Vanity Kills, page 10
She leans in, showing off a bountiful amount of cleavage from her pale, heaving tits. He wants to hold them. Feel their heft in his sweating palms. Her heart beats wild and fast beneath the jiggling flesh.
“You’ve been undressing me with your eyes.” Angie peels back the belt on the robe, slinking the whole thing off her shoulders, discarding it on the floor.
She lifts the hem of her nightie again over her head, exposing everything now. Standing stark naked save for high heels, before him now. A looming goddess with blessed proportions. She pouts as she coyly approaches. “You want me, don’t you?”
Mick lobs the cheap bottle of tequila onto a rumpled pile of dirty clothes in the corner and nods. He grabs her wrist. Hard. Pulls her close in a dominant display. Just because he’s in the chair doesn’t mean he doesn’t demand to call the shots.
She braces against the bedside table. It wobbles, spraying playing cards to the floor like flat, white rain. Angie leans in with a wicked half-grin.
Mick reaches up, grabs her by the hair, and pulls her down to his face with force. She grins, bent at the waist, her bare buttocks jutting out from the height of the heels. He kisses her deeply, leaning into her as far as the chair will allow. Drawing her in further by her rust-colored locks. The other gloved hand caresses her, meandering his bare fingertips up the gooseflesh on her curvaceous body until his digits are squirming through the damp flesh between her thighs.
She moans with pleasure, the sounds of which seep out into the pitch-black hall.
34
The wretched smell of the smoking car…
Even in his nightmares, he can smell the pungent stench of gasoline as it leaked into the wild grasses below the CR-V tank. He watched it pool out the window, creeping toward the flaming engine like the boogeyman’s hand under covers.
He heard the sound of the sirens, too, howling in the distance like wolves to a full moon. Too far away to help Kate.
To help any of them.
The humidity was like a wet blanket around his throat, choking back his guttural screams. His voice was the only noise echoing across the bayou. Even though he was not alone. He had to scream loud enough for them all.
His blood-soaked hands tremored as they tried to dislodge Kate’s cranium from between his caved-in lap and the spent airbag.
The dog pants. It watched like a reaper come to claim his soul. Patient. Eyes locked.
That goddamned catahoula. The thought rings out through the shock over and over. As if the mutt were somehow at fault. As if the canine were responsible for his crushed pelvis and what little remained of Kate’s face.
The wreckage of her skull.
Hot, oozing brain matter slipped across his hands as he yanked at the steering wheel, the contents of her once-intelligent mind aired out for all to see.
He cried hard, spit trailing down like alien slime onto her matted locks of black hair. Hair that came away from the scalp in hunks as he pulled at the machine.
But there’s more to the story. More to mourn. More guilt to swallow.
Outside of the shattered windshield, beyond the engine that’s caught fire…
It was a little girl.
Head slumped. Forced to stand by the pressure of the mangled grill. Pinned against the tree.
She was so young. He could barely see her through the rising smoke, black billows of it crawling up her body like a magician who wants to disappear in a blackened puff.
A stream of crimson dribbled from her mouth onto the silver hood, coated with exploded fractals of glittering glass. Her arms dangled limply.
On one, lettered beads read "JESSICA."
He could see the gas, reaching the flame like God’s index finger in Michaelangelo’s Creation of Adam.
Jack clawed at the window. His handsome, chiseled features twisted into a full earth-shattering scream as he struggled with all his might to escape.
But he didn’t get out.
Even in his dreams, he never gets out.
As Jack awakens, sweat dousing the outer rim of his gray hoodie. He hears something akin to a moan from the room next to his, but not one of pleasure.
He listens closer, sitting up, wiping his dripping, gnarled brow with a damp sleeve.
Mmmmmpf!
He hears the noise again. As the sound rings out again in the oppressive darkness, he realizes it’s not a moan at all.
It’s a female’s pained whimper.
It’s Iris.
