Black Burlesque

by L. C. Castillo

  His hand finds its way into my hair again and he starts a hypnotic and less aggressive rhythm. He pushes in and out, in and out of me. His two fingers on his right hand stroke my sex in perfect synchronization. It hurts; he feels deep, bigger and thicker. His fingers, this full feeling…

  Oh, I spiral all over again, after only a dozen slow and delicious thrusts, my body bows and shudders. Goosebumps cover my skin, my scalp, and I’m consumed again.

  “Fuck, Vincent. I do… You know I do…” I finally give in, but I still can’t say the words. He tilts his hips upwards, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure through me. I feel like I’m floating. This is the Vincent effect. I feel the heat from his orgasm inside of me. I gently rock back against him, bouncing myself against his hips, absorbing and relishing the full feeling. I am so spent. My body tingles everywhere, my eyes can’t focus...I am lost.

  I don’t remember what we were doing before this, what I was mad about. He gently pulls himself out of me, grabs a towel, and proceeds to clean me up. I remain on all fours as he slides my panties up, and then my leggings. I sit down on my heels carefully. I’m sore. I can already feel it. I won’t be forgetting that any time soon. I’m sedated by my orgasm.

  He pulls his pants up and sits with his legs stretched out on either side of me, facing me, eye to eye.

  “Did I hurt you?” he whispers, he still looks determined, yet there’s shyness in his eyes. I think I like aggressive Vincent. That was new, and I hate to admit it, but I enjoyed it immensely.

  “No,” I whisper, contrite. He did hurt me, but in an enjoyable waysurprisingly.

  “You don’t have to say the words I want to hear until you’re ready. But I just needed to know, alright?” His eyes are pleading, his jaw clenched.

  I look up at him, my eyes so much softer than before. He literally fucked the anger out of me, and a confession, too. The fight has left my body. Maybe I do love him. But I’m still not sure I’m ready to admit it yet. I’m not even sure what it means if I do love him. I may have said it in the heat of the moment, but there is still a lot for me to digest and evaluate, so I nod sagely in response.

  He takes my face in his hands and plants a tender kiss on my lips. We’re nose to nose.

  “I love you, Lenore,” his breath kisses my lips and my heart swells inside of me. I close my eyes and let his words sink into me. My bottom lip quivers with emotion. Why does it feel so good to hear him say that? And why do I feel guilty hearing it at the same time?

  “I know everything is happening really fast. Maybe it’s too soon. But I do. I love you. I don’t want to suffocate you. But I feel like you’re going to run away. And it will be as if I imagined you. I don’t want to let you slip through my fingers. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I want you...all of you, every day, Lenore… You’re my home now. Home is wherever you are, baby.” His voice is thick with emotion, nervousness, and longing. It’s such a wonderful sound. I feel the vibration of his voice reverberating through my blood stream.

  How does he do that? How is he able to so candidly speak his mind? His feelings? I open my mouth to speak; there is so much I want to say. But I can’t. I can’t do it. I stare into his unfathomable eyes, and drink him in. He leans back and grabs the two tests from the counter top.

  Gosh! I nearly forgot about the pregnancy tests! He looks at them with furrowed brows and I wonder how well he can see without his glasses. Now that the tests are ready to be read, I can’t bare to look at them myself. His shoulders sag, and he looks disappointed.

  Oh, my God. Surely I’m pregnant!

  “Looks likeyou’re in the clear, Lenore,” he sounds unhappy about it.

  Why?

  My heart leaps into my throat and a weight is lifted off of my shoulders. I place both hands over my heart and release my long held breath.

  Oh, God, if there really is a God, thank you!

  “Wewe’re really in the clear?” I offer him a crooked smile.

  He looks cautiously at me. Like I’m some strange wild anomaly that has just sprouted in his bathroom. He smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He stands and offers me his hands. I stand slowly, expecting pain. I flinch a little. He hands me the two tests and I see for myself. There is one line, on each test. That means negative. I smile at them and toss them into the trash. If I could skip away I would, but I’m still tender...down there.

