Wolves

There were wolves prowling in the dark. Howling low under their breath, trying to blend into the bleak nothing around them. A camouflage of night. She was raining sparks into the room, glitter falling from her otherwise bare face, light from the sheen of her newly washed hair gleaming with every swish of it. I watched her parade around, feet bare. She wore a twisted toe ring, the skin beneath it a greenish hue. She stepped and skipped with a carefree beauty, laughing alike a lover on a lazy Sunday morning - softly but surely, with no one to impress. There was no music. She was creating her own. Her belled anklet chiming happily with every bounce of her naked legs. Her fringed skirt mimicking her long golden hair, swishing and bouncing as she danced. 
     The wolves watched. They surveyed her with a phosphorescent gleam to their lustrous eyes. They circled round her, judging her, waiting for the perfect moment to approach. 
She extended her arms to the heavens, they curled with each other, dolphins in play, harmoniously mirroring the other's coiling movements. Bending her head back she let out a sigh as her spine clicked methodically. The wolves perked up, edging closer and closer to her undeniably haunting glamour. Growling and circling at the edge beside her they preyed. Their stalking movements contrasting drastically with her ignorant, innocent dance. 
    The sun was asleep on the outside of the marquee - the moon ablaze with a daunting silver glory- but she was marvelous within it, a child of both - the sky's illegitimate daughter. 
     I couldn't avert my gaze from her. My vision followed her every notion, every slight twitch of her breathtaking body. I watched the wolves too, from the corner of my otherwise occupied eye. They could smell her on the heavy summer air as it compressed us all. The heaven awaiting between her legs beckoning them. It mingled with the humidity and became the air, even I couldn't escape it's call. And they stood no chance, they replied with yelps and snarls. Cheers in chorus, of showy arrogance.
I didn't need to see them - I could feel their threat. I could sense their advancement, their drooling snarling mouths, teeth waiting to enter her, to rip apart her virtue. 
     I stood up from my rickety bar stool, determination on my face - my sights set on her and her alone. The magnitude of growls that greeted me turned my blood to solid matter. I felt my inards churn as i imagined my insides being ripped from my body by the majestic, starving beasts. Every murderous eye now set on me. 
    But I knew I had won, as the perfect moment would never present itself as it did not exist. We only had now. I stood before her and her attraction was undeniable even as she ceased movement and starred at me. Her youthful eyes like gateways into her flawless soul. Her small lips waiting to be kissed. Her small breasts waiting to be caressed. Her small mind waiting to be tarnished.
'May I buy you a drink?' I growled, the mightiest wolf of all. Standing tall above the rest, my victory my crown and her, my jewled prize. I was ablaze with superiority and glee. Gold showered from her entire entity as she nodded her head. The glittering rainfall of triumph. The other wolves averted their gaze, focusing on their frothing plastic cups and with a communal breath of defeat walked back to the bar - alone.

Fable

Once upon a time there was a young farmer's daughter named Mable. Mable was a kind girl, the sort of plain faced sweet heart who everyone adored - on a strictly platonic level. A younger sister to all was Mable, every man's untouchable cherub. Mable and her family lived in a small dusty village down the lane from the Royal castle. Although Mable had never entered the castle herself she often dreamed of it, lustfully gazing upon the mighty iron gates as she made her way past towards the taxation office. The peasants of the land, including Mable's own family, were told to give weekly offerings to the royal family through which ever means they could. Often Mable and her siblings went hungry in order to ensure an offering was presented. Her eyes would bore into the walls surrounding the castle and she'd urge her stare to melt the mortar and allow her to pass through. She had so many wants within those oppressive barriers. To dance like a heart attack to the bizarre tune of the mellifluous mandora. To feast greedily on the rich spread provided by the lesser man, the great unwashed, the lowly and the meek. To laugh at those beneath her and be utterly content with her own pompous superiority. 
   Alas, Mable walked on. Trudging through the manure and the waste - where she belonged. She could make out the patient form of Gial from this distance, leaning heavily against the wall as if it was all that was keeping him standing. Gial the tax man was a vibrant fellow. In the face of the loathing and jealousy that faced him on a daily basis he was surprisingly spree. His face always lit up when he saw Mable, the meager farmer's daughter.
'May!' he'd exclaim as she walked towards the window through which the donations would be made. He'd chat to her enthusiastically and she'd smile softly back, her heart aching as he took everything she worked for. On the particular day this tale begins Gial slipped a considerable amount of grain back into Mable's worn sack.
'You've brought a little too much my May.' he cooed, offering her a sly wink. Mable's face broke into a huge grin of relief and she held onto Gail's look, the contact of their eyes lasting moments too long the air began to escape from Mable's lungs and her breast started to heave.A man came up behind Mable, starling her and she averted her eyes, thanked Gail and walked away. She turned back just in time to steal one last vision of his forlorn face, half hidden by long streams of golden hair, before it was blocked to her by the other man's sheep clad back. She sighed to herself, adjusting the pitiful surplus of grain from one raw hand to the other, and continued back to her farm. 
   As she was walking she noticed vultures over head. Her eyes followed them awfully, noting their majestic form, their murderous circular dance. They had the appearance of being entirely still and infinitely in motion simultaneously - it frightened her. She could see her farm sign looming larger on the horizon and she continued to watch the birds as they glided overhead, dipping and rising like crashing waves on a mournful shore. Suddenly she was taken aback by their sharp menacing dive towards the ground in front of her. They shot like a lightning bolt to something, someone, on the ground. She cried out in anguished protest and sprinted forward. She threw the grain to the side of her as she ran, hoping to entice the birds elsewhere. As she felt the bag empty her heart was filled with regret but still she charged forwards.
'HEY!' she screamed, voice hoarse with strain. 'Stop!' her throat burned with every inhale and her vision started to fog, beads of sweat racing rapidly between her eyes. Yet still she ran and as she reached the grounded mass the birds dispersed, taking off soundlessly to rejoin the sky. Angels of death returning home. She slowed to a stop and stood above the thing on the ground. She looked at it in utter confusion. It appeared as if it was mildly human, she could make out limbs and extremities but it looked as of someone had elongated them all. It also appeared to be dead. Phosphorescent skin like substance was stretched over docile turquoise veins, decaying muscle clearly visible under every inch of putrid membrane. She couldn't see it's face as the back of it's skull was facing in her direction. There appeared to be a swollen segment of stagnant brain visible through a crack in the yellowing skull cap. Then, against all clarity, against all science - it moved. It turned its face towards her in a jerking clockwork motion. The bones cracking in it's neck as it forced it's face around, neck twisting too far to be human. Eye-less sockets aimed at her, their emptiness magnified by the scraped away brow area above them. A half corroded nasal passage was visible due to the non-existence of a nose on this monstrous face. The muscles pulled back and the face split into a huge harrowing grin, ripping apart the skin on either side of the mouth so sinew and vein just hung loose with no where to go like forgotten rags on a washing line.
'Thank you' it rasped. It's hard-as-nails voice curdling Mable's blood. 'Why must the buzzards feast on me?' it sang, rising to it's abnormally long feet. Each movement looked out of focus and each limb was so bizarre in size Mable could hardly focus. 'Why can't I feast on them?' It began to move forward. Mable, who until now had been frozen to the spot - foot half poised for action, backed away. The creature moved fluidly, sending each of it's long limbs forward like strokes of a paintbrush, foot dragging swiftly behind. 'Now I must rewards you my savior, oh sweet savior.' A blacken tongue extended from its tattered mouth and licked it's perished lips. 'Sweet, sweet human.' it reached towards her and lightly scratched at the skin of her face with fingers like whips. 'What would you wish? You may only receive but one.' Mable held her ground firmly, staring through the monster's eye sockets. She had two choices, she could run; run as fast as she could behind her screaming and crying and trying not to think of this creature. She would tell her father and he would come with his rifle and no doubt the decrepit eye sore would still be bound to this spot by it's gaping wounds. Or... She thought of Gial. His perfect features, his soft peach skin, not withered by manual labour. Not touched by blazing suns or biting winds. She looked down at her own stubby hands, rough callus fingers and cracked dry skin. They were worlds apart. 
'I want to... I wish to be the most desired woman in the land. Please.' the creature's smile flew wider, it's blackened teeth gleaming like a knife. 
'Your wish, sweet saviour, is my command.' it lunged towards her, mouth wide, Mable turned to escape, her heart leaping through her chest, but she fell to the ground. The creature perched atop of her, both of its metre long feet resting on her shoulder - but she felt no weight. She gazed up at the skeletal abomination as it clambered over her, wrapping it's spidery body around her silently screaming face. It squeezed her like a boa breaking its prey. She lost her breath for a moment, and then it was over. 
    'Enjoy. My sweet.' it breathed the words at her, a putrid hot stench hitting her entire body. A black rip in the atmosphere appeared to the right of it, producing a scream-like noise of such intensity Mable fell to her knees. The thing stalked over to the black mass as it whirred and wailed and stepped through it, offering Mable a salute-like wave with its spindle fingers. With that the vortexual apparition disappeared, and the demon with it. Dumbfounded Mable sat, her fingers dug deep into the moist soil. She rose to her feet and sprinted towards the nearest clear reflective body of water to examine her new face. But all she saw was the same plain features staring back at her with a look of frozen disappointment touching them. She felt anger bubble up inside her as she thought of the zombie jester who'd just departed. Dejectedly she stood, thinking about whether or not there would be any grain left on the dusty floor worth retrieving. She decided against it and with a sorrowful glance at the space she'd found the beast she turned to return to her farm.
 
