Moonlight Mist: A Limited Edition Collection of Fantasy & Paranormal)

by Nicole Morgan

  I smile, sliding deeper into the booth.

  He grabs my thigh, squeezing.

  He reminds me of how we sleep at night in this deprived mind of his—me with a collar and leash, attached to a tiny eye hook behind his head board. I search my mind for ways I can possibly get out of babysitting my niece tonight. I come up empty. Like I always do, with Master—a notion he’d dispute. Just pretend you forgot.

  I smile more.

  He looks away and focuses his attention back to the table.

  I know what’s coming.

  My smile fades.

  Master reaches with his fork—he’s told me “you won’t be needing these tonight” in regards to my own utensils—for an olive.

  Please no. I hate olives!

  His grip tightens as he turns to face me, edging the fork to my lips. I know better than to argue and reach for the olive with my mouth.

  I wonder what people think of us, sitting in the dark in the back of a downtown restaurant, him feeding me like this. They can’t see you. It’s inside his head. It’s safe. The portal’s locked. He promised it. I put my mind elsewhere, using my teeth to scrape at the olive, which I’m sure isn’t pitted.

  “Does it have a pit?” His eyes widen and he pulls his hand from my thigh, moving it to my chin as if he’s worried I’ll somehow choke to death in his cerebellum.

  I giggle and nod.

  He touches his finger to his lips. I know what he wants again. It’s like that with Master. I can read him. I know he’s serious. This is a man who, less than 48 hours ago, had me fantasy-chained in his living room to a pole while he made dinner I had to lick off a plate from the floor. It occurs to me to spit it at him, to send the pit hurling down his throat. To make him choke. I resist, bringing my lips to his and enjoying the sting of his bite on my bottom lip. I push the pit into his mouth. His grip loosens. He plays with it, only for a second, on his tongue, before removing it and putting it on his plate. He laughs. I hear him think that he’s met his match and it takes all my powers not to squeal with joy.

  Do nothing. Say nothing. Let him lead. Let him think he’s in charge. He does – for now. I desperately want at my water, but know I must wait for him to offer it. I think of the Mentos in my pocket, dying to get the bitter taste off my tongue, but do nothing. I smile at him. He smiles back. Sick man. Sick, sick, sick man. What gives him such pleasure off of other people’s pain?

  I’m tempted to tell him. But I know how the conversation would go: “Master, I don’t like olives.” He would smile. He would laugh. Or he would scowl. His blue eye would twinkle and the black one would become darker than the sky on a full eclipse. The vein in his balding forehead would throb and it would do one of two things, either kill the mood or encourage him to order more—a fact later confirmed in a conversation about it. “I wish you had told me you didn’t like olives, Pet. I would have asked the waiter for more.”

  Earth realm: At the office

  I’ve done enough studying on the subject to understand that heterochromia is not generally a condition to allow for outside soul entrance from the earth realm. Hell, technically all it is is two different colored eyes due to some genetic abnormality or an injury later in life. It’s not a big deal and certainly can’t explain why I am able to travel into his mind. None of it makes sense, but I do know it’s why he’s so fascinated with optometry. He believes people with his condition are different, somehow, than the rest of us. Imagine what he’d think of me if he knew of my travels through his mind. I wonder, if I am rarer than he because it’s starting to feel that way. Funny, he considers himself an anomaly. Truthfully, I’m the one with the oddity.

  It’s not like I know of others who possess my abilities. I have no way of finding my cohort and certainly can’t comprehend why this ability is specific to him – my stern employer. Eternal flames? Spirit twins? Soulmates? His portal eye is the same color as mine? Just plain luck? An ability given to me by the Goddess who rules all things? It doesn’t matter. Do no harm. I gave up trying to understand the phenomena specific to Dr. Iris, my employer and now my master too, several months ago. Instead, I take the rare opportunities I find to enter him.

  There are perks to this that might not be so obvious. After I’ve travelled through his thoughts and memories, he wonders why I am the only one of his receptionists to know just how low to keep the blinds at lock up time. I am the one who remembers when he forgets to take his medications. I remind him gently. Sometimes, he even thanks me with squinty eyes as if he knows I’m up to something.

