by L. L. Soares
"Well, look who's here," Andy said, seeing them enter the house. "Hi, girls. Help yourself to the refreshments."
Andy had let Julie know he was interested in her, but she had been too shy to pursue it. Well, at least so far. He wasn't really her type, but he was a nice enough guy. And it was flattering that he showed her so much attention.
He was clearly surprised by how she'd dressed this evening, but she could tell it was a pleasant surprise. She felt other eyes on her, too. The attention made her self-conscious, but it also pleased her.
"You look amazing," he told her softly as he handed her a cold bottle of beer. "I've never seen anyone look as good in a costume like that. It's like it was made for you."
"Thanks," she said, blushing. She felt so embarrassed about blushing that the redness lasted even longer.
"Amazing what a different image will do for you, huh?" Amy whispered to her. Then, "I'm going to find Paul. See you soon." She drifted into the crowd.
Julie turned to Andy, who was smiling at her. "Drink up," he told her.
The bottle was already open. She brought it to her bright red lips and drank.
* * *
An hour later, Julie found herself in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She was fucking Andy. It all came about so spontaneously, she hadn't really had much time to consider it before it happened.
She was on top. She hadn't even taken the costume off. The mini-dress, which had seemed tighter before, was much more flexible now, riding up her hips. She hadn't worn any underwear, and she had no idea anyone would find out, at least not so soon.
She was very conscious of how the costume felt. The stockings, the dress, the garters, all seemed to enhance the sensations. The only things she'd taken off were the shoes. They were somewhere in the shadows that obscured the floor.
She hadn't had much to drink, and this wasn't the first time she'd had sex, of course. There had been some clumsy experiences with a couple of guys since high school. But this was different. She was aroused this time more than ever before. No doubt her being in charge had something to do with it.
Andy seemed happy to let her call the shots. It wasn't like the past. He wasn't another awkward boy, as scared as she was. And she definitely wasn't scared now. There was no reason to be. She wanted it as much as he did, and if she remembered correctly (it had all happened so fast), she had been the one to initiate it.
The orgasm took her quite by surprise. Nobody had ever given her one before, and it was stronger than those she'd experienced alone.
She had enjoyed it as much as she imagined men enjoyed sex. Being in charge, having her needs met. Taking what she wanted.
She found she was breathing as hard and labored as Andy was. She even cried out, something she'd never done before. Getting caught up in the moment.
When they were done, she stretched out on top of him.
"Shit, that was good," she said softly in his ear.
* * *
When they went back downstairs, she continued to be a source of attention. It was a strange feeling, because she'd never experienced it before. Was she really different tonight? Or was it the costume? Maybe she had been drinking more than she thought.
She was talking to an attractive grad student she'd just met, wondering what it would be like to bring him upstairs, and marveling at this new sense of self-confidence that she'd been able to tap into, when Amy grabbed her arm. It was so sudden, it frightened Julie until she saw who it was. Amy was crying, and saying something about Paul.
Reluctantly, Julie excused herself from the conversation she'd been having and pulled Amy to one side of the room. "Tell me what's wrong."
Much of what Amy said made little sense to her, but she knew that she'd had a fight with Paul. They always fought, and they always got back together. It was something they did. But Julie knew the situation wouldn't fix itself tonight.
"We're leaving," Julie told her, taking charge of the situation. Which was another oddity. Usually it was Amy who decided what they did. Julie usually preferred it that way.
* * *
The cool night air made Julie aware of the fishnet stockings. She also noticed that she'd left the broom back at the party. Funny how that occurred to her out of the blue. It didn't matter much, though. She could go back and get it some other time.
Amy was still crying. She'd had way too much to drink, but at least now she was walking it off. Well, sort of walking. Walking mixed with stumbling.
"It's okay," Julie said, trying to console her. "Everything's going to be okay."
Julie thought back on the night as they walked. She felt clear-headed, remembering everything that happened, and she didn't regret any of it. It was like she was a different person. A not-altogether-unpleasant person. In fact, Julie liked the new her very much.
Between her own thoughts and guiding Amy, Julie didn't hear the car drive up slowly beside them, keeping their pace. She noticed it by accident, in her peripheral vision, and knew immediately it was the same car as before. The creepy guy who had bothered them. Now that Amy was drunk and crying, maybe he thought they were easier pickings.
"Need some help?" the driver asked.
Julie realized she hadn't looked at him before. When Amy had been yelling at him to go away, she'd concentrated first on the car, then on Amy as she shouted, but she never looked directly at the man behind the wheel.
She looked at him now.
No longer timid or fearful, she stared right into his face. He was a middle-aged man, the kind you'd instantly associate with having a wife and children. With a few more years added, he might even be old enough to be her father. He had an otherwise unremarkable face, except for the eyes. They were sharp objects, those eyes. They pierced her with a mixture of anger and lust, hatred and desperation that was so raw, it hurt her to see it. She had never seen anyone look like that before, so intense with bad emotions. Remarkably, he was able to hold all that bile inside and not explode.