Mable walked away from the river, her feet dragging behind her. She felt overwhelmingly melancholy but with each dragging step the rage sitting stagnant at the pit of her stomach began to rise. For one marvelous moment she had imagined she'd been in reach of everything she coveted in this life. She'd watched it glow in front of her; a burning orb of opportunity, and she'd danced for it like a carefree moth. But the light was distinguished and the dream was no more and as she walked she became increasingly certain of who's fault that was. That being. That monstrous being. It tantalized her with the promise of greatness, it bore in her the notion of possibility - and now the need can not be smothered. She would have to live with this desire for the rest of her life, never able to rid her mind of such a perfect vision. She could feel herself sinking back into the certainty of her mundane existence. She felt the plain of her features mocking her as they sat atop her face. 
    She sighed listlessly as she passed the sign for 'Home bridge farm'. Home was in the title but never in the ambiance  It was the only place she knew but she felt it did not know her. She did not belong in a place so tame, a place so placid. Somewhere where the only interesting things that happened came out of an animal. Her heart was full of adventure and longing for better things. She could see beyond this place and it's dreary continuity. She could dream. It often occurred to her that maybe she was the only person who could, everyone else seemed so happy to be stagnant, to be stuck in mediocrity. And that is why she thought the demon had appeared to her, it could sense in her what no one else possessed. A spirit? A soul? Evil? There had to be something, and she had to carry on believing that before the inadequacy got her and everything she was disappeared. 
   She decided she would take a nap as the day so far had exhausted her petite body. She could not see nor hear anyone in her home and with the existence of six siblings and two parents she found that to be somewhat of a miracle so decided to utilize the perfect moment - and sleep. She had barely lain her head on the lumpy pillow of her shared single bed when sleep gripped her. She dreamt she was falling into a black abyss. It engulfed her like water and she felt as if she really were drowning in darkness. Monstrous faces loomed in and out of sight as she fell, all the while screaming and screaming for light. She could feel a fire cracking beneath her. The heat from the roaring flame grew stronger, caressing her at first and then consuming her, until eventually Mable forgot about the eternal dark and screamed for the pain instead. She fell into the fire and was surprised to discover that at the base of the flame the heat didn't hurt her, but rather caressed her with a sweet and moreish sensation that left her entirely satisfied with every lick of the fiendish flames. 
   The door slammed in reality and she left the light embrace of the fire and awoke in her same old bed once more. She sat up and rubbed her sleep-touched eyes. Getting out of bed she noticed she was drenched in a cold sweat so she decided to change. She had three dresses for the summer months and as two were dirty she had no choice but to choose the smallest one of the three. She heard her father's heavy boots walking up the stairs and quickly shoved on the dress. It sat too high on her thigh for comfort but being as it was her only option she let it slide. 
'Father?' she called. She heard his steps stop and a shuffle symbolizing a change in direction outside her door.
'May?' he inquired. He pushed open her door gently and poked his head through. But once he saw her his warm expression changed, it became one of adoration and longing. His mouth hung open like a slobbering dog after a bone. His eyes lingered on the segment of thigh she couldn't quite cover with her floral number. She coughed uncomfortably and his eyes rose to hers. 
'Where's mother?' she asked shyly. 
'She's not here.' Her father growled back. 
'Well i'm going out.' Her father's face contorted with rage at her statement. 
'Where?' he hissed, moving towards her. 
'Just out.' Mable replied in a small voice. She backed towards the wall and away from her towering father. 
'To see boys no doubt? My daughter will be no hussy.' He raised his hand and slapped Mable hard across the face, splitting her quivering lip. She burst into uncontrollable sobs as she sat on the dirty floor amongst the carcasses of moths, spiders and dust bunnies. She couldn't catch her breath as she howled and stared at her father in disbelief, his expression was one of resolution and commitment to rage. She clamored to her feet and ran past him, narrowly missing his attempt to grab her by ripping the sleeve off her already tatty dress. She ran out the house and into the sunlight and lost her breath again at what she saw. 
   The entirety of the world was different. Light sat differently on objects and produced no shadow. The hues of color between entities conflated together seamlessly turning the world into a runny oil painting. The trees all in efflorescence, the flowers too, everything glowing with an eerie, almost unbearable beauty. The animals and trees passing all seemed to lilt to the song of their surroundings, humming uniquely with every opulent slip of the ear. She stopped running and her tears slowed. As they fell to the floor they glimmered with an opaque perfection. The world was a panacea that stole all her worries and qualms from her angsty mind and released her into a dazzling carefree haven. She looked down and despite being the same, looking the same, she could feel her own beauty, pulsating off her like she was radioactive with it. She was pulchritudinous. She was marvelous. She was the physical embodiment of perfection. 
   As much as she longed to hold onto the feeling of invincibility coursing through her at that moment, she had to remind herself of what had just happened with her father. She decided as she could not return home, she would go see Gial. She tried to pay as little attention to her surroundings as she walked as even the sheen to a blade of grass bought a tear of utter bliss to her eye. 
She reached Gial's hut and saw him rushing around his office in an obvious frenzy. 
'Hi Gial.' she breathed. He looked more breathtaking than any of the things in this new world, as he was the center of it for her. Butterflies pounded against the lining of her stomach. She was so excited for him to see her, this her, this beauty. 
'Oh hi May.' he said in an offhand manor. He continued to look through papers and files and paid Mable no attention. Disgruntled she sat down in the corner of his hut on her usual pine chair and breathed a sigh. 'I'll be with you in a moment May, I just need to find this paper. How's your day been?' Mable stared at her lap and told him the story of her father's aggression towards her back at the house.
'...And now i'm not sure if I can even go home.' she sniffed, tears forming in her eyes. She began to sob and she heard Gial run over. She felt a hand on her naked thigh and she looked up, locking her eyes onto his. She felt his gentle hand tightening painfully. 
He was looking at her with an expression she has never seen on any human being, let alone Gial. One of his eyes was twitching uncontrollably straining closed as if trying to see her better. The other was bulging. They seemed to be screaming her name behind their blazing fury but it was lost in translation, stolen by something else, something stronger. Mable's tears subsided and her father slipped from her mind. 
'What...'
But before she could inquire further Gial was clamoring at her face and whining like a wounded animal, snuffling up and down her cheeks. He lay his kisses wherever they could reach on Mable's stunned face - frozen with disgust. This is all she'd ever wanted, her entire reason for bargaining with a demon. Here, with Gial. But it was all wrong. He wasn't kissing her like he loved her, like he longed for her. He was kissing her like he had to, it was forced and angry and possessive and she didn't like it. 
