by L. L. Soares
"That was nothing. I could do much worse."
"Let go!" I shouted.
"You have nowhere else to go. You don't plan to return home, do you?"
I stopped struggling and stared at him.
Rasputin nodded. "Yes, I know all about you."
"How?" I asked.
"You know me. You know Rasputin. It will surely kill you if you return home. It'll eat you right up."
"I'll go to my mother's house."
Rasputin grabbed my chin and forced me to look into his eyes. They were dark and unblinking. My body became limp and warm. Rasputin put his arm across my waist to steady me. I rested my head on his shoulder and it seemed as if we were joined together. I wanted at that moment to share the same flesh with him.
You are not a dead ringer for Rasputin, I thought. You are Rasputin.
He seemed to know my thoughts, for he nodded.
"Sara, let's go home."
"Yes," I said, clinging to him. "Take me home."
Home was the house that he lived in. It was remote and pointy and angled and brown. Brown like a worn teddy bear. Angled and pointed in a House of the Seven Gables way. Remote in that it stood alone, on a block of empty lots and condemned buildings. The single surviving house on a sidewalk and that made me feel sad and hopeful at the same time.
I wasn't drunk, but I had that same woozy feeling of slugging a few shots too many. Rasputin held me by the shoulders and led me into the house like I was a tipsy college girl he'd picked up.
It was dark inside. Rasputin set me against the wall.
"Don't fall, okay?"
I nodded, but he probably couldn't see.
I heard him fumbling in his pockets, the clink of keys and rustle of paper and then the soft sharp sound of a match being struck. Let there be light! And I found myself looking into the flame of a thin long red candle that Rasputin held in a glass holder. Rasputin's face was haloed by the warm light. His eyes were gentle but eager and his was smile sweet.
Although his face calmed me, I never stopped thinking, This man is dangerous. And that thought thrilled me.
I forgot to be scared. I enjoyed being close to danger. More pointedly, being close to death.
"I love the light of candle. So much more intimate," said Rasputin.
I hunched against the wall. Rasputin put his hand across my neck and applied a gentle pressure. After a few seconds of this touching, I felt like I'd drunk a glass of red wine. I was relaxed, loose and at peace.
"Do sit down, Sara," he said, leading me further into the house.
That the house was lit by a single candle held by Rasputin, made me a bit uneasy in the midst of the odd bliss I felt. As Rasputin brought me into the living room, I compulsively sniffed his body, which smelled of dirt and sweat and something acidic which I could not place.
"Here," he said, leading me toward a couch. Its color was uncertain in the dim light and I found that disconcerting, but when I sat down, it was very soft and comfortable and, as I sank down into its cushions, I imagined I was under the sea.
I put my head back and closed my eyes, picturing tropical fish floating by and a sea horse and bright blue plants that twisted like snakes in the current.
"Yes, Irina, this is wonderful finally meeting you."
I opened my eyes.
Anyone familiar with the story of Rasputin's death knew that Irina was the niece of the last tsar. Irina was a great beauty, and her husband, Felix, had invited Rasputin to his palace under the ruse of introducing him to her. But Rasputin met death instead of Irina. Felix and his co-conspirators poisoned, then shot the mystical Russian monk, but he would not die. Finally, they wrapped him in a carpet and threw him into an icy river where his body was found a few days later.
Yet there it was 87 years later and he was alive. I cannot tell you why I was so positive it was him, but I knew without any uncertainty that the man standing before me was Rasputin. Anyone who has ever experienced a 'psychic moment' will know what I am talking about. There is not a second of doubt. It is like looking at a tree. You never wonder if you are seeing a tree or not. It's all too obvious that it is a tree and to say otherwise would be absurd.
I laughed.
"Rasputin, you called me Irina," I said nervously.
He sighed and sat down beside me.
"You are called Sara now, but back then, back in St. Petersburg, you were known as Irina. I thought you already knew this."
"That's absurd," I said. "If that was true, I'd be over a hundred years old."
"And I, Irina, am even older than that. But neither do I look my age."
