by Sachs, Zané
“You want it, bitch?”
Did I say that, or did he?
He turns up the voltage, rising from the chair, my cunt still hooked onto his cock. Heat courses through my body, my nerves on high-alert. Afraid to fall, I lock my legs around his back. He slams me against the wall, knocking down a framed diploma. His cock is a pneumatic hammer pounding my internal organs. Meanwhile, his forefinger and thumb vibrate my clit until I scream. He turns me around with mechanical precision, and I claw the wall as he comes in from behind. Jolts of electricity send shockwaves through my core, and I feel like I’m shattering into a thousand pieces.
I’m about to climax for the billionth time when something slips around my neck.
I can’t breathe.
His tie is wrapped around my throat. I claw at the silk.
“Relax, Sadie.”
I might relax if I could breathe.
He’s pumping me so hard that I’m experiencing a nuclear reaction—my body convulsing with enough energy to start another universe.
I’d like to kick him in the balls.
I’m clutching at my throat, trying to release the pressure. Blood boils in my brain, my eyeballs bulging from their sockets, as my body explodes.
I come so hard, I’m blacking out.
The tie releases, and air rushes to my lungs as I collapse onto the carpet.
But he’s not done.
He’s on top of me, ripping the buttons from my shirt. Undoing my bra. The gold medallion swings around his neck, hypnotizing me. His chin feels rough against my chest as his teeth latch onto my nipple.
I kick, and that makes him more excited.
He flips me over, smashing my face into the carpet. Grabbing my wrists, he ties my hands behind my back.
I scream, even though no one will hear me.
He slaps silver tape over my mouth.
Rolls me onto my back.
I try to squirm out of his grasp, but he sits on my legs, holding me in place. Using scissors, he cuts my skirt from the hemline to the waist. Then he peels away the fabric, revealing my hips, my thighs, and my patch of pubic hair. Afraid to move, afraid of the harm the scissors might inflict, I lie still. He’s using them like clippers, trimming my hair down to nothing. After he’s done shaping, he snips around my labia. Satisfied, he sits back on his heels and examines his work.
I’m wondering if my insurance will cover this.
And will they go for nine more sessions?
Shoving my knees apart, he plunges his head between my thighs. I writhe uncontrollably as his tongue flicks at my clit. Parting my lips with his mouth, his tongue dives deeper, lapping up my juices.
I don’t like feeling helpless, but with my hands tied and my mouth gagged, I don’t have much recourse. Then an idea comes to me. I stop writhing, stop reacting. I relax and let go. My bladder releases.
Talk about pissing him off … he comes up gagging.
“Watersports?” Yellowish spit flies from his mouth. “You’re into watersports?”
Kneeling on my legs, so I can’t escape, he whips out his hose. I close my eyes against the shower of hot liquid. It seeps into my hair, runs down my neck and chest. Vomit rises to my mouth, but my lips are taped, so I swallow.
He shakes himself off. Gets up, freeing my legs.
I’m still wearing the stilettos, and I aim for his balls. But my aim is off, and my heel stabs his thigh.
“We’re done,” he says, ripping the tape from my mouth.
“I don’t think so, Doctor.”
I need a lot more therapy.
He told me to call his receptionist and make an appointment for next week. I told him I’m not sure I like his style of therapy. He mentioned something about giving it a chance, and then he wrote me a stronger prescription for Xanax.
Luckily, I worked out before the appointment, so I have my gym bag and a pair of shorts to wear home. You can bet I’m gonna make Doctor A pay for shredding my new skirt. The fuck-me shoes sure did their job. I kick them off and pull on my sneakers (Brooks Ravena 4s, black and purple as my throat). After submerging my head in the bathroom sink, I’m ready to face the evening. I’m heading out the door, when my phone rings.
I check the screen and see Dad.
I didn’t pick up on his last three calls, and I’ve ignored my sister’s threats (he’s your dad too, call me or I’ll have to lock him up) so guilt forces me to answer.
Before I can say hello, he yells, “Are you trying to poison me? This soup is fermented.”
