Fook

by Brian Drinkwater

  "I don't see him."

  "What the fuck?" Justin finally noticed the voice as his attention snapped from the electronic machine overhead to the showers on the opposite side of the room. Quickly zipping his pants, he stepped away from the urinal, staring at the two showers. Both curtains were pulled tightly shut, even though no water was running, and given the fabric's opaque nature it would have been nearly impossible to figure out which one housed the mystery guest if it hadn't been for the fact that the bottom of the curtains hovered nearly two feet above the ground.

  It was clear that the shower on the left was empty, but the other one... Where Justin expected to find a pair of bare feet topped by naked, hairy calves was instead a pair of dirty feet nearly hidden beneath what looked to be a dirty and disheveled antique white dress.

  "Where is he? I don't see him," the female voice repeated.

  "Hello?" Justin called out to the woman.

  "Show me. Show me where he is."

  "Hello. Miss," Justin inched forward, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to get a better view through the crack between the curtain and the tile wall.

  "Where is he?” panic changed to grief as the confused woman began to weep.

  "Miss, you're in the men's room," Justin again tried to get the woman's attention as he stopped only a foot from the separating curtain.

  "I know," the woman responded.

  "Then what are you doing in here?"

  "I will. I swear."

  "What?" Justin asked confused, sensing now that he wasn't the intended recipient of her words.

  "I promise. Just give me back my son."

  Clearly the woman needed help and from what he could see she was dressed, so taking a deep breath, Justin grabbed hold of the curtain and pulled it aside. Standing in the far corner with her back turned to him, the woman continued to weep with her face in her hands.

  "Holy shit are you alright?" Justin looked the woman up and down. The tattered qualities of the dirty dress that he'd seen beneath the curtain continued all the way up her body, culminating at her back where the fabric around one shoulder had been completely torn away revealing large bruises and bloody cuts that disappeared beneath the remainder of the intact, old looking fabric. Rushing into the shower, though reluctant to touch her, Justin stopped right behind her. "Do you need help? Who did this to you?"

  "He has my son," the woman finally addressed her new company, the grief in her voice slowly fading as a monotone quality took over.

  "Who? Who has your son?"

  "The witch."

  "Witch? What witch?" Justin asked. It was clear that someone had beaten the crap out of this woman, but now he was thinking that she was on something as well. Given what he knew so far, which wasn't much, he began fabricating a scenario that included the twenty-something year old woman as an actress in the school's theatre department. Given her odd attire, he assumed that she was part of some play set in the late 1700's. All he could guess was that she'd gone to some party after a show, had had a few too many, or was slipped something, before someone beat and or raped her, but that didn't explain the kid.

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know where your son is. I think I should call the police and get you some help."

  "I know you know where he is," the woman's voice grew angry.

  "No, I really don't know where he is," Justin was surprised by the sudden accusation. He didn't even know who this woman was. How could he know her son, let alone where he was? "The police will find your son. Right now we need to get you to a hospital."

  "Where is he?" the woman repeated, even more upset.

  Feeling uncomfortable, Justin began to take a step back but not before the woman spun around, grabbing hold of his head with both hands and with remarkable strength, pulled his face to within an inch of hers.

  "I know he's here. So where is he?" the woman spoke through her clenched teeth, rage burning in the back of her eyes.

  Terrified, Justin attempted to pull away but couldn't fight the woman's incredible strength. This wasn't just a battered woman. There was something else behind those eyes; something far more sinister. Preparing to punch, kick, bite; anything to get away, he clenched his fist, but never got the chance as the diminutive woman’s lips parted, filling the room with a blood curdling scream.

  *****

  “Holy shit. This girl’s amazing,” was the only thought repeatedly running through Corey’s mind as he watched the white sheets bob up and down with each pleasurable sensation.

  High school had been fun and he’d nailed his share of loose girls, but nothing compared to the quality of ass he’d landed since the beginning of the semester…and he was only a freshman. “How much better could it get?” he thought, his mind taking a break from the hidden vacuum at his waist to contemplate the remaining three and half years of his college career.

  The suction ceasing, the sheets began to rise as young Miss Hoover silently indicated that she was through. Disagreeing, Corey gently placed his hand on the sheet outlined shape of her head as he encouraged his conquest back to work. Obediently, the sheets resumed their dance.

  He hadn’t gone out that night looking for a meaningless one night stand…at least not consciously. Truthfully, he never went out looking for it. He didn’t have to. Genetically blessed with the best of his parents’ genes, his mother’s model looks and his father’s superior intelligence, girls naturally flocked to him, and those that didn’t, he easily convince them that they should. What’s her name beneath the sheets hadn’t required very much convincing. She’d been in front of him in line while he waited to pick up a pizza that would hopefully fuel him through the remainder of his cram session for tomorrow’s Biology exam. He’d first noticed her ass, accentuated by the tight black yoga pants and branded by the word Tasty in bold yellow lettering. “It might as well say ‘stick it here’,” he’d thought at the time, not noticing that he’d been busted until the girl had cleared her throat, drawing his stare upward to a pleasantly unexpected, flirtatious smile. A five minute walk and a hot and heavy elevator ride later and they’d both been naked in his bed with the pizza remaining uneaten on the nightstand.

