As the weeks turned to months, father was no longer able to afford the rent of our modest home and we were forced to move to new abodes. My brothers and I were crammed into the one room and my sister slept in the bed with my parents. My sister—like me—avoided the beatings. If any of the children was to be labeled as a favourite, it would be her with the way father seemed to dote upon her. Yet even so we could often hear her crying during the early hours of the morning but she would never discuss the reason. Most of the time she would even go so far as to say we had imagined it, my brothers then started teasing me saying that the new home was in fact haunted. Years later I can guess what had really been happening during those early morning hours.
Despite the new home, we were still living on the poverty line. Father was bringing in money only occasionally with odd-jobs here and there. The jobs could have been anything—painting, decorating, gardening, whatever it took to bring in some much needed income and put food in our bellies. Every night, before we ate, he would make us say a prayer. Thankful for what we were about to receive. We all joined in with the words but the sentiment was never there. How were we to be thankful to a God who had let our family sink to such depths? Surely we should only be thankful if father turned to us and informed us of a new full-time job, a better pay and—pushing our luck—the right to move back into the home we all missed? It didn’t seem fair, or right, to thank a God who had forsaken you and yet we lied, if only to keep the beatings at bay.
As time went on, father seemed to stop seeking full-time employment. He had gotten used to the late mornings and ability to be his own boss. There was no one telling him what to do, there was no one he needed to answer to. For a man who had worked his entire life, since a young child, it was blissful—although I only truly appreciated this since retiring myself. I collect a pension but, like my father before me, I also still keep fairly active with the odd job here and there for my neighbours—people I took the time to get to know despite a weariness, or reluctance, on their part to begin with.
The money that came in—from my father’s odd-jobs—was never the same as what he had received when working for a company but at least it was something. We could tell mother wasn’t happy—so could father—but she never outwardly said anything. Their relationship, once warm and full of love and life, grew cold and dark. As time went on, in an evening, father would cuddle with sister as our favourite shows played through on the wireless as mother kept herself busy in the kitchen—always pristinely clean. This was our life now and—just as we had lived a life before—it was one that we seemed to settle into. There were differences, yes, but we were still a family.
Weeks turned to months, months to years. Father managed to keep the roof above our head doing his little jobs here and there. My oldest brother moved out, joining the forces, and that also helped to ease the pressure as it meant one less mouth to feed. It did have a knock on effect that meant, if a beating was due, I was now in the firing line too. I was still a slight man compared to some but was now, at least, big enough to take a beating should father have so desired. And sometimes I did, often through no fault of my own. I just happened to be there.
Occasionally father would bring a little extra home in his pay packet. With the extra money came a story that he had won it gambling. His bloodied knuckles hinted towards another, darker, alternative as to how he had secured the extras though. Again, no one said anything. For one—it meant there was more income for the house and—for another—no one wanted to accept the beating for daring to question his word. It wasn’t just money that he brought home either. Sometimes he would bring us the freshest of breads, the juiciest of fruits and—occasionally—the tenderest meat imaginable. Those were good days where, with the extra food, he would also walk in with a beaming smile across his face. For a moment, if only for the evening, our old father returned to us.
I clearly remember father sitting at the head of the table as mother brought in the luxurious food for us. He would engage us, recounting stories of how he came by such culinary delights. The baker had needed the windows cleaned and, along with the usual payment, he had offered bread fresh from the ovens. The grocer needed some sanding to be done and did as the baker—first the money and then the fresh fruits of father’s choosing. The butcher needed a hand with deliveries and—on days where they were heavier than usual—father would be permitted to choose a choice cut of meat as a reward for his hard work. It was never expected from his point of view but, and you could tell by the mood he returned to us in, it was always appreciated. People looking out for one another. Something else you tend not to find in this day and age.
Those nights—when everyone was happy and laughing, enjoying foods we were no longer used to receiving due to rising costs—those were the nights that helped to shape me into the man I am today but not for the reasons you may believe. You may believe me to be a kind, gentle soul with empathy and compassion for others but that is not the case. You see—what father said had been a lie. The hard work and the kindness of others within the community did not line our table, or stomachs, with the goods we feasted upon during those happier times. The baker, the grocer, the butcher—they did not give further reward to father for a job they had already paid him to do. We gorged because my father took. He stole for us what our family was missing. Luxurious foods that we had long since forgotten sat in our bellies due to my father breaking the trust of those he worked for. They would leave him to his task and he would fill his bag with whatever fitted. The laughter at our table—usually dark and full of despair and unanswered woes—were there due to ill-gotten means just as the laughter at my own table in recent weeks … Echoing through my house through similar means. My father stole to make our family seem happier. Following his lead—and not for the first time—I stole to make my own home brighter. And, for a time, your daughter did offer me a brightness of which I thought I would never tire.
Hayley was a beautiful girl. From the moment I saw her playing in the park, smiling at her friend, I had been truly captivated. Her eyes dazzled with life and intelligence and—for her age—she was well spoken and polite. A credit to you and your husband. I knew, from the moment I first saw her, I had to have her.
