Beautiful Victim

by Claire C. Riley

  I hear water flowing down the pipe next to me and I look up, the rain splashing in my eyes, and I see a light on in a top window.

  It must be the bathroom. She’s having a shower, or a bath. She wants to wash Mr. Fancy Asshole off her body.

  I smile. Good girl.

  I push on the window and it begins to slide up, so I start to climb inside and shake my head as I do this and think, You should lock that, Carrie. You need to be more careful because you never know who will try to come in through your windows.’

  I notice this window is dirty as I slide through it on my hands and knees, not clean like the ones at the front of the house, which I think is strange. And then I fall onto the floor. Damn, I would make a terrible thief.

  I stand up and knock into the side table next to me. A small vase of flowers topples over and rolls toward the edge. I catch it before it falls and smashes. I stand the vase back up, feeling the petals of the small peonies and realizing that they are fake.

  Oh, Carrie. Fake flowers? Really? This isn’t like you at all.

  I shake my head.

  I do not smile.

  I don’t like sneaking around in her house, even if it does give me a glimpse into her more private life. But it needs to be done and I’m certain that there will be a photo or something of her somewhere, and I’ll be out of here before she even knows I’ve been in.

  I can hear the music better now, and it’s not as nice as I first thought, actually. I frown as I let the music wash over me. It’s too fast, the beat too hard; the singer is singing about how love will break you down and crush you. I shake my head again because this is all wrong.

  I realize that I must have tainted her view on men. Broken her trust somehow and now she doesn’t know how to love.

  She doesn’t understand it.

  Probably thinks she doesn’t deserve it.

  You do, I want to scream.

  I’m in a strange room. It’s not a dining room, or a front room. It’s neither one or the other. There are books and a desk and shelving, and an old rusted bike leaning against the wall. There is mess and clutter, and dust as I run my finger along the top of the shelves. I tut; this is no good, no good at all.

  Carrie, I want to say, you’re turning into your mother. You’ll end up with lice like you had as a little kid if you keep on like this. I turn around and walk to the door, knowing that I can still save her because at least most of her damned windows were clean.

  It’s not all hopeless yet.

  I open the door and go into the hall.

  The flooring is dark wood—mahogany, I think. It’s polished but dirty. The walls are painted a burgundy, with mahogany wall panels on the lower half. It makes the space seem too small and too cramped. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. It makes me feel closed in and breathless. I thought she would have better taste. I thought she would have had more style. I thought the walls would be light and cream colored, with small floral prints to show off her delicate feminine side.

  There’s a large mirror on the wall, but no photos anywhere.

  Who are you hiding from? I think.

  Yourself? I wonder.

  I catch sight of myself as I pass the mirror and I shake my head. Small droplets of rainwater fall from my hair and sprinkle onto the floor. I tut and try to rearrange my hair. I run my hands down my face to get rid of the excess moisture. I look a mess, and I’m still cold. My sneakers are muddy, my clothes are soaked through. I shiver at the coldness pressing against my skin.

  This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

  A photo. I need to find a photo.

  I hear her singing upstairs, her soft voice dancing down to me.

  Is this proof enough? I wonder. I’d know her voice anywhere, wouldn’t I? Yet I know it’s not enough. I need to see her. I need to be certain. I need to be positive.

  I know all too well what can happen when mistakes are made.

  I hear the shower shut off, and the bathroom door opens. I look up and see her shadow dancing across the landing. I take the first step up.

  Just a peep, I think.

  I take another step up. She’s singing to herself, a song I don’t know. This is better than the music downstairs. It’s soothing and less angry. Her voice calms me. I hear her footsteps moving around her bedroom. I hear her laugh and the click of something, and I’m so curious I can’t stop myself from taking another step upwards.

  I smile along with her laugh, excited by the wonder that is Carrie. I wonder what new thing she is doing as I hear another click and I hear another giggle.