  “Oh my god,” Corey’s mind was returned to the action beneath the covers as the urge to finish suddenly presented itself. Not sure how she’d feel about that, though he could guess, he fought back the sensation as he turned his mind to something less erotic. His roommate. Instantly Justin’s face came to mind and his soldiers retreated. That was about the only thing Justin was good for. He hadn’t chosen to be bunked with the immature and filthy asshole. In fact, he was supposed to have a private room, but with the ongoing building renovations leaving the private dorms uninhabitable, he was forced to pair up with the prick for what he’d been told would only be a semester, though he suspected that it would be much longer.

  It wasn’t just the fact that Justin’s side of the room looked like a cluttered, food soiled mess, even by a hoarder’s standards. The guy just wasn’t likable. He always bragged about how he’d fucked every girl in his high school and how he’d even landed a couple of teachers, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Since the beginning of the school year he’d been nailing the same girl and for someone supposedly so experienced, he thought fucking your “girlfriend” in someone else's parked RV was wild and exciting. “Amateur,” Corey thought.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “I said use the fucking bathroom down the hall!” Corey shouted in response to the second round of banging at the door.

  The sheets stopping once again, Corey pushed them back into action.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Holy shit. I’m going to beat your fucking ass!” Corey protested through clenched teeth as he tossed the covers aside, revealing the startled blonde between his legs as he prepared to ensure that Justin would never be able to knock on a door again. Before he could get to his feet however, the locked door exploded inward, the knob of the door lodging in the adjacent drywall as young Hoover screamed
and Justin appeared in the doorway with the girl's black panties tightly clenched in his hand.

  “What the fuck, dude!?” Corey swung his leg around the frightened girl as she frantically gathered enough fabric to at least partially conceal herself. He didn’t care that he was naked or that he was currently sporting a massive boner. He and his erection were going to pound the living snot out of the unwelcomed company. Getting to his feet, he took a step forward but hesitated as Justin signaled “stop” with his empty hand.

  “Sit down,” Justin addressed his perplexed and angry roommate.

  “Sit down? You have a lot of fucking nerve bursting in here? I told you to use the fucking bathroom down the-”

  “—Down the hall?” Justin finished the naked kid's sentence. “He did that.”

  “He? Are we referring to ourselves in the third person now?” Corey mocked, something about Justin’s calm and creepily confident demeanor keeping him from advancing any further.

  “Where is he?” Justin ignored the question.

  “Who? I don’t have time to play hide and seek right now. I’m kind of in the middle of someone,” Corey motioned to the girl who was trying to reach her pants on the floor while remaining covered.

  “Where is he?” Justin repeated.

  “I don’t know. You tell me. Where is he?” Corey continued his mocking attitude. “Who the fuck are we talking about?”

  “Drake,” Justin answered.

  “Drake? Drake who?"

  "Drake Miller," Justin clarified.

  "I don’t know any Drakes, so why don’t you take your perverted ass and—“

  “—He was here,” Justin interrupted. This was his room. What year is it?”

  “What? Are you fucking on something man?”

  “What year is it?” Justin insisted, the anger in his voice growing.

  “Fuck you. You know what fucking year it is.”

  Staring at his defiant roommate, Justin paused to take a breath before screaming, “What fucking year is it?!”

  The girl froze in place, her arm still outstretched for her pants.

  “2018,” Corey nervously replied taking a step back, shocked by the level of rage being exhibited by his usually even keeled roommate.

  “Fuck. Were getting closer,” Justin muttered to himself, while looking down at the ground.

  “What are you talking about?” Corey asked, the anger in his voice slowly being overtaken by fear as Justin returned his insane, hateful gaze to the two naked coeds.

  “I guess it will have to do though,” Justin smiled.

  “Dude. You need to get the fuck out of here,” Corey addressed Justin as he knelt to retrieve the girl’s pants from the floor beside him.

  Dropping the wadded up panties, Justin turned his attention to a lacrosse stick leaning against the closet door.

  Following his roommate’s gaze, Corey tossed the pants at the girl and quickly began fumbling with his own.

  Grabbing the piece of sports equipment, Justin turned back to his roommate, the two of them locking eyes, as he issued a menacing grin and closed the door behind him.

  ####

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brian Drinkwater is an American horror/suspense writer with a knack for mind bending stories of a darker nature. His first book, Book of "The Grave", was released in 2013 with his follow up, FOOK, being release one year later.

  Born in Southern California, but raised on Massachusetts' South Shore, Brian has been writing since he was a small child, often testing the boundaries of his school assignments by writing fictitious stories in place of daunting reports. He even invented an English poet his senior year of high-school in order to bypass the school's rule of 'no self written yearbook quotes'. Readers now know this poet as William Grave.

  Though never a big reader, as odd as that may sound, Brian did grow up a fan of Dean Koontz, so it's no surprise that his writing style mimics that of the renowned author, with multiple storylines cohesively coming together by story's end. And with a knack for creating vivid characters with dynamic personalities, as a reader you'll find yourself rooting for, and sometimes against, the people who make up his imaginary world. But don't get too attached, because standard rules don't always apply, and not everyone makes it out alive.

  Brian lives in Southwest Florida with his wife and son.

  Connect with Brian

  Author’s website: http://www.AuthorBrianDrinkwater.com

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/twistedh2o

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