Taboo Unchained

by C. M. Stunich

  “Why are you so stuck on this corpse theory?” I ask, waving my arm around with a certain nonchalance that I don't feel. Part of me wants Robbie to know. The teenage boy that was suppressed long ago, buried in the dirt along with his murdered girlfriend, believes she might accept him, hopes and prays for it. The other part of me, the cynical part, knows she won't. Then again, maybe that's the ticket to all of this? Getting Robbie to run from me in fear.

  “Luke,” she asks, finishing the wine and setting the glass on the countertop with a gentle fondness that makes me want to cook for her – with her. Robbie seems to appreciate my small slice of heaven as much as I do. It's an unexpected twist that I should've seen coming. My little neighbor friend has showered me with food since the day I moved in. I assumed it was the mother doing most of the work, but now I know better. The casseroles, the pies, the cookies, the corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick's Day. My mouth twitches a little. “Fuck me again?”

  “What?” I snap, the word harsher than I meant it to be. How dare I sound so aghast at the idea when I've already done it, already broken the taboo. The sweet little neighbor girl whose innocence I admired … I told myself I was different from other monsters, more in control of myself. Hah. Ridiculous. The second I found out she was of legal age, a safe choice, an easy target, I went for it. I should be drawn and quartered. “I couldn't,” I tell her, trying to be as truthful as possible. “Even if I wanted to.”

  “Why the hell not?” she demands softly, moving into the living room with a gentle grace that'll only get stronger with age. Robbie comes up to stand inches from me, the soft scent of the wine enticing in the air between us. I can smell the vanilla on her heated breath. “You already did. Feeling guilty about it only hurts me. This was my experience, my first time. I want to do it again.”

  “It'll still hurt,” I tell her, reaching out with my right hand and brushing a strand of wet hair from her forehead. It would feel so good to give into this weakness, to get lost in a fantasyland of Robbie and Luke, but I can't do it. I drop my hand to the stem of the wine glass and slip it from her pale fingers. Stepping back, I open the door and pause next to it. Just like I did for Audra.

  Robbie looks at it, at me, at the door again, and then wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me, pressing a kiss to my cheek that rips my soul in two and sends the beast into a violent rage. As he rails against his cage, Robbie leans back and I wipe away a tear on her cheek with my thumb.

  Later that evening, I find myself on my back patio sipping Irish whiskey. The fingers on my left hand seem to be tapping an incessant rhythm on the side of my chair. The sound is annoying me, but I can't find the strength to stop. I feel as if I've been drained to within an inch of my life. It took everything inside of me to send Robbie away. And now I get to sit here and listen to her laughing with her little sister on their trampoline. Their motherfucking, cock sucking, piece of shit, Goddamn trampoline. I throw my whiskey glass hard, hitting the side of my shed. Shards explode like shrapnel, glittering in the dying light of evening. The giggling from next door pauses and then starts back up. I hear Robbie shouting for her sister to jump, jump, jump!

  I can't take it anymore.

  I stand up and move back inside, pulling up my voicemail and listening carefully to the message Margarite Simmons left me a few days prior.

  “Lucas.” A pause, heavy breathing. “I'm sorry I missed your call. I'm desperate for another session. Come see me whenever you'd like. I'll be in town for two weeks before I head back to Florence.”

  Wonderful.

  I grab my jacket and head out the front door, moving quickly towards my car in the off-chance that Robbie sees me. I can't look her in the eyes right now, not if I want to stay righteous inside my own head. I scowl as I hit the front porch. And that's before I see the red Mercedes parked across the street again. This time when I walk across the street, Clarice gets out to greet me. Big mistake.

  “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” I snarl, using my body to get her to back up. I don't even have to touch the woman. The gesture of moving forward is enough. If I wasn't standing in the middle of my delightfully normal little suburban street, I would wrap my hands around her throat.

  “I just wanted to see you is all,” she squeaks, and my vision goes violet with rage. And only part of that anger is actually aimed at her. This is my fault for not cutting her off correctly. Or for not seeing the well of blackness she still carried around … I have to do an evaluation here and now, determine what kind of threat Clarice is. My instincts tell me I should be careful, but my brain refuses to believe I've misjudged the woman by that much.

  “See me? What do you mean see me? I told you, Clarice, we are done. Done. Finished. Our sessions are over.”