He must think I’m his aide. “Hi, Daddy, it’s Sadie.”
“What? Speak up. I can’t hear you.”
“It’s Sadie.”
“Sadie? Where are you?”
“In Colorado.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I live here, remember?”
“This lentil soup you made is bad.”
“I didn’t make lentil soup.”
“That’s ridiculous. If you didn’t make it, how can I be eating it?”
“Throw it out.”
“That’s a waste of food.”
“Okay, then eat it.”
“It’s gone bad.”
Our conversation goes like this for several minutes. He’s still yelling when I hang up.
No cars in the parking lot, just my bicycle in back. The sun hasn’t set, but clouds are moving in and I’m betting on a thunderstorm. It’s cool enough for snow in the higher elevations; a blizzard in midsummer is not unheard of in the mountains. Down here we’ll get rain. If I want to get home before the storm hits I should hurry, but when I reach the river, instead of heading toward the library and science museum, I turn toward Happy Valley old folks’ home and coast along the bike trail, my eyes searching the thick brush that grows along the bank. I think I left the chainsaw somewhere along here the night I killed that old lady.
Twilight casts the world in shadow, and nothing is distinct; one line blurs into another. I hop off and walk, pushing my bike along the path. An old man is sitting on a bench outside the old folks’ home, watching me. The same bench the old lady was sitting on. I must be getting close to where I dragged her corpse.
Corpse is a weird word, isn’t it? Like corpuscle or corpulent.
Corpse.
Cadaver is even weirder.
Corpse. Cadaver. What’s the diff?
Basically, a cadaver is a corpse destined for dissection, so if I want to be precise I should refer to the old lady as a cadaver.
Anyway, somewhere around here, I hacked her up.
School kids have knocked out the lights, so the trail is dark, but this spot looks familiar.
A clap of thunder makes me jump, and now it’s drizzling.
I drop my bike behind a bush and leave the trail, beating a path through scrub oak and undergrowth, my legs getting jabbed by sticks and briars, my back damp from rain. I kick at a clump of fallen leaves, and uncover the remnants of a sneaker. (Cheap, a knock-off.) It’s pink, like the sneaker that old lady wore. I shove more leaves aside, and something surfaces. At first, it looks like a branch, but when I look closer I wonder if it’s a human femur. Anatomy class would come in handy now. The bone is chewed up, like some animal’s been gnawing it. Bears frequent the river, so do wildcats and coyotes.
I get this creeped-out feeling someone’s watching me.
I stand still, listening, but hear only the river and the rain.
I push through another stand of scrub oak and emerge close to the water. The rocks are slippery, and I almost lose my footing. Glancing down, I notice the glint of metal. My ex’s chainsaw lies wedged between two rocks, half-buried in mud. The blade is bent and rusted, or maybe that’s dried blood. Grabbing the handle with both hands, I pry the saw loose and fall backward landing on my butt.
Stunned, I take a moment to recover.
A twig snaps in the brush behind me.
I glance toward the sound, expecting to see the gleaming eyes of a wild animal, but I see only the dark silhouette
of scrub oak.
I stand slowly, holding the saw in front of me like a sword. I turn the power on, activate the choke, pull the starter, but nothing happens. Not even a sputter. Using the saw as a machete, I hack through the brush in the direction of my bicycle.
A hunched figure stands over my bike, reaching into the basket for my gym bag. As I emerge from the scrub oak, he looks up, and I recognize the old man from the bench. I hide the saw behind my back.
Supported by a cane, the old man takes a wobbly step toward me.
“You need help, young lady.”
I’m not sure if it’s question or a statement.
He stares at me, lips quivering, and reaches out a trembling hand. “Bad things happen on this trail at night.”
“Like what?”
“Bad things.”
A line of drool drips from his mouth and it annoys me. He’s too old to be stumbling around in the dark, no less this rain. Too old to be alive.
Whipping out the saw, I charge him. Without power, it doesn’t do much damage, but its weight knocks him to the ground. The impact stuns him, and he lies on the rocky earth. Tears in his eyes, he attempts to shield his face with trembling hands as I hit him with pepper spray—Trinidad Moruga Scorpion.