  A giggle, not a laugh. A giggle. Like she’s a child again, before all the bad stuff happened, when she knew how to smile and laugh and have fun. Fun that wasn’t getting drunk or making me touch her. Innocent fun like playing in the dirt and chopping worms in half.

  Did you know if you chop a worm in half—wait, I think I already told you that.

  When I’m almost at the top of the stairs, my sneakers slip because they’re wet.

  Stupid rain.

  They make a squeak sound.

  Stupid sneakers.

  She stops giggling.

  Stupid world.

  She comes to the doorway of her bedroom.

  “Hello?” she says.

  She’s naked, I see.

  “Adam, is that you?” Her mouth pulls up into a smile, and she puts one hand on her hip.

  Her body is beautiful.

  I mean really fucking beautiful.

  She was right; her breasts hadn’t finished growing, and neither had the rest of her.

  She’s a goddess in my eyes. Her hips are perfect, her breasts full grown. Her stomach is flat and toned and her skin is golden, not gray like the prostitute upstairs in my apartment building.

  “Adam?” she says his name again. Not my name because she hasn’t seen me yet. But I can’t wait to hear her say my name. For the letters to spill from her beautiful, seductive mouth. She’ll call my name as I fuck her. As I brand her insides with my cock. She’ll scream Ethan over and over as we come together in a tangle of sweat and limbs.

  But I should go now. This isn’t the way it should be. I know it’s her now, so I should go before she does see me. Yet I can’t. I can’t seem to look away. She’s Medusa. She’s an angel. She’s a witch and I’m under her spell.

  She’s mesmerizing.

  She’s fascinating.

  She’s beguiling.

  And I can’t look away.

  Carrie swallows and her eyes grow wary. She’s still naked, and wet. Water from her shower trails between her breasts and over her pert, pink nipples. Nipples I want to suck on and bite. The water trails down over her golden skin and pools into her belly button. It drips between her thighs, to the warm spot that I know is right there at the top.

  I bet she tastes like candy, I think. Sweet and juicy.

  I’m touching myself; my hand shoved down my pants as I slowly tug on my cock, and…No, no this is wrong. I can’t do that here, now. I need to go.

  But I can’t move because she’ll see me.

  I can’t go back.

  No one can ever go back.

  That’s what my counselor-slash-therapist-slash-Mr. Fucking Jeffrey-slash-know-it-all always says. You can’t go back, you can only go forward. What has been has been. Let the future be your beginning.

  So I do.

  I let the future be my beginning.

  I take another step up, and I stop hiding in the shadows. This isn’t how it was supposed to go down, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. I guess all that matters is that we’re together now.

  I smile as I stand. As I take another step upwards.

  She doesn’t smile.

  Her eyes grow wide. Her jaw opens and hangs there without words coming out. That’s not very attractive, I think, but don’t say. Because of course—manners.

  Her hair is wet. It looks darker when it’s wet. Just like I remember. It hangs over her left shoulder, partially hiding one breast
because her hair is so long.

  Do you remember when your mom cut all your hair off? I want to say. But look at it now. Look how long and beautiful it is.

  “How did you find me?” Carrie says. Her cell is in her hand, it’s flashing and playing music, but she doesn’t seem to realize.

  And I think that’s not a very nice way to greet someone that you haven’t seen in so many years. But then I realize she doesn’t know all the things I’ve done to find her. She doesn’t know I was outside all day in the cold. Or that I had to pay so much money for a cab ride to follow Mr. Fancy Asshole here. Or that my sneakers are ruined because she didn’t put gravel down by the side of her house and instead let the mud and weeds grow seeping up the side of her home, strangling it, strangling her, and us and me. Her manners aren’t perfect, but I can forgive her that. It must be a shock to see me here, in her home. A surprise. A good one though, no doubt.

  So I say, “Hi.”

  She swallows again. “How did you get in here?”