  “But you know my secret … ” she says, trailing off as her eyes flicker over my shoulder in the direction of Robbie's house. Please don't let her see this, I pray to no god in particular. I don't believe in gods. None of them have ever been particularly good to me.

  “Your little confession doesn't mean shit to me, Mrs. Braxton. I've already forgotten what it was, just as I was already on my way to forgetting you. I suggest you do the same and move on. I have no interest in your past or your future.”

  “But Lucas – ”

  “No. Whatever you're going to say, the answer is no. Get off my street and away from my house. I'm done with you.” I watch as Clarice stomps her foot like a child throwing a tantrum. Her diamond earrings sway in the breeze, an elegant kiss of ice that only serves to emphasize exactly how infantile this woman really is. I keep my gaze narrowed on her face, the flicker of her blue eyes up and down the street, the tightening of the muscles around her mouth. The cheap polyester dress she's wearing reminds me of Audra yet somehow infinitely less charming swathing Mrs. Braxton's plastic breasts and juvenile demeanor.

  We stand in silence for a few moments. All the while I'm resisting glancing over my shoulder to see if Robbie's standing there. So what if she is? She should see this, this … horrible dysfunction. I should let her think I'm in a relationship with both of these women, that she's just one of many. The worst part about all that is that it's true in a way. My mouth twists into a grimacing scowl.

  “Why are you not in your car, on your way back to Mr. Braxton's limp dick and chubby midsection? I tire of looking at your face.”

  Clarice slaps me so hard that my ears ring, but I don't move a muscle towards her; it'd be just too much effort on my part.

  “I want you to come back,” she whines, her voice a hair's breadth below the pitch of a tornado siren. “I … want you to fuck,” Clarice swallows and forces the word out between her perfect porcelain teeth, “me.” A small bubble of laughter tickles my belly, but I decide it's too mocking to let loose. Clarice's darkness is bordering on the edge of insane, liable to tip her straight into obsession, and I don't want to go there. I really, really don't.

  “Well, I don't want to fuck you. Never did. The paycheck was nice, but honestly, Clarice, you're one lousy lay.” Another crack across the face and then Clarice is hitting me, throwing wild punches. I have no choice but to grab her by the wrists and force her body back against the car. “If you know what's good for you, you'll get in that red monstrosity of yours and drive the fuck away.” I can feel eyes on us now, peeping from windows, jogging by with golden retrievers, staring from robin's egg blue. I snap my gaze over my shoulder and find nobody and nothing in the Carrell's front yard. In fact, their minivan is gone. It's quite likely the entire family got to see my confrontation. How lovely.

  “If you know what's good for you, you'll stay on as my personal whore.”

  “I am nobody's whore,” I snarl back, shaking Clarice roughly and then releasing her. I can't be seen like this, not here. This is my sanctuary, my personal space, the one spot in my life that is mine and mine alone. I need this. “Especially not yours. My job is to tame the darkness, control it, find an outlet for that energy, not to please some sexually frustrated housewife wi
th obsessive compulsive disorder and poor table manners. I make my own decisions, Clarice, and when I say you're done, you're done. I'm wiping my feet of you.” I spin away and just narrowly miss being spit on. For a second there, my vision darkens and all I feel is the beast, roiling around inside of me, panting for a taste of Clarice's blood. She'd be easy prey right now. If I invited her in, she'd come. She'd even willingly let me tie her up, start to cut her. And when I got to her throat, I could …

  My fingers curl against my palms.

  “Goodbye, Clarice.”

  With a deep breath, I head to my car and leave for Margarite Simmons' house.

  “Lucas,” Margarite says, smiling that scary shark smile that makes mens' dicks hard and their hearts simultaneously shrink in fear. “I hope you didn't find the drive too arduous?”

  I step into the modest living room, taking in the green carpeting and the ancient furniture with a bemused expression. Margarite is like me in many ways – she hides behind a facade of normalcy so dull as to be remarkably unremarkable. I'm fascinated by it.

