The Soup Girls

Jill and Meagan were getting ready to go out.  “Pass me that.” laughed Jill and handed Meagan the straightener, “Decided against it?”

“Fuck off”, said Meagan, tilting her head at the mirror.  She was wearing a yellow dress with a black band around the waist.  They were both beautiful (their youth alone), but Jill, being the taller and more slender of the two was prettier.  “Is Jenna coming?” Meagan placed the straightener on the sink top and turned her head side to side.  “She might be.  Actually, I don’t even know; she has been incredibly lame lately.”

“Yeah, I don’t even know why, the bitch is doing the easiest course.”

“And she doesn’t even work.”  There was a pause before Jill, twisting side to side in her pink dress that at full stretch just touched her thighs whispered, “Slacker”.  The two girls erupted in laughter, shaking the small mirror and lamp that rest on the bathroom sink giving the illusion that the light was flickering, or that the room was brighter than it really was.  Jill looked at the mirror and acknowledged her own beauty.  She thought: my arms look good today; perhaps, those three days of sun (particularly Wednesday) have done some good.  Meagan was unaware that she was the ugly duckling of the two girls.  She would always give a cheeky grin when she caught herself in the mirror.  But, if there ever was some court deliberation she would be like the cute little girl who came second in a southern Texas beauty pageant.  Her shiny tiara with it sharp diamante edges would act like a machete for hacking through the thick shrubs of overweight parents, pretty girls with waxed eyebrows and blowout hair, and of course Jill, who would be politely standing in the corner watching it all unfold.

“have you called a cab?”

“I thought maybe we could take the train? If you want?”

“nah, fuck that. Besides we are late as it is.”  Jill often caught the train and had no problem with public transport despite its poor arrival ratings, but Meagan was right, they were late as it was and Jill’s house was a good twenty minutes to Chapel Street.  “Alright, well you call it though; you have been in my way gurl and I need to look purty.”  Meagan agreed and left for the bedroom where her phone was.  “oh my god, Jenna has called me three times”, she cackled, “she says she is already there ha ha.”

“she must have a day off her busy schedule” replied Jill, circling a pad under her eyelids, “call the cab I’ll be ready in two minutes.”  Meagan sat on Jill’s bed with the phone propped in between her chin and her left shoulder.  She was putting on her shoes while the cab company kept her on hold.  Heading out, heading home, put 1-3 CABS in your phone…  She informed Jill who was sliding her hands along her sides and assessing her look from several angles.  “Not much we can do about that.  We can just fit in another drink I suppose,” she giggled.  This was not an absurd suggestion; Melbourne culture involves pre-drinking to excess to save money on drinks at the bars.  The gross taxation of alcohol in Australia means that a vodka and soda – Jill and Meagan’s weapon of choice – can set you back eight or nine dollars on a good night.  Alternatively, the excessive drinking could be caused by some underlying cultural pathology where being social requires it. 

Meagan booked the cab after listening to the 1-3 CABS jingle for twenty minutes.  They were assured that the next available taxi would come; however, 10.30pm on a Saturday night in Melbourne’s southeast is a rabid time to wait for a cab. People wave them down off the street and harass them like beady-eyed hyenas on the dark plains of Africa’s starry nights.  There are some hyenas that lack the politeness to pay for their cab so they run, or worse, they bite with their fists and leave the poor international-student-just-trying-to-pay-his-fees lying on the ground bloody.  For this reason, and many more, these ill-fated girls were forced to wait over an hour for a cab.  In this time they drank three more drinks and shared stories.

Meagan was telling Jill about her tutor at university. “She sits there”, Meagan’s arms stretched out in front of her to form a circle, “fat as a house and thinks she knows everything.”  Jill gave a faint smile and took a sip. “No one likes her.  I mean NO-ONE.  As soon as she leaves, I always say to Brad – and he agrees – that the university is going down the drain.  I mean hiring people like that; I think she might actually be retarded.”  Jill gave out another faint smile.

“how is it though, are you finding it hard?”

“only because I don’t try.  There is no attendance mark so I don’t even go some weeks.”

“have you had any assessments?”

