I laid her back on the bed and securely fastened her hands with metal handcuffs, which were attached to a pole imbedded into the wall. This allowed her some movement back and forth so she would not completely be immobile. Unfortunately, they did not allow her to turn completely over. This was disappointing to me, as I thought through all of the things I would like to do with her, but in this position I would not be able. I would have to try and work through that issue later.
I next fastened her ankles much in the same fashion as her hands, but the handcuffs were attached to the bed frame (the end of the bed did not go from wall to wall). Now, with her lying naked, I admired her for a few more minutes then left to start a fire. I wanted to destroy our clothes from the evening as quickly as possible. It took me almost 30 minutes to get a fire going in the stove. I began wondering how to explain the fire to my neighbors if they inquired, and they surely would. It was chilly, but nowhere near chilly enough for a fire. I would have to suggest to them that I decided I wanted a fire to make the room cozier as I drank a bottle of wine and watched TV.
The heat grew from the roaring flame. I went upstairs, changed out of my clothes, took a quick shower, gathered everything up, and started the process of burning them a few at a time. Within an hour I had all the clothing in the fireplace and would have to wait for it to burn down. I torched everything but the boots— I didn’t think the rubber soles would be great in the fireplace, and I decided I could keep them in my special room for future use.
I grabbed an electric shaver, some shaving cream and a razor, went back upstairs, and entered my room. I closed the door behind me. Jill was still sleeping (I thought, anyway) so I started the process of shaving her pubic hair. I slowly sprayed the cream on my hand, the kind that comes out something like lotion and then creams up once you rub it in. I gently spread the greenish substance between her legs, after using the electric shaver on most of the hair directly on and around her innermost personal area. I noticed that her pubic hair also had a slightly reddish tint similar to the hair on her head. I, then, slowly shaved every strand of hair from between her legs, being very careful not to cut her. Again I admired the run of freckles that sprayed over her body — randomly congregating in some areas and sparsely populating others.
After I was done, I took a cloth, wetted it with slightly warm water, and cleaned the rest of the cream off. I had never shaved a woman before so the experience had left me aroused beyond my wildest imagination. I was now at a point where I wanted her to wake up. I lay down next to her. My naked erection firmly pushed up against her leg in anxious anticipation, quietly willing her into consciousness. With the tape now removed from her mouth it would be interesting to see what her reaction would be when she realized where she was.
Minutes passed by and she did not move. I could wait no longer. I slowly started sliding my hand between her legs gently nudging one of my fingers inside her, stroking her, hoping this would arouse her. As I thought, she started stirring, making a soft purring sound as she gently moved her legs in rhythm with my finger firmly implanted inside. She slowly opened her eyes, saw me, turned her head, and started to scream. I guess I should have anticipated this reaction, but it took me off guard at the time. She was hysterical beyond control, sobbing and wailing with her arms and feet flailing against her bindings so severely that I was afraid they would start to bleed.
I tried to calm her down, but she was beyond self–control which made me frenzied. I grabbed a towel and planted it over her face, yelling at her to stop. She would not – could not would be more appropriate. After several minutes of this, I held down both her arms and put a fresh new piece of tape over her mouth firmly closing it. At least I would not have to listen to the constant screaming.
Since I was already worked up, and would not be able to sleep in my current state, I quickly entered her and held down her arms so she would not be able to scratch me. It took me only a few short strokes before I finished. The preceding activities had gotten me so excited I was ready to explode before I started thrusting.
I rolled over and lay there for a few minutes. Jill’s movements had stopped now, and she was lying still. I could hear a slight muffled crying coming from beneath the tape, and I felt sad and alone even with her next to me. I had never wanted to hurt her. I only wanted to be with her. I wanted to be with somebody who loved and cared for me in a way that I wanted them to. To stop with the incessant bitching and finger pointing, but to simply be with me and do what they were told.
I could no longer look Jill in the face. I left the room, turned off the light, and went upstairs. I had to take a shower and spent several minutes washing and scrubbing the dirt and filth off of my body. As the water streamed down my face, I began to cry. Sobbing uncontrollably and losing my ability to stand, I squatted down in the shower in a small ball, wondering about what I had done. It reminded me of the scene in the movie from the ’70’s when Glenn Close hears of her friend’s death and huddles in the shower, crying from the news of the recent passing.
My daughters have always made fun of my inability to cry. They often comment on why, when things are very bad, I don’t cry. Why didn’t I cry when their mother kicked me out of the house? Or when I sat with them and told them about getting a divorce? Why did I not have the ability to show my emotions as they did?
I was never sure how to answer them; but, at this point, in time I knew I had the ability to cry. It must just take something extraordinary to move me to tears. I stepped out of the glass enclosure and grabbed a towel. After drying, I put on a pair of black nylon running shorts and went to bed. I was wiped out from the day’s events, and the sexual release had taken almost all the energy I had left. I really needed a good night’s sleep and wished with all my heart that closing my eyes would erase the blackness that was enveloping my mind.
