Текст книги "Sweet Little Lies"
Автор книги: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 5 страниц)
“They’re taking her out the back!” People were scurrying about, flashbulbs started going off. A white van pulled to the curb, and the bailiff pushed me inside. I smacked my forehead on the door frame, felt the bruised lump start swelling. The guard just leered.
***
It felt like we arrived within minutes. The lawns were green and long; the building at the end of the drive looked more like a Victorian mansion than a sanitarium. At least my dream weaver has good architectural taste. The van jogged to a stop and the guard grabbed my forearm again.
“Put those panties back on, girlie,” he grumbled in my ear. “They’ll catalog your clothes and we can’t have any missing.”
I’d try the trick that’s worked so many times before. “Sure, whatever. Can I use the bathroom now?”
“Once you’re inside. Thanks for the lay.”
“Not a problem.” We exited the van, the sunlight stinging my eyes. A shadow moved across my frame. I squinted…
“TROY!” I launched myself into his arms. “I can’t wake up. Will you help me?”
“Sure, babe.” The dark, gaping hole smack in the center of his face moved again, shreds of blood and tissue fell to the ground. “You’re going to like it here. I’m sorry I can’t stay. I have to get back to the graveyard. I miss you, sugar. But everything will be all right now.”
“Don’t go.” I snuggled in close. “Troy, they tried me for murder.”
“I know. It’s perfect, isn’t it? I needed some way to keep you safe, darling. This way, you’ll always be taken care of. I love you.”
And with that, he was gone. I looked at my new home and smiled. Troy would never let me be alone.
DRIVE IT LIKE IT’S STOLEN
Flashing in the Gutters 2006
“Are you done with the mascara yet?”
“God Jules, yes already. Quit grabbing for it.” Tara handed the green tube to her best friend.
“Thank you. It’s just that we don’t have all day, you know?”
“Shhh, Jules.” Tara glanced over her shoulder. The bathroom door opened and the rush began. A line formed behind them, innocuous women and children, just searching for a little relief on the side of the road. Tara caught one woman staring at her and narrowed her eyes. The woman looked away, intimidated or uninterested. Tara chose intimidated, happier with the idea.
The truck stop was as anonymous as they came. Side of a highway, somewhere in Godforsaken Timbuktu Tennessee, a McDonald’s attached to the side. The smell of the fries made their mouth water when they rushed through the door, trying to get to the bathroom unnoticed. They’d succeeded.
Tara turned back to the mirror and watched Jules swipe the little wand across her transparent lashes, wishing for permanence. Maybe she’d help her dye them one day, when they had a little more money. Things might be tight for a while. Tara told Jules over and over again that it was going to be okay, and Jules believed her. It was the way things were with them.
Time to go. Tara pulled a brush through her hair and handed it to Jules, who scooped her long blond curls into a fist and wadded them through a tiny black rubber band. She looked older with her hair up, everyone told her that. Taking the idea to heart, she prepared complex swirls and twists and bought tortoise shell hairclips to fancy it up. They’d left those things at home.
Women were shuffling toward them now, trying to get to the sinks, to wash up and head on. Tara glanced around as they shoved their accoutrements back into a plastic tote bag Jules had purchased at the Dollar Tree. Hairdryer, makeup bag, brushes, clothes. A woman with nappy hair and thick rimless glasses cleared her throat, impatient.
Grabbing the bag, Tara pulled Jules away from the sinks, toward the half-open door. The line was growing. She felt Jules tense under her hand, looked back through the door. The old woman was peering into the trash receptacle to the left of the sinks. Reaching a hand in…
Tara put her hand in the middle of her friends back, pushing her out through the McDonald’s entrance. “They’re looking. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Quit pushing me,” Jules hissed.
“Hurry the hell up, then. That woman saw.”
The two girls broke out the door and hustled to a mid-nineties Toyota Camry, silver, with a dented hood. Tara reached through the open window, picked up a canvas bag, and sauntered three cars down. A slate gray Porsche Boxster, ragtop down, gleamed in the sun. Tara flicked the visor down, caught the keys. Throwing her second smile of the day at Jules, she nodded to the car.
“Get in.” Tara took the driver’s side, Jules the passenger. They strapped in, Tara shoved the car into gear and they spun out of the parking lot. They were gone, north on the interstate ramp, before anyone registered the blood.
***
Detective Frank Barbary chewed on a toothpick, contemplating. The crime scene folks were milling around, done photographing and taking samples, waiting for the call to close the scene. The body was zipped into a plastic Cobb County Medical Examiner’s pouch, the protruding knife pitching an obscene tent. The widow was crying plaintively in the living room.
