Flurries begin early in the morning and continue throughout the day, accreting to a full inch and then another. There's talk of tomorrow possibly being a snow day, provided the torrential blizzard that is forecast actually arrives. Mason and Liza meet up whenever they can between classes, the way he's seen boyfriends and girlfriends doing all his adolescent life. This ritualized obsession with each other reifies that yes, he's in a relationship. He wonders privately if Liza has updated her Facebook status.
As agreed upon, he walks her home after school, thankful for the absence of any drama purveyed by Viktor's jealous wrath. She amuses him along the way by sculpting snowballs, launching them at cars that pass by, startling the drivers out of their focus. The snow is feathery and fine and doesn't pack together well.
The Ødegaard residence is a rented one-story not far from downtown. It isn't in the best condition, nor would Mason consider it rundown. A lit-up inflatable snowman adorns the front lawn. Icicle lights run along the rain gutter. Through the picture window, Mason can see a monumental Christmas tree. They enter through the back door. Patty is already home. They find her feet-up on the living room sofa, watching soap operas. Mason politely ignores the faint odor of trash wafting from her person.
"Nice to see you again," she greets, toasting him with a golden can of Miller Genuine Draft. "Maybe since you're here you can make yourself useful and help my little girl carry a few loads down to the laundromat. Like she was supposed to do yesterday."
"Oh my God," Liza scoffs. "The fucking laundry's not going anywhere."
"Yeah, I've noticed. That's kinda my point, Princess."
"Our washer's on the fritz," Liza explains, embarrassed at having to discuss such domestic gruel with her new boyfriend. "And our deadbeat landlord's impossible to get hold of when you really need him."
"His wife's sick," Patty says. "Cut him some slack."
Liza doesn't respond beyond swiping a couple sodas from the fridge and dragging Mason to her room. Shutting the door behind them, she says, "Sorry about that. She'll get caught up in her stories and forget all about us." Though it doesn't sound like she believes this with total confidence.
He takes in Liza's sanctum. The few visible patches of wall are painted burgundy. A wreath of dead flowers enshrines a giant framed poster of Glenn Danzig. Other faces beaming down at them include Charles Manson, Patti Smith, and Tetsuo the Iron Man. She's excited that he recognizes the latter, saying it's one of her favorite movies of all time. On the subject of cinema, she drops to her knees to show off a DVD collection filling the bottom shelf of her cheap particle-board entertainment center. It's not massive but contains obscure titles. There is Italian giallo, Korean supernatural, New French Extreme, a credible smattering of the most twisted and transgressive. She's amazed that the ones he hasn't seen he has at least heard of, saying, "No offense, but you don't seem like a guy who gets out much."
"I'm not. I'm a guy who watches movies."
Thus begins a conversation on the merits of faux-snuff, documentary-style, so-called "torture porn." They both agree it's some of the most sublime stuff ever put on camera. August Underground. Cannibal Holocaust. Men Behind The Sun. The Japanese Guinea Pig series. They go on bouncing titles back and forth in this manner, testing how comprehensive the other's knowledge truly is of this most verboten subgenre. "People don't get it," Liza laments, grazing her fingertips lovingly over the DVD spines. "It's about finding your limits. It's about seeing what you can withstand without actually putting yourself or anyone else in harm's way."
Mason asks her if she's found her limits yet.
She considers this, then shakes her head. "Not even close. I just watched A Serbian Film, thinking that would be the one to break me because of the whole baby-rape scene everyone was talking about." When Mason voices no opinion, she asks, "You've seen it, haven't you?"
YOU ARE READING
Ragnarök
HorrorA fifteen-year-old foster kid, Mason, is willing to do almost anything--keep any secret--to avoid being plucked from relative comfort and dropped back in "the system." Meanwhile his guardian of four years, an old widow named Mildred, has secrets of...
