Where the Vile Things Are, page 22
Look at that; I didn’t even want to talk about him, and yet here I am talking about him! I don’t know why I can’t just push it aside and let these feelings go... even when I’m talking shit about him—talking about what I’m going to do to him—it all brings me back to him.
What I want to tell you is in regards to the little Volanges girl, and I’m more than certain you will still recognize the wolf inside when I tell you all about this funny situation.
For the past few days, Cécile has started to finally get over her bullshit and as a result, I was able to relax and take a step back and really take her in. If an arrogant prick like Danceny could be in love with her—if Gercourt could find something in her—something worth tolerating—then she really was worth taking a second, more discerning, look at.
She is actually very sexy; why not begin my own pursuit of her? It’s one way to pass the time, and I’ll be better at it than one-mile-an-hour Rafael over there. Besides, you had offered her to me before Danceny, so I figured I should take her as payment for all of my trouble. Her soft lips, her coquettish demeanor; hell, even her awkwardness and some of the holy-roller shit that falls out of her mouth has me smitten!
You are wondering, no doubt, how I pulled this off? It was easy; I did nothing except supply the environment and enhance the atmosphere, letting her do the rest.
See, in the beginning I had helped get their first couple of letters exchanged, but the final one, I kept to myself and used it as a way of stressing how difficult it was to keep causing distractions and that she needed to sneak to my bedroom at night after everyone had gone to sleep to give me her letters to him; and, in turn, I would either slip his out from under the door; or get them into her room.
Well, after stirring a little drama between the two of them, Cécile, eager to please Rafael, and by proxy, please me—requested that I not only keep her letters from him safe, but also she demanded that she could finally hop on my laptop and Skype with him. Naturally I slipped her a note back (don’t worry; I am holding on to all of these little trophies for our memory box), confirming that I could indeed make this happen.
I told her to come to my room at two or as close to two in the morning as possible and that Rafael would get on sometime quickly after and she could hop on with him and I would step outside and play look out. Meanwhile, I told Danceny to get on at two-thirty.
She doesn’t wear a watch, and in not having a phone, I went ahead and set all of my clocks and watches ahead by forty minutes. Except for the laptop’s clock. She showed up at one twenty-three, scratching like a cat at my door begging to be let in. So, being the kind-hearted soul that I am, I let the stray into the house.
I opened the door in nothing but my black trunks, and she was standing there in a thin white tee, no bra, and pink pajama pants. I don’t think she was really aware of how thin the tee was, but I was.
I had Skype up ready to go and she took a seat in the chair, waiting. I offered her a lemonade and gave her a Mike’s in a glass instead. She didn’t seem to notice and drank it down. By one-fifty she had to pee and I let her use my restroom, and as soon as she did, I went to the laptop and changed that time as well to be matched with the others, and pulled the screensaver back up and took my place. When she returned, we went to the screen, shaking the pad and waking it up, and we waited.
You should have seen her: getting anxious, looking at the clock on my laptop tick by. She asked to see my phone and I showed her the time, which confirmed the same, and by “three” she was completely distraught and falling into my arms, blaming herself and putting herself down.
I comforted her and offered her another glass of “lemonade,” and by now she was perfectly tipsy and it was actually two forty-five, and I was once again logged out of my Skype and Danceny was no doubt waiting and getting pissed off at Cécile and thinking that she was standing him up.
I gently kissed her head, moving gingerly to her forehead and then to her lips. She gave in—well for a moment anyways—then she came to herself and pushed back only slightly and said she couldn’t; she loved Rafael. I told her I didn’t want her love and I wasn’t trying to give her mine. I only wanted to give her a kiss. I told her I was an amazing kisser and she was too beautiful not to be kissed.
She took another long sip from her glass and blushed—glancing my body up and down—the growing tent—and she closed her eyes and nodded, pursing her lips. I dropped to my knees, and as I did, I slid those pink pants down and was met with blue panties with rainbow ice cream cones on them.