Barbary was comfortable with what had gone down, felt he had a handle on the day’s events. Spike Hamilton shouldn’tve been boning his daughter in the first place. He didn’t blame that girl a bit for offing him. Doubted a court would either. They just needed to find her. A BOLO was in place for Hamilton’s Camry. Find the car, they’d find the girl. He might just shake her hand when they found her.
Word was she’d taken off with her best friend. Barbary shifted the toothpick to the opposite check. How far could two thirteen year olds get, anyway?
DELAY
Flashing in the Gutters 2006
“Poor, stupid fucker.”
Delay stood over the carcass of the deer.
“I’m soory, y’hear? I didn’t mean to hit ya. Ya just ran out in front of me like that, and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t hit the brakes, there’s that bag with the eggs in it in the backseat. And she’d kill me if I came home with broken eggs, you know? And you’re a cute little thing, aren’t ya. Aww, hell. Now I’m gonna feel bad all night. I didn’t mean to kill ya. Ended your life before it ever began. Ya still gotch ya spots on ya side. Little Susie’d cry all night if she knew you were dead by my hand. She don’t conscious with that killing of animals, ya know. Think she’s even started talking about becomin’ a vegetarian, one of those freaks who don’t eat meat. Now, that oughta make ya feel better. Not one of yer brethren being ate by my little girl. Sounds like we might have ourselves a deal, ya think? I’m so sorry, little fella. Ain’t so little, though, are ya? Man, you put a nice dent in the front of my F-250. Cost me a pretty penny, ya know, but the dealer was right. He tole me that them women hang out by the Home Depot, looking for a man with a big truck. Couldn’t afford the 350, that woulda been nice, but the guy said the 150 wouldn’t get me any tail. Ah, hell, I didn’t mean that, ya got a cute little tail, all white and fluffy. Susie sure would like to see ya, but I couldn’t take you home like this, she’d never understand. Ya know there’s a football player lives down the street, now he got hisself a 650. That fucker’d tow a house ya wanted it to. Man, I’d love to have me a truck like that, all shiny chrome and Mack details. Wow, that would be the life. But the 250, now that’s a workin’ man’s truck, cause that’s what I am, ya see, I’m a workin’ man. That’s what I was doing when I hit ya, little fella, I was headed home from work. Kinda cold to be roofin’, but it’s better than those 90 degree days when ya feel like you’ll slide right off them shingles and slip into the tar below. Hotter’n Georgia asphalt, hahaha, get it? I guess that’s not so funny to you now, laying here in the dirt. Aw, I’m sorry, little fella, I was trying to make a joke and I’ve gone and hurt ya feelins. I wish there was something I could do to help ya now, but it looks like yer all gone. No more light in those pretty brown eyes. Well, I guess it’s about that time. I need to get ya off the road so no one comes by and smacks ya one, and the missus, well, she’s waiting for those eggs.”
***
“Poor, stupid fucker.”
Billy Dean had been with Rescue for a little over four years now. It amazed him. For a rural stretch of road, a straight line of black nothingness—no hills, no curves—Route 3 attracted nearly all the accidents in the county. Most had no apparent cause. Something invisible jumped out, caused these redneck idiots to slam on their brakes with such violence that they’d fly right out the windshield. None of the stupid fuckers ever wore their seatbelt. Now Billy Dean was on his knees in the gravel, trying to pump some life back in to Delay, getting creeped out because the man was staring at the deer he’d hit like it would talk to him. Billy Dean pumped, but the life left Delay, left him lying on an endless stretch of blacktop next to a dead deer. What a way to go.
Billy Dean held the compressions. Closed his eyes. Said a prayer. Wondered what Delay would think about dying with egg on his face. And how they would explain the mangled body of the woman, under the tarps, in the bed of the 250, to his wife.
X
Demolition Magazine 2006; Nashville Lifestyles 2008
I watched X tidy up the kitchen. The routine was familiar, comforting in its mundane, expected way. Every night, she cleans up before she goes to bed. Oh, we won’t even talk about that.
I’ve been in that kitchen, of course. Smelled the warm aroma of clean, seen the knives lined up like tin soldiers. Each appliance in its place, each tool, each spoon, all in perfect harmony in her kitchen. Spotless, sterile. Unlike her, actually. X is warm, strong, caring, loving. I know this because… well, I just know. Dammit, don’t doubt me. I just do.
