In The End, Only Darkness

by O'Rourke, Monica

  “I’m sorry,” he wailed. “I couldn’t cum! I’m sorry!”

  He was sorry … She’d crushed his manhood and he was the one apologizing.

  She leaned back into the pillows. Her vaginal muscles twitched.

  “I felt it,” she whispered. Don’t leave me, Justin. Please don’t leave me. I finally felt something …

  Using the sheet, he wiped his eyes. Leaned up, kissed her lips, nibbled on the bottom lip.

  She took his penis, stroked it.

  It wasn’t responding.

  This was how it would end. He would hate her forever for destroying him, for destroying his ability to fuck.

  He buried his face between her pendulous breasts.

  She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him into her. Lifted her legs and bent her knees. He slid between them like a piece of puzzle fitting into a groove. She squeezed, wrapped him between her thighs. Her breasts moved and he slid between them, his body filling in the furrows.

  He found her pussy again, and semi-erect, slid inside.

  They were one.

  Diana held him, not noticing his struggles at first, not noticing the sort of movement coming from the young man she held in her arms.

  His face was pressed into her chest, his neck and head covered by her breasts.

  She could feel them join, feel the unity, the merging forms of grace and comfort.

  Turned on her side, moved with him as one, arms entwined, crotches grinding and spasming. With just a bit more effort, Diana was on her stomach. She bucked her hips and felt him fucking her from beneath.

  Couldn’t pull away even as she felt his dick soften inside her, as she felt his hot breath on her breasts suddenly cease. Didn’t want to pull away. Couldn’t stand to watch him leave her.

  Diana struggled to sit upright. She rocked herself back, climbed off him. He lay like a broken sparrow, outlined in the sheets, arms twisted. His head was pressed into the sheets and his hair was spread out behind him, a fallen bird with shattered wings, its feathers splayed.

  He stared up at her.

  His blue lips were spread in mute protest, but there was a sense of calm on his face, a trace of a smile. He had been the ultimate Feeder; he had given himself to her as nourishment. His fondest dream had come true and she realized that she had been the one to give that to him.

  But he’d left her. Just as she knew he would.

  She held him in her arms, rocked his lifeless body, and sobbed over him.

  She mourned the return of her loneliness.

  Nurturing Type

  Daddy I’m tired, Daddy I’m cold. Daddy I’m hungry. Daddy do something. Daddy Daddy Daddy. I miss Mommy! Huuuuungry, Daddy!

  They just never stop.

  Hungry? We’re all hungry, and complaining doesn’t help.

  How can they be cold? It’s a hundred degrees on this blasted island. I swear, there’s always been something wrong with those kids.

  So I was stuck with them. Stuck cleaning them and feeding them and keeping them alive. Not that they appreciated it, cause they didn’t.

  My favorite: Daddy I’m booooored. What do I look like, the entertainment committee? Go swimming, I’d tell them. But there’s sharks. Go play in the sand. But the sun burns!

  What the hell did they want from me?

  I’m sick of coconuts. When we get off this island, I’m never touching a coconut again. No coconut cream pie. No goddamned pina coladas. No coconut nothing. Once in a while we find berries, and so far they haven’t killed us. Ever try to catch fish without tackle? And my butcher knife can sharpen a stick but can’t actually do the hunting. There’s nothing to hunt anyway. No matches to build a fire. And idiot son Burton, despite 150 years of cub scouts and half a dozen badges, couldn’t manage it. He tried rubbing sticks together and all he came away with was blisters. Ten years old and good for nothing.

  Barbara, their mother, got off easy—she drowned. Some days I wish I had too. But no, I survived, with Burton and the Princess in tow. Her name’s actually Anastasia—their mother was warped when it came to those kids’ names—but I call her Princess because she acts like a spoiled rotten thing. Always wanting, wanting, asking for things. Eight years old. Where the hell do kids get their ideas from anyway? But I’ll tell you one thing, when we finally get off this rotten island, someone’s getting sued, and we’ll be rich. The idiot who chartered the boat, the asshole who booked our vacation—someone.

