The following chapter contains mature subject matter that some readers may find unsettling: depictions of gore, sexuality, nudity, vulgarity and various other obscenities. Thus, reader discretion is advised.
This writing is fiction. Names, characters, settings and events are either used fictitiously or are products of the writers' imaginations. Any resemblance to real events, settings or people, dead or alive, is coincidental unless stated otherwise.
I had a dream. I was polishing my car. And then, it melted away, the bright beige paint. Then, the rust boiled up, all over the car. And the texture changed. It bubbled, boiled, frayed and drooped. Like the skin of an old woman. I yelled, in the driveway. My neighbours turned, and looked. They stared, passively, and then went back to washing their cars. And their cars, two in every driveway, were clean and new. Polished. And mine was alone, half the driveway empty. Freud and Ian were there, polishing a car together. Apparently, they lived next door. Since when? When?
My alarm clock sat on the night table, beside my bed. When? It displayed the time, 10:53 AM. I stirred, groggily, half-asleep. The bright red digits blinked, 10:54 AM. Reverend Marcus said he would drop by some time before noon. Also, I could feel the woman beside me stir. I remembered. It's so nice to wake up next to a woman. At least, a live woman. Even if she's about to leave. And never be seen again. And with that thought, I fell back asleep, losing control. Fortunately, the old woman was still asleep.
"Do it now," the radio blared, as it turned on. Shit, I set it for 11:00 AM. I rolled over, again, brushing against her. It did not beep. It sang. Lyrics, I could barely focus on at first.
"You and me, baby, ain't nothin' but mammals!" It boomed. I could hear, on the other side of the bed, a woman's giggles.
"So let's do it again, now."
I groaned, in frustration. And, beside me, she moved again.
"So let's do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel."
Again, she laughed, moving.
"Do it again, now." The Bad Touch, by the Bloodhound Gang, I recognized it.
"You and me baby, ain't nothin' but mammals," it repeated. And that's when I felt it. She moved my --
"Ahhh!" I cried out in pain, it still hurt from the night before. And the tie, still tightly bound around it, was whitening with sweat marks. It was bloodshot, and the fiery red tie still cut off the circulation. Dark, circular dots.
The giggle came once more, innocently. And then her mouth descended the shaft, gurgling with a guttural choking noise. It turned me on. And -- then, I really lost control.
I had woken up. It was a different day. Another memory. Reality faded out, and a blotchy memory invaded. My room had been a wreck, and I recognized it. The last time I woke up to such grand treatment.
Every scar the old woman had ever given me, even the ones that had faded like the memories as they came and went, bled. The scars returned, from nowhere, and oozed blood. The sheets were a soft blue, then. Before I bleached them. However, because I lay on the bed from the night before, I had left several reddish brown stains. I felt dehydrated.
I could feel her. The eyes looked up at me, and I could smell the Chanel. No, that is not right! Monique had a different scent! This is the night I spent with Monique! I tried to make sense of it. However, it was Chanel, stale and sweaty but just as alluring. Or maybe, it was the duality of it. Both past and present, congealing as one experience.
"Holy shit, when did you learn to do that without gagging?" I asked, incredulous as her teeth sank into the base of-- "Ahhh!"
She looked at me, as she rose to the tip, and then her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her hair color changed. Her face contorted. Her eyes changed. Every hair moved back, from fading shoulders to the bun in which Monique tied her hair. Her lips, now a hue of magenta. And she became Monique.
"Holy shit!" I cursed again, as I noticed the blood on the walls, the old furniture, the unbleached wall, still covered in the wallpaper from before I repainted it. I did not want to relive this morning. Waking up, once again, after losing control.
She made another gagging sound, and my body jerked with pleasure. I smiled. And then, I stared across my hardened abs, I am a God among men, and looked at her head, realizing that there was no body attached.
A severed, bleeding head. It pulled me back, bending low, the way such parts are not meant to. And the pain, the wonderful pain, shot through me. And, despite what I saw, I grinned. Truly, I felt smug. Tramp!
"You are an exceedingly bad boy, Joshua Henry Grey." The old woman said, with much glee, as she stared at me from across the room. She was, once again, in the therapist's clothes. However, the whip was clipped to her belt.
I shuddered, as I noticed the black curve of the folded whip.
The thick, leather arm chair was there. Its presence was oddly comforting. She was seated on the ledge of the backrest. My eyes fell, with foreboding, as I noticed what was seated in the chair.
Monique. Headless. Pale. Arms on her lap, casually twiddling her thumbs.
"Don't you worry," the old woman said, trying to comfort him, "She ran out of air before you cut her head off."
I stood, angrily, at the food of the bed, and the head bobbed precariously upon me, and then fell to the floor, splattering the carpet. I raised my voice, Chanel in my nose, "No, you killed her. Not me!"
Wrinkles creased, as she frowned. And then, she smiled, "Oh no, my dear boy, I am but a part of you. Though I take the form of young Cynthia's grandmother, I am very much a part of you."
I blinked. I should not have, but I did. My eye lids shut, in an instant, and she was gone. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in front of the burnt cabinet. The woman from last night was crouched on it, naked, sucking me.
She paused, "Killed who, Josh?" Whores. Tramps. Sluts. Killed. No, none of them were prostitutes. Killed who, Josh? They were just women, interested in a night of fun on the town, and on the Josh. I am a God among men.
And then, down the hall, a knock came at my front door. A man's voice boomed through the door. "Hello? It's Reverend Marcus."
The woman below me frowned. I looked around. My walls were clean. There was no corpse. There was no old woman. Just two naked people, doing one of the many things that naked people do best. And the radio, still singing random songs.
The door clicked open, and again, Reverend Marcus spoke, "Is it okay if I come in?" It seems I had foolishly left the door had been left unlocked.