I felt as if I were lost in the woods, wandering aimlessly but had lost the ability to see. I was waving my arms in front of me, cringing at the scratches the branches were inflicting as they grabbed at me from every direction. When one can’t see where one is going, the sudden attack of panic and the loneliness is as suffocating as being alive in a coffin. You see the first shovel full of dirt being pushed down on your face while the blackness descends.
You are helpless, and there is no longer anyone who will help. You have used up all your favors from what few friends you had, and you are now left to face the ramifications of who and what you are. Is it worse to die yourself or to live the death of somebody you have killed over and over again? Feeling their pain and their suffering, knowing it was you who was the source of the very infliction you feel?
The Detective
Sudhir Takhar was born and grew up in Foster City, but that did not erase his Indian heritage. His mother and father had both come from India, and his father spoke broken English at best. He had married an Indian woman (Janine) as was tradition. She was Sikh and he was Hindu, so the marriage was frowned upon—the two types did not mix gracefully. How prejudiced are we as a society? Not only do we have to be of the same nationality, but we have to be from the same specific region. Granted, India is a big place, but it seemed odd that the two religious factions were that opposed to each other both being from India. Maybe we are at greatest odds when we are close enough to know each other intimately, yet still harbor ill will. Sounds like the definition of marriage.
Sudhir still told the story of skipping school on several occasions. Even with his flawless mastering of the typical Peninsula English dialect, he could do a great Indian accent. He used to recount the times with fervor of calling his school, pretending to be his father. He spoke in the native broken English that is common in most American big city cabs. He would hysterically tell how once on the phone the answering attendant would quickly agree to his excused absence as she had trouble understanding what he was talking about. He mimicked his broken native tongue flawlessly.
Janine, Sudhir’s wife, was attractive, smallish at about 5’ 4” and around 110 pounds. She was l
ighter skinned than Sudhir and had long thick black hair that she normally wore down. She worked as a human resources contractor and traveled periodically for whatever reason. Sudhir never understood why. She made decent money, though, and that kept Sudhir from having to excel at his own job, so he never questioned her actions or her whereabouts.
To make matters even more complicated, from a pervious marriage his wife had a boy, Warren, who was 20 years old. Sudhir adopted him. They now had a boy and a girl of their own, Matt, 12, and Tracey, 9. His kids were quiet and unassuming, much as Sudhir was himself. The family tended to keep to themselves although Sudhir was close to his brothers-in-law and brothers and spent most of his spare time with his immediate or extended family or watching TV. He was a TV fanatic. Last year at the station there had been a departmental party, and one of the activities was TV trivia. Sudhir knew all the questions from cartoons, such as Shazam, or the cat’s name on The Brady Bunch. It had appeared in only one episode in the first season.
You were either impressed by his vast array of useless knowledge or saddened at the realization of how he gained it. He sat for hours in front of the TV, drinking scotch endlessly to escape his reality. He wasn’t a happy man. He tolerated life and was pleasant on occasion.
Sudhir had just made detective a year and a half ago. It was his sixth time taking the examination, and he had resigned himself to never taking it again. He only signed up the last time at the insistence of his captain who had urged him to try yet again. Sudhir had passed at the bottom of his class and apparently (due to some minority quota) had made detective. Four of his fellow police officers had scored substantially higher. This further made him an outcast within his department and ended up driving him to drink even more than he previously had.
He had been on the Palo Alto police force for more than 12 years now. He graduated from San Mateo Community College and wandered aimlessly through a few dead-end jobs before falling into his current occupation. He had never aspired to be a cop, had never removed his gun from his holster, and had no desire to move up in the world. His wife seemed to suck all ambition out of his existence. It took everything he could muster to get up each morning and make it through the day.
His one saving grace was his kids. He loved them unconditionally and spent time with them whenever he was sober enough to muster the effort. He always had dinner with them in the evening unless work kept him out late. Since he was never given a case of any significance, this was usually not a problem.
His oldest adopted son, Warren, also attended the local San Mateo Community College. He was average in school, making B’s and C’s, and really was unsure of what he wanted to do in life. He had inquired several times about quitting school altogether and starting an apprenticeship program at the local garage where his uncle Thomas was a mechanic. He could make more money being a mechanic than he felt he would ever make after completing college and getting a job. He really felt college was a complete waste of his time and effort. His two younger ones were still in the age of innocence. Dad was looked up to and respected, and as long as he hung out with them, it didn’t matter who or what he really was. Looking through the eyes of kids who are still naïve is a great tool to keep things in perspective. Once innocence is gone, there is no getting it back.