'Stop.' she said dejectedly. But he didn't. His kiss grew frenzied, his touch monstrous. He carried on as if her screams meant nothing, as if she was nothing - nothing but an object he longed to posses  to dominate. She separated the two of them in her mind, this Gial - grunting above her and the Gial she'd loved for years. They were not the same, just as she was not the same in this new world. She closed her eyes as she couldn't stand the enchantment of her new found perfect world surrounding this ugly, atrocious occasion. It just didn't feel right, to feel so repulsive in the presence of such pinnacle excellence. 
    And within ten minutes Mable was lying in a ball on the floor, silent tears pouring from her vacant eyes and Gial was fastening his trousers. She felt dirty and broken, she could no longer remember what life had been like before all this. Before the pain and the blood and the lust. Before the demon. They felt like someone else's memories. No warped colors, no glitter, no ripped undergarments and shattered psyches. Gial sat across from her and just stared. His eyes were fixed on her bruised lips, flinching every time they opened. There was a look of lazy ecstasy breathing through his features. 
'I need to leave now.' Mable spoke. Her voice a monotone, devoid of all feeling. She walked out into the evening, the colors more beautiful than they had been all day. Shades of blood red mating with blues in the sky, two perfect swirls like bodies entwined in copulation - producing daughters and sons of equal fascination to dance with them around the setting sun. 
   Mable knew she couldn't live like this anymore, she had to end it - somehow. She walked methodically to the lake, too numb to feel anything. She was barefoot and pants-less. Her dirty hair sticking to her damp face, strands of it coagulating with the moisture. She reached the end of the lake and kept on walking. She believed that if she kept swimming, longer than her abused body could bear, she'd fall silently to the bottom of the mossy water and disappear - consumed by the softly rippling body of water until her last air bubble defeated - burst. 
    She dipped a delicate toe into the cool aqua and felt automatic relief. It'd all be over soon. She engulfed herself in her wet salvation, feeling the burning pain and cool relief of the lake touching her damaged skin. She emerged her head beneath the break of the water. Her hair flew around her like a whirlwind. Entirely consumed by the water's embrace she felt safer than she had in her entire life. The were no sounds. All she could feel was the ambiguous amount of space beneath her and the faster advancing distance to the sky above. 
   Then she felt something else, something grab her limboed wrist. Felt it dragging her hastily upwards. She opened her eyes. She was ripped from the lake, sound and color impacting with her simultaneously as she burst through the skin of the water. Soon she could smell a familiar and repulsive burning. She was being ground against a chest of scale like texture. Her face buried in the nape of the monster's neck she could feel its collar bone roughly gyrating against her bruised chin. She could smell freshly cut grass again, it collided with her senses and became her, as all pleasant things had done that day. She was on dry land once more. 
'Let me go' she screamed, thrashing and clawing against her condemned savior. 
'Feisty one aren't you?' it giggled, the sound a thousand rusty bells chiming. Her face collided with the dewy grass as she was abruptly dropped from the midpoint of the creature's twelve foot height. She looked up and followed its body as it twisted and turned, walking circles around her like a ribbon in the wind. It's body snaking to a ninety degree angle and back up.
'What did you do that for?' she inquired  malice in her voice. It circled closer to her, its crusty scabbed face almost stroking hers. 
'Getting even' it hissed. 
'But I didn't want your help.'
'No one ever does.' it spoke, it's face turned towards the heavens. 'You humans are all the same, you cry for me, you require me, in your pathetic monotonous lives, you yearn for me. Then, when I finally arrive, you rue me, you vanquish me, you despise me. But no one does so more than me. Oh no sweet, cursed savior  No one wishes me destroyed more than myself. Do you think I enjoy being? Stalking the underworld alone, forever cringed from. People look away from me, they dub me a monster and they are right. The only beings that ever desire me are the buzzards and even then it's fleeting.' the creature extends a bony wrist which snaps, it's shriveled hand dangling by a minuscule segment of sinew. 'But you dear Mable.' its voice fiery and hateful, a chorus of voices, all feeling the same degree of loathing 'You waste this gift I've bestowed upon you. You treat it like a curse.' It's hand sucked back up to its wrist and curled round to point a long dry finger at Mable. 'But you're the curse, you and your human limitations' She sat stunned for a moment on the floor, barely aware of the methodical drip of her sopping clothing and her uncovered genitals. 
'I don't want this anymore, I want you to take it away. I don't want to be wanted.' The beast surveyed her with it's vacant eyes, it's grotesque skin billowing with the summer's evening kiss. 
'Okay.' it said. And it rushed towards her like a blizzards breeze, unfathomable mania on its twisted features. It gathered her up like a wounded puppy and placed her atop it's head. Long disheveled arms wrapped around her entire body squeezing her until she screamed, her ribs cracking beneath their grasp. Then, with a final cackle from the Demon's thousands of voices, it was over.
    Mable fell to the ground, the unique metallic taste of menstruation consuming her taste buds. She choked violently, squeezing her eyes shut. 
'What is that?' she screamed. But it wasn't her usual melodic vocal retort that her panting mouth produced, but a baritone rasp with the edge of multiple voices. She pried open her eyes and saw the world as if she were under a sunless sky. Everything surrounding her was the negative of what it had been before the beast had caressed her. Colors were inverted and solid forms danced like mirages in heat. The beauty had left everything, there was not an evanescent glimmer of it to be found. She was surveying the scene from twelve feet off the ground and below her she saw a small girl kneeling on the ground clutching her head. She recognized the girl as herself despite the girl's purple hair and blue skin. She reached forward and a long spindle of an arm advanced from where her pink soft extremity should have been. 
    The girl on the floor stood and extended Mable a haunting smile, her teeth black and lips stretched firmly. 
'What have you done?' Mable rasped, her voice hoarse and chilling. She felt so out of balance as she tried to move the demon's long, towering body with her own exhausted mind.
'What I've always wanted to do.' The girl standing before her replied. She flicked Mable's golden hair and pointed to a place on the ground in front of her. The black vortex appeared once more only this time the screeching wail of it's spinning existence sounded like sweet music to Mable's deformed ears. The girl on the floor moved silkily towards Mable and placed a hand against her scabby tarnished knee cap and gave her a gentle push. Mable began to teeter and eventually fell backwards, her large form disappearing into the singing vortex. 
    As she was consumed by a hellish burning sensation all around her she took one last look at the demon in her body. Stunned and disoriented she couldn't believe what she was seeing. It was as if she was watching an old home movie that she didn't remember recording, as the girl who was her but wasn't moved independently from Mable's thoughts. She knew the monster was in there, just like she was in its vile body. But imagine, per say, if you looked in the mirror one day and in addition to you maybe not liking your own reflection it didn't like you back. The demon's continuous smirk was plastered on Mable's old face, it looked at her with pity and distaste and she couldn't escape it's mocking gaze. And as she continued to fall back into the gaping vortex the faux Mable watched and offered her a sly wink.
'Good luck.' it giggled grotesquely, and with that - the vortex closed.