“nah, not yet, it only has two assessments and they are later in the semester.  I’ll try then.” Meagan laughed and rose to get another drink from the kitchen table.  Jill did not laugh.  Jill secretly thought Meagan was a bitch.  From the kitchen, Meagan could be heard blabbering about another one of her tutors and how useless they were: who ends up teaching anyway, what morons.

Jill, sipping her vodka and soda out of a green plastic cup, thought about Meagan.  One time, in first year when Jill still lived with her mum, Meagan stayed over after one night out.  “try and be quiet my mum is asleep and her room is right next to the front door.” Jill whispered and Meagan nodded in return.  However, they weren’t five steps into the foyer, the crackle of the key could still be heard, that Meagan started giggling.  “Be quiet Meagan”, Jill proceeded to push Meagan through the house toward her room.  Her giggling became insane and blended with a sharp cackle.  “I  can’t help it”

“don’t talk”

“I can’t help it”

“you are talking too loud”, Jill whispered while pushing Meagan through the hallway.  Just as they reached Jill’s room and flicked on the light – Meagan still giggling.  A rustle came from the other end of the house.  Jill peered into the darkness of the hallway and saw her mother, lit up only by a dim street light peering into the hallway.  “for god sake, Jillian”

“I’m sorry mum, we are going to sleep now” Jill whispered.

“It’s four am; you know I have to be up early tomorrow.”

“I know I know, I’m so sorry.”  Her mother turned and went  to sleep. 

Jill returned with two drinks, “Fucking cabs, and now they want us to prepay”

“I’ve already got one”.

“just drink it ya bitch.”  She handed Jill the purple cup.  Jill finished the rest of her drink and took Meagan’s.  “Jenna is going to be fucking pissed” laughed Meagan while pressing her hair down, “do you remember the time you almost hit her? That was the funniest.”

“Don’t remind me. Besides, you did hit her.”

“as if you even remember it, you were that fucked.” The two girls laughed.  Truth be told, Jill couldn’t remember much of it at all.  She remembers being extremely angry at Jenna but could not recall why.  Meagan didn’t know why either but she did know it was something extremely petty and that the real reason for Jill’s outburst was her inebriation.  The next day after the attempted beating, Jill remembered Jenna confronting her at Meagan’s house. Jill had been throwing up all morning.  She sat on the bathroom floor in her underwear and succumbed to hot flashes followed by jittery eskimo freezes and vomiting.  Jenna knocked on the front door and Meagan, being her friend and partially forgetful of the previous nights events, let her in.  “where is Jill?”

“in the bathroom, she is a bit rough today” laughed Meagan, who, finally realised Jenna’s tone and immediately corrected herself, “now is not the time,” while grabbing at the advancing Jenna’s arm. 

The problem was that Jenna didn’t drink, had never had a drink and would never do something so fucking stupid to her body.  There is no way she could possibly understand the near death experience Jill was currently going through.  “Jill Jill” yelled Jenna as she approached the bathroom.  Jill, still lying on the white tiles with her arm around the toilet bowl, did not move an inch.  The door flung open and Jenna let out a barrage that felt like a siren was being blasted in Jill’s ear.  Jill started to cry from the pain and the sickness and the drunken regret of being drunk in the first place.  She looked up, the brightness of the white walls and white shower curtain all made progressively more light by the sun shining through a window above her head, to see Meagan, wearing hot pink pyjamas smack Jenna across the head with a huge right.  There was a short scuffle before Jenna, realising her body was in immediate danger of having something fucking stupid done to it, ran out the hole she came in.  Jill was still crying as this happened and Meagan, seeing her friends pain, crouched down and hugged her.  “You poor thing, I’m sorry she came in like that” whispered Meagan, “she truly is a bitch.”

The cab arrived at around eleven pm; this much we know and the details are a matter of public record, provided, it should be stated, by 1-3-CABS wilfully.  Other than that, the police are still trying to figure out where the girls went.  Three neighbours, Mrs. Bayley most prominently, provided telling affidavits in which they recant the two girls “loudly” leaving Jill’s southeast suburb apartment.  They all agree on the time and Mrs. Bailey even goes as far to give a description of the cab driver; the others could not confirm or deny her claim.  The girls have only been missing for four days and no one has given up hope of finding them alive.  There has been an outpouring of support and hope on social media.  Jill’s mother, a similarly tall woman, made an appeal on television last night, for anyone to come forward with information.  “My sweet little girl” said Linda, comforted by her sister Rachel and the flashes of TV news cameras. 

