Everything Is Alt-Right
by N. G. Leonetti
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Georgia never read from a script. Like some of the greatest musicians in history, she was a virtuoso at improvisation; all she needed were her notes. Once her mouth began to move and her synapses began to spark, words flew from her in flusters of effortless, articulate fury. Anger kept her inner fire lit, and sometimes that fire would turn into an inferno. This is what got her so many views. This is what got her trending. This is why people listened to what she had to say.
That morning, though, her notes turned hieroglyphic, her tongue turned to ashes in her mouth, and all she could see was that young girl’s broken body flying through the air and scattering across the pavement like so much trash. Dilating pupils, full black, captured the cloudbank above like a strip of celluloid, limbs snapping, head yanked at 180-degrees...
“Hey!” Sam said. He ran from behind the camera and caught Georgia before her head hit the living room carpet. Her face was ghost-white, her lips purple.
Did she just faint? Sam thought. He had never seen a person faint before.
Georgia came to and then stiffened when she realized she lay slumped in Sam’s arms. His halitosis weakly masked by chewing gum sent sharp spikes up her nostrils, making her want to gag. Cringing, she wormed her way out of his arms and back onto her chair. His touch was about as comforting as razor wire.
“What happened?” she said.
“You passed out,” he said, throwing his arms up in the air, annoyed at her obvious repugnance. “You literally fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, okay? I’ve never seen anything like that before. What’s up with you?”
“I dunno,” she said, placing her palms to her neck. “I suddenly don’t feel so hot.”
“Why don’t you relax? Maybe just take the day off? Yesterday was traumatic, Georgia. I’m still shell-shocked from it all. It could’ve affected you more than you realize.”
“You think?” she said, looking at him. “I had horrible dreams last night, absolutely horrible.” She shivered. “I haven’t really eaten anything, either.”
“Well, let’s fix that right now,” he said. He lifted the bag of sandwiches from the table. “Eat. You can have mine, too. I already had my first breakfast.”
She nodded. “Okay. Why don’t we do this some other time? I know I said we should get a video up today, but I don’t think I’m in any condition to do so right now.” She smiled. “It’ll keep people in suspense.”
“That’s totally fine,” he said. “Just eat something and get some rest.”
She nodded and stood, a bit unsteady at first, and made her way to the kitchen. She grabbed a glass from the cabinet and watched, mesmerized as it slipped from her fingers and smashed onto the linoleum. She heard the chicken bone-snap of the girl’s jaw. She saw her body fly through the air like a rag doll.
“What was that?” Sam said, walking into the kitchen.
Georgia stepped backward onto a particularly big shard of glass and felt the bottom of her heel slip apart. She stared in wonder as blood pooled below her, thought of the young girl’s body as it lay akimbo on the blacktop, blood trickling off her lips.
Mark told me he watched my channel religiously, she thought as she leaned against the sink, her eyes going dreamy. He said that lots of Nazis did.
Sam was on his knees, wrapping a white kitchen towel around Georgia’s foot. With his other hand, he soaked up her blood with wad of napkins. It bloomed through the paper like spring tulips. Hot crimson ran through his fingers, over his wrists, and down his arms. He was astounded by how much of this stuff was inside a person.
Georgia began kicking at his head, beads of blood flying from her toes and onto his cheek.
“Get off of me!” she yelled.
Sam fell on his ass, Georgia’s blood soaking into his jeans.
She kicked at him again, this time directly in the face. He felt the nail of her big toe slash a small gash over the bridge of his nose. He thought about their blood commingling and cringed.
“Georgia!” he almost screamed, desperately backing away from her as she kicked at him again. “What the hell are you doing? I’m trying to stop the bleeding!”
“Get the hell out of my apartment, Sam!” she screamed back at him. She found her footing and started toward him, fingers curled into claws, eyes squinted and vicious like a feral cat.
Sam crab-walked out of the kitchen, never stopping until his back met the door. He found his footing and got out of there, fast.
He thought he could hear her still screaming even as he left the building.
* * *
A week later, she finally returned his calls.
Sam found himself immediately apologizing to her, which was ridiculous, but he felt desperate. Georgia had never gone this long without making a video, and her audience was growing restless. In the comment sections, many of them speculated on why she hadn’t uploaded a new video, specifically since the tragedy. Some thought it was a cover-up, wildly surmising that she was involved with the young girl’s murder; others thought she was killed during the whole mess.
She had to say something and show everyone she was okay. They needed to know.
When Georgia agreed Sam could come back to the apartment, he felt relieved but also a little annoyed. Why was he groveling? He’d done nothing wrong. Georgia had passed out, and Sam had caught her. Georgia had sliced her foot open, and Sam had tried to stop the bleeding. She had kicked him in the face, after all. Why did he feel like he was being punished?
When he arrived at her building, it took five minutes before she buzzed him in. Her voice on the intercom unnerved him. Something wasn’t right.