I sniffed.
"Rasputin, you smell. Why don't you take a bath?"
I don't know why I said that, but when I'm nervous, I usually say the first thing in my head and at that moment, that's what I was thinking.
"Come upstairs and wash me, then."
I should have been afraid, but, I must admit, the idea appealed to me.
Rasputin, red candle in hand, led me upstairs and into the bathroom. He put the candle down on the top of the toilet tank and stared at me with wide unblinking eyes. My eyes grew wide in return. His face was long and angular, his hair long and his beard unkempt. He was an unattractive man and yet I was attracted.
"Take your clothes off," Rasputin said.
"What?" I said, stupidly. I wanted him to say that, but I didn't want him to know I did.
"Make yourself naked," he said.
I smiled. I was pleased to feel myself flush as I unbuttoned my white blouse and tossed it onto the cold tile floor. I was glad I was wearing my good bra with the U shape and the lace. I pulled off my jeans and tossed them across the room with my foot.
Rasputin studied me as I stood before him in my underwear. White lace above the belly button and beneath. I smiled, realizing that I matched perfectly.
"Remove the underwear," Rasputin instructed.
I unsnapped my bra, twirled it around on my finger and tossed it into the sink. Wiggling my hips amidst silly giggles, I slid my panties down my thighs, spread apart my knees. The underwear slid down to my ankles and covered the tops of my feet.
As Rasputin bent down and grabbed a bit of white lace between his fingers, I picked up my right foot and he removed the underwear. I placed my right foot down on the ground and lifted my left, and Rasputin grabbed the material from around it and rose with his prize. He pressed it to his nose and sniffed.
"Mmmm," he said. "You smell, too."
"Now, you," I said.
"Run the bath," Rasputin said. "Lukewarm and plenty of soap."
I walked with exaggerated grace to the tub, knelt down on the floor, turned the knob and positioned it to lukewarm. I turned around, my arms spread out like I was a bird in the sky.
"Now, you," I said.
Rasputin unbuckled his belt. The clink sounded sharp and sexy, and the little snapping sound the belt made as he pulled it from the loops made me dizzy and hot. He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows as he unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper. I rubbed my neck in time with the soft grrr of the zipper.
I inhaled as Rasputin pulled down his black pants. He turned them inside out as he took them off and then tossed them into the hall. His legs were hairy and long and curved like a monkey's, and they made me sigh.
He pulled down his white briefs and stepped out of them and tossed them into my face, laughing. I followed his lead, inhaling them. The stench was foul. It smelled of feces and sweat and sperm, but somehow those scents appealed to me.
Rasputin unbuttoned his shirt from bottom to top. He took it off, and tossed it on the floor.
His body was long and thin and hairy. It looked like he'd been stretched on a rack. Black moles covered large areas of his skin and I wanted to put my tongue on every one of them. His penis was small and looked like a black furry acorn that I wanted so badly to roll around in my mouth.
Rasputin walked over and stood in front of me as I admired his pungent body. After a few minutes, he lif
ted his leg and got into the water.
I followed him into the tub and grabbed the soap. It smelled of lilacs. I began at his flat hard ass, gliding the bar of soap down to his feet.
Rasputin turned around.
"No, you do it like this." He grabbed the soap from my hand and lathered up my breasts and stomach.
"Now you rub the soap from you onto me," he said.
I did as I was told...
After we were done, he told me I was his bride. I was a queen.
"A tsarina?" I asked.
Rasputin made a face.
"Certainly not. You're better than that. You're my queen and you must wear my crown."
Rasputin got out of the tub. He didn't bother to dry himself off. The water dripped off of him as he walked over to the toilet, lifted up the top of the seat, bent down and put his hands in the water. When he stood up, he had something round in his hands, but I couldn't make it out in the dim light of the candle.
I got out of the tub and walked over to where Rasputin stood.
As he brought the thing close to me, I smelled the scent of shit and decay. I moved away, but Rasputin pulled me closer and placed the rank object on the top of my head.
