This is the final piece in The Lot, the first volume of SUM FLUX. Read more about this zine and its theme here: https://sumflux.substack.com/p/volume-1-the-lot.
Staring across the long, narrow parking lot that stretches into darkness you mutter, damn it. It looks like a black mouth, the streetlights its glaring white teeth. Your car is parked at the far end, buried in a dome of shadow, and you’re going straight down its throat. Most of the lot is lit, though the silence feels like a pressure—not a soul in sight. Three streetlights glow, their halos fading into bands of shadow, like empty stages, each receding light pool an act: Act 1, Act 2, Act 3. Then the darkness where your car is parked. At least in the light, you’d see if anything was coming at you.
You imagine a group of coyotes circling from all directions, their heads low, stalking. You could fight them—you tell yourself—but dogs have always made you uneasy. Why are worrying about coyotes? Shouldn’t you be more worried about a band of men? Then again, you know how to deal with men. Coyotes, though—they’re more ... unpredictable. Not that you’re scared; but you left the pepper spray in the car. In the car with the dog. Her dog …
It’s not what’s in the dark. You can handle anything that comes at you. You didn’t mean to be gone this long. When you slid the car—her car—into that spot, the lot had been full: a poodle tied to a bike rack barking at nothing, kid sisters punching each other with ineffective mittened hands, a woman carrying too many grocery bags. Your space was the only one left. In daylight, it looked like another place. Just one drink, you told yourself. Celebrate the day, mourn the day—nothing wild. One drink in their old haunt and don’t forget the dog in the car.
But the night got away from you. There was that guy buying shots—every kind of red shot imaginable. Ruby-colored. How fitting. Kirsch, grenadine, Campari, each drink topped with a cherry shanked on a plastic pirate sword. The ice cubes in that last Scarlette cocktail blinked in the low bar lights, flashing like brake lights. But you didn’t stop.
Some assholes were talking about life after death, speculating. Talking shit. One guy was getting moralistic, talking about retribution and another getting spiritual, saying, not getting what you want is good for you. Builds character. What about losing something you need, asshole? What about that—does that build character? You had a brief, fleeting desire to pour that thick red cough syrup of a shot over his head, watch it drip down like candle wax, the pirate sword stuck in one of his stupid curls.
The bartender asked, “Where’s the other one?” You just turned away. The lights in the place seemed to dim. You threw back another shot, tapping hard on the bar for another.
Now you realize you’ve been standing frozen in the first pool of light, your boots planted awkwardly on the cracked pavement, staring into that pool of darkness you have to walk into. Shaking it off, you start walking, focusing on your feet, but they don’t fall into a straight rhythm. Left, right, clod, drag. Are you really going to drive home like this? You could pull out your phone, call an Uber—but what about the dog?
No matter what, you’re going to have to go into those shadows. She’d been afraid of the dark when you were kids. She’d been afraid of everything; you were always the fearless one. She said, “I’m not afraid of the dark, I’m scared of what’s in the dark.” Funny, it’s always been the opposite for you.
Your uneven steps are syncopated on the cement. The buckles of your boots jangle, too loud in the night silence. It makes this delay that drives you crazy. This clod rattle and there’s this other sound behind it—faint enough to make you doubt whether it’s yours. You stop to listen, holding your breath, but when you stop, it stops. Just the normal roar of ordinary silence. You glance back at the first glowing circle of streetlight as you step into the second. You pause, standing in its glow, the cracks in the cement and slotted white lines stretching empty beneath your feet.
Starring in Act 2 is an utterly dismantled, once-red Mercedes. They’d probably named the color something fancy—like you and Ruby got, they would’ve called it: Cherry Red, or better “Cerise”. Now its paint is all blackened, its windshield cracked, ribbons of caught light running along each fissure as you pass. The car reeks of piss and mildew, the sour peat of its rank cut-open upholstery, revealing molding yellow foam. It’s like they had to humiliate it after destroying it—left it open, raw, unprotected. Isn’t someone going to do something? Are they just leaving it here, this corpse, this reminder? For a moment, you feel sorry for it, this broken body abused for what? Entertainment?