Some would say this was a cautionary tale, about a girl condemned to the underworld. A tale that warned of 'be careful what you wish for' and the dangers of vanity. But no, this was a tale of triumph for the ancient demon, who banished the young girl, who punished her for her vanity; and who became the most beautiful woman ever to walk the mortal earth. 

Moth

Seeing you that day, well it was tough to say the least. It was so brief if it was anyone else I wouldn't have been able to tell. But I knew your face, i'd captured it, frozen in time the day you left. I never thought that i'd run into you again, not really. I always walked quickly past all the places we visited together, head down, phone out - hoping against hope that I wouldn't turn the corner and see your look of distaste looming towards me. Step, step, skip. Shuffling hastily to avoid the unavoidable.
New York seems to shrink when you're walking the same paths as someone you detest. The glowing scenery oozing apprehensive hate. You avoid certain places like they're hazardous  like they could maim you with their mere existence. It's as if you're entirely exposed, like your skin's inside out and infection is around every corner, or like you're walking on broken glass, tiptoeing over nails - skipping across a minefield. I just didn't want to see you - ever.
Then again a part of me wanted you to be there and part of me that knew you would be - that part of me hated you too. I'd imagined seeing you again a million times. I'd run over every way i'd hurt you, if I ever got the chance again. I'd tear you down and break you the way you'd broken me when you left.
I know i'm supposed to say something about how, since we'd been through so much, I should be harboring some kind of fragile love for you deep in the hidden valleys of my heart. But my heart is war-torn. It's abused. It's so far mangled I couldn't even find a space for myself in there, let alone you.
And when I saw you that day, whiskey in one hand, cig in the other - I knew nothing had changed. You're still just you. You're the same old broken man.
You said it was an accident, always an accident. But I knew what was really happening. She wasn't falling, she was being pushed. She wasn't clumsy, she was being hit. And you probably think I didn't hear you, shouting and screaming, bitter on your breath. Your serpent tongue snaking at her, breaking her almost as much as your fist. But I hid in my blanket of security, torn between the coward inside me, afraid of meeting the same fate, and the hero, clamoring to save her.
And one day I rose from my cocoon, my blanket fort haven, like a thick dark moth, a shiny armor of regret woven from all the screams i'd ignored and all the days driven to school by the woman next door because 'mummy can't get out of bed today'. No longer restrained by my footsie pajamas and my weak stature - I rose.
And I stood between the two of you and it was as if I was numb to you. Your words couldn't hurt me and I couldn't feel your rage. I'd been dormant long enough. And even as I lay crying and bleeding on the floor, blood spewing from my deformed mouth, I was happy to say - 'Fuck you, dad'
But now every day I listen to my crippled heart, hear it beating irregularly to everyone else's - it's weaker than theirs and it's hollow. I'm so afraid of it, scared one day all the hurt within it will burst out through my fingers, deform my hand into a fist - and i'll become you. I hear it like the sinister tick of a demonic clock, counting down the minutes till i break. I hear it in everything I do and it's coming closer. Pounding and pounding. Tick, tick, tock.  Avoiding the unavoidable.

Fungi.