  He scoops me up, cradling me in his arms. I wrap my arms around his neck. He leads me to the bed, with his arms still wrapped around me; he lowers us both to the bed. He cradles me against his chest tightly, like he doesn’t ever want to let me go. It feels good, but he seems uneasy, and in need of comfort. I want to ask him why, but I fear it’s because of me, because of my reluctance. So I keep quiet. I feel him reach over the bedside table and he pulls out a book, and his glasses.

  “Will you read to me?” He asks, his voice sounds far away, despondent.

  “Me?”

  “I don’t see anyone else here with us,” he smirks at me.

  Oh, this is new. I think back on the times he has read to me, and it has always been to comfort me. Perhaps he needs comfort tonight. It’s his brother’s birthday after all. Now every year, instead of celebrating Walter’s life, they are painfully reminded of his death.

  “Okay, I’ll read to you,” I say softly. I take the book from him and I prop myself up on the pillows, my head resting against his shoulder. The Hobbit. This is one of my favorite books. I bring the book close to my face and begin to read to him. Five seconds later he interrupts me.

  “You’re squinting.”

  I scowl at him, “What? No I’m not.”

  “You are, you’re squinting. When was the last time you had your eyes checked?”

  Uh…never.

  “Just as I suspected. I think you need to have your eyes checked, Lenore. I’m pretty sure you need reading glasses.”

  “I have reading glasses. They’re a burnt crisp in my shop somewhere, but they were second hand and didn’t work very well for me.”

  He rolls his eyes. I spent countless nights in the dark basement as a child, reading and sewing in the sliver of moonlight that came in through the basement window. I’m sure I’ve damaged my eyes permanently.

  “You need your own prescription, Lenore,” he says disapprovingly.

  “Whatever. Do you want me to read to you or not?”

  He takes his glasses from his bedside table and places them onto my face. They feel warm, and a bit too loose. They slide down to the tip of my nose when I look down at the book again. I scoot them back up with the tip of my finger.

  “Try now,” he murmurs.

  I scoff at him.

  He settles back onto the pillows. Oh, he’s being serious. I roll my eyes and look at the words on the page, and it’s as if they are jumping out at me. They’re clear. Not blurry! Wow. It’s as though I’m seeing in high definition. Is it possible we need the same prescription? I just randomly picked some cute reading glasses at a yard sale, but this is different. I can see the words on the page clearly.

  I resume reading and I feel Vincent smile. Okay, so he was right; one point for Vincent.

  I’m soon lost in the story, and time and place slip away from me. I become vaguely aware that Vincent is snoring quietly beside me. I softly close the book and glance at the clock. It’s nearly midnight and we have an early day tomorrow.

  I still haven’t told Vincent that I am not moving in with him. I will remain true to my word and help him get settled, but I will not be moving in. I can’t.

  I place the book on the table by my side of the bed and gently adjust Vincent’s pillows. I tenderly stroke his cheek. He really is a good man. More than I deserve, and he is so unbelievably beautiful. I take his glasses off my face and place them by his bedside and turn off the light. Snuggling under the covers, I lie facing him, instead of away, like I usually do. The light outside of his window softly illuminates his face. He looks so innocent. He is innocent. He
is the most beautiful man I have ever set eyes on and he loves me. Me. Why? What have I done to deserve his love?

  Nothing.

  I can’t fathom why he would say or feel such nice things about me. He doesn’t even know me. He doesn’t know my past. I haven’t been honest with him, all this time I have been trying to remain distant and detached. He has no ideaNO idea who I am, who I really am. He doesn’t know all the turmoil that sleeps quietly inside of me.

  I close my eyes and slip into a dream without a chance to think any further.

  My mother. She lies in a pool of her own blood on a crisp white bed, with nurses all around her dressed in starch white. Everything in the room is white, everything except for the crimson blood staining the sheets. There is a baby, unmoving in my mother’s arms. My mother’s eyes are wide open, but I know she’s gone. She looks vacant and hollow. She looks unnatural and too pale.

