Devious Resolutions

by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  Sir strides over to the TV again, this time reaching for something behind it. He produces a small chestnut box, with the name Lorelei engraved on the wood. He holds the box in his left hand, grazing its smooth surface with the fingers of his right. He closes his eyes as though in grim prayer or contemplation. When he opens his eyes, he begins.

  “I’ve thought long and hard on how to tell you about my past, but I’ve come to realize there’s no point in pussyfooting around it.” He taps the wooden box with the tip of his index finger. “Inside this box, is my older sister. Her face, actually. Nothing else. A few months or so before I met you, twelve men I considered to be closer than brothers peeled off her face and stabbed her to death. The day I met you at that gas station, I’d killed the first of them. Grant fucking Miller. Santa Claus, to you.”

  My throat suddenly goes sandpaper-dry. The collar around my neck tightens, but I’m not sure whether I’m imagining it or not. It doesn’t stop my fingers from hooking themselves into the space between the collar and my skin though, gripping to allow for more air.

  Sir doesn’t lubricate his words. Talk about diving in raw.

  He places Lorelei’s box on the dirty gurney and cracks his knuckles. “Since my sister’s death, I’ve made it my goal to kill every last one of those bastards involved in her slaughter. I’ve made them suffer the same way she did. Flayed the skin off of their faces and pulled their plugs.” Sir’s lips are tight, the phantom hint of a smile on one of the corners. “They’ve been easy to track down. It was even easier to take their lives. In the beginning, it was disturbing; I’d be too afraid to sleep because I’d see their ugly faces in the darkness behind my eyes. At night, they’d whisper in my ears like a fever dream, but along the way, something cracked inside me. I’m past the point of no return. A chew toy, Little Man.”

  I whimper, fighting the urge to shriek at the top of my lungs. Sweat runs down my forehead. It stings my eyes, but I know wiping them won’t do anything to relieve my discomfort. So, I continue to stare at Sir, praying he’ll say something – anything – to crumble the terror mounting inside my head.

  Sir waves a hand over his face, dismissing me. “Call me what you will, Little Man. It is what it is. Any questions?”

  I swallow, and it’s like chugging sand. My mind is a hornet nest; disjointed thoughts buzz and bounce against the bone of my skull. I never even knew Sir had a sister. Until this point, I’ve known nothing of his past. Christ, I don’t even know his real name. I’m lightheaded but have never felt so heavy. Yet through the bedlam, a question trickles down my tongue. “Who were they?”

  An expression crosses Sir’s face, one I’ve never seen before and find hard to decipher. Regret? “We were family once. We lived on a compound a few hours from here. Walked around naked, fucked like rabbits, grew crops. True hippie shit … until it wasn’t.”

  When the silence hangs in the air for more than a minute, I gather that’s about as much as Sir is willing to tell me. I venture forward with another question. I know he told me to only speak when spoken to, but I figure this is the only chance I’ll get. “You said there were twelve, Sir.”

  He nods, another cigarette already lit and caught between his lips.

  I gesture at the faces on the walls. “Where’s the last one?”

  Despite the fluorescent light on the ceiling, his eyes turn black. “Dooley Rogan has been evading me for years. He’s slippery – always one step ahead, like he knows what my next move will be – but he’s around. I can feel it in my bones.”

  I run a hand through my hair, snagging a few knots as I do. I wipe my eyes, then take my bandaged hand in the other, pulling it close to my chest as my brain allows me to take the situation in, with all its intensity. Realization hits me like a sledgehammer. Sir’s a victim. One that has never stopped caring for me, even when I ran away from home the night of my sixteenth birthday. The gauze wrapped around my hand is testament to this, as is the apparent need he’s suffered to make sure I understand where he’s coming from. To see his disturbed world through wounded eyes that have only seen sadness and rage. The fact that he’s chained me to the floor is all the proof I need. He cares for me enough to force me to listen to the truth. Dare I say it, but I think he …

  Sir crouches down in front of me, but he doesn’t look my way. He pulls a key out of his pants pocket and unlocks the chain from the floor. He lifts the padlock up and throws it over his shoulder.

