Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  Her fiancé, Peter, would surely support her, but Kelly was much too proud to permit it. She despised feeling indebted. Thinking of Peter sent a warm river of contentment flowing through Kelly. She wanted his muscular arms wrapped around her, putting an end to this deplorable day.

  Peter was a personal trainer, and was obsessed with physical fitness. He usually jogged home from the health club around five-thirty in the evening, surrounded by a BO miasma acrid enough to cauterize nasal passages and frighten animals. Once he got home—after he showered—they would lie on the couch, and she would curl against his chest like a kitten, and let him console her. He would most likely want a blowjob, but that was a relatively small price to pay. She had the quick and unfortunate mental image of Jumbo Jake the jerk panting like an asthmatic Porky Pig, with his pants pooled around his ankles.

  Yeah, she reflected, puffing on Peter was a small price to pay.

  2

  Taylor’s Falls was a Leave it to Beaver kind of community with rows of middle-class homes on quarter-acre lots lining commonly named streets. The ranch on Hemlock Street where Kelly and Peter lived was no exception. She pulled the Bronco into her narrow driveway and rolled to a stop.

  Home.

  Kelly sighed. She loved her home, humble as it was. It was simple, but cute and inviting with its faux brick and white clapboard siding.

  That she and Peter despised yard work was evident by the faded flora and dreadful bursts of crabgrass and dandelions now scarring the lawn like pubescent acne. In a burst of ambition and good intention, Kelly and Peter had planted an assortment of flowers and shrubs around the property. That was their last wholehearted landscaping effort.

  Across the street, the widow Hinsdale doggedly swept her driveway with a straw broom that was nearly worn to the stick. She was slightly over eighty, but looked to be hovering on the further side of one hundred. Her leathery, sunbaked skin draped like parchment over arms no thicker than the broomstick she held. Kelly waved and the old widow, trying to bring Kelly into focus through half-inch-thick lenses, hesitantly returned the gesture. Buffy, widow Hinsdale’s high-strung Pomeranian, tap-danced nervously around its master on frenzied little legs that blurred like needles on a misaligned sewing machine. Kelly retrieved a handful of mail from the mailbox, weakly waved away a relentless swarm of mayflies, and went into her house.

  Kelly dropped her purse onto the kitchen table and sifted through the mail. Finding only the standard insignificant drivel, she tossed the mail on the counter. She noticed the refrigerator seemed to be humming especially loud, and wondered if it was on the way out.

  Why not? She thought and expelled another frustrated breath. It would fit right into the direction the day kept going.

  Kelly’s cat Argyle mewled uneasily from under the table. He was a long-haired Calico that Kelly had rescued from the needle a few years earlier. He had an unfortunate color pattern making it appear as if his head were distorted. Two years ago, the imbalance was forgivable due to the abiding cuteness of kittens. Now, however, cuteness had abandoned the animal and even on his best days, Argyle was homely.

  “Hello, you ugly bastard,” Kelly said, to which Argyle responded with an indistinct mewl.

  Kelly went to the refrigerator to retrieve a Diet Coke and realized the amplified humming was not coming from it, but from somewhere down the hallway. She walked toward the sound, past the bathroom, the office, and to her bedroom, the volume increasing, throbbing, and gurgling like the inboard motor of a boat busting through waves at full throttle.

  Mmmbwaaa … mmmbwwaaa … mmmbwaaaa.

  It sounded … wet.

  Uneasy, Kelly returned to the kitchen and extracted a long-bladed carving knife from the cutlery block that would have made Jack the Ripper swoon with joy. She returned to her bedroom door, paused and listened, trying to rally some courage. The low thrumming had a familiarity to it that made her stomach tingle. Kelly turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open.

  It took a moment to register what she saw. The humming came from a large bear-like lump, moving beneath her bedspread. Above the lump she could see a young woman’s face, haloed by an amazing nimbus of fiery copper hair. Her eyes were closed and her features contorted, lost in rapturous pleasure. The woman threw her head back and released a moan that quickly ascended to a high, keening wail that nearly had Kelly seeking an air-raid shelter. Stunned, she could only watch as the woman’s throes subsided, and her misty eyes slowly opened. When their eyes met, the woman shrieked and shoved herself backward against the headboard. Beneath the covers, the ursine lump jerked and rose, spilling the blankets.