Sam took the stairs up to the third floor, made his way down the hall, and reached her apartment. Finding the door locked, he banged on it several times before he heard the locks unclick one by one. He heard her scamper away, giggling, like they were playing hide and seek.
The thick odor of decay hit him immediately as the door opened.
The apartment was dark. All the shades were drawn and the only light came from the sun that snuck around the sides. He hit the light switch and gasped at the state of the apartment: piles of papers and open books scattered the floor, used tissues crumbled up and tossed everywhere.
There were pill bottles, empty food containers, drinking cups, and tipped over wastebaskets spilling out trash. The bloodstains from Georgia’s foot in the kitchen were still splattered on the linoleum and also tracked throughout the apartment: brown-encrusted prints of one of Georgia’s petite, always pedicured feet. The yellow wallpaper was shredded into ribbons.
“Georgia,” he said, a little louder than he intended, taking a few hesitant steps into the living room.
No answer, but at that point, as the studio came into his vision, it didn’t matter whether she answered at all.
Everything was destroyed. Bits of black plastic and shattered lenses scattered the carpet. The soundproof padding had been torn off the wall in tiny tufts. A microphone stand impaled the computer tower where all the data was stored.
“Judas Priest!” Sam said. His head moved robotically from left to right.
“I thought it would work.” A harsh voice behind him.
He flinched, turned, and saw Georgia standing in the bedroom doorway. Her hair was unwashed and matted. She was still wearing the clothes she had on from last week, now heavily soiled and torn in places. Her frame was gaunt, like she hadn’t eaten for days.
She limped over to him. Even in the dimly lit apartment, he could see her foot was swollen and purple, like some overripe alien fruit.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said, following his eyes. “It hurt for a long time, but now I can’t feel it anymore.”
“Georgia,” he said, “we have to get you to a hospital, like right now! You have a bad infection. It looks like sepsis or something. You could die.”
Sam wasn’t a doctor, but he’d bet money on Georgia being an amputee before the day was done. Her toenails were turning black.
She wore a childlike smile. Her hands were behind her back. She was still so beautiful.
“I told you,” she said, “it doesn’t hurt anymore.” Their faces were so close they almost touched at the tip of their noses. Her breath was rancid, but Sam didn’t care; he still loved her.
“Sam,” she whispered, rubbing her thin nose against his, “I’m sorry I hurt you.” She kissed the bridge of his nose.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Georgia, please. I have to get you to a hospital.”
She shook her head. “I thought destroying the equipment would make it stop.”
“Make what stop?”
“Her screams. She screams at me. I dream horrible things.”
“Who?”
“Donna!” a fresh wave of Georgia’s stinking breath hit Sam in the face. He tried hard not to breathe through his nose.
“Georgia,” Sam said, tentatively placing his hands on her shoulders, “Donna is dead. There’s a funeral for her in a day or so. It’s been national news. They still never caught the guy who did it. Remember Mark? He’s still MIA. He went deep underground, I think. At this point, he’s probably in Mexico. And, anyway, who cares! None of this is important right now. What’s important is getting you the help you need.”
“I remember Mark,” Georgia said. “And Donna is here. I see her in the mirrors and on the screens... even when they’re turned off. Her head is still twisted all the way around, and she has to hold it up just to talk to me, or else it just dangles over her back and swings back and forth like this.” Georgia made a freakish impression with her own head.
“Georgia,” Sam said, squeezing her shoulders tighter, “We need to get you help. Your foot is infected, and you’re confused. And you’re burning up!”
She was, too. She was practically on fire.
“I know what to do now,” she said and gave him a small peck on the mouth.
The feeling of her lips against his, even though they were paper dry, stunned Sam momentarily, so much that he didn’t see her begin to lift her hand.
He kissed her back.
A glint of metal flashed through his right field of vision, followed by insurmountable pain as a pair of kitchen shears tore through his jugular artery. He staggered backward, wide-eyed, and unbelieving. The burly man fell to the ground with a loud, meaty thump.
The sweet smell of death, the one Sam noticed as soon as he walked into Georgia’s apartment, came from the corpse putrefying in her bedroom. When Mark texted Georgia, he said he needed somewhere to hide. All his friends were under police surveillance, and he was hurt and had no place to go. She invited him over to her place and asked for an exclusive interview. She wouldn’t air it right away, of course. She would make sure he was safe.
These were the dog days of summer, after all, and she didn’t bother turning on the AC.
Georgia’s foot did slow her down a bit. It took her a long time, but she eventually got Sam into the bed along with Mark. She then crawled in between them and closed her eyes.
She always seemed to be crawling now, and she liked it.
She hadn’t destroyed her cellphone yet because she still wanted to make one more video. She owed that to her audience.
But she would wait until tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was sleep, dreamless sleep.
Copyright © 2021 by N. G. Leonetti