She looked at me and asked what I was doing, and I told her I was going to kiss her. It was then I kissed her lotion-soft thighs and pressed my lips over her crotch....
She pulled my hair back and looked at me and asked me to stop, all while my head continued to find its way back between her legs with her assistance....
She didn’t sneak out of my room until close to sun-up and by then, we had already agreed to hook-up later. We fucked a couple of times and I was worn out when she left, but seeing as she had to be at breakfast in order to not rouse Isabelle’s suspicions, I decided I would go so I could see for myself how she would be in the light of day.
She was definitely embarrassed. Her eyes were continuously lowered. She looked so out of it. It even softened that stone cold cousin of yours. Stefan was also really concerned for her.
I’m going to have fun with this one; thank you.
MESSAGE XCVII
To: Oliver Merteuil
From: Cécile Volanges
October 1st 20__
Shit! Oliver, I need your help! I really have no one else to turn to at this point. I’m trying to type this out as quickly as possible before our cousin comes back into the room for one of her surprise checks.
To get to the point, I went to Nathan Valmont’s room late last night as we had agreed, to get my letter for Rafael to him and to FINALLY Skype with Rafael. Well, I got there at one thirty, and we were supposed to video around two a.m. Rafael never showed, and in the meantime I had just been hanging out with Nathan, drinking lemonades (which I think were actually alcoholic and he never told me)... anyways, I was feeling really relaxed and loose and I was upset over Rafael standing me up, and I was weak and needed comfort and Nathan was there....
Oh God, Oliver! I betrayed both Jeremy and Rafael, and what’s more; I betrayed the Lord!
He said he just wanted to kiss me, and the next thing I know my pajama bottoms were down and he was... kissing down there... before doing more. I tried to stop him... I mean, well, I told him to stop a couple of times but... but my body wasn’t EXACTLY doing what I was saying... it was more like I was urging him to keep going even though my faith was saying something else; as if my words were refusing him as I was always taught by both my faith and my family—to stay untouched for the Lord, and yet my body was acting on something else; something carnal and deep down inside of me that wanted him to keep going!
What’s wrong with me? Please, help me! I feel like a whore! I’m no better than those women who have turned their backs on Christ and have been lured into sin by the Devil! The worst—the worst of it is that I liked it! Oh, God, I liked it!
The way he touched me... there were moments I felt as if I were IN LOVE with him! I am not, though! I love Rafael, and yet I did this! What kind of love is that? And then, Jeremy! He’s so innocent in all of this and he doesn’t even know what I have been going through—what I have been feeling and questioning!
I feel lost, I feel like I deserve no pity and no kindness... I’m a terrible human being. I’ve sinned and I’m no longer pure nor am I whole in the eyes of the Lord. It’s just, Nathan Valmont has a way of talking that eludes you and makes it so you can’t figure out how to answer in any way that doesn’t actually, in fact, encourage him to keep going....
I agreed to see him again tonight, before I left his room this morning. I don’t know why I would do that. It was as if I felt like I intruded on him or put him out and wasted his time for Rafael standing me up.
I won’t see him tonight, though! I will have to figure out another way to keep in contact with Rafael, but it will no longer be through Nathan Valmont.
Please tell me what to do. Don’t say anything to Isabelle about this! I mean, I know you won’t, but I’m just really scared right now. Also, I know that Nathan is a friend of yours... if you talk to him, can you please not mention anything about this?
Please, help!
MESSAGE XCVIII
To: Oliver Merteuil
From: Isabelle Pratt
October 2nd 20__
A few days ago, you asked me for comfort and advice; I’m sorry I never got back to you with it but... well, now it is my turn to do the same and I hope that unlike me, you’ll come through.
