Bestial Acts

by Claude Lalumiere

  BESTIAL ACTS

  CLAUDE LALUMIÈRE

  ChiZine Publications

  COPYRIGHT

  “Bestial Acts” © 2012 by Claude Lalumière

  All rights reserved.

  Published by ChiZine Publications

  This short story was originally published in The Door to Lost Pages by Claude Lalumière, first published in print form in 2011, and in an ePub edition in 2011, by ChiZine Publications.

  Original ePub edition (in The Door to Lost Pages) April 2011 ISBN: 9781926851952.

  This ePub edition November 2012 ISBN: 978-1-927469-98-9.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS

  Toronto, Canada

  www.chizinepub.com

  info@chizinepub.com

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Bestial Acts

  About the Author

  More Dark Fiction from ChiZine Publications

  BESTIAL ACTS

  Now, most of the time, Aydee has no reason to think of the man and the woman. Occasionally, she spots someone walking down the street who for some reason or other—a piece of clothing, a hairstyle, a frown—sparks an unpleasant memory. These are not unwelcome incidents. They remind her that the man and the woman are nothing but a memory to her, that she has succeeded in stepping into another life.

  Aydee: that was her secret name, the one she’d given herself. No-one knew of it, especially not the man and the woman who’d given her that other name when she was born.

  For the first ten years of her life, Aydee lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with that man and that woman. The man made good money. He had a job that required him to wear a suit and tie—he sold something or other, stocks, buildings, insurance, whatever. He shaved every morning, except for the moustache that was much too big for his small face.

  Most of the money from the man’s job went into business suits and cocaine. The man and the woman rarely slept, rarely ate, and rarely thought of food at all. Occasionally, the man or the woman would order pizza or bring home TV dinners. Even then, she wouldn’t get enough to satisfy her appetite.

  The woman had the habit of letting small change accumulate at the bottom of the cutlery drawer. Aydee would pilfer it in order to buy lunch at school. Aydee didn’t know if the woman noticed that Aydee took that money. Aydee was always careful to leave enough change in the drawer so that it would look undisturbed. Still, she sometimes had enough left over to buy a snack on the way back from school.

  Most weekends, the woman would get on the bus to see her mother and bring Aydee along. Aydee and the woman rarely exchanged even a word during these bus rides. Aydee passed the time reading off the street signs, like a countdown to armageddon.

  Fat and mean-mouthed, the woman’s mother chain-smoked so carelessly that she often had at least two cigarettes going. Every time they visited, the old crone would spew hatred from the moment they stepped in the door to when they left. She’d start with that “no good husband” of her daughter’s. Always the same litany: “Did you have to marry one of them? They look at you, and all they see is a slave, you know. That’s all they’ll ever see.” Then she moved on to immigrants, neighbours, family . . . she never ran out of spite. While the old crone ranted at the younger woman about this and that, she would serve Aydee platefuls of food: tomato-lettuce sandwiches, homemade cookies and doughnuts, fried eggs and bacon, chicken noodle soup, fruit salad, chicken with gravy, meat pie, apple crumble . . . There was cigarette ash in every mouthful. Still, Aydee ate. The old woman, chiding her daughter for Aydee’s thinness, would always insist that they take some food back with them—but that invariably angered the younger woman, who screamed back that she knew how to take care of the girl. It was an argument that the old woman always lost. Aydee knew the old woman didn’t really care about her. All she wanted was to dominate her daughter. Aydee was just the most convenient weapon. Every visit resulted in the same fight.

  On weekdays, while the man was away at his job, the woman would spend the whole day cleaning, working herself into white-hot rages at the dust and grime that constantly undermined her efforts at spotless cleanliness. She shouted at the dirt in the corners; she screamed at the smudges on the floors; she hissed at the mildew on the bathroom tiles. She could not abide the slightest smear or dust. The apartment reeked of disinfectant. The woman fuelled her fastidious campaigns with a constant stream of cocaine and jumbo bottles of cola.

  Aydee had taught herself to be meticulously clean and tidy. Thus, for better and for worse, Aydee was ignored, invisible.

  On her tenth birthday, like most nights, the man and the woman were sitting on the living-room couch, watching television with the sound on loud. The one bedroom in that apartment was the bedroom of the man and the woman: a strictly forbidden zone. Aydee was allowed to sleep on the couch, but, often, she was forced to seek refuge in the bathroom. She would take off her shoes and lie down in the tub, inhaling the fumes of the various cleaning products the woman used to keep it sparkling white. That night, though, she just stood in the living room, between the couch and the door, watching the man and the woman. Waiting. Waiting for nothing.

  The man was drinking beer; the woman, cola. It was past midnight; the bowl of cocaine on the coffee table was half full. They would still be up for hours, Aydee knew. They might even stay up all night. She was hungry and tired. In the fridge, scrubbed to an immaculate white inside and out, there were only more big plastic bottles of cola and cans of beer. She had tried to drink these before, but the beer smelled like piss and the soft drink felt like exploding sludge.

  Her heart was a tight mess of knots, a heavy weight in her chest. She didn’t cry. She never cried.