35
Jack’s eyes struggle to adjust to the moonlight beaming through the shade slats. His eyes pass a row of construction-paper origami gifts on the lit windowsill and finally settle on Iris. She is sitting bolt upright on her bed. The torn bandage is flopped backward, dangling with a crust of dry blood down her bare back, slapping against the back of her bra with every violent movement. She stares blankly out the window ahead, her eyebrows furrowed in pain, mouth twisted in a grimace. Her left hand is over her right shoulder, digging a fresh hole into the skin on her shoulder-blade where there was once a twisted scar that clearly read the word SLUT.
Her skin bleeds down her back from the gaping crevice she’s opened in her own flesh. She doesn’t react to Jack’s presence, grunting furiously as she digs harder, staring off into nothingness.
Jack approaches with a mix of caution and panicked speed. He speaks, unsure if she’s alert or somehow asleep. “Iris, what are you doing?!”
Iris stares ahead, blank, digging deeper into her shoulder as a stream of blood trickles down her arm.
“I have to get it out,” she mumbles, tone terrified. Suddenly, with more fear, she yells it again, louder this time, “I have to get it out. I have to get it out!”
“Get what out?!” Jack’s voice is low and commanding, like a paternal figure.
“Something’s in me!” She’s crying now, still focused on the blinds ahead as if she’s far away, trapped in a dream. “Get it out of me! Please!”
Jack snatches her up with both arms, swiping her offending hand away, clutching her inside a tight hug for her own safety and dragging her upward to her feet.
She struggles in his grasp, screaming as if she’s being attacked and starts to try to wrestle free, hitting him.
“Get off of me you bastards!” Her scream rips through the house and light spills into the hall from neighboring rooms. Jack lets her go, afraid of how it will look if someone comes barging in, hearing her words, and seeing the stream of blood trailing down her spine.
But as he steps away, he can see her eyes snap to life, as if she’s awake and fully-conscious. She seems confused by her surroundings. The look on her face melts from rage into worry and she runs to Jack, wrapping her arms around him like a scared child. He embraces her, feels her wordlessly trembling in his grip.
36
After trying the locked doors to the infirmary, the duo find themselves next door in the shed.
Iris sits on a card table, surrounded by shelves stocked sparsely with cleaning solvents, canned goods, kayak equipment, garden tools, bulk medical stock and toiletries. She is in pajama shorts and a bra, the back of which is streaked with rivulets of crimson. She seems calm, trying to modestly cover herself with her folded arms. A cascade of blonde hair drapes over her uninjured shoulder. She watches Jack scuttle through the shed, upturning bins and haphazardly searching for supplies.
Adrenaline surging through his veins, Jack finally finds a large first aid kit and rifles through it for some cotton balls. He opens a brand new bottle of peroxide frantically, tearing off the safety tab with his teeth. Sweat drips down his face from the heat, the hoodie and the urgency.
Her voice is soothing with a tinge of happiness. The fear has died down. Watching the amount of care he’s putting into treating her is endearing. “It’s okay. It doesn’t even hurt.” She insists. “Really.”
“You’re going to get an infection if I don’t clean this out.”
They lock eyes for a single, tender moment and it’s then that she can see how much he likes her. It’s the worry and terror in his eyes that gives him away.
The air is thick, buzzing with electric anticipation. The muggy night fraught with romantic words unspoken.
He pours peroxide on a cotton ball and walks behind her, dropping the brown, plastic bottle on it’s square side. Peroxide glugs out onto the floor in arterial-looking spurts, bubbling on the dusty floor. He makes no attempt to retrieve it, entranced by the sight in front of him, unable to trust what his eyes are seeing.
“What?” She whips her head around to see, but can’t because of the location.
Jack stares at her back. Speechless.
Her wound is completely healed.
“It... it... Iris… it was a crater in your skin a few minutes ago!” He’s both terrified and astonished. “Now there’s… there’s nothing.” He stumbles over the syllables, stuttering in astonishment.
“Oh my God! Jack, do you know what this means?! This means... the medicine’s working!”