  And again, that’s quite rude to ask. She could at least say hi, but oh well. “Your window wasn’t locked,” I say. “You should lock it in future because it’s not safe. Anyone could have broken in.”

  I smile again. My best smile. The one that my mom used to like. The one that normally makes women look at me differently. But Carrie doesn’t look impressed, and I know it’s because I don’t have her favorite flowers and I didn’t bring expensive wine, and of course because I’m soaked through and my hair doesn’t look nice.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, hoping to appease her in some way.

  She looks frightened. Her golden skin looks more like the prostitute’s now; gray and dead, like all the color has been washed out of it. Bumps have formed across her naked skin and I want to touch it, to rub away the goosebumps. The shivers of cold that have hardened her nipples.

  “Are you cold?”

  “What?” she says.

  And even that sounds rude. The polite thing would be to say “pardon?” or “excuse me?” but she doesn’t say those things. She just says “what,” like a common whore would say.

  “You’re naked, and wet,” I say. “Aren’t you cold?”

  She looks down, as if she forgot that she was naked, and when she looks back up her eyes are even wider and she looks even more frightened. And I want to tell her that everything is going to be okay, and she doesn’t need to be frightened. Not even of me. Not ever.

  But I don’t get time to say any of those things because she turns and runs into her bedroom screaming. She drops her cell as she runs and it skids across the landing.

  Ain’t that always the way? I think with a frown.

  Chapter fifteen:

  I don’t move for approximately 2.5 seconds, and then I run up the stairs calling her name.

  “Carrie? It’s okay!” I call as I run. “I’m not angry!” I say, because no doubt that’s what she’s worried about.

  I slip on the top step and fall. I slam my face against the hard mahogany floor and my teeth smash together. It hurts and I yell out in pain. When I sit up I can taste blood in my mouth. It’s dripping down over my lips and down my chin. I stand up and it drips from my chin to the floor.

  She’s shut her bedroom door, and I try the handle but it’s locked so I speak to her through the wood.

  “Carrie? It’s me, Ethan. Please don’t be frightened, I’m sure it was a shock for you,” I say, but she doesn’t open the door. “I meant to bring flowers and wine. Not the cheap stuff either. I was going to bring you something expensive because I know you like expensive things now, and that’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  She still doesn’t answer me, and she still doesn’t open the door. And I’m getting annoyed now, because what the fuck’s wrong with her? I thought she’d be happy to see me. And then I think, I bet she’s embarrassed, because she called Mr. Fancy Asshole’s name and not mine.

  There’s not much I can do about that. She did call his name, and it did hurt, but she needs to know that I forgive her anyway. That it’s going to be okay now that I’m here.

  I jiggle the handle again, but it doesn’t budge so I barge it with my shoulder. She squeals when I do that, as the door shakes in the frame, and I like that. I like that squeal. It makes the hairs on my arms tingle and stand to attention like soldiers, so I barge the door again, and by the third time the door collapses open and my cock is rock hard in my pants.

  I nearly fall over as I stumble in, but I stop myself just in time.

  Carrie is in the corner of her room. She’s still naked, like she doesn’t even care that I can see all of her. Has she no shame?

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t care about him.” I smile again, but she still doesn’t smile back.

  She still looks scared. And she’s never looked at me like that before. She looked at her dad like that, but not me, because she knows I would never hurt her. She knows that. So why is she looking at me like that now?

  “What are you doing here, Ethan? How did you find me?” Her voice tremors when she talks, and all I want to do is hold her and kiss the top of her wet hair and tell her I love her and it’s okay.

  “I don’t care about him.” I nod and smile and hope this will calm her down.

  “Him? Who?” She scowls at me.

  “Mr. Fancy Asshole,” I say, and still she looks blank. “Adam, I presume. The guy you just fucked,” I snarl. And I don’t like speaking to her like that, but I can’t help it. The words make me angry. I want to spit them out, so I do. I spit on her floor, and then I apologize because that’s really not very polite and it’s also unhygienic.