She’s smiling now and the warmth passing through my body is nearly uncontainable. It’s as if she’s looked me straight in the eye, her smile an arrow through my heart… oh, I see. X’s cat has jumped onto the counter, is flicking its tail under her perfectly formed chin. She runs her hand along the kitty’s back, purses her lips in a croon, then grabs her around the middle and sweeps her onto the floor. Okay, so I know the cat is a girl. Yes, I know her name. It’s Pumpkin, which, if truth be told, I find a bit beneath this particular woman. Surely a creature so exotic, so perfect can come up with a more original name. But that really makes no difference. All that matters is X, and what matters to her, matters to me.
The idiot creature had gotten out for an instant, slunk out the back door when X had her head turned. X had flown onto the deck, screamed “Pumpkin!” with such a note of panic in her voice that I had to stop and stare. How could she care so much for such an inconsequential creature? The cat must have sensed it as well, for she froze in the fallen leaves, glanced about once or twice, then turned and scurried back up the stairs and straight into the house.
I watched as X stood, hand to her throat, chest heaving slightly, the crisis averted. She looked at me, unrealizing, then returned indoors, barring the door securely behind her. An unlocked door or window would never lead me to this prize. X is too smart to be careless like that. A challenge, to say the least.
It began so simply. Just a brief flash of a smile, no teeth showing, lips compressed but turned up at the corners of her mouth. Gray blue eyes snapped my direction, then slid away before she actually focused on me. She walked so tall, her ponytail bouncing as she stepped lightly toward her car. The day was warm and she was dressed for the gym, long legs and Nikes. I stepped close enough to catch her scent, coming from, rather than going to. I imagined her there, glistening beneath the television sets. The deep richness of her scent invaded my senses permanently. Even now, all I have to do is conjure that image and she’s there, in me, with me.
I was lost. I knew, at that moment, I had to have her.
Watching was enough, at first. I wondered what she thought about in those unguarded moments. Lost in a task, staring out the window, was X dreaming of me? Wanting that slight edge that’s missing from her life?
The neighborhood dogs are a nightmare. They bark and bark. It’s like being in a kennel. Are they yapping at me? Perhaps. Maybe they’re just so stupid that the slightest scent, the tiniest whisper of a breeze catches their imaginations and the respond as only a dog can, with immediate and incessant barking. There is one in particular, a deep-throated WOOF that I know drives X mad. I hear the dog start and see her roll her eyes, wondering how long the stupid beast will go on. Sometimes it will bark for hours, the chorus of hounds around the rest of the neighborhood chiming in for a midday serenade. I can tell it annoys her. I can only do one thing. If it will make my love happy, I will do it now.
***
The screaming is unbearable. Oh, how could X misconstrue my gift? I don’t mean to scare her. Dear God, I love her! I want her. I need her.
***
Apparently all the women in the neighborhood have been on edge. I hear them whispering to X. They don’t feel safe. They are afraid of what lurks in the night. They are afraid of me.
I hear the men talking amongst themselves. They don’t want to scare the wives.
“What kind of animal could do such a thing?”
“Must have been a bear. That’s a big dog to have been taken down by that pack of coyotes that’s been hanging around.”
“A bear, in these woods? We’re residential on three sides. Do you really think one could get this far into town?”
“I’d think anything is possible. They get hungry enough, they’ll go where the food is.”
“But if it was a bear, it didn’t eat the dog. Just tore it up.”
“Maybe it was injured, saw the dog as a threat and attacked.”
On cue, the group stared at me, lurking in their woods. They didn’t see me, of course. But I shifted a bit, sending the birds on the limb next to me catapulting into the air, just to let them know I’m here.
***
It was when X saw me, that first time, when her eyes grew wide and her hand went to her mouth to stifle a scream, or perhaps a knowing smile. That’s when the men congregated again, and decided to end my days.
I’ll never forget how stunning she was at that moment. She’d come to the fencerow to plant some bulbs. She had a basket filled with tulips, hyacinths and paper whites, was wearing a soft oyster colored fleece vest that perfectly matched the shade of her eyes, sensible gardening shoes covering her bare feet. It was warming so nicely during the day. Who could blame her for wanting to get out, to breathe in the fresh air? To taste the forthcoming softness on the breeze. Winter was finally passing, and it hadn’t been mild. Not that I minded, just the sight of her behind those quarter-paned windows had given me warmth and strength. But to have her here, in the flesh, while delightful, was unexpected.