"What is it?" I asked, scowling.
"Your crown."
I raised my hands and touched it. It was wet and cold and slimy.
"I don't like it," I said. "Take it off."
"It's a crown. It's something you have to wear whether you like it or not."
"Let me see it," I said.
Rasputin took it off my head and held it in front of my face. It was a crown of mushrooms, rotting and shit-covered.
"Rasputin, I don't like it," I said.
Rasputin put it back on the top of my head.
"You have to wear it. It's your crown."
"No," I said, stamping my foot.
I cried like a child, with loud gasping wails, but I kept the crown on my head. I didn't feel like I had any other choice.
Rasputin patted me on the shoulder. "Good girl."
The stench got the better of me and I vomited into the toilet.
Afterwards, I sat on the floor, cross-legged, sniffling and touching the cold hard tile like it was a magic lamp that could transport me away if only I rubbed it hard enough.
"You are like a little baby," Rasputin said. "That's not the way a queen should act."
"I don't want to be some stupid old queen with a smelly crown on her head."
"Modern life has turned you soft, Irina. A crown, no matter what it is made of, should be worn with pride. It is your power and represents your dominance over others."
I didn't feel powerful. On the contrary, I felt I was the dominated one. It seemed outrageous that it should be thus, but I accepted it as my fate, inevitable and inescapable.
I was exhausted. It seemed as if a heavy and hard object took shape on my neck and rose to the top of my head. The weight of it was almost too much to bear. My head throbbed and I wanted to sleep, but I forced myself to stay awake.
Rasputin crawled across the floor to me. He sat on his heels, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck and stared into my eyes.
"Irina, are you there?"
"Sara-"
"Irina, wake up!" Rasputin shouted. He pressed down on my shoulders and forced me to lie flat on the ground.
His eyes hurt me, but I couldn't look away. I couldn't close my eyes. All I could do was stare back at him. My eyes felt like they'd been in darkness for a long time and Rasputin was shining a bright light into them and it hurt. It hurt like when you get up in the middle of the night and you turn on the light and your eyes feel so weak, so unable to withstand the light's power that you have to shut them. Only I couldn't shut them; I couldn't move them from his face.
"Vodka!" I called out. "Vodka!"
Rasputin clapped his hands together.
"That's more like it, Irina!"
Light filled the room. Its source was a puzzle to me. A huge ladybug lumbered in. A silver tray lay across its back and on the tray were two glasses, a bottle of vodka and a couple of white linen napkins.
The insect stopped in front of me and bowed. I bent down and picked up a glass. Rasputin stood up and poured the vodka into my glass and then poured one for himself.
"I might like this better if I was drunk," I said.
* * *
I woke up with a pounding headache and a raw stomach. Every muscle in my body ached. I opened my eyes. The morning sun was streaming in through the bathroom window and the light hurt my eyes. I half-closed them and looked around. I saw two very large squashed ladybugs, their bright red shells sunken and mashed up with black bits hanging about them and on the tile. Rasputin lay on the floor in a pool of blood. He was pale and his breathing was shallow. He looked at me.
"Irina. I'm dying."
"What happened?" I asked.
I felt nothing except the painful throbbing in my head. I wasn't happy or sad for Rasputin.
"I knew if anyone could do it, it'd be you," Rasputin said in a weak rasping voice.
I should have known, too. I was a bad drunk. Violent and angry. I had no memory of what I did, but as I touched the crown of mushrooms on my head, I knew. I did all the terrible cruel things I'd only dreamed about, but been too scared to do before.
With a crown on my head, I was the nasty brutal animal I wanted to be.
The Mad Monk was dying, which was what he wanted all along. For all these years, he'd waited to meet Irina, to make love to Irina and to die by Irina's hand. And in that moment that I touched the crown, I knew that I was Irina.
I lifted my hands to my face. They were small hands, thin and delicate. The bulge of blue veins clearly visible beneath my skin. And the blood. Some dried and caked around the edges of my fingers and some wet on my palms like fresh red paint. Bits of skin flaked around my fingers like white lines of ruled paper. My hands were scratched and bruised. Some of my nails were torn off or discolored, while others had bits of flesh and blood beneath them.