  I use this—what I can remember of it back on earth—to my advantage, because, well, the truth is, I’m in love with him. Or maybe not. Maybe infatuation is a better word. Addicted to him for sure. The label doesn’t matter. What matters is the acquisition. He’s told me that a million times as I’ve thumbed through website upon website for office supplies he’s sure we can get for a cheaper price. Like his deepest secrets, I hang on every word.

  Whatever it is I feel for him, I know that the first best step in winning over a man is to know him. To watch him. To study him so closely, with the precision of an Olympic athlete on form, that you have him memorized. That’s how it is with me and Dr. Iris. For this reason, I do believe he will keep me around. And eventually, he’ll leave his frigid third wife. Men aren’t fundamentally complicated. Instead, they all seem to seek the same thing – to feel understood. I’m not sure why this is so difficult for the women of his past and present to understand. Apparently, it is. And Dr. Iris isn’t exactly the typical man.

  The man can be intricate. I’ll give them that. I’ve been trying to diagnose him since our first conversation and can assure you that there isn’t a web md listing detailed enough to accurately define him. On paper, Dr. Iris is a fifty-year-old successful and well-known optometrist, grandfather of two, father of four with two divorces in his back pocket—his first wife, vanilla, his second, “twist” with a sprinkle of catholic guilt.

  Now on his third marriage, he’s still miserable. He just hasn’t found a woman who can keep up with him in any of the ways that count. It’s not their fault, really. They can’t access the portal into his consciousness the way I can. And he can’t fathom why it is that after a night of dark imaginations about me, his timid secretary, I show up to work with olives and leave them in the community refrigerator. Instead, he stares at me with the very eyes from which he let me in and blinks.

  Annoyed with pretty much everything including me, he recently got his pilot’s license and has an affinity for collecting things; watches he has one-sided conversations with and, now, me when I’m on the inside. He doesn’t remember these conversations, I don’t think. But he might. He’d never admit it if he did. It’s all part of the silent tango we do within his mind and, later, on the outside. I don’t let it bother me like I once did. I know more than he thinks I do and that’s enough.

  I’ve seen into most of everything – including his sanctuaries. His basement, housed under his private practice, hosts a myriad of vehicles he only dusts off here and there and likes to “turn on” to see how they are running. He hasn’t ridden either of his motorcycles since 2013 after “a close call.” I don’t press my employer for details. I know he will share when he’s ready or I can always find out myself. None of these things are how I see him. I don’t care about his demographics or history. Nothing on that “who I am” vanilla rap sheet he likes to wave around is the man I know, the one who can shut me down with a raised eyebrow or who holds me against him in the gentlest of embraces after owning me in his dreams. What I see is so much different. And I’m so excited to learn more. For this reason, I return again and again to that black eye gateway praying that someday, he’ll see me too. That would change exactly everything.

  Not today. Today there’s more work to do, starting with ordering more sanitizer.

  Through the portal: Inside his fantasy

  He keeps a baby food jar of worn out silver and gold fillings on the top shelf of his closet, just abov
e the box where he stores the sex swing. He trades them for disposable contact lenses with a dentist friend who refuses to consider Lasik surgery. Every couple of months, Master brings them to the junk yard, where precious metals are weighed, and cashes them in. Then, he takes me shopping. He flies us in his tiny plane, the one he calls Elvis for its red velour seats, with gobs of chewing gum stuck to the control panels. He says his ears pop above 10,000 feet. I’ve never dared to ask him what sugar does to teeth or why he doesn’t swallow it. I probably don’t want to know. I certainly know better than to question him. And, I know exactly what he’d say about swallowing.

  I stand on the tips of my toes, bracing myself against a shelf that holds rows and rows of dentures he’s been working on – another trade with the dentist friend he’s been obsessed with lately. I try not to look at them. They scare me. I wonder what the other doctor’s patients would think, knowing their teeth were only feet away from a massive collection of leather floggers, vibrators, and crops both underneath and above a vanilla-looking optometrist shop. Normally, this would be funny to me, but I don’t have time for laughing. He could be coming any minute and I really shouldn’t be in here. Get to the medulla. He’s going to wake up. You can’t get caught and don’t want to get stuck. You have to relieve Brenda.