Jack’s face grows hard like a rock. And he responds weakly. “I’m so…” he looks down at the unchanged scars peeking beneath the bandages on his left hand, “happy for you.”
His forced congratulations are clearly rooted in his own pain.
But Iris is so elated, the obvious melancholy isn’t registering over her own excitement.
“I can’t believe this!” she gasps. “It worked!”
Tears of joy flood her bright, blue eyes. She wraps her arms around Jack in celebration and abandons caution. She leans in to kiss him, overcome with joyous emotions and a sudden burst of freedom and lust she hadn’t felt since the attack years prior.
But Jack pulls away, changing the mood in the dusty shed like the flip of a light switch.
He desires her. Intensely. But the thought of things escalating…
The thought of her seeing the horrific extent of his burns, his scars…
The thought makes him want to throw up.
He sees the dejected look on her face and he’s furious with himself for causing it.
Silence hangs like a sheet of ice between them. He grits his molars, pinching his eyes shut tight.
He wants to make her feel better.
Wants to make himself feel better.
More than anything, he wants to feel that raging inferno of desire again, something he was positive had died in the accident, too.
Jack finally musters the courage and thrusts himself forward before he can talk himself out of it again. He stops for a moment near her face, giving her a chance to pull away. Giving her a chance to abort the whole thing. But she doesn’t waver. Instead, she slides her slender hands on the sides of his damp sweatshirt. He swears he can feel her pulling him closer.
He kisses her.
Deeply.
A rush of chemicals and emotions flood Jack’s swimming mind. Iris draws him closer with her legs, coiling around his like a slow boa constrictor, pressing her bare skin to his chest. The sweet taste of her mouth makes his heartbeat thump in his skull, fighting the blood rushing between his legs in a woozy rush of light-headedness that feels like Heaven.
She slides her slender hands up and gently lowers his hood. He withdraws in a flash, prying himself away from her, raising the hood back up to cover his burns.
This is all wrong. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. To see the ugly, warped shell he’s trapped in. Like a caged animal. His heart is racing, crotch engorged. He wants to scream.
But he calmly whispers instead, barely finding his voice, “I’m gonna, uh, call it a night.”
She is unsure what to say. He’s a skittish deer, ready to bolt, and she can see it in his body language as he leans toward the door. She covers her chest modestly, suddenly feeling totally naked even though she isn’t. “It’s fine. Really.” Her tone sounds like she’s begging. Maybe she is. She has been longing for someone to show her affection for so long. Longing to feel good enough about her body to expose it to someone. Her face still burns from the excitement of the kiss they just shared.
The dangling, caged drop-light dances in her azure eyes, full of sincerity and stifled tears. “Whatever is under there, no matter how bad it is, I promise you, Jack, I’m not scared.”
The fact that she even has to mutter those words makes him physically sick.
“When I look at you, I see… you.” She manages a smile.
But the idyllic platitude and optimistic tone are completely lost on him. He turns away, unable to face her, and shuffles out quietly, humiliated. Unwilling to let her see the water welling in his own eyes now.
As the door shuts, she sits in silence, feeling the painful sting of rejection and the quelling rush of adrenaline.
37
DAY EIGHT OF TRIAL
Patient Journal Entry provided by the St. James Parish Police Department.
Evidence Item #SJPD-112733C
Criminal Case #: 7-23-mu-187462-OB
Translated to digital transcript by Mary J. Stearns
Subject Name: Jack REDACTED
Date: 7/05/REDACTED
Written Journal Entry: Last night I had a startlingly-vivid nightmare of the accident. I know I don’t want to talk about the details of it for obvious reasons but it’s worth mentioning that this was the most vivid nightmare I’ve ever had. I had horrible night sweats, just like the night before. It was bad. I swear, I was reliving every horrible detail.
Then, when I woke up, I hear Iris making noise. I went into her room to see that in her dreamy fugue-state, she had carved a deep gouge into her back with her fingernail. Blood was running down it. She had dug all the way into the meat. I feel like she was deep enough to graze bone. When she finally came-to, she had no idea what was happening. We rushed to the infirmary and banged on the door and no one answered. The door was locked (It seems dangerous to not be able to reach you in a time of crisis. Is there a number or something we are supposed to call in case of emergency to have you come?)
