a
distracted nod over the mound of bed linens she carries. All the servants are
busy with preparations for the upcoming annual party, which I’m not allowed to
attend, of course.
I wonder what sort of fiction he has spun to the servants. Am I
an ill cousin, perhaps, or someone’s cast-off bastard that he has taken in?
Either way, I’m certain they call him the good doctor, but they’re not here at
night. They don’t know everything.
They never speak to me, nor do they offer anything more than nods
or waves of the hand, and none of them can see my face through the veil I must
wear when I venture beyond my rooms. All my gowns have high necklines and long,
flowing sleeves; not a trace of flesh is exposed.
For my safety, he says. They will not understand. They will be
afraid and people in fear often act in a violent manner. His mouth never says
what sort of violence he expects, but his eyes do.
When I knock on the half-open door to his study, he glances up
from his notebooks. I shut the door behind me, approach his desk slowly, and
hold out Lillian’s hand.
“Oh, Victoria,” he says, shaking his head. “I had hoped we were
past this. This configuration is as close to perfect as I could hope.”
I bite my tongue. Victoria is not my name, simply a construct.
I asked him once why he had done such a thing; he called me an
ungrateful wretch and left his handprint on my cheek. I wonder if he even knows
why. Perhaps the answer is so ugly he has buried it deep inside.
Without another word, he leads me to the small operating theater,
unlocks the door, and steps aside to let me enter first. The room smells of
antiseptic and gauze, but it’s far better than the wet flesh reek of the large
theater. My visual memories are vague, but the smell will not leave, no matter
how hard I try to forget.