I admit I didn’t handle the encounter well. All these months, waiting for the perfect opportunity, and when it presented itself… I ran. Our eyes met, and I panicked. Thrashed off into the woods, making enough noise that the replacement dog next door started a howling cadence and was immediately matched with four other wails, one of which came from deep within X’s beautiful breast. I turned for a moment in my flight and saw her back, fleeing into the safety of the house. Damn.
So our idyllic time came to an end. The men returned, this time armed. They forced their way into the forest. Found my camp. Poked through my belongings. Admitted to themselves that there was no way a bear could have made such a spectacular fire pit and hearth. But I was gone, well ahead of them. I wouldn’t be back anytime soon. Give them some time to get over it. Let them call the police, search the area. Realize that I’m no longer there.
I will bide my time. X is worth it. I want her so much. I just can’t live without her. And now, I don’t have to. The new windows, the new kitchen, everything is as it was. We’re just in a new town, with new woods.
I am every bump in her night. Every creak of a pipe. Every time a dog barks, she knows it is because they sense my presence. I am the hair that sticks up on the back of her neck. The unexplained feeling of dread that overwhelms her, making her glance over her shoulder. I am her nightmares and her day terrors. And I love her so very, very much.
HAVE YOU SEEN ME?
Discount Noir, Edited by Patricia Abbott and Steve Weddle, Untreed Reads, 2010
Walmart
Black Friday
5:05 A.M.
The swarming lines of people were jubilant despite the unseasonably warm morning. There was Christmas in the air—the Muzak trembling under the weight of the bass line. O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum. Vicky tried to ignore the pulsing ecstasy that permeated the bargain hunters around her. She never thought she’d be in line at five in the morning on the craziest shopping day of the year, but her daughter so desperately wanted the Mercy doll. This would be Lauren’s last Christmas; Vicky wanted everything to be perfect.
As if that would matter.
The doors sprang open. With a cheer, the crowd flowed into the over-lit store.
Vicky ignored the screaming signs and caterwauling masses, took a right turn, then a left. Victory! She was the first one here. The dolls were up ahead, the aisle shockingly empty.
Except for the small, blonde angel, staring at the shelves with forceful longing.
Vicky drew up short when she saw her.
My goodness. She looks just like the little girl who was featured in that gossip magazine last week. Vicky had read the article, wondering if the age progressions could possibly be right. What would her own child look like in seven years, when the roundness of her baby fat smoothed into actual features? The thought ripped a hole in her chest.
The little girl’s eyes were too big in her face, the sharp curve of her jaw jutting out. Could it be the same girl? Surely not. Surely this was a figment of Vicky’s overactive imagination.
The crowds were closing in. Vicky snatched the precious doll from the shelf, tried to ignore the little girl standing so quietly beside her. Mission complete, she hesitated for another moment. The girl from the pictures would be nine now. Kidnapped on her second birthday, assumed dead. The age looked right.
No, Vicky decided. There was no way. That little girl had gone missing from Minnesota. How would she possibly get to Valdosta, Georgia?
The speakers poured out the Nutcracker, and Vicky felt a pounding in her temples. She needed to go—she had the doll, there was nothing keeping her here. But something pulled at her stomach, so she stooped and faced the little girl.
“Are you—”
The girl’s face contorted in fear and she dashed away.
Well. That was that. Vicky took the doll for her sweet dying daughter and forced her way to the checkout. They were celebrating Christmas tomorrow night. Vicky swallowed hard. Her daughter wouldn’t make it until the actual day. She’d be lucky to make it through the weekend.
She sighed deeply. What kind of woman would she be if she didn’t at least mention to the Walmart security guard that she thought she’d seen little Jessica Scott?
***
Lauren was mesmerized by the glittery tinsel dancing on the edges of the tree. Her mom was so sweet, trying hard to make this a nice Christmas. Lauren heard her slip out before dawn; she wasn’t supposed to know that Mom had run to Walmart to buy her the Mercy doll. But every noise, every conversation, echoed through the living room. The hospital bed, with its tubes and wires and beeps, wouldn’t fit upstairs. This way, she could see the fancy tree and the window with its view to the street.
She was sorry to see her parents in so much pain. She’d been trying to help prepare them, so they would know she’d love them always. Dad rushed around with a haunted look on his face; Lauren knew that he felt guilty living. She didn’t know how to tell him that it was okay. Her mom was resigned and surged forward. Lauren sometimes felt it would be easier if she were gone; it seemed everyone was just waiting for her heart to stop beating. It wouldn’t be long now.