  Before I can resist, I place my good hand on his cheek, then cup it under his chin to make him look me in the eye. I can feel hundreds of muscles jolt under my fingers as his jaw stiffens, but Sir doesn’t protest. He does not put up a fight. When our eyes lock, I don’t see the man I’ve been hiding from for seven years, or the foster father who raised me. I see the young man I met that Christmas Day at the gas station, the superhero I wanted to more than just become.

  I pull into him and the chain scrapes against the ground as I grab him by the scruff of his neck. Waiting for no invitation, I part his lips with my tongue and force my way inside his mouth. Sir tries to push me off, but I wrap an arm around him, holding tight. His taste fills my mouth and my dick stiffens. Gooseflesh ripples over the skin of my arms. It’s only when I’m yanked to the cold floor by the collar around my neck that I let go of him. Still, I don’t hold back. I scramble to right myself, digging my fingers into his thigh to get back up, but his hold on the chain keeps me down. The collar bites the skin of my neck, but my need for Sir’s touch overrides any other sensation I could possibly feel.

  “No,” Sir snaps, yanking the chain once more.

  I’m too far gone to be disheartened. The tethering, that celestial rope binding the two of us since I was young, has never burned as bright as it does now. He wants me, I know it. Just as much as I need him.

  Sir glares down at me. Then, his arctic eyes soften. He loosens the grip on his chain and I’m able to meet him at his level. I take his hand in mine and bring it to my lips. “I’m yours,” I gasp against the raw leather of the collar around my neck. I unbuckle my belt and guide his hand into my pants. I shiver when his fingers wrap around my cock. “Only yours. Don’t say no. Please.”

  Sir sighs and runs the thumb of his free hand over my lips gently, as though handling porcelain. “I’m not saying no,” he says, his voice water-well deep. “I’m saying, not here.”

  He pulls his hand out of my pants and gets to his feet, once more taking hold of the chain. He jerks it, playfully this time, a command to stand up too.

  I obey, and he leads me out of the basement, the chain slung over his back. He tugs every few steps as if to ensure I keep up, but doesn’t look back.

  The house itself looks older than when I used to stay here. The floorboards creak under our shoes and I notice that a layer of dust coats the staircase as we make our way up. Sir walks me past the open doorway leading to my bedroom, and I have enough time to glance inside before he takes me further into the house. It’s exactly the same as I remember – posters of emo bands stuck to the walls, a damaged Mac computer on a messy desk and my single-sized bed made up well enough to be slept in.

  We get to Sir’s room; he takes a moment to turn the brass knob and push open the door. I suck in air as excitement turns my stomach, swelling my cock. He tugs me inside, kicks the door closed and turns on the light.

  His bedroom is empty, save for a king-sized bed, a full-length mirror propped against the wall to the right next to a door leading to his en-suite bathroom, and a wardrobe nestled comfortably into a corner by the window. Sir guides me to the bed and sits me down.

  He grabs a handful of my hair and tilts my head back until all I can take in is his face hovering just above mine. “Wait, Little Man.” He drops the chain into my lap. “I’m going to take a shower. In the meantime …” Sir makes his way to the bathroom door. “Strip.”

  My heart jackhammers as he disappears behind the door. I wait to hear the muffled sound of water rushing against tiles before I rip off my tank top, kick
off my sneakers and pull off my jeans. I sit back down on the bed, drumming my fingers against my naked knees in excitement. My eyes drift down to the pile of clothes I’ve left at the foot of the bed and I wonder if Sir would be pissed to see I’d left a mess. Quickly, I pick up my clothes, fold them neatly and place the pile next to the wardrobe. While I wait, I examine my reflection in the full-length mirror. Besides my bruised, bloody mug and messy hair, after everything I’ve been through this evening, I still look ridiculously fine. I run my fingers through my hair, working it into a somewhat presentable coif. It doesn’t look as great as it did when I started my shift at The Red earlier, I’ll be honest, but I have a feeling Sir’s most probably going to fuck with it even more, so I leave it as is.