  “The potholes have doubled in size since I was last here, but I managed.” I run my finger over the dusty top of a side table, paying close attention to the smiling family captured within its borders. Margarite, her blonde hair frizzy and unkempt, huddles next to a man in a flannel shirt, their arms surrounding a brood of children ranging in ages from three to ten. Four kids, one husband, two dogs, and Margarite's last vestiges of humanity were buried in a freak mudslide that destroyed her home and tore her hard earned life into pieces. Not that she was ever a saint. The woman's confessed to collecting songbirds for the sole purpose of taxidermy – beginning that process while they're still alive. She's also told me of her sixth grade classmate, Dennis, who met his end at the tip of a knife, found his body stuffed into a sewer, and Margarite behind the bars of a jail cell. Since she was a minor, she was only sentenced to ten years. When she left prison (early for good behavior), she met her future husband and decided to change her ways. By calling me. I helped Margarite control her urges, keeping her family intact until the day it was all stolen away from her. I understand Margarite and she understands me, but we don't like each other. Not in the least.

  “Well, maybe if you didn't drive such a pussy ass little car, you wouldn't have so many problems?” Margarite giggles, closing the door behind me and spinning off into the kitchen to check on a whistling teapot. “Would you like some darjeeling?”

  “I'd love some,” I say, fighting back another scowl. I've had enough lapses lately. I need to pull myself together. I sit gingerly on the edge of a faded brown recliner and glance around at the holes in the drywall. There are only three visible at the moment, but I'm sure there are more hidden behind the paintings of cottages and labrador retrievers. A few texture free portions of the wall attest to holes long patched and left unpainted. “So you're still operating under the ridiculous notion that a man isn't a man unless he drives a pick-up truck?”

  I hear clinking glassware and the sound of a violent curse from the kitchen.

  “Damn it. Where is that fucking oven mitt? I'm going to burn the biscuits if I don't get them out of the oven.” A pause. “And yeah, I think you're a limp dick pussy fuck, Lucas. Your hair is too styled and you shave your pits. That's disgusting.”

  “I didn't see you complaining last time I was here,” I say absently, glancing out the window at the pine trees, the brown grass, the gentle slope of hill that dips away from Margarite's house. Well, I suppose it isn't her house, just a foreclosure she's managed to squat in for two years without detection. A dilapidated little country house that nobody wants.

  After a moment of silence, I realize I'm in trouble. My instincts kick in as I stand up and spin to find Margarite with a knife in one hand and a blank look of rage splattered across her face. Born wrong. That's Margarite. Something is terribly off with her, and the one thing in the world that managed to pull her out, her husband and her kids, is gone. She's a shark in a swimming pool, a rabid dog without a leash, a tiger without a cage.

  Margarite lunges at me with the knife, and I step back, grabbing her around the waist and slamming her back against my chest. My right hand squeezes her wrist until the knife falls to the carpet. My left arm goes around her throat, tightening until Margarite starts to struggle, kicking and flailing violently. I tense my muscles and wait, letting the lack of oxygen suffocate her brain until she passes out. As soon as Margarite is limp in my arms, I drag her into the bedroom and leave her on the pink and tan comforter, retreating to the kitchen to remove the biscuits from the oven and make myself a cup of tea.

  Twenty minutes later, she's back and threatening me with a machete – a big one. What a shame any psychopath can pick one up for ten bucks at Walmart.

  “Lucas Carter, you son of a bitch,” Margarite spits out between her tiny teeth. She has a nice mouth, but it's always twisted in a wicked scowl or spewing backwoods bullshit. Margarite is a highly religious, right wing republican who can't seem to take her beliefs and translate them into actions. I've never once found her attractive enough to get it up, but that's okay – Margarite's toolbox hardly needs a dick in it to get her off.

  “Put the machete down, Margarite. I'm not in the mood for games today. Either you have my money and you want to move forward or I'm going home.”

  “Oh, screw you, Lucas.” Margarite drops the machete to the floor and kicks it with her bare foot, ignoring the slight splatter of blood that hits the white wall to her right. Margarite's had her soul shredded, so what's a little physical pain? Or a lot. A whole hell of a lot.

  Margarite rakes her fingers through her springy blonde curls, and turns away, lime green eyes narrowing on me in disgust. After retrieving a wad of cash from her safe – Margarite doesn't trust banks – she returns and tosses the bills into my half-empty cup of tea. I tap my nails on the green tile counter for a moment, pulling my anger inside and soothing the beast with promises of blood and pain. This is perfect. This is exactly what I need.