She ran her hand over her bare head, still pained at losing the deep black hair. Mom promised that when she got to heaven, her hair would be back, but Lauren didn’t believe. Not really.
She turned on the television with her remote. Mom must have been watching that Scottish comedian before she turned over the night shift to the nurse—the morning news was on. A big red banner flashed across the screen: BREAKING NEWS.
Her mother was on the television. People were smiling, laughing, excited. Lauren felt the happiness flow into her. She was feeling so sleepy suddenly. She thought to call to Dad, to tell him Mommy was on the television, but her breath hitched in her throat.
So tired.
She watched instead, heard her mother talking about the little girl she’d seen. Another red sign came on the screen: JESSICA SCOTT FOUND!
The newscaster said that Jessica had been missing for over seven years. That was longer than Lauren had been alive. Her mom had found the lost girl. They both looked so happy.
It filled Lauren’s heart with joy. Her breath caught once more, and her mother’s smile shepherded her away.
MADONNA IN THE GRASS
Flash Pan Alley 2007; Translated to Finnish as “Ruohikon Madonna” ASSA, No. 2, 2008, Edited and Published by Juri Nummelin.
“There she is.”
Papillion muttered the words, breathing deeply. His eye was pressed hard to the scope of his rifle, the fine cross lines breaking the scene below into quadrants. Upper left, a grassy field. Bottom left, parking lot. Bottom right, a line of people, sweating, stinking masses gathered to pay homage. Upper right, the prize. Nestled deep on a hard wooden table, surrounded by bleeding flowers, a sheet of metal imprinted with the image of the Virgin Mary.
A scam, he thought, then instinctively lifted his right hand off the trigger and crossed himself. Papillion may be a heathen, but he was a respectful heathen. What if it wasn’t? What if somehow, the hand of God had come down and touched the slab of iron, imprinting the face of the mother of the Lord into the very molecules? Who was he to say that it couldn’t have happened?
A realist, that’s who. A man who knew it was a falsehood, a lie perpetrated to force the means to an end.
He settled his finger back on the pull and used his falcon sight to follow her progress.
Long, wavy black hair cascaded down her back, a subdued headband held the unruly mess off her forehead. She was dressed in a white skirt with eyelet lace along the hem that just skimmed her knees, a white button down oxford cloth shirt with a yellow scarf tied around her waist. The straps of espadrilles wound around her slim ankles, and Papillion licked his lips. He’d always been a leg-man. And the sister was a beautiful example of what a woman’s legs were supposed to look like.
He watched her move through the crowd, saw their deference to her. Lucia. She was a powerful woman. A woman that more than one faction wanted dead.
Papillion could retire after this hit. But it was a delicate operation. He needed to wait for Sister Lucia to announce the hoax. Then the shooting could be blamed on one of the faithful on the ground, someone so overcome with the emotion of the appearance of their holy mother that a declaration of foolery would tip them over the edge.
Fatima, this was not.
***
Lucia stared at the face of the holy Mother. She waited, tuning out the noise, the heat, the fetid stench of the unwashed. Was she in the presence of a miracle? Had a great secret been revealed, a battle for good won? She waited, and felt nothing. Disappointment filled her. Another hoax. The last time she’d felt the presence of God was in a field, with no attendance other than a small rabbit. There was nothing holy here.
She rose, shaking her head. The faithful moaned with hatred, denials were shouted. She simply ignored them, walked back to her Jeep. A flash caught her eye, high on the cliff rising to the heavens to her right. Papillion, she assumed. He’d been waiting for a chance to take her out for months now.
Lucia stopped. She spread her legs, spread her arms, threw her head back. Presented herself to him, a target. Waited to feel the slam of the bullet in her chest. When it didn’t come, she smiled. An honest assassin, Papillion. Or smart enough to know that when she found the real miracle, she wouldn’t be able to hide her joy.
She climbed into the Jeep, closed the door on another falsehood. One day, she prayed. One day.
***
One day, Papillion prayed. One day she will find God, and I will help her meet him. His eyes were closed; he felt the flash, the burn from below instinctively. When he could finally pry his eyelids apart, the Jeep was gone. Lucia too. There was only a deep crater in the dirt, blackened and smoking. Pilgrims were scattered carelessly in the brush. Red and black mingled with the desert browns, painting the sands with raucous color.
One day had arrived at last.