By the time I found the first aid kit in the supply shed, her wound HEALED! It was as if there had never been a bleeding hole in her skin. The meat, the skin, everything had healed and sealed up.
I’m really happy for her. She deserves it. I’m glad the medication works… I guess, just not for me.
I know you promised that I wouldn’t be on the placebo so I’m not sure if the medication is just not working or if… maybe it’s just something you told me to get my hopes up.
I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to hurt me like that.
I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted a lot WORSE for me too.
Time Symptom Started: After midnight
Time Symptom Cleared: N/A
Location on Body: All over (night sweats)
Describe the Symptom: (see above)
Severity: Feels like the nightmares are worsening.
38
The sizzle of eggs is in the air as Mick rolls in, hair cow-licked in the back from being recently mashed against his pillow. Angie leans against the oven, scraping sticky egg whites from the bottom of the pan. Her blessed curves jiggle with every tough movement.
Mick rolls in as silent as a cobra and pinches the bottom of her perky ass escaping through the gap under her sleep shorts.
“Hey, girl.”
She jumps, reflexively grabs the frying pan as if she’s going to hit someone with it. Burst yolks dribble down the lemon-pepper seasoned whites and she frowns, growling, “Jesus! What the fuck?!”
“Take ’er down a notch, jumpy. I just wan’ to say... last night was,” he rolls back and forth playfully biting his lower lip in an attempt to be crass and funny, “jus’ wow.”
“What the hell are you yammering about?” She concentrates on trying to salvage the eggs. Maybe there’s still time to commit to scrambling them. “And what gives you the right to fucking touch my ass, creep?!”
“Creep, huh? Da’s a pet name I ain’t got yet.” Mick tries to hide his shit-eating grin, glancing around to make sure they’re still alone. “You don’ have to put on a show. No one’ here but us.”
“Put on a show?” She whips toward him, stooping down to an offensive height, pointing with the pancake flipper. “The fuck are you talking about?” She hollers, aggressive and confrontational. “I don’t know how many languages I need to tell you this in, but you’re delusional. You and me, that’s never gonna happen.”
She slams the utensil down in the pan of eggs and presses both hands into the sides of the stove. She turns finally, facing him, venom in her words. “You’re seriously fuckin’ loco if you think I am ever gonna sleep with someone like you.”
He purses his lips, growing a little annoyed, though it takes a fair amount to rattle him. “Listen, I won’ blow up your spot with the hubby if dat’s what you’ worried about.” He holds his gloved hands up in surrender.
“Tell my husband what, exactly? That some lunatic paraplegic thinks we fucked?”
“Oh, you’re just gon’ pretend it didn’t happen?”
“Nothing happened! You,” she growls, furious, “fucking psycho!”
Mick wheels closer, speaks quieter. “Oh, really?” He rolls closer, angry now. “So none’a ‘dose three orgasms I gave you ringin’ a bell?
Angie giggles and pats him on the top of the head, “Aww, that’s cute.”
Mick whips his face away and his mood snaps from lighthearted to dark as if his emotions are on a swivel. “Get ‘at ‘good dog’ bullshit outta here! If I was standing in front of you, face-to-face flirtin’, you wouldn’t fuckin’ pat my head like I’m some kinda pet! I’m a man, goddammit! You’ over hea’ treatin’ me like I’m some chihuahua. Y’all motherfuckers don’t take me seriously ‘cause I’m in this goddamn chair.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” She is being genuine, truly confused and unnerved.
He wheels back a little, chewing his lip roughly. “Yeah, ‘ats right. Best claim you was sleepwalkin’ or some shit so you don’t have to admit you banged ya’self a lowly cripple.” He rolls toward the common area, furiously muttering just loud enough for all to hear, “you’s a lousy piece’a ass anyway, selfish bitch.”
