Jeremiah Quick

by SM Johnson

  "You loved that jacket," Quick said, and Pretty heard a real smile in his voice.

  "I used to think it would hurt to hug you," she said, and then remembered it had hurt to hug him, the few time she was allowed. He never seemed to have a clue he was crushing her face against his spikes. But maybe he did. Maybe it was the price for getting too close.

  He leaned his head against the seat-back. "Yeah, you don't think my wearing armor to high school was an accident, do you?"

  She supposed not. She knew it was armor, she'd just never had enough time with him to convince him he could remove it when they were together.

  Regrets, regrets. No, she didn't want to think about that.

  She turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened except a loud click. She tried again. Still nothing.

  "Damn. Something's wrong with the car."

  Normally she'd call her husband, except he wasn't home. He wasn't even in town. He'd taken the boys, ages nine and ten, to a regional karate tournament. Their daughter was at a friend’s house for the weekend.

  "Do you want me to give you a ride?" he asked.

  She didn't. Now that she was used to him alive again, she had a ball of dread in her stomach. She wanted him to have stayed dead so he couldn't change her, because he'd changed her more in the course of a school year's worth of lunch periods than anyone else had over the course of a lifetime. She didn't expect him to stop doing it now.

  She sighed, nodded, and watched him collect her stupid Walmart bags from the back seat, then followed him across the parking lot.

  His car was a huge two-door tank with bench seats, from an earlier era than their youth, a land yacht. Old and beautiful, a collector in primer and gleaming chrome. She gave him directions to her house.

  When they arrived, Pretty held the door open for Quick, who carried the meager goddamned grocery sacks that had been between them for what felt like hours. He fought his way past the dog that tried to lick him into submission. He flinched and sidestepped and bared his teeth at the dog, and Pretty got the feeling he wasn't exactly a dog person. "Don't you lock your door?" he asked, setting the bags on the counter.

  They'd never locked the door, didn't even have keys for it. Pretty and her husband laughed about it sometimes, but only worried about it when they went on vacation. "Nope," she answered. "The kids can't keep track of their keys. Besides, we have a dog. And it's not like we keep the crown jewels here. There's nothing to steal, not really."

  She flitted around the kitchen, putting the things from the bags away: frozen pizzas, frozen chicken strips, ranch dressing, ketchup and mayo.

  "Gross," Jeremiah said, making a face when he handed her the bread. "Soft white bread, the kind you can't swallow because it turns to sticky gunk in your throat. God, you're so fucking middle America."

  And before she could respond, he trapped her against the refrigerator. "Tell me, Sunshine Girl, do you still brush against the Dark?"

  "Of course," she said, trying to keep the nervous squeak out of her voice. "I'm a lot darker now, myself."

  The noise he made – a laugh, a snort of derision? - was loud enough to startle her, and his almost-clear eyes glittered like polished glass. Pretty could see herself in them, nostrils flared, her own pupils dilated, caught between some kind of inappropriate anticipation and a basic, in-the-nerve-endings kind of enthralled fear.

  His portentous presence was dark, too dark for the cheerful, yellow-painted room. He smelled male – sex and sweat and cigarettes. The odor of him filled her kitchen, pungent but not unpleasant. He smelled like wind and campfire, a breeze ghosting over a hot bed of coals. Somewhat free, somewhat dangerous.

  Jeremiah Quick didn't belong in her kitchen or in her average life.

  His arms tightened around her, pulling her hard into him, and then she did squeak a little, and tensed, then relaxed. And finally sighed. It felt like the favorite memory she'd never had, his scent surrounding her, his long lines holding her in a firm grip, giving just the tiniest hint she was helpless.

  "What? The naughty books you write, porn sentence by sentence rather than frame by frame? That doesn't make you Dark, sweetheart, only a little braver than you used to be. You're as sheltered as ever. Comfortable home, husband who takes care of you. Two-point-four children and a dog."

  She looked up into his face and could see he hated her more than ever.

  "Stop," she said, and pressed a hand against his chest. She put pressure on it, urging him to step back, but it wasn't much pressure, and he ignored it. "Is that why you're here?" she asked, her voice low but hard. "To make fun of me? To be cruel?"