It must suck to be him: decrepit and alone, unable to defend himself.
“Old man, I’m doing you a favor.”
My fingers wrap around a rock and I raise it. He cries out, his voice so weak, I think of a frightened rabbit as I bash in his skull.
Within minutes, the old man’s a corpse—soon to become a cadaver.
Thanks to the broken saw, finishing the job takes longer than usual.
Today has been filled with challenges. Marcus said to take my power back, and his words inspire me to find my strength.
When I’m done, I place the chainsaw in the basket of my bicycle, toss my gym bag on top of the saw along with the old man’s liver. Then I head home, contemplating what I’ll make for dinner.
Recipe: Sadie’s Liver and Onions
If you’re like me, you care about health and nutrition, and chances are you’ve heard about the Paleo Diet. It mimics the diet of our cavemen ancestors and includes vegetables, fruit, nuts, and plenty of meat. Natural meat, not the crap they try to feed us that’s raised on an unnatural diet of corn. Did you realize that most commercial beef in the United States is finished with corn? (Meaning, the last few weeks of a cow’s life it’s fed corncobs that fatten up the meat and ulcerate the stomach, so the animal is bound to die a painful and unhealthy death.) Wild caught meat is best, but if that’s not available go for grass-fed.
The Paleo Diet also recommends eating organ meats, like liver. Nutrient dense, liver is one of nature’s super foods. Cooked correctly, liver has a tender, velvety texture. The twist: mushrooms. Yum!
Liver and Onions
Ingredients:
1 liver, thinly sliced
Juice of one lemon
1 large onion, sliced
1 cup mushrooms, sliced (preferably wild)
4 dried figs, chopped
¼ cup water
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 leaves of sage
½ cup butter
A little flour
Garlic powder
Sea salt
Fresh ground pepper
Preparation:
To slice liver easily: freeze it and then slice the meat when it’s partially thawed. Marinate liver slices in lemon juice for 8-24 hours. (In the fridge or, in winter, out on the balcony.) After marinating, rinse the liver under the faucet and pat it dry. Season with salt and pepper. Then dredge in a little flour seasoned with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. Set aside.
Melt about ¼ cup butter, preferably in a cast iron skillet. Add the onions and turn heat to low. Cook onions at low heat until caramelized (about 45 minutes). Turn heat up to medium high, add more butter, then add the sliced mushrooms and cook till they release their juice. Add vinegar, water, and figs. Cook until the liquid evaporates, a few minutes. Remove from pan and set aside, keeping warm.
Add the rest of the butter to the skillet. Bring heat up, careful not to let the butter burn. The meat should sizzle when you place it in the pan. Sauté the liver for one minute, turn ONCE using tongs, and sauté for another minute. (Or less.) The outside should be brown and a bit crusty and the inside pinkish. DO NOT OVERCOOK.
Smother with onions and mushrooms. Enjoy.
Note: The Rocky Mountains offer a great variety of wild mushrooms. Mushrooms add earthy flavor and depth to a dish, and if you administer the right ones to aggravating people, mushrooms can rid your life of problems. Chanterelles are my favorite, golden colored. They’re actually a fungus. You have to be careful because there are chanterelle look-alikes—if you’re going for added intensity, pick the mushrooms with gills.
Exterminator
This past week, when I wasn’t chopping onions, cucumbers, cabbage, and that old standby corn down in the dungeon, I spent my time at home in a cleaning frenzy—vacuuming, scrubbing, washing the curtains and the walls, bleaching the kitchen and the bathrooms, as if we’re headed into spring instead of autumn. The place looks immaculate…cleaner anyway. Most of my furniture comes from the Humane Society Thrift Store (a great resource for animals), so my aesthetic is secondhand eclectic. New paint has done wonders. No trace of blood. I rearranged the couch, so it faces the fireplace and its back is to the kitchen. To create more space, I got rid of the coffee table. The place looks downright cozy. I might even get another cat or two.