  “Con la Santa Barbara no se huega!” The words echo around the room. I glance around to see who said it, but the words go on and on from some unseen source. I want to scream, but I can’t. When I try to reach out to my mother, I am pushed back by one of the nurses. Her eyes are black and she looks angry and disapproving.

  I turn and run out of the room and find myself lost in a dark hallway, I’m shrouded in darkness. No matter where I look, I cannot see. I run my hands against the walls to find my way, or to find a light switch. But I stumble and trip in the blackness that seems to be rising from somewhere beneath my feet. Suddenly Elizabeth appears before me, her skin glowing like a candle in the night.

  “You’re next,” she says in her spider-like voice. Her eyes roll back into her skull and I scream an agonizing scream that won’t come out. It’s trapped inside of me. All that comes out is a dry and raspy sound. No matter how hard I try to reach her, to go after her, she just gets further and further away, until she finally disappears.

  I curl up on the floor, and when I lift my head again, I find that I am in a grey basement. It’s bare. Empty. Except for me. I hear the clatter of metal against metal. And when I try to move I realize there are chains wrapped around my wrists and ankles. I’m chained. I’m chained to the wall! I pull on the restraints as hard as I can, but they’re unrelenting.

  I look down and see that I am barefoot. My feet are black and have angry red gashes. But that’s not the most surprising thing. My belly swells out from beneath my nightgown. I have an enormous round belly. I’m pregnant. I’m fucking pregnant! And in that moment fear hits me like a sledgehammer. I am no longer afraid for myself...but for this unborn mystery inside of me. Finally, my trapped scream is released and I am shaking. Shaking uncontrollably! Unseen hands are gripping my shoulders...rocking my body violently back and forth.

  I snap awake. Vincent’s eyes are wild as he regards me.

  “Lenore! Wake up! You’re dreaming!”

  Shit! Shit, shit, shit!!!

  “It was just a bad dream,” he whispers into my hair. He presses his lips against my temple.

  “Oh my God, Vincent! Thank God!” My voice is a quivering mess. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. I grab him and hug him as though he is my life raft.

  He circles me in his arms and lays me back down. I curl into him. My face buried in his chest.

  “Vincent. I need to be honest with you. There’sthere’s so much for me to explain.”

  He strokes my back quietly. I sit up suddenly, taking him by surprise and he struggles to keep up with me. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up, too.

  “Okay, calm down, Lenore. Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want some water?”

  “Vincent, my name isn’t Lenore O’Howell.”

  He stops moving. His eyes widen and his body goes rigid.

  “My name is Haidé Lima. I changed my name when Maggie adopted me. Before Maggie, I was Haidé Lima and I lived in a basement for months.”

  He doesn’t react. His body remains perfectly still and so I continue as my heart hammers wildly inside my chest.

  “Imy mother and I, we moved in with her husband, my stepfather, when I was six years old. He was abusive, Vincent. My stepfather was abusive with my mother, and sometimes with me. Things...”

  I keep my eyes down; I can’t stop the words from coming out. I feel compelled to tell him.

  “Things just kept getting worse. My mother, she was beginning to slip away. When she finally gotpregnant, he couldn’t you knowhurt her any more, so he came looking for me. He would take it out on me. One night, he came into my bedroom...and he tried…” My voice trembles as the memory unfurls inside my mind. “He tried to touch me. He was so drunk that I was able to push him off of the bed. He hit his head on my night table, and collapsed on the floor. I ran. I ran out of my room and into the basement. He never went down there. It was full of junk. It was an easy place for a small and skinny child to hide.”

  The silence is deafening. But after a few agonizing seconds I decide to continue.

  “But nobody came looking for me and I was too afraid to come back out. I knew my mother couldn’t help me anymore. I was down there for three days before the maid came searching for me. I was living off of water from the toilet bowl. I was terrified, Vincent. Things were so out of control. The maid, Olivia, started sneaking me food and water in the middle of the night. She said she was going to say she didn’t know where I was. That it was better if I stay in the basement and let them think I ran away. She told me…she said she’d tell my mother to come and visit. But my mother only came to see me a few times.”