Matt was small for his age; smart but introverted like his father. He had recently had surgery on both of his ankles. He was so pigeon-toed that he had to wear special shoes and could only walk, not run, as he tripped over his own feet. The surgery had cut the tendons in both ankles, placed braces on his feet (not allowing them to push back up and pull in). This restraint would let the tendons heal by stretching back together and reconnecting. It meant wearing leg braces for more than a year, but he would run and play as a normal child once complete. He was just recently allowed to start walking without his braces, and it appeared the surgery was a great success.
Tracey was very quiet, kept to herself, and was a straight-A student. She was helpful around the house and loved watching TV with her dad. She spent most of her spare time doing homework and playing with her doll Patricia, which was named after her grandmother’s cat.
At the ripe age of 38, Sudhir was about 60 pounds overweight to the tune of 260 and about 5’11”. He had not seen hair on the top of his head in about 10 years. Along with drinking, he also smoked (the one thing his wife could not force him to quit) and dipped, now and then, a nice pinch of Skoal until about three years ago. That was when the cyst in his gums had appeared. Luckily it was not cancerous, but it still had to be removed and the process of doing so continued.
To remove the cyst the doctors had to cut out a large part of his gums, the bone structure in his mouth, and three of his teeth. They then took a chunk of bone from his hip, and grafted it into his mouth so the jaw could keep its form. The bone had to heal for approximately one year before he would be able to put some sort of tooth structure back into place. Unfortunately, the first round did not take so he had been without the lower left part of his teeth and jaw for more than a year.
This made lunch awkward, as not only was it difficult to chew, but every time he ate anything he had to rinse his gums thoroughly to avoid infection. None of this really bothered him much, as his goal was really to coast through life and get to death with as little turmoil as possible. The only issue he had with the process was after each surgery he had on his mouth, he had to take antibiotics for about 30 days to ensure no infections occurred. During that time period, he was not allowed to drink. When Sudhir was not allowed to drink, he went from being an ass to being somebody nobody could tolerate being around. The family and the department all preferred him to drink over the alternative.
It was amazing that somebody of his nature ended up being on the police force. It was a fluke really. At one point when he was between jobs and had no idea what to do, he had read an article in the newspaper about an opening in the city of Palo Alto. It had stated how one could retire with a nice pension and spend most of his day outdoors. Seemed at the time the city was having difficulty recruiting, so they were actively trying to get bodies into the system. Sudhir went in and applied only to find out the job was really on the police force.
He had managed to pass the test, made it through the academy, and decided to stick it out as it was better than anything he had previously done. He had never been in great shape, but at least back then he was able to pass the physical portion easier than some. If he had it to do now, it would be a completely different story. He had no ability or desire to run, lift weights, or exercise in any way. He was the complete opposite of the new level of officers in the system that seemed to thrive on being dominant, physically fit, and controlling of theirs and other peoples’ actions. It takes a rare person to be in the force these days.
This made it odd for him to receive a call at 11:00 p.m. on a Friday night to look into a car exploding in an underground garage facility. He just didn’t get calls in the evening. He normally didn’t get calls for anything. He always thought it wasn’t because he was incapable, but merely because he just didn’t have any desire to do more than what he needed to get by. Do the minimum and do it to the minimum level was his philosophy. Just well enough so you don’t get fired, but not so good as to get noticed and raise any expectations.
He sat up in bed in his boxers, exposing the black coarse hair that filled his back like a blanket, and listened on the phone. He grunted to his wife that he had to go out and investigate an issue with a car explosion. Tonight had been a typical evening so he was still inebriated from the scotch. He rolled into the shower, trying to sober up, threw on some clothes, and grabbed a cup of coffee at the 7-11 that was a few blocks from his house.
Every time he went into the 7-11 he thought of all the jokes he had heard over the last 20 years about cab drivers and 7-11’s. Indians come to America, and they all work driving cabs and doling out coffee and overpriced snack cakes. He often felt that he, as well, would have been much happier doing something of this nature. It had
little responsibility and no real direction. Simply taking money to drive somebody where they wanted to go or handing out change and stocking food on shelves.
He could do that and not ever have to worry about carrying a gun or— “oh, shit” he forgot his gun back at the house. He grabbed his coffee, went back to the car, made the short drive back home, and pulled his gun out of the locked cabinet. He heard his wife mutter something, but he ignored her and headed off to University Street and the car garage.
The Car
When Sudhir arrived at the car garage, a small crowd of people had gathered around a yellow police-taped section in one corner. The facility was an unassuming structure, mostly underground. It had been constructed to contain the vehicles of everyone who now visited the built-up area of bars and restaurants. The eight-block set of streets made up the downtown entertainment area of Palo Alto.
With Stanford right around the corner, the students, visiting parents, and community provided a never-ending supply of money and patronage to the small businesses. There were local Irish pubs where the regulars tended to go. They could hang out on a balmy afternoon drinking several pints of Stella. Gordon Biersch was where the more hip (sick) younger crowd tended to congregate before they ventured off. Evenings were spent in downtown San Francisco or a dance club along Highway 101.
Duncan's Diary Page 6