Detective Briscoe and Sergeant Thomas interviewed Jenna.  She was never taken seriously as a suspect because she was at the chapel street establishment, Warehouse, until the earlier hours of Sunday morning.  She informed the police of her fondness for Jill and Meagan and an absolute despair at the thought of them gone.  Chewing on his pen, Briscoe took notes with another pen in his right hand and thought about Jenna’s legs; she was fat.  “me and Jill have known each other for years and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her.”

“she had no enemies?”

“no, of course not.  She was… is incredibly sweet and quiet.”

“didn’t you yourself once try to assault Ms. Harper?”

“no neve…”

“On the morning of January 18th, several sources suggested to us that it is a well known fact that you tried to assault Ms. Harper in her mother’s home,” Interrupted Sgt. Thomas.

“oh that.  That was different.  She had been drinking and she was uncharacteristically rude.  She is normally very sweet.  Well, most of the time, but sometimes, when she is drunk, she gets this look in her eye and she says the meanest things.”

“Had she not been drinking on the night in question?”

“I imagine so,” said Jenna.

“we found an empty bottle of vodka in her apartment.  It is likely she was rather intoxicated by the time the cab arrived; Ms. Jenson too.”  A crack echoed as the pen in Det. Briscoe’s mouth snapped, his eyes fixed on Jenna. 

***

Jill awoke with her vision incredibly blurred.  It took several moments for her to come to her senses.  The first thing she felt was the sensation of being incredibly wet.  Subsequently, she heard the swish of miniature waves capsizing little boats of reality.  Soaked brown leather straps clasped her hands and feet with chain linked chords disappearing over the edge of the porcelain tub.  The water was similarly brown, perhaps from the leather.  She noticed the prune like nature of her finger tips as she franticly tried to rip the strap off her left hand.  Some hope was created as she pulled harder on it and noticed that her hand (if she contorted it properly) might fit through.  People often say, and it is suggested in many movies, that when the moment of truth comes, when you are really and truly fucked, that you freeze up.  You get deer in the headlights syndrome and you die.  Well that is bullshit.  Jill did not stop for a second.  Completely naked in a murky tub she clawed at her wrists like a beast.  She didn’t notice the plastic tubs piled up on her right; her beautiful pink dress thrown over in the corner next to a yellow dress with a black waist band; the chipboard counter with a menacing meat cleaver reflecting the light of a red fluorescent bulb directly above the bath.  And as the miniature ships called mayday and the sound of the storm inside the tub became like a roaring tempest that had angered an adrenalin driven squid, she failed to see the dark shadow of a man come down the stairs, walk over to the bench, pick up a baseball bat and smack her in the face three times.

Jill awoke for a second time to the rhymed sound of a blade.  As her eyes adjusted to the red light of the room, she saw, standing in front of the counter, a large bald man scraping avocado onto a crusket with a butchers knife.  The back of his singlet was sweated through and the top of his head gleaming.  She watched him as he devoured crusket after crusket until two full avocados lay dead in his belly.  Breathing deeply and coughing crumbs, he turned and saw that Jill had awoken.  “I’m sorry about before.  You weren’t supposed to have woken up yet,” he laughed, some rogue crumbs jumped overboard into the tub, “well actually, you were supposed to be awake a long time ago but I guess you can’t handle your alcohol like your friend.” He gestured with the butcher’s knife at the stacks of takeaway food containers being kept frozen from a cascading vent of mist.  Jill looked confused.  “Yeah, I’m afraid your friend is dead,” he leaned back onto the bench and began to hoe into a big packet of dorritos, “my god, she was a bitch.  She just kept flapping and flapping around and screaming.  She even hit me once, that’s how I got this,” he touched the blade against his right eye which was yellowing up. 

Jill soaked and watched as the man spoke, focusing on his mouth moving but not the words coming out.  A blank look came over her face as she realised that this was happening to her, not some other girl on TV.  Her face turned pale like snow white, “why are you doing this to me?” she whimpered.