  I can see it all in my mind again. I remember everything, the gray and drab basement, and the quiet and shy maid. I am reliving the nightmare that was my life. I can still feel the terror and anguish…

  “My mom, she told me to practice my ballet to pass the time. Sometimes she would bring me books to read or outfits to finish sewing for the baby. She would promise to come back, but she would take...a really long time. It would sometimes be days, then weeks. The further along she got in her pregnancy, the stranger she became.” I can feel myself growing breathless, but I can’t stop. I have to let it out. I’m a stuttering, stammering mess; the words are flying out of me breathlessly. I sound manic.

  “She started acting strange. At first I thought maybe she was just sad, because I had to hide and because James was such a bastard. He was justawful to herbut she started unraveling. And without me there to be James’s punching bag, my mother was probably suffering more than I could imagine.” Finally a sob emerges from somewhere inside me, but I swallow past the lump in my throat and continue.

  “My mamí fell apart. Fell into depression. She went crazy, Vincent. She started talking about...La Santa Barbara? I,uhI can’t really remember,” I lie.

  “She told me a crazy story. I know shedidn’t want to have his babybut it happened anyway. The baby came, but he was a stillborn, and the maid said my mother died giving birth to him, to my little brother. I feelnoI believe it was James. James killed my mother. It wasn’t my little brother. James was killing her slowly, and I know it’s his fault my mother and brother died. I never learned the truth... I wish I knew exactly what happened to them.”

  I take the deepest breath, and wait a moment to see if Vincent is going to say anything else. I can’t bear to look at him. I don’t want to know what he thinks.

  “That’s when the maid, Olivia, helped me, she found me a place to go once my mother died. I don’t know how she knew Maggie or what happened after. I was depressed for a really long time and I just never wanted to ask. Everything during that time seems like a foggy distant memory. Maggie doesn’t talk about my past. I don’t either. I’ve been living in limbo ever since, afraid of everything. I’m terrified of relationships and friendships because I just feel like something horrible is looming around the corner. Something is going to come and take it all away.

  “And, I was right. My business, my dog...they’re gone. I have this feeling that won’t be the end of it, Vincent. I feel like the darkne
ss that has been sleeping in my life is just starting to emerge.” I put my head into my hands.

  In that instant I am tired. Exhausted. I let it all out, well most of it, and now I feel heavy. My throat is tight with barely contained emotion. My lungs are done in. Vincent still hasn’t said a word; he hasn’t moved either. I can’t even muster the energy to wonder what he’s thinking. His heavy hands rest upon my shoulders and I relax as he pulls me back down onto the bed, and wraps himself around me like ivy. We both plummet into deep sleep, and it’s like everything I said was part of the nightmare.

  Chapter 24

  The following morning I wake to bright light filling the room, like always. I am strangely alert, and wide-awake, and everything seems clear. Everything is illuminated. Vincent is nowhere to be found, and for some odd reason I don’t feel nervous about it. He knows now and I don’t think he feels different about me. I hope. I make the bed, shower and dress and begin to make breakfast.

  As always, I am ravenously hungry. Bacon, eggs, hash, waffles, coffee, toast, I make it all. I place the waffles in the warming drawer and just as I’m placing the bacon on a paper towel, Vincent enters through the front door. We both freeze, and stare at one another. Holding our breath in anticipation. Waiting to see what the other’s response will be.

  He was just working out, his normally perfectly pale skin is slightly flushed, his white t-shirt clings to his body with sweat. I give him an awkward smile, is he going to say anything? Does he have any questions? God, I hope not.

  He smiles a shy smile, “Smells good, what did you make?”

  I let out my breath and my smile widens, I feel myself relax. I can tell he is in no hurry to discuss what I said last night; perhaps I did dream it. Perhaps, he thinks he dreamed it.

  “Everything. You hungry?”

  He nods and slowly makes his way over to me. I can’t get over how good he looks covered in sweat, in his plain white t-shirt and gym shorts. His thin shirt reveals his muscular chest and arms. I peel my eyes off of him and resume serving up breakfast.