  When we first got stranded we tried to fish. No poles—they’d been left on the boat. So I sharpened some sticks and the three of us stood in knee deep water trying to spear the first thing that swam our way. One thing I learned: fish are faster than they look. The only thing Burton had managed to spear was my foot. Thank god the kid is so damned bad at anything athletic, or it might have caused real damage. Then the sharks came and that ended that.

  We spent all our time looking for food. There was nothing else to do anyway. Actually doing anything was a waste of energy, and when you’re starving, you need all the energy you can get.

  A dead fish had washed up on shore. The thing was bloated and reeked of sour ocean, but goddamned if I didn’t drool. If we’d had a fire, I probably would’ve cooked it. And I still wish I’d eaten it raw, taken a chance that it hadn’t been too rotten. But when I went back the next day, it was gone, washed back out to sea.

  By then the hunger got to be too much. You know what I’m saying? We could fill up on coconuts and bananas and whatever wild plant looks somewhat edible but when it comes down to it, it’s just not enough. Not when true hunger grabs you and gnaws at your stomach, making you lightheaded and dizzy. Real hunger makes you too weak to move. So yeah, I was weak, but so were the kids. Princess lay in the sand beneath the shade of a palm tree and just refused to move, acting dramatic, like she was waiting for someone to fan her and feed her peeled grapes.

  She’s a skinny kid. No meat on her bones. But Burton is beefy, big for his ten years. If he wasn’t such an artsy fartsy fairy type he might actually play football or something. Stupid kid with his nose in a book all the time. No wonder he’s fat. He hardly moves.

  And just the thought of it … it wasn’t an easy decision. But I had to look at the big picture. We were all starving and probably wouldn’t last much longer anyway.

  But then you think, what can you take? The part with the real meat—his stomach—well, obviously that’s off limits. I mean, I didn’t want to kill the boy. An arm maybe, but I would have had to take the whole thing from the shoulder down, cause there’s not much meat on a wrist or even a forearm. That didn’t seem fair, taking the entire limb. But part of one?

  They do wonders with prosthetics these days.

  It’s a funny thing about kids. They don’t disobey, not to your face, when they’re standing in front of you and you’re telling them what to do. Sure they run around behind your back because they never think they’re gonna get caught, so I guess they decide the risk is worth it. I always did when I was a kid. But when they’re standing in front of you they don’t dare disobey. When I tell Burton to do something, he listens. He may whine and kick his feet, but he doesn’t dare move. Doesn’t dare disobey.

  We sat huddled together in the sand, staring out at the ocean.

  Then I told them what I had planned.

  “What?” Burton said, his head cocked like a dog’s, as if that helped him hear better. “But why me?”

  “Well,” I said patiently, “if not you, then who?”

  He looked at his sister, then back to me. “No one.”

  “We have to eat, Burton.”

  His mouth hung open. Then he smiled. When I didn’t smile back, his quickly faded.

  “Daddy’s joking,” Princess said to him.

  But Burton knew I wasn’t joking. I could see it in his eyes.

  “No, Daddy,” he whined, the tears starting. “I don’t wanna lose my leg!”

  “It’s not the whole leg, just part of it.”

  “It’ll grow back, right
Daddy?” Princess said, looking hopeful. I was hoping she was kidding. How could a kid be that stupid?

  “They don’t grow back!” Burton sobbed, clutching a handful of sand. For a second I thought he was going to throw it at me.

  “If we don’t eat we’ll starve to death anyway. This is a better solution. It’s the only solution.”

  “What about you?” Burton cried. “Why my leg?”

  “How can I look after you and your sister if I’m missing a leg? Use your brain, Burton.”

  They cried and shook their heads, but neither of them ran. I dunno, maybe they figured I could catch them, but I don’t think that was it. I think I have them very well trained, and I thought they wouldn’t dare pull the crap I see so many kids get away with these days.

  Burton had been filling up on bananas, so he wasn’t starving like me and Princess, but even the fruit was running out. That kid’d eat dirt if I let him. So he wasn’t listening to reason cause the hunger hadn’t overtaken him yet.