Yesterday I took a trip to the mall and ordered a new chainsaw (donated the old one to the Humane Society) and a large chest freezer. (Chest freezer, LOL. What about arms and legs?) I was gonna go for the 8.8-cubic-feet Kenmore, but its capacity tops out at 308 pounds, and I think I need more storage, so I opted for the Kenmore Elite—24.9 cubic feet and it holds up to 827 pounds. Great features too, like Quick Freeze accelerated freezing, three lift-out baskets for better organization, an interior light and security lock. I even qualified for a Sears gold card—three months, no interest—I can pay it off fast, working overtime. The super says the covenants won’t allow me to keep a freezer on the balcony. The sucker is too big anyway, but if I get rid of the table it will fit in the dining area. I can’t wait for them to deliver it. The freezer in my fridge is so stuffed, I can barely close the door.
My only problem is the smell.
I sprayed the furniture with Febreze, and I rented a Rug Doctor carpet cleaner. Personally, I don’t notice a bad odor, but the super said my neighbors have complained about the stink. I told her there must be a nest of squirrels in the walls—I hear them scurrying around at night—and I think some of them have died. She’s called an exterminator, and he’s scheduled to come tomorrow morning, so I need to finish cleaning out the closets before he starts snooping around.
What won’t fit into trash bags, I’ll burn in the fireplace. The nights are cooling off, so I don’t think a fire will seem strange. Did you know that pine cones make good kindling? We have a lot of those lying around the courtyard. And rendered body fat is a great accelerant.
I’m down in the courtyard, collecting pine cones in a plastic bag, when the cop car pulls into the parking lot. After exchanging niceties with the super, Gorski and Redbear stroll into the courtyard acting like they own the place.
Hoping they won’t notice me, I crawl under low hanging branches of a blue spruce, narrowing my search for cones.
“Mrs. Bardo, may we have a word?”
I act surprised when I see Gorski hovering over me. Redbear stands beside him, scribbling on his notepad.
“Oh, hi,” I say, wiping pine needles off my yoga pants and avoiding Gorski’s gaze. I get up, holding my bag of cones, and (careful to use my left hand) hold the bag out to the cops. “Did you know these make good kindling?”
Ignoring this choice piece of information, Gorski says. “We have a few more questions, ma’am.”
“About w
hat?”
“Justus Johnson. We have reason to believe someone hit him deliberately.”
“A car crashed into him on purpose?”
“A rock.”
“Really?” The bag of pine cones slips from my hand, and I fall to my knees retrieving them.
Gorski kneels beside me, picks up a cone and hands it to me, forcing eye contact.
Redbear continues scribbling.
Gorski says, “The angle of trajectory shows the alleged rock hit him from above as if someone threw it from a balcony.”
“You think he was murdered?”
I try to control my shaking hand as I pick up another cone.
“Murdered? No, ma’am. I didn’t mention murder.”
“But if someone threw the rock …” My voice trails off.
Shut-up. Shut-up. Shut-up.
“Just covering our bases,” Gorski says. “We’re working with the store’s insurance company, investigating the alleged accident.”
What exactly does alleged mean? Something like suspected, supposed, unproved.
I reach for another pinecone and it pricks me.
“Ouch.” I suck my bleeding finger.
“Careful, ma’am, those things are sharp.”
I don’t like the way Gorski eyes me. I glance at Redbear, and he stops writing.
“Can we talk over at the picnic table, ma’am? I’d like your undivided attention.”
“Sure.”
I collect my bag of pinecones and follow the officers.
After we sit down, I ask, “Am I a suspect?”
Gorski’s eyes bore into mine. “You’re right handed?”
“Left.”
Redbear consults his notes. “That’s what she said last time, and the Produce Manager confirmed it.”
“You spoke to my boss?”
“Like I said, we’re covering our bases,” Gorski says. “According to forensics, the person who threw the stone is right handed.”
“I’m a lefty.”
“So you said.” Gorski glances at Redbear, then turns back to me. “You’re off the hook, for now.”
“For now? What does that mean?”