  She was hungry. She was tired. Enough; she’d had enough. There was nothing for her here.

  She was ten years old, now. She didn’t need to sneak out.

  Once, I was a ten-year-old boy. Father. Mother. No siblings. No pets. I begged again and again to get a dog or a cat. But my folks were firm on this one. Mom hated animals. She was scared. People can be so stupid.

  The best thing my folks ever did for me was leave me alone. On days when there was no school—the whole summer in fact—I’d wander around the city, and sometimes even a bit beyond. Walking. Riding my bike. Taking the bus. Getting on the subway. The city itself was my best friend.

  I never made any friends at school. I wasn’t picked on either. I was weird, but invisible. I’d learned early on to keep my weirdness to myself. I still remember the first time my mom pleaded with me to act normal, to stop embarrassing her by saying weird things no-one understood. I was only three years old. She didn’t threaten me, but the more she nagged me the less connected I felt not only to her but to everything around me, the more I retreated into my imagination. What was it about me that caused her so much distress? Was I really that different from the other kids?

  It probably took her and my dad a bit over a year to begin to suspect how far I was roaming. They thought I was just playing outside—in the alley, or in the park down the street.

  They made a big fuss at first. They yelled at me, something they rarely did. They made some sort of half-hearted attempt to restrict my comings and goings. For a few weeks they diligently watched over me. They demanded a strict accounting of my time. I was furious for a couple of days, mainly at the realization that they could exert such authority over me. I figured they couldn’t keep that up for very long. I was
right. It was clearly more taxing for them than for me.

  That was around the time I turned ten. Around the same time I discovered books. Looking at me now, you’d think I’d dropped from my mother’s womb right onto a messy pile of old, lurid paperbacks and arcane leatherbound tomes. But there were no books in the house I grew up in. The only books I remember from my early childhood are schoolbooks and dictionaries. Except . . . in fourth grade, there was an incomplete set of an old, battered encyclopaedia on top of an old filing cabinet in the back of the classroom.

  Aydee was cold. She was feeling faint, hunger and exhaustion getting the better of her. She didn’t think to beg for assistance, food, or money. Nothing in her short life had led her to expect help from anyone.

  She walked through the streets of the city. There were well-dressed men and women stepping in and out of cars. Brash young folk, not so well-dressed, hurried from here to there, or nowhere to nowhere, huddled in groups, hooting and shouting. In the doorways of businesses that were closed at this time of night, she noticed people wrapped in tattered blankets. Some talked to the passersby who ignored them; others faded into the shadows. Some were very old, older even than the woman’s old mother. Some were younger than Aydee.

  No-one noticed her.

  It was getting harder and harder for her to keep her eyes open. Her legs rebelled against her aimless wandering, urging her to stop and rest.

  Aydee ducked into an alley where the intrusive glare of the city lights was diminished. Her back against a wall, she let herself sag to the ground and shut her eyes.

  She was quickly able to ignore the city’s noises, letting her body slip into the drowsiness that precedes sleep. Then, another sound reached her ears. Purring. It grew louder, until it seemed to occupy all the space inside her head. The more she listened the more complex the purring grew, like layers of sound rippling into each other. Aydee could not ignore the sound. It nagged at her.

  The purring came from deeper in the alley. Reluctantly, she propped herself up and walked, slowly, toward the source of the sound. She was so hungry. Every step intensified the pain in her gut. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness of her surroundings. All around her, between the two walls that defined the alley, were layers of rotting garbage: disintegrating bags spilling their contents on the ground, metal cans overflowing, dumpsters dripping foul liquids. There was distressing movement beneath the strewn refuse. Aydee continued toward the sound.

  Walking became a trance state. The purring subsumed everything.

  Aydee was yanked out of her daze by strong animal odours. The noxious smells of garbage were gone, as was the trash itself. The alley couldn’t possibly be as long as the distance she had walked. Could it? Where was she? Suddenly, a short distance in front of her, there was the source of the purring.

  A gigantic lioness, almost as big as a whole room, lay on the ground, blocking any possible progress down the path the girl had been following. As Aydee approached the beast, she noticed that all kinds of cubs, pups, and kittens were huddled against the giant’s body, playfully intertwined, many of them feeding, blissfully sucking on the creature’s teats. Others were climbing, sliding, or sleeping on her gargantuan frame. Aydee felt the hard knots around her heart not untangling themselves but, at least, relaxing some of their relentless pressure.

  The giant creature turned her head toward Aydee. The lioness’s gaze penetrated the darkness and found its way deep into Aydee. Once more, Aydee felt the knots around her heart loosen—enough so that powerful sobs erupted from a long-neglected part of herself. A torrent of accumulated pain and sorrow gushed from her eyes.

  Aydee staggered toward the lioness and nestled amongst the varied assortment of young animals. Her mouth latched onto a free teat. She sucked hungrily, sating needs and cravings she couldn’t articulate.

  Aydee fell asleep, enveloped by bestial odours and comforting warmth, her mouth fastened on a nipple.

  I spent as much time as I could leafing through the pages of that encyclopaedia. I hurried to finish the class assignments so I could have an excuse to go to the back of the class and lose myself in its pages. The teacher was more than happy to see one of her flock eager to spend time reading.