  Burton struggled, though he’d never tried to run, even when he slid right out of my hands and landed on the ground. He just lay there on his side, sobbing like a girl. And even when I tied his hands and arms to keep him from fighting, he never tried to escape. Part of me wish he had. At least that would have meant the kid’s got a set of balls. Then maybe one day when some bitch tries to trap him into marriage, he’ll be strong enough to get out of it.

  I wish there’d been some way to knock him out—clubbing him over the head hadn’t worked, just left nasty bumps. It hadn’t been easy, either, sawing and sawing that limb, trying to keep him steady, ignoring his screams. Finally he passed out, and that made it a little easier. Even Princess tried to get me to stop. First the begging and screaming, then the crying, then hitting me in the back with a stick. A backhand across her face got her to leave me alone, finally.

  I took his leg below the knee.

  So much blood. The damned knife blade dulling, making me stop to sharpen it against a stone more times than I could count. Hacking through the calf bone. Bits of stringy flesh dangling below his knee after I’d taken the rest of the leg. Disgusting. I tied off the knee as tight as I could, using my belt as a tourniquet. If we’d been able to make a fire I would have cauterized it. The whole thing was extremely tiring.

  Lots of meat on his calf. No muscle, not stringy or sinewy. Plain old juicy fat.

  The kids refused to eat it so I took away the little remaining coconuts and bananas until they gave in. I even explained the Donner party to them, told them people did this sort of thing to survive. Princess threw up after I shoved a piece of meat in her mouth. I guess it couldn’t have been easy to eat, being raw and all. But I’d managed, so why couldn’t they? But by the time they decided they were hungry enough, it was too late. I’d eaten most of it and flies had hijacked the rest. Dumb kids never got any, except for the one bite Princess refused to keep down. I mean, it’s protein. Surely they know they can’t live without protein. You can live without lots of things, even fruits and vegetables, but you have to have meat.

  So they went back to bananas and coconuts. Princess found a long stick and gave it to her brother to use as a crutch. Didn’t take him very long to get the hang of it. Surprising. I didn’t think he could do anything besides turn a page.

  Their mother planned this trip and then got herself killed, fell overboard. Her fat ass fell into the Atlantic just as I was reaching for her stupid throat. Not that I really would have killed her. I was just trying to scare her, get her to shut her big mouth. All she did was yell at me. And always with the nagging. Not that I miss her, but having her around would be a shitload better then having to listen to these kids all day, having to take care of them, feed them, make sure they wipe their asses. I’ve become quite the goddamned nurturing type.

  Yesterday they wanted to go swimming. So go, I tell them. Just don’t bleed in the water, I tell Burton. You know—sharks. Then they decided not to go swimming. Tell us what to do, Princess said. Burton didn’t say anything—Burton had stopped talking to me. Thank Christ! He sounds like a girl with all the high pitched whining. Better he should keep his mouth shut.

  Then they play Tag. Burton, hobbling around on a stick the size of a goddamned tree trunk. Moving goddamned well for a kid with one leg.

  So I began to wonder if he could get around with no legs. I mean really, we have to eat. Burton seemed to be healing pretty well. Princess’s legs are like pretzel sticks, though I guess we could eat them as a last resort. But I wanted Burton’s other leg. I figured once we get rescued, I’d buy him a new set. He’d be fine.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I asked them last night, after eyeing his leg.

  I guess they noticed because they didn’t answer.

  “Aren’t you sick of coconuts yet? Don’t you want something more?”

  “No, Daddy,” Princess said. “I like coconuts.”

  “We’re almost out of coconuts,” I snapped. “Then what are we supposed to eat?”

  I thought about what idiots they are, how they take after their mother.

  You can’t let kids decide these things, because they always make the wrong decisions. Leave him alone, Barbara was always squawking. Let him read. He’ll come around. Trying to bullshit me into believing the kid will become Joe fucking Namath if only I let him read his goddamned books. Well that didn’t happen. All it did was turn him into a pansy, not a quarterback.