The world's largest living organism by area is the Honey Mushroom Fungus. It's indigenous to the blue mountains of Oregon. It covers the area of 1,220 football pitches. It grows underground in the shape of a twisted smile. My smile was that fungi by nature, always twisted. It snaked through my lips like an anaconda weaving across a soft pale sand. Snapping at fragments of you it could steal for a level up. That crafty thieving smile - comely shining my contentment across to you. Our dalliance was one of erstwhile but it's stayed with me ever since, haunting me with fugacious felicity. Our love a pyrrhic victory that lead to the loss of you. The vestigial chatoyant gleam of my emerald eyes ceased on the day of your departure. You watched it carefully as it faded, believing that every unwilling blink of my exhausted lids was sapping the light from beneath them. But that wasn't the case, that glimmer was for you alone and you destroyed it that day, gave it a clear pathway to nonexistence. It flitted away so softly I was unsure if it had even been there to begin with. If it wasn't for the melancholy longing it imbued within me I could have denied it, but alas it stuck with me - captivated me. 
We met at the usual place, the sun hid behind the horizon, leaving the cold sky an oppressive grey. The branches of the dead desert trees stretched across the achromic clouds like stagnant veins over wan organs. Oregon never seemed so desolate. The surrounding areas bore no witness to the crime you were there to commit. You sat me down on a mossy bench and told me it was over. I tried to find the joking nature hidden behind all the sincerity, but alas. Your stare was metallic it let nothing through, you words forming an iron gate around what was once my fruitful home. I closed my eyes. Hoping against hope that without seeing you I could keep you, desperately fawning over your fragile memory, like stroking the crooked wing of a fallen lark. Despite it's ephemeral nature there was a sheer serendipity to our entwined fates. I always relished it as a positive splicing but as I gazed at your evil, monstrous, fearful face - I knew our path was a darker one. I rose to my shaky feet, as did you. We turned to each other and before I could entirely comprehend my senses we were on the ground, my large fist colliding with your divine features. 
Each collision producing a sound not unlike that of a large work boot on wet gravel. I watched your face break, your bones cracking and deforming beneath my wrath. The squelching of your veins as they ripped open didn't faze me. My screaming queries masked the sound; How could you do this to me? How?
Hit after hit after hit I focused on but one thing, one colossal cynosure mocking me - your closed eye lids. I prayed for their opening, prayed for the pupils within them to acknowledge me, but my prayers went unheard. I saw one flicker, a scintilla of the creases surrounding it, and poised my fist - ceasing my weapon hovering above your beleaguered self. A gossamer of spittle extended from your swollen mouth to my still-balled fist. You gargled, blood cankering at the base of your throat and then rising like vengeful lava to spew over your acne-scarred cheek. It was repulsive. You were repulsive. It inured me. I wept above you my tears creating ripples in the pools of fresh blood they landed in. Slowly my body sank so my face was buried in the nape of your furiously spluttering throat. I sobbed against that lissome spot for a few moments, trying to retrieve a halcyon memory from my crazed mind in order to forget my surroundings. The scene was bucolic around us. We tarnished it with horror, and it was spreading, seeping like the blood from your wounds towards the innocent desert. To defile it with it's supreme atrocity. I had to stop it, I couldn't take it anymore. I dug out the pen knife from my damp jean pocket and flipped out the sharpest, surest blade.
And with that I breathed you in for a final time, the sickly haze of your cheap perfume puppeteering my senses, steering them towards malfunction. I brought the knife down, landing it surely between my heaving ribs. My nose accepting the metalic burn of our mingling blood amongst the petrichor aroma nuzzling beside it. Your delicate lifeless body trapped beneath my outstretched arm forever, your smile now as twisted as mine, the ghost of it dashed across the barren ground - both to inevitably seep into the thirsty dirt and join their fungal brethren.

Zippo (uncompleted)

Ben.

When I was a teenager I had a friend who liked to set fire to spiders. He always stored this rusty Zippo lighter in his worn, darned tube socks, concealed efficiently by his never ironed ankle endangering chinos. His old man had given him the light before he took off. It was a fine silver thing, not real silver of course and half the paint was chipping off at the corners, exposing the black under-layer ever so slightly, but it was still impressive to us. He used to find the spiders between the pipes on the science block and use the lighter to burn off their legs. He said it made a very satisfying noise when their bodies succumbed to the flames. I never much liked watching him do it, always gave me chills, but I never much worried about it either. 
     Tom, my friend, had these scars on his face. At first to me they looked like pink, wrinkled enlarged freckles. Later on, circular burn marks. He used to make up a story every time anyone asked about them, a prank gone wrong or a 4th of July accident, I even once heard him telling Kim Michel that he'd gotten the scars rescuing a puppy from a burning building. It used to bug me that I never legitimately knew how he'd really come to have such a blatant disfigurement. As I half-watched him torturing those arachnids, my eyes glazing over as they did so often as I was growing up, I'd notice something different about Tom. His eyes never seemed to focus at all. 
    We were camping out and sipping on a few brews once a few years later and I asked him about the scars. Face set like concrete I tried to seem genuine, in the hope I’d see the same courtesy back. He sat quietly for a moment - his expressionless features studying mine with a look of curious amusement, and then he began; 

'When I was a baby my mum used to burn me. She'd light up a cig, inhale, and then she'd walk over to my crib, stare me in my tear-filled eyes and stub it out on my face. She assumes I don't remember this of course, thinks I repressed it all to protect my psyche I suppose, or maybe as I was just too damn young. But I do remember. And now I have these scars as you can see, these perfect stamps of psychopathic evil all over my face, leading down from my eyes like fiery tear tracks. They’re constantly reminding me of the insanity hidden within my family - shamelessly exposed on my face. Sometimes when she's pissing me off I think about how it would feel to pin her down and burn her, let her see what it's like. I can just imagine her hysterical screams. I imagine she'd cry, she cries at most things anyway, and then I could place the burning butt over her fallen tears, like she used to do with me. I'd make a game of it, all the while humming to the tune of her absurd howling. It's a shame I don't smoke really.'
    He was like this, Tom, well-worded, calculated - insane. I knew it from a young age but I lacked something vital to make other friends; a personality. So I stuck by Tom until we were 18. We had a brief fight over a girl in the tenth grade which obviously he won, but aside from that people called us best friends. I didn't see Tom after I went off to college until he was arrested. The police called me on the morning of the 17th of December and asked me to come into the station, the station of my old town in Maine. I arrived two days later having needed to wait for the weekend to avoid being in trouble with my firm. After I arrived I remember walking up those stairs in a frenzied panic, running over parking tickets and tax aversion and pens I'd occasionally stolen from the bank, trying desperately to figure out just what I'd done wrong to be there. I never would have guessed the real reason.
   Maine had been in the news a lot in recent months. There was a serial killer they referred to as 'The inferno' going around burning women alive. I suppose in a way I should have put the two together; Tommy, The inferno - but my narcissism prevented me from seeing the connection. 

'I'm here to see Officer Creed.' I announced to the receptionist. She looked listlessly at me and asked me my name. When she spoke I could see smeared lipstick on her over sized front teeth. 'Ben Candy' I stated shakily. She pointed me in the right direction and I walked down the desolate hall full to the brim with nervous fear. 

'Ah, Mr. Candy - do take a seat.' Officer Creed was a man about my age, with a short buzz of ginger hair, the same on his face. He motioned at me with a steady hand to take a seat in the uncomfortable looking office chair sat across from his padded swivel. I lowered myself into the seat cautiously, not entirely certain I wasn't about to need to escape from it sharply. I tried to settle but my leg was going rapidly, as it always did when I was on edge. 

'If you don't mind me asking,' I spoke gingerly 'Am I in any kind of trouble?' I surveyed his eyes carefully, looking for the judgement I would surely find in them. 

'Oh no no,' he chortled gruffly 'No.' his face grew serious and he lent towards me slowly 'I'm here to talk to you about Tommy Glint' I sat stunned, I had not seen Tommy in over 15 years, I could not see why suddenly I'd been called away from my comfy, monotonous life in Manhattan to sit across from a man I didn't know, and discuss Tommy Glint. 'I can see by your face you haven't heard?' He sighed and carelessly pushed a newspaper article towards me. Inquisitively, I picked it up; 'Have they put out The Inferno?' The title read, I moved my tired eyes back to Creed unsettled, but finding nothing of comfort on his rugged face I returned my gaze to the article; 

A Caucasian male of 34 has been arrested in the tri-state area in connection with the stream of Inferno murders plaguing Maine since 2011. The man was escorted from his home in East Old Town and taken into police custody early Tuesday night. Officials refuse to give statement but our sources tell us that recent evidence has come about placing him at a minimum of three of the confirmed crime scenes. 

The article cut out there. I reread the segment three times before gently placing it back on the jaded oak table and returning my attention to Officer Creed. 