  I used to grab a volume at random and let the pages fall. When the pages had settled, I’d look at the open spread . . . the bold headings, the black-and-white photos, the colour drawings. . . .

  Inevitably, some item would grab my attention. Often, I’d be seduced by the artwork accompanying the entries describing mythical beasts. Every entry had at least one cross-reference: an epoch, a country, a civilization, an author . . . I’d hunt down the cross-references, trying to put the pieces of these interlocking puzzles together. I still remember the intense frustration I felt every time I failed to find a cross-reference because it wasn’t contained in the surviving volumes. A lot of pages were missing, too. Ripped out. How could anyone do that to these books?

  I made no distinction between history and mythology. Troy and Gilgamesh, for example, cross-referenced to both historical and mythological entries. Bored and restless and wanting to believe anything that would stimulate me, I was more than happy to accept that these often contradictory readings of the past were all equally true, that reality was not flat and linear, but complex and multidimensional, allowing for many versions of the same events to exist simultaneously. For many pasts to lead to the same present.

  Many of the entries in the encyclopaedia were about things that weren’t mentioned anywhere else. Things, it seemed, no-one had ever heard about. Like how the dark tendrils of Yamesh-Lot, the lord of nightmares, preyed on humanity’s dreams. The exploits of the Shifpan-Shap and their tragic, ultimate curse. The mysteries of the Green Blue and Brown God. Many of these interrelated myths contradicted each other, but that excited me even more. They hinted not only at alternate pasts of the world but at an altogether different way of apprehending reality.

  One evening at dinner, I can’t remember why, I started to talk about my theories on history, myth, and reality. Maybe somebody had said something that triggered a connection? More likely, I was just eager to blurt out whatever was on my mind.

  Before I’d gone very far in my monologue, my parents started interrogating me, angrily, almost viciously, about the origins of these ideas. Where did I find out about such things? Who was putting this nonsense into my head? Who? Who was I spending my time with? Who was telling me these things? Who! Why! Where! How! Why couldn’t I be like other kids? Tell us! Tell us! Tell us who’s putting all these ideas into your head! Tell us who’s making you crazy!

  It was Dad who did the most of interrogating. Mom mostly cried. Usually, Dad didn’t seem to care as much as Mom about the fact that I was a weird kid. As long as I didn’t get into trouble, and I rarely did. But, that evening, he was livid. His face was red. He was lashing out at me, as if I’d done something to hurt or betray him.

  I knew better than to talk about the encyclopaedia. I knew—I just knew—they’d arrange to have me banned from reading it, or have it taken away entirely. I screamed that they were my own ideas (they were—but my sadly unimaginative parents could never believe or understand that); I bolted out of the kitchen and locked myself in my bedroom. From that point on, I knew I would never—could never—feel connected to these people.

  After that, I still spent as much time as I could devouring the encyclopaedia. It was no longer with the mad rush of a new passion, but with pleasant familiarity. I paid a different kind of attention to the volumes. I examined them not only for their content, but also as objects. I studied the wrinkled spines and scratched covers, ran my fingers over the subtly embossed letters forming the words of the title (The Clarence & Charles Old World Encyclopaedia) and the name of the publishing company (Kurtzberg, Vaughn & Jones, Publishers). I carefully memorized all the letters, digits, and symbols on the copyright page.

  Around that time, I was spending more time exploring the downtown core. It had never occurred to me b
efore that were such things as bookshops. I was so excited when I discovered that there were dozens of them in the city. I was sure, now, that I’d finally lay my hands on those missing volumes of The Clarence & Charles Old World Encyclopaedia.

  I scoured all the bookshops. I had no money to purchase the books, but I didn’t let that interfere with my quest. I’d deal with that, somehow. But. . . .

  I couldn’t find the volumes. Frustrated, I started to ask. Mostly, I was curtly dismissed, my query not taken at all seriously. A few times, though, some shopkeeper or clerk would take pity on me and actually look through thick volumes for the title or the publisher. But there was no trace of the Clarence & Charles anywhere. No-one had ever heard of it. No reference book even listed its publisher. But I made a pest of myself. I kept insisting, even to the ones who were nice to me, that their references were wrong or inaccurate. I knew the encyclopaedia existed. Every school day, I lost myself in its pages.

  It took me a few months to think of hitting the libraries. I thought my experience with bookshops had been frustrating. Ah! That was nothing compared to the humiliation and frustration that awaited me in the city’s public libraries.

  In those days, libraries—all those I went to—were segregated into “adult” and “children’s” sections—in separate rooms. Everywhere, the adult section was open to anyone twelve or older, but anyone younger was relegated to the dull purgatory of the children’s section, denied access to the adult area. No amount of sneaking, lying, or pleading gained me entry to the adult stacks or, even, to convince the strict, unimaginative librarians to find out for me if The Clarence & Charles Old World Encyclopaediawas to be found in the forbidden sections. I got thrown out of every library in town, once narrowly escaping being detained and having my parents called.

  When the school year gave way to summer, it meant that I no longer had access to the Clarence & Charles. But by then I had found something else.