  When the water turns off and Sir steps out of the bathroom, I’m back in the spot he left me. It takes everything inside me not to gawk at him as he strides over with a smug grin on his face. His long limbs are taut with muscle. His carved V-line leads down to an impressive cock – strong and erect. I could cum simply from staring at him. He is better than I ever could have dreamed.

  Without wasting any time, he takes the chain in his right hand and forces me forward, grabbing the back of my head and forcing my mouth around his dick. It’s a lot to consume at once, and I gag, but his firm hand pushes and pulls my head, guiding my mouth up and down.

  I wrap my arms around his waist, hugging his body tight. There’s a saltiness to his taste, one I’m left wanting more of. When he’s had enough, he knees me against the bed. I manage to gasp for air only once before he pulls the chain up until I’m on my feet, then pushes me onto my knees on top of the bed.

  He spreads my legs and I cry out as one of his fingers enters me suddenly. A shiver trembles down my back against the pinch. I’m so hard I could explode, but I won’t. Not now.

  When Sir is done with his finger, I feel him come up behind me. He pulls the chain over my mouth, until it’s in between my teeth like a horse’s bit. He kisses my shoulder blades and I moan through the metal.

  “Bite,” he whispers in my ear. It’s the only warning he gives before he enters me fully.

  An unmistakable mix of pain and pleasure erupts inside of me as my teeth clamp down on the chain. I see stars and grip the bedsheets, holding fast as he drives himself into me, again and again.

  I am his. And only his.

  Forever.

  Sir

  Domino is mine. In the early hours of this morning, I made sure he understood that.

  Curled together in bed, our limbs knotted and bodies slick with sweat, I leaned over and twisted the chain until it tightened his collar. A thick vein bulged out of his neck and throbbed to the beat of his startled heart. His long fingers scratched at the rough leather of his collar, slowly at first, then in a frenzy while his face reddened and his heterochromatic eyes went guppy-wide.

  I knew I held his attention, so I didn’t bother raising my voice over a whisper. My words would burrow into his brain and stay there. The confused fear tattooed on his beautiful face made me certain of it. Leaning in, I ran my lips over his and savored the moment. It wasn’t that I enjoyed hurting him, and I definitely didn’t get off on it, but he was mine now. I wouldn’t let him out of my grasp ever again. If anyone dared to take him away from me, I’d slaughter them the same way I would when avenging Lorelei, if not worse. Not even God stood a chance.

  “If I catch the scent of another man on your skin, I’ll kill him.” I make a point of looking into his eyes when I say this. I want him to know I’m not playing around. “Mark my words. You belong to me. Always.”

  “Y … Yes, S-Sir …” He’d gritted out, and I let go of the chain.

  I took pleasure in watching his skin return to its usual pallor, then I rolled over and went to sleep.

  I awoke a few hours later to a gray sky peeking in through the gap in my curtains. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, a thought – an epiphany, even – swept over me, leaving my shoulders lighter than they’d been for years. Since the age of twenty-three, I’ve dedicated my life to a sole purpose. With my little man by my side, surely there was room enough in life for more?

  Trying not to wake Domino, I grabbed a pair of jeans, a sweater and my trench coat from inside my wardrobe and left the bedroom. I didn’t stop to brush my teeth or grab a bite to eat from the kitchen. Hell, I didn’t even whip out my smartphone and get sucked into my daily search for an update on Dooley Rogan. It felt … good. Pausing to look out my living room window before taking the flight of steps to the basement, I spied a fresh coat of snow carpeting the tiny garden and the street outside. This was a new day, and I was at peace.

  Inside the basement, I gripped Lorelei’s box with trembling hands, and forced myself to look at my sister’s leathered face for the first time in two years. Picking up her face in my hands, I couldn’t help but grimace. She resembled nothing of how she used to look when she still walked this earth – heart pumping blood, and lungs filling with the country air of the compound with every breath she took. What remains is the stuff of nightmares, a terrifying reminder of how far I’ve allowed myself to spiral down an insidious rabbit hole with no bottom in sight. I take a deep breath and place my sister back inside her box. Enough is enough. She’d detest what I’ve become.

  Before I left my house, I thought of waking my Domino and bringing him to the quiet outskirts of the city, past the projects and industrial district and into the dark woods. Eventually, I decided against the impulse. My little man shouldn’t lay his eyes on Lorelei’s grave.