  "No," he said, in a softer tone. He lifted his hands to her hair and petted her almost all the way down, top of head, cheeks, the sides of her throat. He let both hands whisper over her jutting collarbones, then down her flanks to her hips, never touching anything strictly private. "I just needed to see you. To see how you are, now."

  Chapter 2

  She.

  She puts away the crap food from Walmart. She's nervous, not comfortable with me in her space.

  Good, I like it.

  I like it so much I step right into her space and pin her against the refrigerator door.

  Walmart, for fuck's sake. And yes, I found her, and yes, I followed her.

  No, I didn't damage her car. That was magick and the way things work for me.

  I want to punch her or shake her or kiss her. All of those, but I don't know in which order.

  She'd always been out of my league. She still is. Nice house, nice neighborhood, and just like when she was a kid, she doesn't seem to have to struggle or work for any of it. She doesn’t even have to pay attention. It fills me with a sort of rage, a longing to hurt her.

  She.

  Delicate throat. Scared eyes.

  She became mine back in high school with the first offer of candy doled out to me in tiny rectangles, piece by piece, as if attempting to tame me, somehow.

  And piece by piece I accepted them, allowing the taming.

  It's hard to explain.

  She wouldn't stay away from me, and I had no idea why. Some days I hated her, not for who she was, but for what she represented. Middle class America. Status quo.

  I never lied to her. I didn't pretend nice when I felt hateful.

  She was mine, but I didn't know how she fit. Not anywhere. Not into my life, certainly not into my bed. She was a puzzle piece, same as I, but if I was an odd-shaped middle piece, she was a straight solid edge. Or maybe she was from a different box altogether. We could hardly comprehend one another.

  I ended up trying to teach her, but clearly I failed.

  She'd been so innocent, so clueless.

  And even now, she's still like Sunshine, still feels like mine, still clueless. How can that be?

  The remembrance she'd written was dated years ago. Years and years, but I found it a few months ago. She never forgot me.

  So… maybe I was hers, too.

  I fill up her kitchen. I know I do, and I know she feels it.

  I tease her about her writing, her books, but only a little.

  Then I step away from her, setting her free, well… sort of. As much as I'll ever set her free.

  There are some things I need to clarify.

  I pull my wallet out of my pocket and fish out a pink piece of paper, hold it out to her. "Read it to me. Just the first part."

  She takes the paper, carefully avoiding touching my fingers, and I hate her for doing that.

  But then she glances at the paper, and the cutest blush colors her cheeks, and I stop hating her immediately.

  It was the poem she put on her blog when she thought I was dead. Would have been nice to get it from her when she thought I was alive, but maybe it's one of those things that's better late than never.

  Her voice wavers, like she’s self-conscious, but she looks into my eyes instead of at the paper because she knows it by heart, and I can't help but love her for that.

  There's a child
hood friend

  You'll never forget

  He's the one who affects you the most

  He'll make your heart melt

  With the things that he's felt

  But the memory's only a ghost.

  There was that word, that stupid vague word that deleted all my horror.

  Her heart melts for all the things I'd felt.

  I want to shove her against the fridge again and slap her pretty little face.

  "Not things," I say, a little bit sorry that I sound deadly, but I truly cannot help it. "Pain. Rape. Desperation."

  Something flares in the dark blue of her eyes, grief maybe, or regret. Or maybe simply fear.

  I am so out of place here, I don't fit in any sense of the word. Fear is probably appropriate.

  "Let me tell you about the things," I say, not even sure where I'm going with this. "The snot-licker who claimed himself my father gave me oodles of pain, my dear. A punch here, a slap there. A kick, if he could get one in. I never knew why he hated me, just that he did. I wasn't all-American-boy enough, perhaps. Makes no difference why, the fact is he hated the sight of me. Cigarette burns, cracks to the head. I kept trying to turn his hatred, but never had any luck.

  "I had a paper route for a long time while planning my escape. Saved and saved my money until I had quite a lot. Saw this car. Had some asinine idea that fathers and sons work on cars together, and maybe this car would improve our relationship, so I paid for it, had the guy I bought it from drop it off.