  Sometimes, I can’t fight the urge to do really stupid things. Still, if I’m here anyway… It takes a minute to reach the jar, once home to baby carrots and peas. Clutching it, I pull it to my face. Squinting in the dimness of the closet, I shake it, noting that it’s almost full. My lips turn up in the slightest of grins: It’s getting heavy. It won’t be long, I decide, before he takes me back to the city.

  I wonder where we’ll go this time, shaking the jar to be certain it’s nearly full. It is. I estimate about $500 worth of spending money and already have a purple corset picked out in my head. My breathing quickens, realizing I shouldn’t be doing this. Getting caught would ruin everything and it’d be months before he trusted me again. If he ever caught me in here, I’d spend a week chained to his bed. Had I been more observant, initially, I’d have seen the tiny eyehook screwed into his headboard and asked more questions about the collars and leashes around his place when we first met. Master doesn’t have a dog. But, even then, something told me not to question him. And, the truth was, I’ve never been one to notice the little details until him. Master and I are opposites.

  If he caught me, of course, it might not be the bed I’d be harnessed to. Master is someone I can never totally predict. If he was feeling generous, he might chain me naked to the pole in his living room, where he’d feed me milk like a cat from a bowl, but mostly forget to pet me. It would be, after all, punishment. I’d spend hours waiting for him to come upstairs for his lunch break. He’d walk right by me, asking if I had to pee and only smile when I shook my head – knowing better than to speak without permission. He wouldn’t unchain me. And, if I couldn’t hold it in, he’d be back later to punish me. I know. We’ve done this. He’s caught me before.

  I curse myself for being tempted to snoop. I stretch as high as my body can reach, working carefully around the shackles on my feet, and slide the jar back in its place. Then, I drop to my knees and manage to crawl across the hall, back into his room, to the base of his bed where he left me. Downstairs, I can hear Brenda, his receptionist and the one filling in for me, laughing. I get goosebumps. I remind myself that I’m Master’s pet. It’s nothing Brenda could ever be. Soon, he’ll be back up to feed me dinner. When he wakes up, and if I’m lucky and he doesn’t figure out what I’ve done, I’ll eat it at the table with him, tied to a chair, naked. He’ll cut up my meat and expect “civilized conversation, Pet” while we eat: Him with a fork and knife. Me with my teeth and face. He’ll laugh as he doubles up on my gravy. “No butter. It’s fattening.”

  Earth realm: At the office

  “Ester, may I see you please?”

  I almost spit out my morning coffee.

  I swallow hard, wishing I’d had any sort of warning for this. Dr. Iris never goes out of his way to meet with staff individually and certainly not in the middle of the workday. We just had our morning meeting an hour ago. There can’t be more for him to say... “Of course,” I manage to say. “What’s up?”

  He tilts his head toward a long narrow hallway where clients are seen. “My office.”

  What did I do wrong? He can’t fire me. I’ve done everything he’s asked of me. I didn’t touch the files. I stayed out of them. …Does he know? Does he finally realize what’s been happening?

  “Um. Okay then.”

  I stand, nearly knocking over my monitor in a hasty effort to flatten the ugly brown skirt I’ve chosen for today of all days. He doesn’t notice. He doesn’t even wait for me. Instead, he begins a solo descent down the hallway, knowing full well I’m right behind him. I cover my mouth, nervous I’ll start giggling like a school girl. The sight of this – him ahead of me and walking out isn’t much different than our nights together in his fantasies. The only difference is I’m walking on two feet; I’m not on a leash.

  Inside his office, he motions for me to take a seat on a long brown leather couch. I’m tempted to drop to my knees. The guy I know would never allow a pet on the furniture. Sitting across from him, at eye level, feels almost like the twilight zone. But I don’t argue. I’d just sound crazy. Slowly, I sit down, crossing my legs and pulling at the frayed hem of the ugly skirt. Now, he watches me. Finally.

  He clears his throat before he speaks. “I called you in because I have a favor to ask.”