  A retina-singing light from a coal miner’s helmet temporarily blinded Kelly, but not before she saw who wore it. Kelly raised her arm against the blazing light beam and glared at Peter, who knelt on her bed, his doe-brown eyes comically wide and desperate. The redheaded woman gathered the fallen blankets for cover, her eyes locked on the giant knife in Kelly’s hand.

  “Kelly! What are you doing here?” Peter said. His shaking voice confirmed the panic etched on his face.

  “I live here, you dick!” spat Kelly.

  She flipped on the light switch, illuminating the room and revealing Peter’s dwindling erection. A gargantuan, penis-shaped vibrator that looked like a veiny Louisville Slugger hung from his hand, rumbling defiantly.

  “YOU’RE USING MY MEGA-DONG 2000?” screamed Kelly.

  She advanced on them her rage flaring to iron-melting proportions. Peter looked at the monstrous schlong as if seeing it for the first time and switched it off. The redhead whimpered and drew away, her dazzling, emerald-green eyes still glued to the knife. Kelly took a closer look at the woman and wondered if she was old enough to drive.

  “Cute,” Kelly said. “Did you pick her up at daycare?”

  “Julie’s twenty-one,” Peter said defensively.

  “Shut up, you parasite! Turn off that light!” Kelly demanded.

  Peter fumbled with the hard-hat, switched off the light, and tossed the hat to the floor as if it were leprous.

  “Get out of my bed, bitch!” Kelly snapped at Julie. “Get out of my fucking house!”

  Julie dove from the bed and grabbed her clothes. Kelly watched her and her fury became nuclear, pushing the walls of sanity. The little tramp was fashion-model gorgeous, not an iota of jiggle in her cute, flawless little ass and perfectly perky C-cup specials.

  No sag at all! Kelly’s mind shrieked at the injustice. She stepped in front of Julie and, feeling a smug pleasure at her ingenuity said, “Leave the clothes.”

  Julie had perfect hearing. She was out the bedroom door like Lady Godiva on a rocket. Kelly turned to Peter, eyed his now exceedingly flaccid penis, and then eyed the knife. It was Peter’s turn to whimper.

  “You rotten, slimy, maggot-eating piece of floating ass plaque,” she called him. “It’s not bad enough you brought her into my house, into my bed, and dorked her with my dildo, but you had to make sure she was better looking than me? YOU SUCK!” Kelly screamed and leapt at him with a demonic shriek.

  Peter screeched like a pageant winner and scrambled off the bed, still holding the MEGA-DONG 2000. He bent over to grab his clothes, but reconsidered when the tip of the blade sank half an inch into his ass. He jumped, spun, and backed to the dresser, holding his injured buttock.

  “You stabbed me in the ass!” he said, astounded. “You’re fucking nuts!”

  “No, your fucking nuts,” said Kelly. “They’re going to be hanging from my rearview mirror.”

  She jabbed the knife at him and he countered reflexively, deflecting the blade with the MEGA-DONG 2000. Kelly swung again, but Peter parried the arc and jabbed her forcefully between the eyes with the head of the giant phallus, a surprise move of Musketeer agility that momentarily dazed Kelly. She staggered back a step, recovered, and lashing out with ninja speed, she snatched the vibrator from Peter’s hands. Equally stunned, Peter sped for the door, Kelly following close behind.

  The kitchen do
or still stood open from Julie’s hasty departure, saving Peter valuable seconds. He burst through the screen door and vaulted off the porch. Kelly stopped at the top of the porch steps, reared back, and let the giant dildo fly with wrath-fueled accuracy and power that would have challenged Dan Marino in his prime. The MEGA-DONG 2000 connected solidly with the back of Peter’s head and ricocheted high into the air, bouncing twice and rolling within inches of the flabbergasted Mrs. Hinsdale’s feet. Having been jarred to life by the impact, the mammoth dick proceeded to chatter over the old widow’s loafers like an epileptic Dachshund, as the elderly neighbor danced about, swinging her broom at it. Intent on protecting her master from the ungodly creature, Buffy leapt about and nipped ineffectually, before being catapulted yapper over crapper onto the front lawn.