It was clear he wanted her, wanted them both most probably. But also that he hated them for it, for making him want.
She remembered before, when he first talked to them, before she'd seen his face, Julie's first impression had been that he had been a creepy guy. Now that she saw him face-to-face, she could tell that he was worse.
She stared right into those eyes without flinching. His intensity didn't dim, but he was silent for a moment. She could see him swallow.
"I asked if you needed any help," the man said again, clearly annoyed that he had to repeat himself.
"Go away," Julie said softly.
"Don't you want my help?" the man said, glaring back at her. Neither of them looked away.
Amy had fallen. She was down on her knees, oblivious to the danger. Crying, and saying something incomprehensible between the sobs.
"No," Julie said. "We're fine. We don't need any help."
"It sure doesn't look that way to me."
The car had been moving slowly beside them as they walked. Now, it stopped. It could have been stopped since the man started talking and Julie only now noticed.
"Look, we don't need any help, okay? Please, leave us alone."
The words were calm. She marveled at her sense of control. While it did not make him go away, her assertiveness gave him pause for thought. He hesitated before he made his next move.
He got out of the car.
Julie looked back. The party house was on another block, out of view, and there were no stragglers to be seen. The street they were on now had a few houses, but they were far between and all of them were dark.
I could scream, Julie thought. Someone is bound to hear me.
But he was so close now. What if he lashed out at her if she screamed? What if he did something to Amy?
Before she could pull away, he leapt forward and grabbed her arm.
"Come with me," he said. He bent down to grab Amy's arm as well.
Julie froze. It was as if time stood still. He was moving, but she was a statue, planted i
n the tarmac, watching.
What would the Naughty Witch do? she thought, suddenly aware of the costume. It was a silly thing to think. In other circumstances, it would have been laughable. But, becoming aware of the costume she wore, she could feel it tight against her skin again.
I wish you were dead, she thought, standing perfectly still and staring into his eyes. He had grabbed her arm, but had not moved her. She was in the same spot she had been before.
There came the urge, the need to say it out loud. To verbalize it.
"Leave me alone," she said softly. "I wish you were dead."
The hate-filled eyes widened and lost some of their intensity. The expression on his face was first contempt, then confusion. Fear. Something was happening inside him, something he clearly did not understand. His grip on her arm, at first almost like iron, loosened. His hand dropped away.
He stood there, wobbling in front of her with a tear in the corner of his eye. Then the eyes widened more, the spark of life leaving them. The staring, piercing eyes went glassy.
He dropped to his knees.
All sense of menace left him. Julie looked down at his shrunken form before her on the street. She bent down to help Amy to her feet, all the while keeping her eyes on him.
He toppled over onto his side, and curled into a semi-fetal position. She saw a trickle of blood escape his lips and he spasmed slightly before her.
Then he stopped moving. She knew he was dead.
And, somehow, her words had done it.
In her mind's eye, she saw his heart being crushed in her hand.
And, suddenly, blood gushed forth from his open mouth, forming a pool around his lifeless form. Julie stepped away, careful not to let any of the stuff touch her shoes. She held Amy firmly and rushed her forward. Narrowly avoiding another puddle, this one of vomit. Amy hadn't been simply sobbing down there, on her knees, after all. No wonder she'd been so distracted.
They had another block and a half to go. Julie did not look back at the car, or what had become of its driver.
As they reached the front steps of the house they rented, Amy was crying again. Julie noticed that the sun was coming up. The party had lasted so much longer than she thought.
Second Chances
Welcome to Blue Clay, Massachusetts. Pop. 101,580, read the sign as he entered the city limits. It had been a long time since he'd been back here, and the legend filled him with a sense of dread that felt an awful lot like drowning. The sour burn when he swallowed almost made him clutch his throat with his free hand, as the other gripped the steering wheel tightly.
Some things never changed.
Greg took the first exit after the sign and it took him another fifteen minutes to reach the Walecock estate. The old mansion looked worse for wear. Some of the windows were jagged with cracks, and the place was in desperate need of painting. Greg wondered how good a job the caretakers were doing, if there were any caretakers these days.
The gate was open, at least, and he drove down the dirt road, past the mansion, to the stretch of private beach that gave the city its name. Strangely, not many people knew about this point of origin anymore, except for the old-timers and they rarely ventured here.
Back in the old days, there would be someone at the gate-in the old guardhouse-and they'd ask for a token sum to get inside. It had been five dollars, the last time he'd come here. Such a long time ago. But there was no one collecting money now. Greg continued driving along the length of the estate. He could hear the dirt and gravel crunching beneath his tires.
When he reached the beach, it still had the power to take his breath away.
Instead of sand, it was dark blue clay. Depending on the time of year, it could be as hard as stone or as pliant as putty. Which was why, when it was really hot, few people came here. It would get on your skin, on your clothes, and you'd need a good scrubbing.