  I take the cash, shake off the excess liquid and reach down for my briefcase. Margarite clears her throat impatiently as I put the money away and stand up, nodding with my chin for her to continue down the hallway and past the missing pieces of drywall that reveal electricity in desperate need of updating. We come to a stop at the end of the hallway, and I watch as Margarite opens the door to an unfinished room with concrete floors and a moldy utility sink. My obsessive need for cleanliness makes me want to pack up and leave right now, but I don't. I can't. I can't go home and face Robbie, think about Audra, deal with Mrs. Braxton. I just need to be the Lucas Carter I've shaped and sculpted over the years. This is how things have to be. I don't remind myself that I didn't shower after I fucked Robbie. I still have her virgin blood on my dick. I should be disgusted by the fact, repulsed, in desperate need of a shower. I can't explain the disconnect between my need for order and hygiene and Robbie Carrell. She seems so pure somehow … Maybe I'm putting her on a pedestal? I have no fucking clue.

  “Lay the fuck down, Margarite,” I tell her, examining the mattress on the floor with distaste. Margarite Simmons has and always will be slightly outside my comfort zone. Her darkness is so complete that when I absorb it, it goes straight to my soul. Margarite can never be cured, not unless she wants to be, unless she finds another reason to live. Too cowardly for suicide, too afraid to face the blackness looming inside, I'm one of a handful of small precautions keeping her from diving into the deep end. As far as I know, she's not a serial murderer, not yet.

  Margarite rolls her eyes at me and saunters over to a mini-fridge in the back, withdrawing a beer and popping the top. Pabst Blue Ribbon. What a classy choice. She guzzles some of the liquid back, her pale throat moving with the motion. This is my least favorite part of the exercise, getting her down and gagged. Margarite likes the fight; I don't.

  I set my briefcase down by my feet and take off my jacket, finding the cleanest spot of floor to lay it down on. The choices aren't all
that appealing, I'll admit. I pause next to the cloudy glass of the sliding doors and stare out at the overgrown backyard. A single pink rose emerges from the foliage like a curse, like a sign from some god that I don't believe in. If there were curtains here, I would close them.

  “Hmm.” I turn away from the window to find Margarite leaning against the opposite wall next to the garage door. Her skinny body is swathed in rolls of gray sweatsuit that hangs like loose skin from narrow shoulders and hips. The outfit's as unflattering as the narrow purse of her lips as she looks me up and down once, twice, three times. I bend down and unlock my briefcase, all the while keeping my eyes on Mrs. Simmons. God only knows what she'd do if I took my eyes off of her. A machete could very well be the least of my worries. Occasionally I wonder if Margarite is going to kidnap me someday, keep me locked in a basement or an attic. Or even if she already has someone there. “And what, may I ask, are you staring at?”

  “A man with a problem,” Margarite says, finishing her beer and crushing the can before depositing it in the old utility sink atop a mountain of others. Her lime green eyes catch the last rays of sunlight with a vicious twinkle. “Are you in love, Lucas Carter?”

  “I don't know how to love,” I answer evenly. What I don't say aloud is anymore. I was capable of love once upon a time, for a girl named Aliyah Owens. She was mutilated and shot by her older half-brother, left for dead in a shallow grave where she later suffocated. All because he was strangely jealous of me, because he didn't think I was good enough for Aliyah. Better she was dead than live her life with a piece of white trash from across the tracks. If I grip the roll of duct tape harder than I should, well, who would know?

  “Bullshit,” Margarite says, sauntering in a lazy zigzag pattern towards me. Her expression has a hard edge to it, like she'd be quite happy if I dropped dead right now. “You're in love. Or at least you're starting to learn what love is.”

  “I know what love is,” I snap at her, shoving her back when she tries to kiss my neck – or bite it. You never know with Margarite. I grab her by the hair and drag her down to the mattress, shoving her stomach against the clean sheets. If I didn't request that the linens be new and pristine, Margarite would be more than happy to wallow here in the filth of her other male and female visitors. I wrap the duct tape around her wrists, fastening them behind her back for better control, and then move on to her ankles. Once I'm absolutely positive that Margarite is restrained, I grab her feet and pull them towards her wrists, effectively hog-tying her with another few rounds of tape. I've tried other methods – chains, straps, ropes, but Margarite prefers the tape. I don't know why, and I don't ask. My job here is to draw out the darkness, to take someone who'd rather not be in control anymore, who wants to let go and forget the demons for awhile.