  Kelly started down the steps focused on Peter who lay writhing on the ground, holding the back of his head. He jumped to his feet, swayed, and just as quickly returned to the ground. His head hit the slate walkway with a disconcertingly hollow thump, and he lay still. Kelly looked at the inert form on her front lawn with disgust, turned, and walked back into her house. She locked all the doors and windows, noticing a set of curtains from the kitchen were gone. It appeared Julie was a little more resourceful than Kelly had assumed.

  From the bathroom window, Kelly watched Peter through the blur of her tears. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head.

  “Why, Peter?” she asked, her words fogging the glass and fading. She had thought everything had been good between them.

  Shock blossomed on Peter’s features as he became aware of his nakedness. He started for the house, hesitated in contemplation, and dashed onto the porch. He didn’t bang on the door as Kelly expected, but snatched up the welcome mat, wrapped it around his waist, and took off down the street in a mad sprint.

  In the neighboring yard, the widow Hinsdale was on her knees, stabbing the broom under her car. The MEGA-DONG 2000 defiantly rattled out from beneath the opposite side of the car and trembled onto the lawn. The widow jumped to her feet, rounded the car, and dove like a linebacker onto the chattering mechanical organ. Buffy yipped and nipped at the pink pillar; a hyperkinetic, tongue-lolling mascot, rooting for the home team. The old woman rolled on the ground, grappling with the spastic sex rocket like a monkey on a pogo stick, until she finally found the switch. The convulsing stopped and Mrs. Hinsdale stood up. She looked around self-consciously, stuffed the monstrosity under her cardigan, and waddled determinedly into her house. Buffy merrily followed her doing the sixty-two-step.

  A great emptiness blossomed within Kelly as she moved away from the window. She focused on busying herself, tearing the sheets and blankets from the bed and stuffing them into a large trash bag. She had no intention of sleeping on the same sheets she had been betrayed on, and she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to sleep on the same bed.

  Disconcerting questions spun through her mind. How many times had they screwed—or whatever they did—in her bed? How many times had she already slept in the betrayal bed? Was the little floozy infected? Did Peter do things with or to Julie that he didn’t or wouldn’t do with me? Had little Miss Julie used my MEGA-DONG 2000 before? Did I use it after her? How come he never made me come like that?

  “And what’s with the fucking miner’s helmet?” asked Kelly out loud, as if the walls would answer.

  The thoughts disturbed Kelly terribly, but she was not a person to readily accept or admit defeat. She prided herself with her tenacity and her ability to rebound in the midst of unfriendly fire, to proudly stand up to adversity and grab the proverbial bull by the kiwis and twist.

  Kelly sobbed hysterically until eight o’clock the following morning.

  When she could cry no longer, Kelly retreated to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. What looked back at her resembled a raccoon with a brutal hangover, but with her soul-cleansing cry, a plan had formed. She would do what she always did during those times in her life when there were bridges to cross …

  Run away.

  3

  “Hi, Grandpa,” Kelly said as she stepped from her parent’s porch right into a Good Housekeeping ad. The kitchen sparkled as usual. It was immaculate and smelled of pine disinfectant, potpourri, and good, old-fashioned, down-home cooking. Kelly hugged her grandfather and planted a kiss on his razor-stubble cheek. He returned the hug and kissed her on top of the head. At seventy-six, Fraser MacKay was still solid as a maple, though the leaves were getting a little sparse.

  Kelly’s grandparents had moved in with her parents about six years earlier. Both couples had owned homes, but since Kelly’s mother was an only child—as was Kelly—they decided to pool their resources to avoid the inevitable fees and taxes associated with the inheritance of property … if Uncle Sam didn’t take it first. This was how Kelly’s grandparents explained it, but it also might be that they were stereotypically frugal Scots who could squeeze a quarter from a penny.

  “Aye, kid, no work today?” Grandpa MacKay asked.

  “Not today. Is my mom here?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Where’s my mom?” Kelly asked, raising her voice.

  “For the love of God, Fraser, put your hearing aid in!” said Sarah Mackay.