CHIMERA
Flashing in the Gutter 2006 (appeared in two parts – Chimera and Redux); Surreal South 09, edited by Pinckney Benedict and Laura Benedict, Press 53, 2009
I do not sleep anymore.
I can’t take the risk, not again. I won’t survive it again.
“I’ll see you in hell.”
These words are rooted in my brain. They aren’t even words, exactly. Not enunciated and pronounced, but hissed and lingering, seeping into my skin and settling into my bones, my heart, my mind.
The room is dark, silent and reproachful. I’ve forgotten the nightlight again and the gloom is penetrating, the white walls lost in the abyss. There is no boundary to the room, it is infinite, black and salty. I can’t smell the sulfur, even though I’ve been told I would. It is more than the scent of the sea, slightly brackish, dead fish and seaweed making it offensive.
The hissing begins again. “I’m here to take you. It is your time.”
I realize this has happened before. I’ve been in this bed, this room, this murky gloom when the demon came to me. How many times have I fought him off?
I turn to face him. He has come through the shuttered window. The night air blows behind him, sweet jasmine and bougainvillea overpowered by his rankness. He doesn’t resemble anything I’ve seen before, any depiction drawn or imagined. He is taupe, nearly translucent, skinny ferret like body supported by long boned feet, hands ending in claws that drip a viscous liquid. I assume it is the remnants of bitter souls from the night’s catch. I’m not sure how I know he is male, there are no external clues to his gender.
“Tiiiiiimmmmeee.” That sibilant voice again. I feel a drop of slime hit my forehead. His hands are past my shoulder now, reaching around to scoop me in his arms. His mouth, crowded with sharp teeth, spit trails stringing between upper and lower jaws, grows wider, bigger, and I feel the claws rake across my back. He is pulling me in, consuming, sucking. I feel my soul depart from my heart and begin to leave my body.
No. I will not let him take me.
I take a breath so deep that pieces of his spittle fly into my mouth and scream. Louder, longer than I knew I could. My body convulses, tiny tears surface in my throat. And still I scream. I know, deep in my heart, that he will leave if I continue. They don’t like screams.
Flashing a look full of hatred, of lust and regret, the demon is sucked back through the shutters. They bang close, startling me with their vehemence. My scream trails off. I am safe.
I sit up and turn on the light. My fears are realized.
The Chimera has come again.
He sits in the chair, feet tucked under him like a pleasant cat. He raises an inky eyebrow, strokes two fingers through the obsidian silk of his goatee. He flashes a smile at me, teeth so pearly against the darkness that they’re nearly blue. He doesn’t say a word. Stroke, smile. Stroke, smile.
“Bastard,” I whisper.
He laughs silently, deep in his chest, the sound reverberating around the room like thunder.
We made a deal, he and I. It was a long time ago. I was too young to know any better, he was hunting the night for victims. A match better suited to novels and nightmares. But he likes me. Enough that the deal we struck benefits us both.
I murdered. I sinned. He took. It was that simple.
Fetial declarations aside, he takes from everyone. Good, bad or indifferent. The indifferent, mostly. He signs for their souls without them ever knowing. It’s that last glimpse, when they assume they’ll see the light, that shocks the living hell right into them. And the Chimera laughs as he greets them, down below.
But the lost souls aren’t my problem. The Chimera is my problem. We’re friends in a strange, make a deal with the devil kind of way. Like I said before, he likes me. He’s a fallen angel like the rest of them, still wanton in his desires. I guess I fit with his image of a partner.
He’s here to collect. Anytime, anywhere. That’s our deal. I don’t have to go straight to hell. He possesses my body. Gives a whole new meaning to burning desire.
He knows that you’re most vulnerable when you’re frightened. That’s why he sends in the demon first, to soften you up. Like I said, he’s a true sadist.
I do have a choice in the matter. God gave us free will, the ability to choose which path to follow. My path is forked, two roads less traveled. I can accept the demon’s proposal. Go with him the next time he comes to me. It’s a toss up, sometimes, which is worse. The Chimera or the demon. Love, or death?
I could just never sleep again. It’s not like I get any rest. Every time I close my eyes, start toward that REM stage, they appear. Never sleeping again is a comforting idea.
I wish I could take back that night. The Chimera was there; I didn’t know that at the time. I thought it was just the two of us, alone in the alley. That no one heard my screams. That I was abandoned. That I wrestled the knife away at the last minute with my own strength. That my fingers grasped the hilt. That my muscles forced the tip of the knife into the man’s gut. That the blood spilling onto my arm, my torn dress, my shoes was untainted.