  Do you know how many bacteria live in your mouth? Around twenty billion. Disgusting isn’t it?

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I say, and I get down on my knees and I wipe the floor with my soaking-wet sleeve. I don’t like it on me; I can practically feel the millions of germs crawling up my arm, but it’s not fair for it to be on her floor, even though her downstairs is dusty and her windows are dirty. “It just makes me feel sick to think about you with him,” I say.

  She’s still not saying anything, and before I can stop myself, I say, “Do you like fucking him, Carrie? Please say no.”

  Her eyes go wide, but she looks more angry than afraid now. And I think I prefer that emotion.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. Of course you don’t. I understand, I really do. We’ll be fine. I promise. We’ll get past you being with him. I’ll get past it.”

  And we will, I know we will. I’ll work on my jealousy issues. I’ll get over the whole Adam thing. I’ll fuck the feeling of Adam out of her body and out of her head, and everything will be fine.

  “We’ll get past it?” she whispers, looking confused.

  “Yes.” I nod and smile. “You should put some clothes on,” I say. And I can’t stop my eyes straying to her pert breasts. The sight of them makes my heart beat faster because I remember what they used to feel like and how they fit in my hand, but now they are bigger and heavier and I don’t think they’d fit in my hand now. I think they’d bulge over the top.

  Drum, drum, drum…my heart is beating the same rhythm as the prostitute fucking one of her johns.

  “You’re so beautiful, Carrie.” I smile. “And you were right.” I point to her breasts, and she looks down at them and then back up at me.

  “About what?” she asks.

  “They weren’t fully grown yet,” I say happily. “But they are now.”

  Because I want her to know that I’m observant. A good husband would be observant and notice things like that. Just like I’ll notice the subtle change in her body when she’s pregnant with my child. I’ll notice and I’ll tell her how beautiful she is every day. And when she worries she’s getting fat, I’ll tell her it’s baby insulation, and she’ll laugh and say yes, I suppose it is. And then she’ll say she’s going to breastfeed our baby because it’s the healthier option and also that it helps burn calories. And she�
�ll promise to get back in shape right after the birth and I’ll laugh and tell her I don’t care what she looks like. But of course I do really, deep down. I mean, no one wants a fat wife, do they? But I’d never tell her that because I love her. So she’ll breastfeed and she’ll lose the weight and she’ll be my hot, sexy wife with the perfect tits and the tight ass, and…

  “Oh God,” she says. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “You’re not pregnant are you?” I ask. I don’t think she looks pregnant, but I’ll tell her that I’ll raise the baby as my own if she is, and that we won’t tell Adam because I don’t want him to be a part of our lives. And I’ll tell her that I’ll love the child as if it were my own, but of course I won’t, because it’s not really my child—it’s Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam’s child. And I hate him. So as soon as she’s given birth, I’ll get her pregnant again so that she can have our baby, and then it really will all be okay. And we’ll get to have lots of sex, which will be great as well, of course. And we’ll have two kids, and then a year later I’ll make sure she has more. Because we’ll want a big family, and we also like fucking, so it’s hard to keep our hands off each other. It’s hard to keep my sperm away from her. It’s like we’re supposed to be. Our bodies were made perfectly for one another.

  And everything will be perfect…

  Apart from it won’t be okay, not really, because we’ll still have Adam’s child living with us for the next eighteen years and that will suck so badly. But I won’t ever let her know how much I think she’s a stupid whore for getting herself knocked up by that prick. And when the kid grows up I’ll make sure it leaves home and doesn’t want to ever come back.

  “No!” she says quickly.

  And thank God, I think.

  “I feel sick because you’re here.”

  “What?” I say. And it’s not very polite of me. I should have said “pardon” or “excuse me,” but I didn’t because I am so shocked that she said that.

  “I want you to leave, Ethan,” she says. “Get out!”

  And What a fucking bitch, I think.

  Chapter sixteen: