Gemini: A Psychological Horror

by Stuart Keane

  She took a hesitant step into the kitchen, her stomach dropping a few inches as dank despair began to trickle through her system, her mind now blazing with all sorts of unruly questions. Her stomach began to flip-flop, making her squirm.

  But they didn’t matter.

  Not now.

  Odette noticed the lipstick on the left glass, prominent, recent, a little smeared at the edges. A wicked shade of purple; she imagined it was the rich colour of avocado that took on a lighter shade of violet when exposed to cheap fluorescent lights.

  These aren’t ours.

  And I don’t wear purple lipstick.

  That sonofab –

  The intense sexual groan that erupted from deep in the apartment made her jump. She knocked the glass off the worktop and yelped quietly beneath her breath. Reacting sharply, she caught the glass as it toppled, the wine splashing onto the tiles. She grimaced, placed it back on the side, and breathed out.

  Had she imagined the noise?

  It had to be a trick of her mind.

  There’s no way Gavin is –

  “Oh yes! Gavin, fuck me harder!”

  Odette squealed, clamping both hands over her mouth, her heart pounding excessively in her chest. She felt a cold sweat erupt from her pores, and she shivered violently. She turned to the kitchen door, seeking the source of the noise.

  “You want it deep, baby?” Gavin queried, his voice unusually deep, and rippled with sexual aggression.

  “Yes, you know I fucking do. Fuck me hard, hard and fast, deep in the arse. Make me your bitch! You know I love it!”

  No more words were spoken as a series of loud sexual moans and grunts concluded the brief conversation.

  Odette let out a low guttural whimper. She crossed her arms, and then uncrossed them, mentally and physically confused, lost, and abandoned. Standing alone in the cold kitchen, she felt her happy life expand and shatter right there, on the wine-soaked, tiled floor.

  The tears threatened an appearance, the familiar prickle scorching the edge of her eyes.

  That’s when Odette closed them, to block out the agonising pain.

  She laughed, a hysterical, dumbfounded laugh tinged with sadness and forlorn hope, one that said, “This is happening, but it can’t be. We’re perfectly happy. There’s no way he would cheat on me.”

  But he had. He was.

  The sounds of his rampant fucking darkened the apartment, orgasmic grunts and screams and slapping that stabbed at Odette’s brain like a crazed lunatic, and squeezed the life out of her once-adored home, one that would forever be tarnished by his illicit betrayal. She flinched as her arm brushed the worktop, stung by its very touch, imagining her boyfriend writhing on it naked, a strange women bent over it, groaning and climaxing, her arsehole exposed to the charcoal surfaces that she prepared her meals on.

  Everything was suddenly dark, obtuse, angular, and sharp.

  And Odette knew that, from this point forward, nothing would ever be the same.

  She groaned, a sheet of vomit slipping from between her lips. It splattered the floor, pattering loudly in the quietness of the room, soaking her feet. The noise was only punctured by the orgasmic sound of her boyfriend’s deceit.

  Noises that pushed her to the brink.

  Oh no, please. No!

  Odette clutched her temples, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh, pushing hard against the bone, almost piercing the skin as she closed her eyes, fighting it.

  Not this, please, not this. Anything…

  The gushing blood makes the ramparts of your skull run dark with vermilion, the heavy sluicing striking and cacophonous as it continues unabated, uninterrupted, and your brain swells, violently assertive against the inside of your skull, which now throbs and pulses like it has a heart, and maybe it does have a heart, maybe bone has metamorphosed into muscle, after all, nothing is what it seems anymore and it could always take a life of its own with the current circumstances, the confined space squeezing out the final remnants of the normal person that resides there; their mundane routine, friends’ phone numbers and how to cook the perfect omelette, information that was important before, essential even, but no longer holds any fucking relevance in the existence of humanity, a humanity that will soon deal with the malicious shadows that reside deep within, shadows that, until now, have remained dormant and heavily subsided, waiting to emerge when the time is right.

  Which is now.

  This.

  Is.

  Over.

  It was too late.

  Odette opened her eyes, and the woman barely recognised her own kitchen as she opened the drawer, retrieved a large kitchen knife, and moved towards the doorway.

  II

  Shay stared at the man impatiently as he continued to read the checklist of her belongings out to her; the final few measly items that she owned. Inside her small leather handbag sat her battered purse, which contained her driving licence, her expired bank card, and fifty pounds in bank notes, along with a solitary purple lipstick, some change, and a hair clip.

  The man was a small, round-faced individual with thinning grey hair combed over his balding scalp; a vain and feeble attempt to cover up his withering hairline. His beady brown eyes peered down over the top of his thick, black-rimmed spectacles. Glancing at Shay, he continued ticking off the items on his list, handing items to her as he did so.

  The man looked at her. “So, Shay Parker. It says here that you are currently of no fixed abode. Do you have somewhere that you can go? Maybe a family member or friend who is able to put you up?”

  Shay frowned; she had been an inmate at the Carterton Mental Institution for nearly four years, since the complicated breakdown of her relationship with her ex-boyfriend. He had been the one that insisted they go their separate ways, claiming that the relationship was stagnant, and wasn’t going anywhere. Another catalyst for his decision was her fiery temper; she had gotten violent during several arguments, and during one particular scuffle had left him with two broken ribs and a busted nose.

  Her subsequent struggles with depression ultimately led to her losing her job. She was told by her superiors that the position was being made redundant; however, she knew that it was only an excuse to get rid of her and save paperwork.

  After attacking and hospitalising her managing director with a stainless steel envelope opener, she was remanded into care and given a full psychiatric evaluation after the breakdown. She was immediately transferred to the Carterton Facility in order to be contained for her own safety, and the welfare of everyone else around her.

  Shay thought back to her admittance to the hospital. Back at that time, she was undergoing various medical treatments which included anti-psychotic drugs, intensive sedation and aggression therapy. Despite the ongoing treatment and the increased doses of the drugs that she was prescribed, Shay was still deemed unfit for release; diagnosed with mixed-state bipolar disorder, psychosis and mild schizophrenia.

  For the last twelve months, Shay had been showing steady signs of improvement after being transferred into the care of a new doctor – Doctor Thomas Harris. The man was like a breath of fresh air to Shay. His one-to-one weekly counselling sessions were a highlight in her dull existence, and something she began to look forward to. The man just had something about him, he seemed to totally understand her way of thinking, something no one else on the staff managed to do, and when he offered her the possibility of testing out a new anti-psychotic drug in exchange for an early release, she jumped at the chance.

  After just a few days on the medication, she could already tell the difference. Her thoughts seemed more lucid, more relaxed. She stopped feeling the aggressive urges that seemed to challenge her on a daily basis. Within six months, she had been transferred to the minimum security wing of the facility and, following a psychiatric evaluation a week ago, the doctor had kept to his side of the bargain; she was scheduled for an early release.

  The doctor had visited her assessment unit yesterday.

 
He entered the room silently, a beaming smile spread across his face as he held up a thick envelope containing her official release papers. “Shay, excellent news. Following on from the successful course of medication and assessment, you have been approved for release.” The doctor sat in his chair, looking at his patient. “How do you feel?”

  Shay smiled, the first genuine smile that had crossed her lips in nearly four years. “I feel fantastic. I can’t thank you enough, doc. Whatever is in that wonder drug of yours, it really does the trick.”

  The doctor’s face turned serious, and a gratified look began to creep into his eyes. “This drug will revolutionise the way that patients with mental health issues are treated. You are just the first of thousands of people that this drug will help, Shay.”

  Shay nodded, shifting from her memory, and found herself staring back at the man who was responsible for discharging her from the hospital. She shivered, the air in the discharge room biting and cool. He returned her gaze quizzically over the top of his thick-rimmed spectacles.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” she mumbled.

  The man frowned in annoyance, and repeated his question. “I said, is there somewhere that you can go? Maybe a family member or friend who can look after you?”

  “Yes, yes, I have some family that I can go and stay with,” she lied.

  The man shrugged, satisfied that his enquiry had released him from any further responsibility to the patient.

  “Right, if you could just sign for your possessions here, here and here, you can be on your way. Oh, and English currency has changed. We have new twenty pound notes now. You need to go to a bank and swap your cash. It’s no longer legal tender.”

  The man handed her a manila folder. She opened it up, sighed, and checked the contents. It contained several leaflets for a local checkin centre and medical assessment team. The folder also contained several contact numbers for people that she might need to speak to following her release; the local hospital, a police station pharmacy and The Samaritans, amongst others.

  “Please remember that you’re scheduled for your twice-weekly appointments with your new psychiatrist; her phone number and address are on the contact sheet there.” He pointed with a stubby finger. “These appointments are scheduled and are mandatory, not optional.”

  Shay looked at the man, and shrugged her shoulders impassively. “No problem. Is there anything else?”

  “Nope, you’re free to go.”

  Shay turned around, slipped her arms into her blue woollen coat, and slid the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. She pulled up the zipper and stepped forward, walking slowly towards the main exit. Opening the large double doors onto the vast courtyard outside, she dithered as she stepped out into the cold, brisk air. Despite the almost freezing conditions, the chilled air now felt wonderful as it nipped at her warm cheeks and nose.

  She inhaled deeply, taking in a large lungful of oxygen, and breathed out, watching in awe as the cloud of mist spiralled and dispersed itself into the cool morning air. She walked slowly across the courtyard towards the car park, where she passed several parked vehicles. Whilst navigating between the cars, she screwed up the folder that she had been given on her release, and tossed it into a public rubbish bin on the far side of the area. Rubbing her hands together, she blew into them in a vain attempt to keep them warm. She continued walking towards the main road and stopped to peer at the signs, which indicated that the nearest town was two miles away. Shrugging, she began to walk.

  As she reached the streets on the outskirts of town, she stopped to look around to re-familiarise herself with her surroundings. Since her incarceration in the facility, the old town had changed somewhat. Walking past the gates to the local park, she stopped to admire the beauty of the landscape portrayed in its vast, freezing cold glory. A light mist hung over a quiet pond in the distance. For all intents and purposes, it looked like the perfect winter scene from a Christmas card. She was amazed that she had never stopped here before, to admire and appreciate its natural beauty.

  Continuing the walk into the centre of town, she passed a couple of newly built industrial buildings on a small, makeshift retail park. One was a car maintenance and tyre garage with garish red signs, and the other an electronic goods distributor that sold items directly to the trade.

  Passing a few more boarded-up windows and a small betting establishment, she stopped before the unit at the end of the row, which was now a sex shop. A banner ran along the top of the door that displayed the words, Private Shop.

  Shay chuckled. In just a few years, this town has really gone down the pan.

  Breaking into a slow trot, she nipped in between the queuing cars that were lined up in the centre of the street, and located the taxi rank on the other side of the road. Pushing the door open, she entered the squalid, dimly lit reception area. A large strip, halogen heater hung from the wall to her left, doing very little to offer any substantial warmth in the near arctic conditions.

  Shay realised that the temperature inside the taxi rank was actually colder than outside. A middle-aged man with greasy brown hair sat behind a security window over on the far wall, the bullet-proof glass riddled with all manners of graffiti and colourful doodles and profanities from previously drunken customers. Some of the words and limericks that had been written were enough to make a sailor blush. The hissing noise of static and radio interference mixed with incomprehensible chatter from travelling taxi drivers filled the air around him.

  Shay approached the window.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, not looking up.

  “I would like a taxi, please.”

  “Where are you going, love?”

  Shay stopped for a moment and thought about her response. “Croydon, please.”

  “How many passengers?”

  “Me, myself and I.”

  “Okay, love. It’ll be about three minutes. Please, take a seat.”

  Shay turned around and observed, caution in her stance. In the far corner sat a battered, black leather sofa. The worn surface of the material spewed dirty yellow sponge, the seats ripped and burned with charred holes from countless cigarettes, and years of late night abuse.

  “I’ll be fine standing.”

  “Suit yourself, love.”

  Shay stood back from the counter, tapping the surface with a fingertip once, and ambled towards the main door. As she gazed out over the empty street, a filthy Ford Mondeo with a disgusting lime green paintjob screeched up to the kerb and parped its horn loudly, making her jump. Running out into the cold morning air, Shay opened the door and climbed into the back seat. Although the car was a few years old, the warm air from the car’s heating system was adequate, and stung her face and fingertips as the blood began to circulate through her veins.

  The driver turned around to face her; he was extremely overweight, his flabby jowls hanging from his bright red face like soggy bags of fat. Shay ignored the stench of strong body odour that filled the vehicle. “Bloody cold one ain’t it, love?”

  “It certainly is,” she mused.

  “So, where are we going?”

  Shay gave the required address to the driver, who promptly fed the details into his satellite navigation device and clicked the button that reset the cost on the meter. Indicating, and after a slight pause, he pulled out into the slow moving traffic.

  Shay stared out of the window at the bleak outline of the town with its decrepit buildings, rundown shops and factory units. The car passed through the congested streets quietly, making its way towards their destination.

  A lot had changed in the past four years, but now it was time for Shay to get something that she had craved, and her body was currently aching for. She smiled and crossed her legs, groaning inwardly. Yes, she had certainly missed it, a primitive act that all humans had the right to; she could almost feel her arousal burning in her loins, and let out a small whimper at the thought of being bent over the bed and fucked from behind, whilst having her hair yanked back and
her arse spanked.

  She licked her lips at the thought and attempted to repress the sexual urges that ebbed through her body. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in the seat and began to imagine the fun that she could be having. After a few moments of sordid imagery, she opened her eyes and checked her reflection in the driver’s rear view mirror. In a swift act of vanity, she applied some fresh lipstick. She looked plain, tired and haggard, but it would do. She was in desperate need of some pampering time; expensive cosmetics and the return of her signature blonde hair dye.

  After a slow fifteen minutes, the car pulled into the required street – her destination. Not much had changed in the past four years, it was a typical, middle-class urban housing estate. Red brick two-and three-bedroom houses were interspersed with high apartment blocks, each property with a dedicated driveway, perfectly trimmed front lawn and colourful flower beds.

  Shay pointed out the apartment block to the driver.

  The taxi driver indicated and pulled the vehicle to the kerb beside the apartment entrance. He turned to face Shay.

  “That’ll be six pounds, please.”

  Digging through her purse, she pulled out the dog-eared ten pound note, her last legal currency, attempted to straighten it out, and handed it over.

  “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks,” the driver mumbled.

  She exited the vehicle, slamming the door behind her, and looked up at the apartments. There were no obvious signs of movement inside.

  I hope he’s in.

  She slowly walked down the path, loose stones crunching beneath her thick boots, continually checking the upstairs windows for any signs of movement or activity from within. Approaching the door, she rang the bell for Apartment 4, holding her finger down on the button for a few seconds.

  She waited; nothing.

  Shit. He’s not in.

  You don’t even know if he still lives here.

  She pressed the bell again, holding it down longer. Again, she heard nothing.

  Maybe the bell doesn’t work.

  Just as she was about to press the buzzer again, a croaky voice came over the intercom system.