It’s Cécile. She’s just a wreck. She’s so unhappy. I mean, she’s quiet. She doesn’t really laugh, she won’t talk to me anymore; hell, she won’t talk to anyone. I thought she would move on from that guy Danceny, but she hasn’t. She’s been seeing a counselor in town once a week and we are doing bible study and of course going to church EVERY Sunday. I pray every night for this affliction—this heartbreak—to heal and for her to see the glory of His will and realize how wrong for her Danceny is and how right for her Jeremy Gercourt is....
But, maybe I’m wrong in all of this? Maybe we’re all wrong. I know that Jeremy is the type of guy she needs, the type of man who shares the same values with her—for the most part, though he is a little more... conservative... on issues—but a man who is really on track to make a name for himself and help make an impact on this country and steer it back to Christ.
Yet... she loves Danceny.
She loves him so much and in the past couple of days especially, she has really become a different person... I don’t know what it is... the look in her eyes, maybe? I don’t know; something’s changed, but either way I don’t know what else to do.
Should I call her parents and tell them what I think? Try to convince them to let Cécile follow her heart? Rafael's clearly poor... I mean, look at how he dresses... always jeans and t-shirts with rips and holes and paint stains... but so what? She has enough money in her trust.
It’s not like it was for you and I, though; we got lucky with our side. Just turn eighteen and it’s yours... that side of my family.... The Volanges side are so fundamentalist.... If you are a woman you receive your trust upon your wedding night—in an account with your husband as the primary and who is in charge of issuing your pre-allotted allowance every month. At this point, if she were to be with Danceny, her parents would shun her. They would completely disown her and cut her off.
The only way out of it—the only way a Volanges woman gets to be in control of her own trust is if the primary (the husband) dies or in some other way is somehow unable to continue to steward the account; in that case, it goes into immediate control of the Trustee.
I just want what’s best for her, in the end.
Her family still only sends women to college as a precursor towards marriage... just a training ground to give you enough tools to make you sound interesting enough and clever enough to attract a husband, and then you go on being the next Mrs. William F. Buckley, Jr. Maybe they’d let you be the next Phyllis Schlafly, but even then—that’s a big MAYBE.
Tell me what to do! Please, Oliver! I need your advice! I’ve prayed on it and prayed on it and all I could hear was the Lord’s voice whisper your name again and again. I know he’s telling me that you’re the only one who can help me.
Thank you in advance!
MESSAGE XCIX
To: Oliver Merteuil
From: Nathan Valmont
October 2nd 20__
Hello, my love!
So, an update: things here aren’t too bad. We had a really great harvest, but the frost is really setting in at nights and it is getting colder; but you know, it is what it is. I have enough distractions. The elections are so close and it’s getting ridiculous! At this point, I have a real suspicion that the reality TV host is going to win....
Have you read Jeremy’s posts recently? I don’t know how little Cécile is going to survive being married to that asshole. There’s some really right-wing conspiracy theory shit on there—God, between him and Nico—she and Stefan have themselves saddled to two real stand-up guys; and here I always thought that I was the Devil!
Speaking of Cécile... she was supposed to come to my room last night for another go and she never showed up. I was pissed. I actually did want the night to myself, but it is my duty—my obligation to you, my love—to assure myself that I have sufficiently broken her in before moving on. After all, we do want to make sure you get EXACLTY the kind of revenge against Jeremy that you were expecting.
I’m guessing it’s the usual obstacles... feelings of regret, shame, worries of infidelity and guilt; simply consumed by it; especially since Rafael Danceny is so obedient and faithful to her. Plus, there’s all of the Jesus shit.
Any assistance would be appreciated.
Now, on to Stefan!
Oh... Stefan Tourvel....
Earlier this evening things really did progress with him... no, I haven’t actually gone in for the fatal, final kill, but I have made the first slice to the Achilles’ tendon and crippled him... all that’s left to do is slit his throat and finish him in hot red all over pure, crisp white snow—the sacrifice of Virtue to Vice; Resistance to Rapture; Jesus to Dionysus; all of these things—all of these gifts—all of these wants and needs I will give to him.