“that’s not really important now is it,” replied the man, covering his mouth with his chubby Dorrito gloved fingers.  He walked toward the bath.  His steps echoed, clanking his tools that lay on the benchtop.  He held the red light that dangled from the planked ceiling in his hand and swung it, side to side.  “what do you want from me?” Jill repeated. “Who, who are you?” The man snatched at the light, stopping it dead in its path.  “You don’t remember me do you?” He returned to the bench and resumed his Dorritoing.  As he started to chuckle and chew, he said, “Sometimes I don’t feel bad about what I do,” he shook his head, “did you even look at who was driving the cab? Good evening girls, where are we going tonight?” He raised his eyebrows as if he was expecting a response, but also in anticipation of that the fact that there wouldn’t be one.  He placed the Doritos on the workbench, wiped his hands on his grey singlet and picked up the cleaver.  With an exaggerated swing he slammed it deep into the chip board desk and screamed, “why the fuck do you not remember me? Do you walk around in a fucking haze? You stupid fucking bitch!”  Jill was stunned silent.  She lay quivering in the cold murky water with her hands and her feet resting on its porcelain shores.

The man drew closer.  He raised the cleaver up to his neck.  He stared at her, death in his eyes.  She stared back, too afraid to look away.  His face turned bright red, “I have a na…” His speech broke, the last syllables coming out like a faulty engine.  His hand flung to his chest and grasped tight.  He staggered for a moment before dropping to his knees.  He was now at eye level with Jill.  As he began to sway, he held himself up on the edge of the porcelain tub, leaving dorito salt on its shores.  He tried to speak once more but his face, now turning blue, didn’t make a sound.  Jill started clawing at her left wrist band.  She ripped at the mouldy leather without hiding her efforts. Water splashed everywhere, the fat man with his eyes rolling in the back of his head was helpless. 

With the sound of a flick the left wrist band came off.  The other wrist bands would be much easier, she thought.  She undid her right wrist as the fat man staggered to his feet holding the cleaver.  Their eyes locked for a moment in the perpetual dance of death and survival.  He was weak on his feet and had to support himself up on a pillar that stood next to the tub.  Jill sat up and began working on her ankle supports but the man had regained strength.  With a groan he launched himself off the pillar and smashed the cleaver into the porcelain tub.  The swing narrowly missed Jill and the murky water began to pour all over the slate ground.  Jill released her left ankle and kicked the fat man back into the pillar.  He let out another groan and dropped the cleaver.  Jill untied the last bind and stood up. 

Completely naked Jill retrieved the cleaver that lay in front of the man.  He stood their panting like a dog.  He smiled, “what are you going to do?”  Jill stood, dripping wet, holding the cleaver out in front.  She was shaking.  “What are you going to do? Huh,” he continued, “are you going to cut me up into little pieces, is that it?” Jill didn’t respond, she just stood there shaking.  The man regained some confidence and lifted himself off the pillar.  Jill began to walk backwards as he approached.  “I know you can’t do it, I can tell by looking at you.”  He swung the light over his head and grinned once more.  As the light swayed, giving a flowing red hue to the room, Jill backed herself up against the wall and pointed the cleaver at the man.  The light eclipsed behind the mans head once more, darkening the room for Jill.  And out of the light, once the shadow passed over her face, the man lunged at her in an a moment of opportunity.  Jill lifted the cleaver over head and stuck it into the mans neck.  He hit the ground with a thud. 

Lying on the ground, the man held his neck with his hands.  Blood frothed through the gaps in his fingers like foam.  He let out small weak coughs that were similarly foamy.  Jill looked down at the man and panted heavily.  The door was just to her right.  Without saying a word she knelt down over the man.  Resting on his chest, she took the cleaver and placed it on his throat.  His hands fell out toward his sides.  She smiled in a drunken bloodlust that young girls get.  She started to press the cleaver down on his already slashed throat.  The man tried to scream but it was muffled.  He began to thrash around. 





Paint Jill as repressed so that the only moment she feels alive is in the face of certain death.

Mention how in the cufuffle his knives fall on the ground. 

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