The spot where they found her. You went there, who knows why. You thought you’d see something; thought it would make it real somehow. But it was just a bit of concrete. Cleaned up and not giving off any kind of glow or anything—no resonance.
You think of Neptune—only Ruby would name a dog something that stupid. He’s probably sitting there now, breathing heavily against the glass in the dark. Does Neptune already know you are on your way, tracking your uneven steps on the concrete? Can he feel you? Are his eyes staring out from that black Cyclorama, a pinprick of creepy light in his black eyes? You only know shit like that because of her. Fancy theater words, always tossing them around like she was better than you. But you were always the strong one. That’s why you aren’t even afraid in this dark-ass, desolate parking lot. Nothing more to be afraid of now, right, behind the big black Cyc in the sky.
Not that you should judge anyone for having a stupid name. Scarlette, even two t’s, overly charming, overly red. How stupid to name us the same color. But Ruby fit her—a sparkly name for a sparkly girl. Scarlette, though? Everyone just ended up calling you Scar: tougher; too tough. If you throw up all those shots tonight, it’s going to be a bloody mess.
But what is that damn sound? Your boot buckle jangles louder now, but there’s that other noise behind it—almost like a music box tinkling. You don’t want to think about music boxes. Not the plastic ballerina, spinning on the tip of her toe, her painted-on bodice, her helmeted ponytail. But now the image is there, and you can’t help but hear that tinny, thin music behind your step. Can’t you think about something else?
She used to climb into the chest with all her dance costumes, still wearing her tutu, and wait for you to open it. When you did, she’d rise, one arm lifted and folded like the long neck of a flamingo, her whole body turning slowly.
You shiver and walk faster but stop just before stepping into the line of darkness separating the halos of light. You listen. The silence presses closer, louder now, ringing in your ears—a complex, polyphonic silence.
You look back at the distance you’ve covered—the two glowing circles of light. One more halo to cross before stepping into the darkness at the far end of the lot, where your car waits. Why the hell did you stay so long? You just can’t count how many of those shots you threw back. Being unafraid, she said, puts you in stupid situations.
One of your fake buckles must be loose, jingling with every step. It’s not even real—just a cover for the functioning zipper. Maybe it’s not the buckle at all. Maybe it’s the real zipper, clinking as its metal teeth catch.
Zipper teeth, pulling together, closing tight, tooth linking tooth. The twinship of a zipper: two sides, the same yet unequal. Drawn together into one—by who? Mom always called us “you.” Singular. Like we were one thing, always zipped.
Sometimes when you played hide and seek, you’d stop looking for her, wander off, do something else, leave her hidden—sometimes for hours. She was assiduous. That was her word for it, later. She said it came from the Latin: to sit. She’d start something and see it all the way through. If she was hiding, she stayed until you found her, even after all the times you left her hidden in the dark.
What’s one half of a “you”? What’s the half still hiding, in some eternal hiding spot? Hiding right past where you can’t see. In some dark hole? In nothing? A full nothing, black and light-swallowing, but teeming, roiling? Or a blank nothing, more white than black, a blinding expanse of emptiness? And which one is more terrifying?
You know what the worst part is? The guy at the bar was buying shots for “youguyses,” and you turned, half expecting someone to be behind you. For a moment, you forgot you were alone. That’s the worst part, forgetting for just one second.
Then remembering.
There’s that sound again—so close to your ear, above you. Almost a voice, a hum, just out of reach. You stop again, listening, and crouch, facing the light where you came from. Pulling your sock down, you thread it through the metal ring and cinch the buckle tight, hoping to dull the noise.
Standing up, you glance back at the first pool of light and freeze. There’s a man standing there. He sways, crooked and strange. You turn quickly and head toward the dark end of the lot, moving faster now, your steps silent now except for the dull thud of your feet on the pavement.