  "My old man smiled, put me to work cleaning the garage, making room for this car. I should have known to be scared. I'd just given him a whole new arena in which to perpetuate his abuse."

  Her voice comes from my left, startling me into silence.

  "I'm sorry."

  Rage makes me see red, because I'm on a roll and now she's interrupting my train of thought and the words were flowing so effortlessly, and there's a part of me that can't believe I'm going to tell her all of this. But I've started now, and so apparently I am. "What are you sorry for? You weren't there. You didn't do anything."

  "I'm sorry I didn't know. I'm sorry I didn't ask."

  She's moved away from the fridge – has she sensed my impulse to slam her against it and watch her head wobble?

  She sits down at the kitchen table. Not exactly out of reach.

  "Doesn't matter. I wouldn't have told you anyway."

  I shake myself, literally, then tuck the sides of my hair behind my ears, looking for the thread of my story, finding it, tugging it.

  "The car. I was… fifteen, I suppose. Anxious to get my drivers' license and get the fuck out of dodge, but young enough that it felt like forever away. It was a '78 Ford Ranchero, ugliest yellow you ever saw. It had a bed, and a tailgate like a truck, but was a car. Oh, not the skinny streamlined El Camino – the Ranchero, harder edges, more square. I thought my dad would like it."

  I stop to laugh for a minute. It was so ridiculous.

  "Now he'd say, 'C'mon, jackass, let's go work on the car,' and I could look forward to odd-shaped bruises made by a whole new set of tools, no longer just hands and feet and glass ashtrays in assorted shapes and sizes."

  She makes a noise deep in her throat, a strangled indicator that she doesn't want to hear this.

  "Yeah, you know the pointy jacket you loved so much? I put all those studs on it so when he hit me, he'd hurt himself." I laugh a little at my deluded young self and my pathetic, ineffective suit of armor.

  "Sometimes we actually worked on the car.

  "One day my dad's older brother came to see it. It was eerie how much nicer my dad was when my uncle was present. My uncle said it didn't matter if it was a Ranchero or an El Camino, both of them were stupid, wanting to be a car and wanting to be a truck. Make up your mind. I tried to explain it wasn't a big truck, and didn't take up as much room.

  "He blinked at me slowly, then said, 'Are you retarded or something? This ain't no compact car.'

  "I was so pissed, I made a gesture like I was going to hit him, but he caught my arm, then spun me around so my back was against his chest. He pinned my arms and held on.

  "I didn't have my jacket yet, in case you're wondering."

  She.

  She doesn't say a word just watches me with apprehensive eyes.

  "My uncle shuffled us both around so we were leaning against the car, looking into the rusty bed. He said, 'What's the point?'

  "Something was happening, but I didn't know what. His voice was so calm, it was like the very molecules in the air knew something I didn't. I struggled against the heaviness of the air, though not against his arms, which were still locked around me. 'For hauling stuff,' I said in exasperation. 'Like a truck.'

  "'What's it called?' he said, and his moist breath tickled my ear.

  "My head swam in confusion. I knew it was called the bed, but I was afraid to say it."

  I refocus on her, sitting on a chair, hands clenched in her lap. She isn't watching me anymore. Her eyes skitter around the kitchen, looking at her own hands, then the pile of mail strewn across the table top, then out the window… back to her hands. Looking at anything but me.

  She feels my attention leave the past and settle on her, because she hunches her shoulders forward and whispers, "You don't have to tell me."

  "Ah, but I do," I say. "I want you to know. I want you to know it was pain. And I want you to know how much."

  Now she does look at me, for maybe as long as a whole quiet minute. I can't tell exactly the expression on her face - if it's sorrow or dread or the exasperation of having a crazy person telling ugly stories in her kitchen. But then she bows her head and nods.

  As if I need her agreement.

  Fuck that. She'll sit here and listen to the story because I want her to.

  "'Tell. Me. What. It's. Called,' my uncle spat in my ear. And then he bit me, hard, and I yelped. He bit me again, even harder, and there was this hot point of fire that started in the middle of my outer ear and radiated into my head. I shrieked and struggled against him, begging him to let me go.