But it was still amazing to look at.
Greg sat in his car, looking over the blue beach. Waves licked the shoreline.
He put his feet up on the seat and removed his shoes and socks. Then he opened the car door and swung his legs outside. He walked along the grass until he reached the beach. The clay was soft beneath his soles and there was a slight sinking feeling.
The ocean roared ahead of him. He could see kids to his left coming in his direction, but otherwise, the beach was deserted.
Blue Clay was a strange city. To think, the city proper was a short drive away. And yet this place seemed lost in time, a pocket untouched by the outside world. This was his first stop upon arriving in the city because it was the only place he could still feel like himself. Still feel human. Once he left this strange outpost, he'd be caught up in the inner turmoil again, lost in his own bad memories. But this place was still solemn and calming. It was the only aspect of the city he'd ever missed.
But he knew he couldn't stay long. There was too much to do.
Staring at the expanse of blue clay, he had no idea what would cause such a phenomenon, but he was sure it was abnormal. Perhaps a geologist could give him a plausible explanation, but here, walking toward the surf, feeling the pliant clay beneath his feet, it had an air of the exotic. Like he was on some island beach far away from everything.
What the hell am I doing here? he wondered as he walked along the water's edge. He thought of Becky again. He took out his wallet and slid out a picture the Friedlands had sent him. A serious-looking girl, eleven years old, staring intently into the camera. Only the faintest trace of a smile, and it wasn't reflected in those eyes.
My little girl, Greg thought.
He put the picture away and looked in the direction of the kids again. He regretted that he wasn't alone here. They were getting closer now. The strange thing was they weren't making any noise, but walked in an almost rigid single-file line. Staring straight ahead.
The closer they got, the more they seemed to look right through him. Like he wasn't even there.
It was then, looking down at his feet, that he saw the bright orange starfish.
He bent down to touch it and it moved more quickly then he'd expected, its arms moving rapidly as it dragged itself back into the water. There was something unnatural about its quickness.
"What you got there, mister?" one of the kids asked. It was a girl. She probably went to the local college, from the looks of her. She was wearing a red bikini, and had a pretty good figure. It was funny; he hadn't even noticed the color before now, even watching them from the distance as they approached.
It was like they had been somnambulists, wandering along the beach, devoid of the true spark of life, devoid even of color. And then, all of a sudden, they were up close and full of life. Statues come alive. There was something unnerving about their sudden animation.
"It's just a starfish," he said, lost in his own thoughts. "It got away."
"I see it," one of the boys said. "I think I can get it."
Greg wanted to tell them to leave it alone, but instead he just headed back toward his car. The moment had been lost. If he was alone on the beach, maybe he could have recaptured what it used to be like so many years ago. But the kids made him realize it was too late.
He could hear them thrashing about in the water, moving and making noise like real kids now. He'd preferred them strange and silent, walking along the beach. He could pretend they were something different then. Something unusual. But now, they were just like anyone else their age. Brash and stupid and contemptuous of real solitude.
Greg opened the door of his car and slid behind the steering wheel. The soles of his feet were caked with clay. He rubbed them a bit, getting most of it off, then slipped his socks back on, then his shoes. He could feel the thin layer of clay that still clung to him, and it felt good. Protective, in a way.
He stared through the windshield. It looked like the kids were playing tug-of-war with something. The starfish. They were pulling it apart. He almost thought he saw red mixed in with the bright orange of it. Then he looked away, befor
e he could be sure. Did starfish have red blood? He had no idea.
He turned to look out the back window as he backed the car away from the beach, then he turned the car around onto the dirt road that took him away.
* * *
It only took him twenty minutes to get downtown. The city proper. It was a weary looking place, mostly deserted. Some of the stores he remembered from his childhood were vacant now with soaped up windows and real estate signs announcing reasonable rents. On the way here, he'd passed the ugly gray factory buildings, once the backbone of industry in Blue Clay, now abandoned hulks, grave markings of another time.
One of the abandoned factories had graffiti painted across its main wall: Redemption Is Overrated in big white letters.
It was getting dark but he continued driving, giving himself a tour of the places he used to frequent when he was younger. Nothing really looked like he remembered. It was as if this were a former war zone, altered by some hideous trauma that nobody remembered.
He knew that the real reason he was driving around like this was to waste time. He dreaded where he had to go and found himself thinking of reasons not to go through with it. Reasons to just get back on the highway and never look back.
But every time he considered that, his thoughts would go back to the picture in his wallet, and he knew he wasn't going anywhere. Not without her.
The last time he'd seen Becky, she had been little more than a year old. He doubted she would remember him at all, not in any real memory sense. Maybe on some instinctual level she would recognize him. It was all he could hope for.
And how would he explain his long absence? Ten years was a long time to disappear. What had her mother told her? Her grandparents? Had they told her the truth? That her father had become convinced that this city was driving him mad, and he had to go far away to save his soul?