She was not hard to take. A little white lie, told when you popped across the road to the shop to fetch a drink, that you needed her and I was to take you to meet her immediately. She didn’t know you were only across the road with your last words to her being that you’d be right back, and not where you were going. For all she knew—you had popped back to your home to fetch something. In her defence she took a little prompting to get into the van. Some reassurance that I was a friend of the family and was only doing as you had asked. She didn’t even get me to tell her your name. Apparently knowing her own name—thanks to you calling it—was enough to prove I knew you.
Poor little Hayley did scream when she realised I had lied. I promised her though, if only to silence the screams, that I would be letting her return to you after an evening with me. I told her that I was lonely and wanted some company and this was the only way I knew how to get it. I didn’t explain this to her but watching the way my father treated my mother—it had damaged me for my own relationships in years to come and when I did manage to find one, it never lasted long.
Hayley eventually calmed soon after. I guess it was the thought of going home, back to you and your husband, that filled her with a sense of hope. We spent the evening together and I must confess, I kept her up way past her bedtime. I made her tell me jokes and stories about your family (and it does sound as though it was a lovely family to be a part of). The way she told them, even through the fear, made me smile.
I know she has been out of your life for a couple of weeks now and I know you are missing her terribly but please rest easy in the knowledge that her suffering lasted no more than an evening. The day I took her, I have already told you that I kept her up past her bedtime. We were talking and she was making me laugh. I think it is important for you to know t
hat I did not have sex with her. She died a virgin. That’s not to say she had it any easier though.
As the evening progressed, she kept asking when she was going to return home. My answer was always the same: I would free her in the morning and—at the stroke of midnight, a new day, I did free her. I placed my hands around her neck and started to squeeze. Her eyes were wide with fear and she scratched and clawed at my hands with those tiny, dainty fingers—her nails drawing blood from my own flesh. Wounds that, even as I type, are still etched onto my skin. Your daughter, as young and fragile as she may have appeared, put up a fight. Know this though, she went home choking, crying, and scared. Had I not cut off her voice, I believe she would have been calling for you right up until the last minute. The way she spoke of you beforehand, she loved you greatly.
That night I laid with her in bed. I did not touch her. We were simply in the same bed. I stayed up for most of the early morning hours, looking at the beauty that would never age and never become ruined with the harshness of the world we live in. You may not feel so, but I did your daughter a favour. And you: I did you a favour too—not having to watch your child grow and become corrupt through outside influences of which you have little to no control.
The following morning was when I took a sharpened blade to her flesh, cutting it into manageable chunks which would be stored in both refrigerator and freezer.
Tonight, as I finish this letter, I will also finish the last of her—saving the best until last; her tender derriere. Not a single part has been wasted although, being perfectly honest and open with you, some sections were certainly tougher to stomach.
As stated at the start of my note, I told you that I wanted to bring you some peace and I truly hope that this letter does just that. You now know what happened to your little baby girl. Eight years old and forever innocent. You can stop looking now, she sleeps with the Angels—as will I by the time you read this.
I have grown weary of this world and recent news from the doctor has suggested my remaining years (if I was “lucky”) are to be painful and heavily medicated with little chance of beating the poison within my body. I see little point in carrying on, stomach full of tablets and radiation flooding my weakening system. Seventy-three years is a good innings.
As I write my final words to you, I have already prepared the pile of tablets which will send me on my way. Your daughter went to the other place in a panic: Squirming, kicking, scratching, desperate. I shall venture there peacefully in my sleep.
Until our paths cross in the next life, I wish you nothing but the best and—again—hope that this letter brings you some kind of peace. What was done was not for personal reasons against you and your family. What was done was out of a need.
Kind Regards,
L. Tope.
THEATRUM MORTUUM
DANI BROWN
From VS:X: US vs UK Extreme Horror
Editor: Dawn Cano
Shadow Wrok Publishing
X turned on her hands and knees, offering her arsehole to any takers. Her lips brushed the floor, puckered for a kiss. If another injection didn’t come soon, her arsehole would become unavailable.
Already, the first shakes of withdrawal had made her unstable. Her eyes turned up without lifting her head. If a Dragon caught her, there wouldn’t be anything to get her through the night. It didn’t matter anyways, none were here—unless they waited in the shadows that her eyes couldn’t penetrate.
A boot came down on her shoulder blades, forcing her teeth to the floor and crushing her nose. The people sitting on plastic-covered thrones in a ring were at liberty to do whatever they pleased to her. The survival rate for the ordeal was higher, or estimated to be higher, than the death rate. X didn’t have a say in it, nor was she allowed to argue her case against any act.
Hands pried apart her arse-cheeks; they were less flab and more loose skin these days. It wasn’t so very long ago that they filled out even the largest of plus size clothing, thanks to her days spent having a date with the local fast food restaurants, drowning her sorrows in grease.