  “Okay then. Should I take notes?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.”

  I nod, folding my hands in my lap and telling myself not to laugh. My anxious habit of laughing in the most inappropriate of times could be the end of me. Dr. Iris does not do silly. Neither does Master. Frankly, I’m not sure the man possesses a sense of humor in any capacity.

  “I need you to enter the data.”

  “The data?”

  “Yes. From the files I’d asked you not to input.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sure. I can do that. Have you found something?” Fascinated by his change of heart, I’m eager to learn what his research has shown.

  He shakes his head. “No. Nothing. I’m done worrying about it.”

  I try to hide the disappointment in my tone. Since I’ve known him, Dr. Iris has been seeking some explanation for the condition he and so many others suffer from. Since I’ve worked for him, he’s had a one-track mind with research and has even taken on these patients free of charge just to collect the data.

  “You’re done worrying about it?”

  “Yes. I found out what I need to know.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That I am alone.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. I wish I could barge through the portal to find out what the hell he’s talking about. Does he mean he’s alone in that he is the only one with his condition whose dark eye serves as a doorway? Does he know? Or does he mean he’s alone in the research of it? I mean, it’s not like the condition hurts anyone. Maybe he means he can’t get funding…

  I press my lips together until he finally changes the subject.

  “Have you ever owned a dog?”

  Yep. I’m actually in the twilight zone. “Yes. A collie once. May I ask why, Sir?”

  He winces. He adjusts his tie. He clears his throat. “And what was his name?”

  “Hers, and it was Bella.”

  “I like that name. It’s nice,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I scramble for something else to say. Finally, “Did you ever have a dog?”

  “A long time ago.”

  His eyes fall, telling me not to ask more. Okay. He called me in here to tell me he misses his dog and he’s no longer worried about his condition? There has to be more to it than this. He has to know. Or, maybe sense it?

  Eagar to change the mood, I jump in without thinking. “You should get another one.”

&nbs
p; “No.”

  “Okay then.”

  “I don’t need any more pets. One was enough.”

  “Okay then. Sorry, Sir.”

  He clears his throat. “You can go. Get those files uploaded.”

  I scramble to my feet, staring at the floor and wishing I’d worn better shoes. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. He’s not looking. Instead, he’s already got his nose in a manila folder. He’s probably planning my firing. I’m an idiot. I know better. I should have kept my mouth closed.

  Inside his mind: Limbic system of memory

  I can barely comprehend what I am watching or hearing either. I listen as the portal slams shut. I watch like it’s some sort of horror show – my master and the one I live to please being treated this way is almost too much to see. Yet, I can’t look away. Knowledge is what will give me the keys to his full and ultimate ownership of me…

  Master’s story and memories

  We become who we are told we are. It’s nearly impossible to avoid. When we hear a lie long enough, we start to believe it. It’s just the way things are. Or, if we are of the strongest breed, we strive to become the opposite. Usually, and sadly, it doesn’t happen that way. For most of us, the human kind, it’s hard enough getting from one day to the next. To fight against the laws of nurture is just too much.

  I told myself, when they threw fatty table scraps into a bowl on a filthy floor and made me eat side by side with my selfless, skinny Pitbull Rocky, that he and I were different. I promised my only friend that someday, we’d be more than pets to owners too cheap to even get us a crate. I’d get him out of there and we’d start over. I promised him, after they were asleep and he and I were alone on the floor, that I’d take us to the woods. There, we’d find a way to survive without anyone hurting us anymore.

  I like to think he believed me. I’m pretty sure he did. He’d stretch across the filthy braided rug and let me lay on him. Even at three, he outweighed eight-year-old me by a good twenty pounds. And there, on his chest, I’d sleep on a hard kitchen floor careful not to move around so I didn’t wake our owners. I’d squeeze my eyes shut tight and remember how it used to be. I’d hold my breath and whisper in his ear that my name wasn’t Dog. It was Robert James Iris – Bobby for short. I knew my best and only friend would never let me forget. I was the kid with two weird eyes and parents who pretty much hated me. That much was clear. And I was determined to make the best of it.