I am about to be crowned Stefan’s God.
For some days now, Stefan and I have been relishing in the feelings between us; it’s only been what we call it that is controversy. I say “love” and he says “friendship” but the title means nothing and any wish for me to leave has gone. No more requests from him to return to the city, and whenever I make it a point to go for walks throughout the winery; he always makes it a point to come along.
Today, as you know, the weather fucking sucked. It was cold and rainy all day, and as Stefan and I only spend time alone together outside, I was pretty pissed. I didn’t see how I was going to get to have anytime with him.
Everyone pretty much hung out inside and together. My aunt and Stefan had a morning meeting with the rest of the Rosemonde Foundation board on their project or whatever. I still have no idea. Isabelle kept harping on Cécile, as usual, and Cécile for her part mostly remained quiet. As I didn’t want to waste my time with the Bible Brigade, I decided to spend the afternoon in my room where I could get really high; have the chef bring me whatever I wanted; then sleep a little.
I waited until just before the end of cocktail hour when I emerged from my room and began to make my way towards the stairs. Well, to my surprise, up comes Stefan. His eyes bright and his smile warm. He blushed when he saw me and averted his gaze as he made his way towards his room.
“Everyone’s parted ways. You’re aunt went off to the market and Isabelle and Cécile are going to bible-study at the church—or something—I don’t know; I don’t necessarily agree with how this situation is being handled, but it’s none of my business, so I’m staying out of it.”
As he talked I followed. I didn’t need another invitation. I knew he was leading me—wanting me to follow him to his bed. I didn’t just go in, of course; that wouldn’t have worked. No, I replied to him at his door, and moved it to incidental topics; and just as his shoulders relaxed and he leaned into his bedroom door a little more, granting me an even better glimpse of that big bed with its satin sheets, I knew it was time to make the first strike.
I brought up my love for him again—my friend—and in return his eyes grew wide and I could feel the heat rise up inside of him as he searched the halls and said, “Hey! Not here,” and gripped my hand with his own.
He was trembling. Everything inside of him quaked, and under his touch I could feel his craving—I could hear his desire for me cry out and I wanted to satisfy it... but not yet. The plan was only just beginning to fulfill itself.
I wanted to bring him to his knees and I would only let him have me when he was crying out for it—begging me to give it to him... well, in this moment he leaned against my arm and we were now so close—we could smell each other’s cologne; the shampoo; the salt and dust of our skin—the heat—it was all there as if we radiated.
I know you too have taken note how always in this situation, how as the defenses weaken, refusals and resistance occur when the bodies are almost wrapped in each other—hot breath to hot breath—the head turns away as the eyes lower and the sentences become broken, heated whispers... quiet panting.
These patterns of behavior... these instinctual non-verbal cues give consent of inner desire unmistakably; but it has rarely moved from the subconscious to the conscious at that moment—it never matters though, because it is always quick to follow; yet in these fragile moments the worst mistake a person can make is in trying to claim your reward at this time. This state of abandonment is like a bubble and to hold its form, you must tread gingerly enough that it doesn’t pop. Everything must be their move—their permission—they must lead you in... they must walk themselves to their own ruin....
As we stood in his doorframe between the rest of the world and the secluded and sound-proof little haven that was Stefan’s bedroom, I knew I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t risk shattering this moment; not when this little piggy was ready to let me in.
All I needed was a look—a single look and I would have that permission—I would have that consent. Well, those beautiful eyes of his looked into mine and his voice trembled out my name as his knees buckled. I held tight to him and moved Stefan swiftly into his room. I kicked the door shut behind me and locked it as he led me towards the fireplace.
He let go of my hand and started crying, asking over and over again what had he done? “Please, God, please forgive me! Please, Lord! What do I do?” He nearly lost his footing again and caught himself against the fireplace mantle.