  And Princess, who couldn’t make up her mind to save her life. Cheerleading one week, violin the next, then ballet and fencing and karate. Figures the girl would be the one interested in sports. The problem was she never stuck with anything, and all the equipment and special shoes and outfits were costing a fortune. So I cut her off. Told her the next thing she picked, she’d have to stick with. So what the fuck does she pick? African dance. Jesus Christ. By the time I found out it was too late to stop her without making me look like a racist at her school. Can’t have people thinking that. If my idiot daughter wants to take up jigaboo dancing, then I guess I got no choice but to let her. Don’t want people to think bad things about me.

  “Tomorrow we eat,” I muttered as I lay down. I thought they were already asleep.

  So imagine my surprise this morning.

  I open my eyes, and my head is throbbing like I’d drank a liter of Cuervo. Burton is standing over me, staring down, and it looks like the kid’s shot up to six feet tall overnight. There’s blood on the stick he’s leaning on. I can only image that’s why my head hurts so damned much. The little fucker must’ve clobbered me in my sleep.

  He stares for another few seconds, watching me struggle against the restraints and I guess he decides I’m not going nowhere cause he moves away. It hurts to move my head but I manage. I got a strong will. So I look at what he’s doing. Back to rubbing sticks together, working hard at it this time. I see blood on his hands and don’t know if it’s mine or his. If he’s been working those sticks for any length of time, his hands are probably like hamburger.

  Unlike his previous lame-ass efforts, this time there’s smoke.

  I have to admit, I didn’t panic. Not at first. Maybe it was my woozy head, making my thoughts unclear. Not paying attention to the fact that they had tied me up. Maybe part of me thought it was a joke. I don’t know.

  But neither of them said a word, not even to each other.

  And Burton discovers fire.

  Princess cheers.

  They both stare at me.

  I look a little further away and see they’ve fashioned some kind of spit between two trees.

  And I start to panic.

  As a cub scout, Burton had won a few badges. Knot tying. Fire starting. Probably fucking sewing, knowing Burton. But it’s those other two badges that have me worried.

  “I saw a boat last night,” I say. “Only we didn’t have a signal fire so they couldn’t see us. But Burton, you did it! Now we can be rescued.”

  They’re not paying attention. Burton is fanning the flames,
and Princess is gathering wood.

  “Very funny, kids! Okay, joke’s over. Untie me.” They’ll listen. They have to listen because that’s what kids do. That’s what my kids do.

  “Untie me, goddammit!”

  They keep ignoring me. Burton transfers the fire to a stack of wood beneath their makeshift spit.

  Where did I go wrong? I raised them better than this. I raised them to obey me. They’re no better than the welfare kids back home, running the streets, disobeying their parents.

  “Okay, listen to me,” I plead. “I won’t take any more limbs. We’ll eat coconuts and find a way to catch fish. You’ll see. We’ll figure it out!”

  “Sorry, Daddy,” Princess says as they start dragging me toward the fire. “We’re hungry now.”

  When we get off this island, I swear to Christ I’m giving them up for adoption.

  Cell

  You wake to the sound of your own heartbeat and realize the snatches of sleep you’d managed to catch are fleeting. You need to remain awake, focused. One unguarded moment could mean the end for you. How many others have been dragged away, never to return? The confinement you find yourself in is clogged with bodies, possibly ten or twelve at a time, but you rarely share the same cell.

  The pounding doesn’t stop and you realize it wasn’t your heartbeat that woke you but another prisoner smashing something against a wall. His yells are louder still, but it’s that pounding, that relentless thud, that woke you from your light mock-sleep.

  He’s alone in his cell, unlike you, and you peer over to see what he’s wasting his time with, what he’s bashing against that wall. Not that it’s annoying because anything to break the monotony is worthwhile, but somehow it’s disturbing. Because, you think, there’s nothing in these cells to bash against a wall. No furniture. No rocks. Nothing lying about. So you glance over and you blink your blurry eyes, blink and blink because what you see can’t be real. It must be the sleep, you think, or the sleep deprivation. Those few moment of sleep you’d managed to steal have made you delirious.