  I’m not ready for my past and present – my two worlds – to collide. At least, not yet.

  My leather boots crunch over snow and fallen, decomposing branches as I make my way toward my sister’s grave that’s underneath the largest pine in this section of the woods. I can’t help but shake the feeling that Lorelei’s box is heavier in my coat pocket now than it ever was before. It seems cruel to call it ‘dead weight’, but what else would I refer to it as?

  I only take a break from walking once I’ve arrived at her grave. My ragged breath bursts in thick clouds while I do my best to compose myself. I’m definitely not as young as I used to be. Goddamn it, do I feel the slog of my forties now.

  A few feet away, I see it. Two steel pipes, now corroded and brown from rust, nailed together to form a distorted crucifix. Underneath where it’s lodged into the earth, my sister sleeps.

  Dropping to my knees, both from exhaustion and a sudden jolt of despair, I remove the chestnut box from my coat pocket. I can’t stop staring at it as memories rush through me like a blizzard. Lorelei as a kid with scraped knees and dirt in her hair from fighting with the neighborhood brats. My sister teaching me to fish, then years later educating me on how to grow barley at the compound. The last thing she’d ever said to me before those bastards put an end to her life: Cheer up, Kiddo. We’ll be livin’ the white picket fence dream by tomorrow evenin’.

  “Lorelei,” I gasp, gripping the box until my fingers begin to smart. This isn’t a goodbye; it never will be. I’m just letting go.

  I remove her face from the box and hang it from the tarnished nail holding the pipes in place. I’ve done everything I can to honor her memory. Lorelei’s story is complete. Now, mine must begin.

  It’s only when snowflakes float down from between the heavy branches above that I decide it’s time to leave. I’ll be back. Perhaps not soon, but soon enough.

  I get to my feet, only to fall back down to my knees when my sister steps out from behind the pine tree.

  Sir

  Lorelei’s skin has a gray tinge to it. Her thick, black hair cascades over her shoulders, covering her naked chest, and her face is still attached, untouched. My sister’s eyes are a stark white, her lips crimson. Lorelei’s feet hover over the snowy ground.

  She’s the antichrist of Disney princesses.

  “Disappointing.” Her voice surrounds me, but her lips don’t move. I daren’t budge, screwing my eyes shut to will the phantom away. M
y sister is dead. She’s in the ground, six or seven feet under. This isn’t her – it cannot be. But when I pluck up the courage to open my eyes again, phantom or not, Lorelei is still there.

  She takes a step toward me, then another. Her voice rings out once more. “You made me a promise. Said you’d return my face once everyone is dead.” Her movements are insect-like, jittery and mechanical. “So why are you here when Dooley Rogan is still breathing?”

  “I’ve … I’ve tried to find him, Lorelei.” My words come out forced and weak. “I’ve spent years trying to track him down. It’s no use …”

  “No!” Lorelei’s voice booms, igniting the winter air. “You’ve been distracted. By some street rat you should never have taken in!”

  I run my hands over my face. This cannot be real. I’ve done more than spiral down a rabbit hole, that much is clear. I have become the entire cast of Alice in Wonderland. Nonetheless, I protest: “Domino saw what I did to Grant. He would’ve …”

  “What? Called the cops? No policeman in his right mind would believe some snotty six-year-old’s story! What you should have done is left him there for some asshole trucker to pick up.”

  “I … I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Lorelei is right beside me now. I catch her rancid smell as a breeze filters through the trees. I feel sick.

  “You never do. And it cost me my life, remember that?” My sister laughs and the obscene sound shatters my ears. “Stupid boy. You can’t even live up to your own promises. You may as well swallow a bullet here at my grave and get it over and done with.” She crouches down next to me, her face close to mine. “Because if you aren’t going after Good Boy, what is the point of living?”

  “Get out of my head!” I cry out, digging the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Don’t call him Good Boy! Please!” I can’t take much more of this. I’ll beat my head against the trunk of a tree if I have to. After all these years, why is my mind choosing to play tricks on me only now?