My hands throbbed in pain, and with power. I spread my fingers out, then curled them into fists. It felt good to know I could hurt and be hurt. I'd never take off my crown.
I heard the sound of Rasputin's death rattle.
"Vodka!" I called out, and I raised up my fists.
Number 808
At four-thirty in the afternoon on a Saturday in April, I left my apartment to go to work. I walked down the stairs slowly, as I was reluctant to leave my friends inside: the dust balls; the television set; the radio; my CDs; the comfortable brown couch that seemed to hug me like a mother when I lay down on it.
It was a typical spring day, which aren't warm and sunny as everyone imagines, but misty and cold; the sky is a mixture of gray and pink. It's got the coloring and manners of an alley cat. It's a wild, hungry, hissing thing. You either have to feed it or fight it.
Lee was waiting for me in the office when I got there. She looked down at her watch and then up at me.
I hated her. I could tell she hated me, too.
"Hi, dear," she said, standing up.
I'd show her what a 'dear' I was.
She was braless in a thin white T-shirt with her nipples sticking out prominently like two bull's eyes. I punched her left breast.
The smile vanished from her face and she crossed her arms over her chest. "What's wrong with you?"
I answered with a hard jab to the stomach. She hunched over and took a step back.
"What's the matter, dear?" I said.
"Are you crazy?" She was tall and thin and pretty, not used to being fucked with, but she'd never come across someone like me before.
"I'm your fucking nightmare," I said.
"What's wrong with you, Isabel?"
"I haven't had my coffee yet."
"Are you drunk?"
"Not drunk, you unimaginative dullard. I don't need fire water to speak colorfully."
"I guess you don't." She smiled, but I could tell she was unamused.
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"Are you going to be nice or not?" she asked.
"I don't have to be nice to you," I said.
"I'm a little shocked at you, Isabel. You're usually very quiet and sweet," she said, shaking her head.
"I'm sick of being treated like shit."
"It's in the job description. You knew that when we hired you."
"Yeah, I know," I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
She put her hand on my shoulder. I flinched and pulled away. She touched my hair.
"Don't be afraid," she said. "I'll stay with you the whole time."
"Big whoop."
"I know you're not really like this."
"Yeah, what I really am is the kind of accommodating asshole who lets all you alpha dogs stick rods up my asshole and poke at me and scrape off bits of my skin and bleed me. That's the kind of sweet dumb cunt I am."
"That's what I like about you. You never complain." She smiled. "At least, you never used to. Wait outside until we're ready for you, Isabel."
* * *
The wait was interminable as usual. The hall always reminded me of a hospital corridor. The linoleum was beige with black speckles, sunken in and lumpy from years of people going back and forth, forth and back on institutional errands. I don't know what the building was used for before it became what it is today, but the depression and repetition and routine that emanated from it extended beyond the current time; extended backward into a gray and colorless past where inmates, or patients, or enrollees wore dull uniforms and followed nonsensical rules for reasons unknown.
We sat in hardback chairs in dim light, staring at the off-white walls, the big black and white wall clock, or looked uncomprehendingly at magazines from ten years ago with missing pages and coffee stains.
None of us spoke. There was no point. We had nothing to say.
Across from me, a man in his sixties sat slumping in a wrinkled gray raincoat. Somehow, it seemed sadder when older people were forced into doing this.
Me, I had no excuse. Most of the employees here were uneducated and poor or old or immigrants. I had an education. Weren't there other opportunities for me? I supposed there were, but I hadn't taken them. I couldn't shake the malaise that had come over me since high school and was holding me still. It's a living, but not a life. Most people assumed I was mentally deficient or had a drug or alcohol problem when they saw me sitting there in the hall. This wasn't a place for normal young white women, but the clients were gratified to see my sweet placid face among the senior citizens and minorities. Sometimes it was nice to get your aggressions out on a white girl.