  "'No,' he said, and his voice was hard, emotionless, and he held me even tighter. And I could feel his cock was hard, and it dug into my ass through his jeans. Through mine.

  "'Tell me what it's called or I'll bite you again. I'll bite and grind my teeth right through, and then you'll really scream.'

  "'Okay, okay,' I said, trying to catch my breath. 'It's called a truck bed, okay? There.'

  "'Close,' he said, and pressed his hips harder against my backside. 'Now tell me what it's called in just one word.'

  "I sagged in his arms. I knew I'd lost. I was too small, he was too strong.

  "'A bed,' I sighed.

  "'That's two words, but I'll forgive your mistake this time. Now. Tell me what a bed is for.'

  "He rutted up against me, and I knew what he wanted me to say, but I wasn't going to say it.

  "'Hauling things,' I said, defiance clinging to my vocal cords.

  "He ground his teeth together, right there next to my ear, and my blood turned to ice water. I trembled in sheer terror. Which was when I remembered my father. Wouldn't he stop this? He wouldn’t just watch his brother... rape... me, would he?

  "I craned my head, trying to see past my uncle's bulk, willing to plead for my father's intervention. But he wasn't there. He'd left the garage, left me with this sick fuck. Did he know what was happening?

  "'There's no help for you, boy,' my uncle breathed in my ear, as if he'd read my mind. 'Do what you're told, and it will go better for you.' His arms squeezed the breath out of me. 'Tell me what a bed is for.'

  "'Sleeping,' I said.

  "He laughed, and it was the creepiest laugh ever. 'Try again.' His teeth edged against my ear, pressing in without hurt, holding on to it delicately.

  "I could feel the tears pooling in my eyes. I fought them, didn't want them to fall, didn't want him to see me cry. His teeth tightened, then released, then tightened again. I thought I felt saliva drip do
wn the side of my neck, slide beneath my shirt collar, slippery and wet and gross, making my chills even worse.

  "I gave up, all my muscles going loose, and would have fallen to the floor if he hadn't had a firm hold on me.

  "I knew what he wanted me to say, and I was very, very afraid. But I gave in. 'Fucking,' I whispered, defeated."

  She.

  She makes some noise, shaking her head. "No," she begs. "Please."

  I move to the table until I'm looming over her, then lean down to set my lips against her ear. "Yes," I hiss, and then I bite. I can’t help it. Her innocence is delicious.

  She squeaks, one hand flying up to cover her ear, the other pushing at me, pushing me away.

  I have mercy on her and step back. Just one step back, though. "Listening doesn't hurt."

  Still holding her ear, she twists in the chair so she can look at me. "Yes, it does."

  "Not as much," I say, and smile. Her face pales a little, and I wish for a mirror so I can see which smile I've put on, that frightens her so. I will surely want to use it again.

  "He told me to lay in the bed, on my stomach, like a good little boy and push my jeans down to my knees. I was already tired of being afraid, and wanted this over with so I could get away from him. I might not have been able to put it into words at the time, but I knew he was eating my fear, sucking it into himself for sustenance, and I wanted to take it away from him.

  "I obliged him. I think I believed all he wanted was the fear, and that he wouldn't actually rape me.

  “I was wrong."

  She.

  She cries as I tell her the rest, as I speak every detail, how he spat on his hands and shoved two fingers hard into me, as far as he could reach, how I imagined myself a butterfly pinned alive to a specimen board, fluttering helplessly as I died. For surely he was killing me, the pain was so great, so unfathomable. Just from his fingers.

  It seemed to go on forever, as I fluttered and gasped, but refused to scream.

  When he jerked his fingers out of me, I was sure he took some part of me as well, not just blood and shit, but layers of tissue clinging to his fingernails, leaving me raw and torn, perhaps damaging me forever. He forced his dick into my asshole, and I howled from the pain, bucking beneath him, fighting to get free, but he only laughed and bit my ear, the same ear as before, biting down, tugging at it with his teeth. I felt the threat, that he would tear it right off.