You realize you’re holding the fake red rose the “youguyses” guy gave you, worrying it between your fingers. You almost threw it away, but now you think it was the nicest thing to come out of this night. Nicer than the crimson cocktails. Nicer than this walk into the dark. You think about threading your fingers through your keys, making your hands into claws, but instead, you keep caressing the silky, surprisingly soft skin of the rose.
You glance over your shoulder, catching a flicker of movement in the darkness. There’s a cracking sound—like a fist hitting flesh. You remember the boys and the parking lot fights—the sound of fists in the dark, the heavy breathing. It thrilled you then. Ruby couldn’t understand. She was so shocked when she found out you’d been going, but she never knew it was sometimes your fists.
Your eyes dart to the end of the lot. The man is still there, just standing, and your heart jumps. You’re not afraid of him, but it’s so weird, and it freaks you out. What the fuck is he doing?
Then you realize it’s not a man. Just a misshapen shrub, held up by an angled metal cane, swaying slightly in the wind that’s begun to rise. Your eyes snap back to the silhouette hanging from the pole. Maybe it’s a torn sheet, blown off a clothesline. Ragged now, caught in the wires, it looks like wings tangled in a net. Like a body—like a man suspended there. Damn. Are you losing it?
You keep walking. This parking lot feels endless, and it’s fucked up, looking into that black hole you’re going to have to walk into. Despite the pitch black, it is somehow moving, churning—or is that your eyes playing tricks?
Ruby had a matte black costume for a performance where she had to cross a curtainless stage to move scenery. It was so the audience wouldn’t see her. They’d only see these shifting forms in the darkness. She said you had to keep your hands down, or two floating white palms would glide across the stage. Two low-flying white owls cutting through the dark.
You’re in the third act now, the final orb of light. Walking toward the inverted spotlight of that dark dome, where Neptune is probably watching you. You think about how Ruby would bring home that dark costume, slipping it on to try and scare you in the shadows. But it never worked. You could always feel her coming. There was something in the air, some electric charge, a presence, almost a sound.
Now, with the buckle muffled and the wind still, the silence rings worse. The silence is shimmering now, a layered, polyphonic blanket. You can almost hear melodies in it, hiding behind the machinery hum—hundreds of tiny sounds, like shards of glass chiming. You can hear it clearly now: the music box sound. You think, what is the sound of one half of a zipper zipping? You almost laugh. One hand clapping. You got your half, so you’ll just have to stay unzipped. Open.
In fear, we learned to be alive. Wasn’t that a line from one of her shows?
The ringing swells while you hesitate, standing just before the line of perfect darkness where your car is still invisible. Anything could be in there. The silence is loud—louder than anything you’ve ever heard. Is this the sound of your blood? What key are you in? Was Ruby in the same key, her ears built with the same blueprinted mechanisms? What is all this sound? Can our minds pick up radio signals, or is it just the sound of the machinery inside your skull? And now, I play myself in the dark.
You’re right on the edge of the darkness, one boot poised to step over. You lean in, staring directly into it, so close you could almost touch it with your nose. You hesitate, thinking of something Ruby would say when she lost her nerve: “Never straight, always forward.”
You’re surprised by how, despite its thickness, the darkness seems to be roiling. Is it specks of dust in your eyes? Foliage stirring in the breeze? The darkness is textured, like it’s full of tiny, fuzzy caterpillar hairs, soft like shag carpet. Like the air itself is made of black cotton.
The trees at the wild edge of the lot are growing dense, their huge leaves like faces, watching over you, almost bowing down to hold you—kindly witnesses. The sky opens between their slightly bending canopy. The clouds are strangely lit and moving fast, like flying bones.
It’s weird, you think, even silence isn’t nothing. Even this darkness looks so full. You think you see something in the dark—a white moving form, a flutter of something. Your throat feels suddenly thick. You try to swallow but can’t. You just want to see her one last time. Just one last time.
You turn back to face the dark. Vertigo hits you, like you’re staring down into a deep, dark pool, peeking over the edge of the deep end.
She’s gone. There won’t be a “one last time.” But you can do this, you can get through this. You were always the strong one.
You step through.
Sound elements created by the undefeatable