'Right...Well I suppose good news never travels quickly.' I breathed 'What does this have to do with me?' Creed coughed lightly and shuffled awkwardly in his chair, he lent to me once again and pointed somewhere to the right of him.

'Well that man is Tommy, Tommy Glint.' my heart sank into the pit of my stomach and my head reeled, everything around me seemed to become 2-dimensional and I felt like I was falling into an emotional sink hole. I thought about our nights sleeping over at mine playing video games. Thought about him carrying me home from Amy Nish's 17th, when I'd downed an entire bottle of my dad's Disaranno and thrown up in a girl's mouth. Thought about the day we met and he talked my ear off about 'the great questions of life' for 6 hours. 
   'Thing is...' Creed continued, alerting me to his forgotten existence once more 'Tommy's trial's next week. We've got him in there claiming that as children you two were somewhat chummy and he tells us you wouldn't mind standing in for him and telling everyone what he was like as a child, how, you know,' he cleared his throat stiffly 'not psychopathic he was.'

'But, I haven't seen the man in sixteen years, how am I supposed to know whether or not he's guilty?' I said, my voice shrill with confusion. 

'Well that's the point Mr. Candy - you don't' 
   There was a long silence in the room, his last words hanging like a noose above our heads. 'Would you like to see him?' I weighed it up in my mind. On the one hand; the man in the cell next door could be a killer, a grotesque monster capable of rape and torture. A human so twisted they found enjoyment in humiliating and mutilating middle aged women. On the other hand; the man in there was Tommy. My best friend. The only friend I'd had as a boy growing up and practically since. A shy and inept child I'd never quite been able to strike up a conversation with a stranger, never been able to talk to girls, never been social. Tommy had practically forced his friendship upon me the first day of middle school. Erratically talking over my dreary shuffling and alexithymatic disposition we formed a friendship based on him leading, and me following half-heartily behind. I never dreamt I'd be here, sitting in front of someone who was telling me that Tommy - my Tommy - may have done such a disgusting thing. I knew he was a little off, he always had been. He laughed at the scene in the lion king when Mufasa dies; he always took fancy to older women and of course, his icy unfocused eyes. But I couldn't believe he was capable of this. I could feel something in the back of my mind calling me, screaming at me, trying to proclaim my idiocy - I ignored it. Rising to my feel I felt lighter than usual. I wasn't sure of myself anymore, foolish decision clouding faux emotions. 

'Yes.' I spoke, voice like nails. 'Lead me to him.'  

Tom.


The space was oppressive. With its pastel colored corner-less furniture and dull wall paper it resembled a psychiatric ward; everything designed to inspire calm but equipped to deal with the opposite. I remembered the child psychiatric. I used to get sent there for all manner of reasons; 'Tommy has nightmares' 'Tommy cuts himself.' 'Tommy threatens us.' Every adult in my life since I was old enough to talk developed some kind of psychological qualm against me. I'd sit on the scratchy padded furniture, alone, and imagine I was in a movie. I'd see myself how the camera would view me; cinematic and poised. The perfect little actor to play this warped character in the horror flick that was my life. I used to scratch at myself to pass the time, using my trigonometry compass and one of the larger holes in the pocket of my goodwill jeans. I'd scratch until the fabric soaked red and then i'd scratch some more, seeing how many strokes of my weapon equipped hand it took for my threshold to break. Usually the pain continued through my determined tears.  

   I'd always known how to hoodwink the therapists, lead them into believing I was not deserving of the labels they bestowed upon me. I found it so obtusely effortless to coax people into believing me, loving me. I knew my mother had hated me as a child - she'd resented my very existence and made it painfully clear. But as I grew and my mind developed, I found her love could be earned with a strategically personalized routine as could any creature's.     
    That is how I knew Benny would come. I felt no relief, no excitement, the second I saw his ceaselessly worried features peering into the visitor's room. I'd known all along he would come. It's a pleasant feeling, having assurances. For example if my mother hadn't relinquished herself to the heinous hands of death years ago I have no doubt she would have been standing before me too, wearing the same vexatious expression of fear and confusion as Benny displayed. 

'Hello friend.' I chuckled, extending my chained hand to him. He flinched.I feigned hurt and repossessed my friendly gesture. 

'Tom.' He spoke. Mild excitement was being born somewhere inside my vacuous heart, I got the feeling Tommy may have come to tell me to go fuck myself, maybe the big city had changed queer little Candy - hardened up his toffee exterior and made him into a real man. However he then proceeded to lift the cold metal seat in front of mine and tentatively he sat down. I breathed an irksome sigh and then thrust my perfect smile at him. 
'How have you been Bennyboy?' I laughed, chains rattling with a curiously cryptic effect. 'Missed me?' His right eye was crumpled slightly in his usual look of apprehension. He coughed nervously and I noticed with amity that his leg was still shaking wildly, just like it had done when we were children. I reached my hand forward and placed it on his tumultuously quavering knee. 
'No touching!' A voice boomed out from towards the door. I cackled manically again. 
'Sorry officer!' I sang, raising my hands above my head 'Just can't keep my hands off him can I' I offered the uniform by the door a sly wink and he blushed and averted his gaze from the pair of us. 
'If you really want to know Tommy' Ben spoke, his reaction over slightly delayed. I assumed the shock of the unwanted caress had probably been enough to astound him into vocalizing his minimal thoughts. 'I have been fine.' ''Fine'' - a word I detested over all others. So bland, so insipid, so... fine. I cringed at the word and then once more plastered a smile to my face. 
'Well that's good to hear. You married? Got yourself a girlfriend yet?' I chuckled to myself, primarily aware of the answer. If he had a life, anything solid to cling to, he wouldn't be here. He twisted his hands as he always did when he was conjuring up a lie, such an artless magician. 
'Yes I am seeing someone.' he mumbled, eyes averted. I chuckled under my breath at his deplorable fables.
'Okay Benny.' I cooed, batting my eyelids at him. He looked uncomfortable once more and began shaking the other leg. 'Not that it hasn't been great catching up...' he was looking at me with fear etched into everyone of his pudgy features, he also looked as if he was about to vomit. 'Well we both know why you're here. Will you help?' 
  There was a bubbling in his chest, it rose up through his throat like a raging lava, spewing from his mouth and soaking me - laughter. Uncontained, manic, insane - laughter.
'Alright Ben, I was only enquiring.' but my words made no impact on him, he still lay hunched over the desk, shaking with unstoppable laughter. 'No need to be a dick.' I mumbled angrily. At this point I feared he may have been having a stroke, his howling reached such a loud volume and his eyes bulged from their sockets. But he calmed down after a few patronizing moments and once again sat adamant in his seat, looking at me. I tried to smile at him, but his irksome display had shaken me too much. 
'Well Tom, that's the first genuine thing you've said since we've been in here. Now if you want my help...' he coughed a giggle over the word once more 'Then stop acting like you're in 'The silence of the lambs' and talk to me.' I smirked at him through my vexation, impressed by his new found moxie. 
  'Why do they think you've done this - Tom?' His voice cracked on the last word, whether due to fear or sorrow I was unsure, but the display of emotion unsettled me. It was my turn to shuffle uncomfortably. When I moved it sounded like a gentle breeze had hit a happy wind chime on a summer-touched porch, the evil chains holding me shivering with my movement. I wasn't sure how to tell Benny. This boy I held so dear, the only friend i'd ever valued. His lips shook as he gazed at me, awaiting my confession. Maybe I should tell him the story of my scars again, or maybe I should make up a new story. Maybe I should tell him the truth - how alive I felt as I watched them die. How it was the only time in my entire shambles of a life that I've ever felt anything real, anything worth of being called a feeling. Sure I'd had impulses before, wants, general needs - but this was a genuine feeling. It was as if my entire life had been one long sleep, as if I was living in a vegetative state until the moment I heard the screams of that first woman, felt them wash over me, making my body shake. As I'd watch the skin bubbling on each victim, their eyes melting in their sockets - I'd feel as if it was my skin on fire, my blood boiling - my feelings. And with that i'd leave the stupor, be cast forward into a state of ecstasy. I'd never felt it before, nor since. But I could not tell him that, so I simply shrugged. Maybe saying nothing would be enough. 