  Kelly’s grandmother was a ball of nervous energy that moved as swiftly and efficiently as a bee. She zipped into the kitchen, bent over, and stuffed a dustpan into the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. The sheer vastness of her grandmother’s ass was astonishing, considering the rest of her was so comparatively small. It could be a docking canal for the QEII, Kelly thought. She prayed silently she would not inherit this particular characteristic, but considering the recent expansion of her mother’s latter regions, the future wasn’t looking too good.

  “Hi, Gram,” Kelly said.

  “Numpty bat,” Fraser Mackay grumbled as he made his way to the living room. He was more comfortable with RemDawg and the Boston Red Sox than his bickering wife, and Kelly couldn’t blame him. Sarah Mackay had a voice that grated like a rusted bolt. When she spoke, it didn’t enter through your ears, but more at the base of the neck, and was as irritating as an itchy instep. Fraser and Sarah had long ago become each other’s bad habit, and after fifty-plus years of marriage, they had become like deep-throated coughs. They aggravated each other and often hacked out their desire to be rid of each other, but they were the smoke of addiction to each other.

  “Where’s Mom and Dad?” asked Kelly.

  “Your paw’s in Hartford for three days or so on some sort of business. Your mum’s …” Sarah waved her hand absently at the ceiling. As if in response, a series of muffled thumps traversed overhead as her mother crossed her bedroom. It was a comforting sound, familiar with childhood and Sunday mornings before church. Kelly opened a cupboard and pulled down a tin of coffee.

  “Here, I got that,” insisted her grandmother, taking the coffee from her. “Sit down a bit. Are you hungry? I made chicken soup.”

  “No thanks, Gram, just coffee is fine,” said Kelly, pulling a chair away from the table. “Why isn’t Grandpa using his hearing aid?”

  “He’s rebelling against his age again. Fighting nature, he is,” explained Sarah. “Got his hang-ups about accepting some things, like his fading hair, his feeble hearing, and his tadger not getting up to it anymore … well, not until he got the little blue pill. Since then, he thinks he’s twenty again, or tries to act it … struts around, proud as a Marine with his rifle. I bend over and he’s on me like a preacher on money. I think he’s turned into a negromaniac.”

  “That’s nymphomaniac, Gram,” said Kelly.

  “Ach, you aren’t kidding!” said Sarah.

  “Thanks for the visual,” Kelly added, feeling a little bit nauseated. She didn’t want to hear this, and hoped desperately she would change the subject.

  Sarah set an earthen bowl large enough to be a washbasin before Kelly.

  “Gram, I’m not hungry.”

  “It’ll do you good.” She stuck a spoon in Ke
lly’s hand. “When’s the last time you had a decent meal? You look bucolic.”

  “Bulimic, Gram.”

  “Right, just like I said.” She pointed to the soup. “Do up.”

  Kelly raised a spoonful of chicken soup to her lips, dropped the spoon, and blasted the mouthful of soup back into the bowl. She felt as if she’d just sucked on a soldering iron.

  “Take care, it’s a might hot,” warned Sarah Mackay. She filled a glass with water, set it in front of Kelly, and pulled out a chair and sat across from Kelly. “So how’s my favorite granddaughter?”

  “I’m your only granddaughter, Gram.”

  “Aye, all the better, that,” she said, “no competition. How’s my boy Peter?”

  “We’re through.”

  “You’re through?” asked her grandmother.

  “You’re through?” echoed Kelly’s mother.

  Sharon Braun entered the kitchen and kissed Kelly on the cheek. She sat beside her at the table and pinned her with intense blue eyes, waiting for enlightenment. Kelly had always found her mother stunning, and of that she was grateful since she had inherited her mother’s genes.

  But, her ass is getting bigger, Kelly whined inwardly. But it was still a good ass for fifty-one.

  “Well?” pressed Sharon Braun.

  “We’re through,” confirmed Kelly. “That’s about it.”

  “Bullshit,” said her mother. “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean what did you do?”

  “Why’d he leave you?”

  “I left him!” Kelly said defensively, feeling belittled and fighting the exasperation her mother could always evoke in her. That Red Sox game her grandfather was watching just got more appealing. “I came home from work and found him in bed with The Little Mermaid!”