The land whale could sing. She would sit there, waiting for the next meal, and sing everything from metal, pop music, country, and even opera. Promises of stardom lured her away from her seat.
A nail ran down her arsecrack. It had to break through her loose-hanging dry and damaged skin before it could draw blood. Rapid weight loss brought with it folds and many layers to get through.
A foot in a pointed PVC shoe was shoved between her chin and the floor, picking up her drool for that extra bit of shine. If X looked, a distorted reflection of herself would stare back at her.
Noise from the party upstairs travelled down to the first basement. X had been up there not long ago, when she was still Xanthe and didn’t know what happened in the basement. She wanted to scream out for the people upstairs to go home but knew she wouldn’t be heard. And even if she was, it would be heard as part of the soundtrack—a mystery scream to get the party going and make the drugs flow.
With the shoe holding and pinning her jaw closed she couldn’t scream or sing, only moan low in her throat. A titter came from above, some sinister demon in human clothing cloaked in the darkness and damp of the basement.
Plastic covered the thrones so they could be washed in bleach. When patrons were invited to bring guests, no one knew what diseases could be lurking and who might shit themselves.
When X wasn’t paraded on stage as Xanthe, she was scrubbing the club from top to bottom with a toothbrush. The cum flakes on the floor—the sea of unborn babies—giggled in the dark as she washed the floors with her tears and sweat, kept from withdrawal by hourly injections.
It was attention she filled herself with when she couldn’t get the greasy food. All those holes blasted in her mind needed filler to stop the memories from joining together and haunting her sleep. Standing on stage in front of an audience so large she couldn’t make out the back of the auditorium, seeing them standing and applauding, made her burst with something that might have been joy or pride when she hit the final high note. The high kept the holes filled for hours after, but by the time it wore off, drugs were in place.
The director needed her to lose weight. The wardrobe department complained about the cost of fabric. Even with patrons and a paying audience, theatres were a costly business. Those extra metres of fabric could be spent elsewhere.
The cost of having the excess skin removed once the weight was gone was Xanthe’s problem. She wore the skin flaps like a skirt but without any pride. Self-consciousness covered her in an aura of nervousness and shame. The skin folds were hard to keep clean and often itched with infection.
A groan, but not from her, echoed across the basement. The room in which she found herself was large and clean with low lights and curtains cutting it off from passages to other rooms and basements below—a murmur circulated among the performers. The groan could have come from anyone.
X didn’t have to clean down here until a VIP chose to play with her above everyone else in the club upstairs. She knew the basement existed and that more lurked underneath. She knew nothing of what happened apart from there being an underground lake to carry her away on romantic daydreams.
The VIP rowed her across water in her best pink lingerie with real ostrich feathers. Created by the wardrobe department, it was a reward for losing weight. Skin flaps were easy to tuck in and required a lot less fabric to wrap around.
After-hours attention was another perk of the job. It kept the old memories from trying to rebuild themselves and patch the holes together. The first time she reached orgasm, she thought she might piss herself, but no one seemed to care. In the theatre, she was free to explore her sexuality, but only if she was being directed by someone else.
The performers lived together with the production staff like nurses did in years gone-by. They dined together. They played together. The theatre was used for the most raucous of parties, like the one going on above X’s head.
No one eve
r talked about what went on in the basement. Even if X had known, she wasn’t given much of a choice. Once the object of someone’s sexual fantasies, the performer had no say in whether they took an active role in acting in them.
The VIP spread her legs and removed her tampon. He made it clear she was chosen for her monthly blood and not her looks when he ground the disposable cotton between his teeth and swallowed. With so many women living together, there should have been more than one on a heavy flow. That first trip to the basement, it was only X bleeding alone.
There was just enough light to see the act. The sucking sound was hidden beneath the faint waves. It might have been a figment of her imagination, until she received confirmation during act two. He forced his tongue into her mouth and she could taste the copper and uterine mucus.
She wasn’t bleeding. She was close to shitting herself. Dignity had been almost completely flushed away over her stay with the theatre company. One act after another, forever stretching her limits. There wasn’t much point in hanging onto that last thread of dignity. And yet, despite the variety of ways the people in the PVC thrones prodded her, she maintained it. Her arse shook. She didn’t know if the vibrations travelled to the outer layers of skin for the people sat in the thrones to see. Warm air blew up her arsehole. It didn’t help matters. The last thread of dignity held, and pulled tight.
X needed the ordeal to be over with. It ceased being an exploration of sexuality and became sexual assault when her tampon came out on the trip across the lake. Attention kept the blank holes in her head filled up. But this sort of attention only created new bad memories to replace the old ones.
She wanted to roll into a ball in a dark corner with the spunk. She looked up. Her first VIP was in the circle. She wasn’t bleeding. He shouldn’t be there. He seemed to express special affection for her, as much as someone can express affection for somebody they viewed as an object.
Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 3 Page 11