Ben.

Tom just stared at me blankly. My question to him clung to my tongue, dangling from my mouth waiting to be answered. He looked sheepish, the glaciers of his irises melting into me. I repeated myself firmly;
'Why do they think you've done this?' he remained adamant in his silence so I added an air of pleading to my inquest 'Tom, please'
'Ah Bennyboy.' he waved a hand at me as if sweeping away my query. 'Why do people think anything? Why is the sky blue?Why is the grass green? Why does it matter?' he slammed his balled fist down on the cold metal table, it left a frosty glazed imprint like the ghost of a sea urchin when he lifted it. 'All that matters in this instance Ben is that I didn't do it.' I held his gaze, trying to fish out the truth from his ambiguous features. 'I didn't do it.' I was unsure whether he was trying to convince me or himself now. I told him I believed him, not certain as to wether or not that was true. We arranged certain necessities; the inquest, the trial - my statement. Then we began to talk of past memories, of girls and parties and concerts and drugs. We spoke of our youth like two pals catching up over coffee, forgetting our abysmal surroundings. When the conversation ran dry we just looked at each other, surveying the places on each face age had touched and mutated. Eventually I stood up to leave and just as I was turning to exit I heard Tom mumble something incoherent feebly. I turned to him once more and as I looked him over again, my eyes lingering on his heinous scars, he said coldly;
'Don't fuck this up Ben.' And with that, I left.
The entire duration of my journey home I cast Tom from my mind. Unable to focus entirely on the issue my mind just kept panicking, racing over each arduous detail. I felt tight in my chest, a fight-or-flight sensation I hadn't experienced in much substantiality since I left college. I forced myself to take interest in the mundane surroundings flashing before my eyes as i drove. The nocturnal cars passing by in the midnight dark, basking momentarily in the orange glow of the feeble streetlights, their haze losing the battle against the consuming blackness.
When I got home I marked the date of the trial in bold red pen on the bland 'sceneries' calendar that hung over my kitchen sink and immediately retired to bed. I dreamt of Tom that night, not for the first time since our parting of ways in '82 and definitely not the last. There he sat, so proud and still, atop a bobbing rowing boat. He was smiling at me. His smile seemed crooked somehow, like only half of his face was committing to its existence. He was calling me, beckoning me to join him. I knew I was swimming although I couldn't feel or see my body thrashing around in the icy water. It seemed the more I tried to reach him, the further away he became - all the while cackling manically at my pathetic attempts. I began tasting salt in a mouth I hadn't been aware of before then. After the mouth followed the lungs. Searing and seizing in an attempt to locate and consume sweet oxygen to no avail. I felt my body, finally, as it was submerged beneath the crashing tide. Tom disappeared from view. My head began to mimic my lungs, shreiking at me in a pulsating desperaion, the pain of both increasing with every breath. The world went black and nothing existed anymore. I knew what it meant, I knew it was a warning. I was the water as Tommy was the fire. If I allied with him I would surely succumb to the extremities of my element. And just as I became aware that I had drowned - I woke up.

Cliff

He lifted up the branch to let her through. The place where his finger pushed against the sadistic bramble split open, drawing blood. He let out a gasp and pulled the wound into his mouth and sucked hard, the metallic flavour covered his taste buds. She climbed under his outstretched arm and extended him a lazy smile, her eyes squinting in the setting sun. It's molten fury sat purposefully atop the dark shadows of the forest, burning intensely. As she passed him her 'Smiths' t-shirt caught on one of the patient thorns and ripped slightly, revealing the taught skin of her sun kissed stomach. He smiled softly back at her, and breathing in her flowery scent (one once so repugnant to him), he followed her. They walked silently for the majority of the journey, occasionally exchanging quiet, carefully chosen words about their surroundings. He noticed a lone spider resting delicately on a pure white web. Droplets on rain sat amongst it like friends at a table, all patiently awaiting their victimised dinner. The way the web pulled and pushed in the gentle spring breeze made him think of it as an organism breathing softly, inhaling the sweet air. The serenity surrounding them was so soft he felt that speaking would break it, shatter it into a thousand pieces all ready to cut into him. So they walked in wonderful silence. When they reached the drop she turned to him with tears in her eyes and beckoned to him to join her on the ledge, he followed her. They stared at the glaring inferno as it began its decent into the unknown, to journey to provide light and warmth to the side of the world currently dwelling in darkness. He didn't know why she was crying, he didn't ask either. She reached towards him and weaved her fingers between his, he was shocked at how frail they felt constricted by his desperate grip. He wanted to kiss her but he knew he couldn't, the understanding tore him apart. He remembered how she tapped her feet to the melancholy guitar riffs the radio offered them on the way here, her head listlessly bobbing along to the beat. He looked at her and smiled once more. The perfection of the moment consumed him suddenly and he too began sprouting tears. They trickled down his face silently and he made no effort to wipe them away, he simply allowed them to fall beautifully down his porcelain cheeks. Their translucency caught the sun and shone with it like matchstick fires cascading from his eyes. She squeezed his fingers as they wept together, neither one even pondering as to why. She turned her crumpled face back to the sun and began singing, a sorrowful lament about lost love and a wasted life. He listened intently and wished with every fibre of his being that the tune would never cease, but alas, she belted the last bar and released his shaking hand. Screaming at the top of her lungs she ran full pelt over the edge of the steep cliff, and wincing in fear, he followed her.

