I wrote the first draft of this story in about 45 minutes during an exercise in a Creative Writing class. The inspiration was surprisingly simple and effective: the professor passed out two envelopes, one containing characters and the other, settings on campus. Students were told to choose two characters and one location at random, then go to the location and write. When I returned, this story is what had emerged. Afterward, I polished it a little, cleaned up all the typos and some of the language, and now it’s ready to join the cult of Damn Short Stories. Okay, I lied; there’s no cult. Dammit.
Rope and Whisper
Vinnie closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The soothing rush of water through Strenger Plaza’s fountain washed over and through him, and he imagined that somehow, it cleansed his soul of the grotesque scene which hung in the air not fifty feet from where he stood. One hand rested on the cold metal rail of the gurney that would convey her body back to his father’s mortuary in the back of the hearse; the other stayed solemnly upon his pounding heart as he silently invoked a godless prayer for her. As the soothing whisper of the fountain calmed his restless heart, he breathed deeply and wished it were just a bit cooler. “Why d’ya think she wanted to be hung, Vinnie?” Arnold Johnson, the lone detective sent to review the crime scene, was a peculiarly ordinary man, so extremely plain of face, body and style that he actually stood out only in how completely noteworthy he was not.
Vinnie exhaled. “It’s hanged, Arnie. She hanged herself.” Vinnie opened his eyes and looked again. She was a beautiful young thing, early twenties, and although he’d seen death many times in the ten years since graduating high school and joining his father’s mortuary business, this one was different. “What’s da fuggin’ difference?” Arnold asked, as he took a long pull from his coffee. He eyeballed Vinnie with disdain, irritated by both his composure and what he thought of as his holier-than-thou ‘Oooh, I can spell and say things all grammatical-like’ attitude. Vinnie’s eyes remained fixed on her sweetly innocent face, which even in death seemed to smile with warmth and welcoming. Her body, still suspended several feet above the ground slowly twisted with the rope as he replied, “The latter means a rope is tied around your neck and you’re dropped to your death. The former means that you have a big dick.”
Arnold chuckled, shoved a hand into his pocket and said, “Ah, so that’s what that means, eh? I guess I wouldn’t mind bein’ hung myself.” Vinnie started across the plaza toward the double tiered staircase off of which Melissa Myerson had committed suicide. Under his breath he muttered, “I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind, either.” Vinnie’s heart skipped a beat as he drew closer to Melissa’s still hanging body; he was captivated by some combination of sorrow for the loss of a life so rich with possibility and the tender beauty he perceived in her face.
Melissa was a beautiful girl whose lifelong passion for water ballet had shined in her every motion, whether performing or simply being. Vinnie had seen her perform many times, graceful and lovely, but her dream was not to be. Though nimble as any performer on the team, her frame was larger than is typical for the sport, and for reasons only the judging committee could provide, she was the only one of thirty eligible girls not admitted to the Olympic team. “Had some meat on her bones, this one. Probably didn’t improve her odds of surviving the fall, eh Vinnie?” Vinnie shook his head. “Don’t be an asshole, Arnie. Look at her: this wasn’t a girl prone to excess; she was just a healthy girl with a healthy body.” Arnie scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, you take ‘em thick all you want Vinnie, I’d take one of them scrawny spinners any day, know what I’m sayin’?” Vinnie sighed. “Really wish I didn’t, but unfortunately I do.”
Arnold jogged up the stairs, finished his coffee and tossed the cup down to the grass below, narrowly missing Vinnie’s face. “Sorry, Vin. You ready to cut this buffalo down or what? I gotta take a dump.” Vinnie’s face burned as anger welled inside, but rather than letting impulse overwhelm him, he calmly gripped the young girl in his arms, held her aloft against gravity’s pull as if he could somehow rescue her from it as from the suckling lips of death, and yelled “Cut it, Arnie.” From the breast pocket of his jacket, Arnold produced a pocketknife and, in a few deft swipes, severed the rope which had been the tool of Melissa’s demise. As it tumbled to the ground with a soft thud, Arnold disappeared through the upstairs door, yelling “See ya at the slab, Vin!”
Vinnie, his heart pounding as it never had in his ten years working in the field, carried her lifeless body to the gurney. There, he gently removed the rope from her neck, closed her eyes and, but for her face, covered her with a sheet. With a quick glance around the plaza, he leaned close and softly kissed her lips. “I love you,” he whispered, and covered her face. As he turned away, Vinnie raised one sleeved arm to wipe the cold tears from his eyes, and the soft corners of a smile emerged on his mouth as he heard her whisper back, “Vincent, take me home.”