In Laymon's Terms

“Hold your arms out. Straight out. Yes. YES! You are a...sculptress.” Jong sat cross-legged on the table with her now, knee-to-knee and face-to-face.

And you are sound? she signed to him. He nodded sadly, as he did every time she forgot and signed. Evelyn followed up by cupping one ear, then pointing at Jong. He chortled.

“And I am sound, yes! It’s my turn. Have you heard the tender pops and snaps of bone separation? I’ll take a toe. No-no-nee-no, I’ll take TWO toes!” Deftly he sliced away the newspaper and tape making up his shoes, even shredding his newsprint pants to mid-shin.

Pinching one filthy, small toe, he slid the knife-edge into his skin. He squinted his eyes and bit into his lower lip as the blade meticulously carved the dirt-stained flesh. His stomach rumbled and Evelyn slowly cupped one of his ears.

“Sound,” he whispered.

The toe separated with a snip, the only other sound being the blade against the wood of the table.

“Sound,” he growled through clenched teeth, and he started on the other foot.

The carving of the second toe came nearly silent, and Jong squinted his face. Evelyn extended her arms, her puckered wounds. She cocked her head as if to ask why?

When his stomach growled again, Jong reached for the only answer offering itself up. He palmed the two toes and popped them into his mouth, grinding with his molars instead of cutting with his incisors to guarantee that there would be at least some sound.

Some.

He swallowed in exaggerated gulps, and Evelyn smiled.

She took the knife, intent on repeating her arm performance down on her shins. Again, there would be blood. There would be scarring. But he appreciated it, and it gave her time.

Her legs were thin, as was the rest of her, and for a good three inches of shin she was able to reveal the blue-white of bone. Evelyn was careful not to knick it. Careful not to introduce any more infection than she was already going to suffer from this dissection of her flesh. She went slowly, methodically, thanking the newspaperman in her head for at least having the decency to keep the carpet knife razor sharp. Ripping this flesh would be so much worse.

It occurred to her then, in a flash of inspiration. They had to trade places...one on the knife but with the other’s flesh...but how to tell him?

With a drawing.

Taking the knife, Evelyn carved a graphic of an ear into the tabletop wood. An ear, flesh that a man made of sound had to appreciate. Then she notched the ear, up at the top, with a simple triangle. Setting the knife down, Evelyn looked the newspaperman in the eyes, reached up, and pinched the upper portions of her own ears.

His lips formed an “O.”

She tugged at her ears, pulling up, then pointed at the carving. Jong picked up the knife.

“You want...me...to sculpt? Sculpt you?”

She nodded.

Jong spun the knife in his fingers, his features sagging with doubt.

“Me?”

She rested both hands on the knife and lifted it to her right ear. Her eyes wandered to the carving, and he bowed.

“So much sound I know, but for me to sculpt...well, that’s something.” He looked up. “And I will. For you.”

Evelyn leaned forward and cocked her head, exposing her right ear.

The notching hurt more than she could imagine. Even with the quick slice of sharpness, the burning ebbed into tearing and the tearing into rolling waves of ache. But Jong worked slowly and carefully, and Evelyn steeled herself.

Next time it would be her hand on the handle. And on his flesh.

On finishing, he tossed the waste and backrolled off the table, skipping off to the row of pie tins hanging on the far side of the hatch. With a knife swipe the bottom tin fell. Jong nabbed it, ran to the water, dipped it, and polished it with a newspaper elbow. He brought the makeshift mirror back to Evelyn.

Even though she could hardly see her shadow in the reflection of the tin, Evelyn nodded and turned a grimace into a smile. Then she motioned for Jong to join her on the table again.

He did, handing her the knife in the process.

She carved another sketch into the wood tabletop. A head with a bowler cap, a neck, two shoulders. On the neck she carved two “S” symbols, one on each side of the jugular vein. The one on the picture’s left side mirror-imaged the one on the right.

Setting down the knife, Evelyn reached up and let her fingertips tickle down Jong’s throat like rain.

“Sound,” he said. “The ‘S’ is for sound. Your ears. My throat. Symmetry is beautiful.” A tear trickled from one of his flooding eyes. “You are...an artist.”

She started on his left-hand side and, coming back on the second curve of the “S,” dug the blade tip in deep and slid it deep through his throat. Slicing out to the other side, the only sounds she heard was the snap of his resistant flesh and the bubbling mixture of blood and air filling his lungs. His eyes never flinched; they remained locked on her. His fingers spread, his jaw relaxed, and he tipped like an egg falling on its side.