Stage

Her body twists, the sweat kissed skin of her bare legs glistening in the dull light. Wrapping a calf around the cold metal she spins, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. Her auburn hair cascades down her back like liquid fire, shimmering with every rotation. She places her hand at the front of her bodice and with one swift flick of her well-practiced wrist she releases the clasp. She notices that his eyes are still on hers. With her breasts exposed she finds this strange. She moves around the stage fluidly, every step carefully rehearsed. She lifts the cheap fabric of her minuscule skirt ever so slightly, just high enough on her thigh to inspire temptation but still allowing enough concealment to retain mystery. Every lift, every blink, every step, every touch - a practiced art.
When he walked in she didn't think anything of it, just another set of eyes to please, another mind to exploit - another wallet to plunder. That was five hours ago. He hasn't moved from his chair at the back, hasn't ordered a drink, hasn't averted his gaze from her the entire time. She's used to creepers forming perverted obsessions with her, but this feels different. She feels like she knows him, she's certain they've met before. She runs through lists in her mind, crossing off every mundane place where this man could have made an impact on her life. She glides to the front of the stage as her solo cue music starts, by the end of the first verse of jazzy chorus she's down to just two pieces of fabric barely covering her modesty. Her narrowed eyes bore through him as she loops a finger under each section of lace, all the while gyrating her hips in time to the rhythmic horn. With a daring raise of the eyebrow she begins to pull at the delicate bow holding the fabric up. And she's exposed, entirely exposed. Yet his eyes never wander beyond hers.
She returns back to her pole at the left of the stage and continues to dance, as she does every night in this dingy STI-riddled cesspit. The applauds starts, every clap stabbing through her like a shame poisoned dagger. She flicks her eyes to him and the look on his face catches her off guard, his features are twisted into what she recognizes as disappointment. It's the same look she got from her mother when she left college to pursue her career as a dancer and subsequently every visit home since. This was not what either of them had in mind. The money starts flying her way and she scoops to retrieve it, all the while being careful not to bend too far in either direction. She can feel his eyes on her. searing her flesh as if his vision is burning her, charring the skin where ever it falls. She considers getting the manager to be rid of him, but the girls always say not to anger the 'creepers'. That's what ends you up like Mary-lou. She was found with her breasts cut off and her skull bashed in around July last year. Rumor has it she got a guy thrown out who'd been stalking her and he waited the 6 hours for her shift to end, raped her, killed her, and then took with him the part of her he liked best.
The song ends and she gathers her clothes and heads backstage for a costume change. Entering her cool dressing room she shoves on her tacky, bright underwear in a rush - she only has 30 minutes. She stares at herself in the mirror as she allows her heart rate to return to normal following the vigorous activity on stage. She has to blink to know the face looking back at her is her own, you can barely make out the girl underneath all the garish disguise. She hears a knock on her dressing room door shortly after taking off her false lashes. Grabbing a terrycloth robe she steps towards the sound, tightly wrapping it around herself as she does so. She opens the door, smile plastered to her heavily made up face, and there he stands. Tall and brooding, the crease between his eyes deep, his brow furrowed. He looks her up and down apprehensively and then growls almost begrudgingly;
'May I come in?'. His iridescent irises gleam in the hall's fluorescent light.
'Yes.' she breaths. She's unsure of why she did so, it was like he was the hammer and she was the knee. She notes his broad shoulders and his large hands as he passes her in the cramped doorway - he smells like rain and something sweet she can't quite place. He shuffles across the room and stands awkwardly by her clothing rail, his eyes flicker quickly to the array of undergarments hanging frivolously there, then they immediately flick back to her and his face turns a peculiar shade of red. She starts to warm her heart towards this awkward, strange man. He's dressed incongruously from her usual clientele in a fine suit and is holding a rain-soaked anorak in his shaking hands.Taking in the salt and pepper dashing trough his slick-backed mahogany hair she would place him at about fifty, a possible three decades older than her. She's used to older men coming back to speak to her, to gush over her. They bumble and fawn in the most repulsive manor, like starved dogs in the presence of a prime steak. This man is different. She feels comfortable in his presence, he has a calming air about him. His deep breathing reminds her of a breaking shore and his eyes have lines around them that she's certain were made by smiles, not frowns. She herself smiles softly at the thought and offers him a seat - which he rejects.
'I can't stay.' He looks up and their eyes meet again, but this time it's different. She becomes very aware of the small space between them, of the lack of other human beings around, again of his broad shoulders, his large, rough, hands. In spite of his great stature and his gruff voice she believes he'd be a gentle lover. As she leans against her dressing table, leg bent and garter showing, she decides she'll let him sleep with her. She knows that's why he's here, that's why they're all here. Never before has she let a costumer into her bed, but there's something about the awkward mannerisms of this stranger that charms her. She illogically feels she can trust him.
'What's your name?' she coos, cocking her head.
'Charles.' he replies. He clears his throat. 'Charles Linton'
'Well Charles' she begins taking off her robe, and soon she is standing in just her underwear once more, the terrycloth softly dangling from her elbows. 'What can I do for you?' He looks at her and he winces. Taken-aback she lets the robe fall completely to the floor.
'Nothing.' he says flatly, his eyes on hers once more. His face tells her nothing. 'I should never of come.' he walks briskly to the door and yanks it open. He stands in the door way for a second, fumbling with something in his pocket. He turns and places a dirty envelope on the floor by her feet. He does not even glance at her before he exits through the chipped wood frame. The draft from where it's left hanging open hits her bare skin and goose bumps appear all over it but she does nothing to heal them, she just stands in the same spot, confused. She tried to comprehend what just happened, how quickly and bizarrely the mood shifted. Eventually she shivers - bringing her back to earth, back to this dingy dressing room, back to the life she's trapped in. She goes to the mirror, reapplies her lashes and touches up her liner. She looks at herself and is filled with hate. It bubbles up inside her to such a degree that she feels she may just explode all over this boxy room. How dare he? she thinks, How dare he reject her so, and then he has the nerve to leave her money? No, it wasn't right.
'No!' She screams at her reflection and her reflection screams back. She lifts a balled fist and jabs at her face in the mirror. The glass shatters and she recoils in pain, blood spouting from her tarnished knuckles. She falls to the floor on bent knees and howls into her lap, tears falling onto her naked flesh. As the mascara enters her weeping eyes they sting with an intensity to match her throbbing hand. She squeezes them shut to stop the pain. As she lays foetally balled on the floor she runs over the day in her mind and suddenly it clicks. Her thoughts reel and she feels as if she is melting into the nylon carpet rubbing harshly against her skin. The smell, the feeling, the name. She rises to her feet and runs over to the envelope on the floor. She rips it open desperately, pain searing from her wounded fist. Inside is a wad of cash as she anticipated but snuggled next to it is a small neatly folded note. She unfolds it and reads it and sinks down onto the floor once more. The blood on her hand is drying at a rapid pace. The lights blink twice and the bell goes, signalling it's time for her to go back to work. But she just stays where she is. Her head spiraling in a sick, shameful rage. She'd known his name since she was small how could she not have made the connection. Her lecherous desires had prevented her from exercising basic common sense. She wants to cry for him, to beg him to come back, to scream she's sorry and she misses him - all the things she'd ever wanted to say to him. But it didn't work when he left her the first time and she knew it definitely wouldn't work now. Not now he'd seen the damage he'd done, seen what leaving had done to his little girl - seen what she'd become.