Beautiful Victim

by Claire C. Riley

  My heart soars when she says my name. When her lips meet mine. When her arms wrap around me and hold me close. When her burning body devours mine.

  I slide her head from my chest to the pillow, and I sit up and reach for the glass of water on the bedside cabinet.

  “Oh!” I say, and laugh when I realize that she can’t sit up because her wrists are still tied. I put the glass back down and I help her sit up. I put the glass of water to her lips and help her to drink.

  She smiles and then she says thank you. And I love that she is polite.

  “Can you untie me now?” she asks, her tone suggesting caution.

  I look down at her hands. At her body.

  My smile falls. It slips from my face like water from a glass. I put the glass down, turning away from her to do so, to give myself precious seconds to think her request over.

  Her tied hands reach up to touch my back. “What happened here?” she asks, her fingers tracing the scars on my body. And she’s so tender when she touches me that it gives me faith that she is being genuine with her concern.

  My chest and back are scarred from the viciousness of my life. From when I was a pussy, I think but don’t say.

  I turn back to her and her hands slip away. Her eyes meet mine, cautiously, optimistically. I take her hands in mine, and my mouth tugs at sadness.

  “The past happened to it,” I say.

  Her almond-shaped eyes are cast across my chest. “I’m so sorry,” she says. And it’s sincere.

  “That’s okay,” I reply. I feel overwhelmed, almost choked by her beauty. By her tenderness toward me. By her love.

  She shakes her head, her knotty hair tumbling about her shoulders. “No, it’s not, Ethan. It’s not okay.”

  She leans forward and she kisses one of my scars. The act sends lightning through my body. An electric current surging through my veins.

  “It’s not okay at all,” she murmurs as she kisses more of the scars.

  Her lips press against the scars from my life in prison before they sent me to the hospital.

  The cigarette burns. The pen stab. The razor slices. The boot kick that broke the skin and fractured my ribs. The baby oil burn. And all of the other ones that make up the patchwork of my body.

  She kisses each and every one. Not a single mark of the past is missed by her tender kiss.

  And when she is done, she says, “Roll over now.”

  So I do. And I am still wary of her, but it’s falling away because she is gentle, and loving, and kind. And I’ve waited so long to feel this kindness, this gentle touch from her. From my Carrie. Her skin smells so sweet. And her hair smells of cinnamon. And her kisses are wondrous, magical gifts that she’s bestowing on my broken, battered body. And I need this. I need her kindness. I need her love like I need air.

  She tries to straddle my back, and it’s clumsy and awkward because her ankles and wrists are still tied up. She laughs lightly. It sounds like fairy laughter, light and airy, a set of tiny bells tinkling in my heart.

  So I swallow and I nod, and I untie her hands and I untie her ankles. Because she is mesmerizing, and beautiful. Because she is real and here and present with me. Because she is sweet and kind, and wants to take care of me like I take care of her.

  “Turn over, onto your front,” she says. “Let me kiss each pain away.”

  And I am floating away as I turn over and she straddles my back, and her lips press against each scar, each mutilation carved against my skin. Her kisses burn, they sting, they heal, and they undo me.

  “I’m not a pussy anymore,” I say.

  “I know,” she replies.

  “I promise. I’m a man now.”

  “You are,” she says.

  And she continues to kiss. And she does not run from me. She does not hide anymore.

  It’s just her and me, and everything else falls away while she puts me back together.

  Chapter thirty-nine:

  Her hands move over my body and I shiver under her touch.

  She is as light as a feather and as heavy as an ox. She is there and she is not. And when I can’t take it anymore, when her beguiling touch overpowers me, I turn, swiftly, and I grab her by the hips. She looks down at me, her eyes wide. Hopeful?

  She is frozen still while she waits, while I watch, while I study her.

  I am hard against her buttocks, and I lift her up, because I am strong, and I lower her down on me, because I am hard. I slip inside her easily, because she is soft and eager for me, and she flinches and squeezes her eyes closed. I hold her by her hips and I settle inside her warmth.

  I am home, I think, and then I move her body back and forth on me.

  We are entwined. We are together. This is how we are supposed to be. Her thighs straddle me, her hands on my chest, her nails making new scars upon it. They bring fresh blood with each dagger. But I don’t mind these scars, because they prove that I’m not a pussy. They prove that she was here and I’m not imaging her.

  Fuck you, Benny, I think, and I smile, and I sigh, and she takes over and moves on me, and I thrust into her. And she is the driver now. She is in control, and I let her fuck me. This is not making love, this is fucking. Angry fucking. She’s angry for me and for her, for the life we have both had. And she takes our anger out on my body. Punishing us both with every thrust of her hips.

  Over and over and over…

  I will never have enough of her. She will never be enough. Her body will never be enough. Her mind will never be enough. I can never take enough. She can never give enough…

  More, more, more…

  I am greedy. But I don’t care. She was a whore, but I don’t care. She was running, and I don’t care. Because now she isn’t running. Now she is here with me.

  None of it matters, because all that really matters is the right here and the right now. Not the past. Not what we were, or who we were. Not what we did or didn’t do. Only what we will do now.

  Neither of us care as her breasts bounce and I thrust with my hips harder and harder to meet hers, and I grip with my hands and her nails dig in, and she sighs and she cries and I am coming again. And then I am saying sorry because that was selfish of me, to come so soon, but I couldn’t stop myself. She was too good, I say and I laugh, and she smiles.

  “It’s okay,” she says, but I hear the disappointment in her voice and I see the regret on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m as bad as Adam,” I pout. His name slips out before I can stop it, and I see a flash of something in her eyes—fire and desire, hatred and longing. It all rolls into one. I wish I wouldn’t have said his name because I ruined this moment even more. Now it is tainted by his image, and I want to fuck Carrie again to get him out of her head. But I am tired and I am soft now.

  I flip her over so she is on her back. Her hands cling to me in fear, like she does not want to ever let me go. I smile down at her and I press a kiss to her lips.

  “I can fix this,” I say. “I can fix anything.”

  She looks puzzled, and then I trail my tongue down between her breasts and across her flat stomach, and then I am pushing her thighs apart, ready to press my mouth to her most intimate part. To pry her lips open with my tongue and make her come around it. She’ll be a quivering, shaking mess by the time I am done with her, and Adam won’t even be a distant memory.

  “No, no, please,” she begs, her hands reaching for my hair to pull my head away from her.

  “It’s okay,” I say. I’m excited to do this for her. I’ve watched a lot of films, I know what to do, I explain.

  But she’s still pushing my face away from her, and I frown because I don’t know why she won’t let me do this for her. She smiles and reassures me, and then she’s pulling my face up to meet hers.

  We kiss, for a very long time. My hand trails over her cold skin. Her arms are by her sides. My leg is draped over hers; her body is rigid against the mattress.

  Our kisses end how they should. Like you see in the movies, w
here each person is breathless and mesmerized by the other. Neither of us pulls away, but the kisses peter out and then I am holding her in my arms again. I place a hand on her chest, and I resist the urge to play with her nipples. I watch as her chest rises and falls as with every breath she takes. It’s slow and steady, and I sync my breathing with hers, until we are one. I am soft but I push myself inside of her body and she grunts at my intrusion. My cock twitches but remains flaccid, and that’s okay. This is all okay. I’m not even embarrassed.

  I like this.

  Us.

  Lying here, wrapped inside and outside of each other’s bodies.

  We don’t have to fuck to be together.

  We are together by just being here.

  With her scent heavy around me, and her velvet skin next to mine.

  My eyes slide shut, the blackness taking me under. I am relaxed and ready for sleep. I am ready to dream. But what, I wonder, do you dream about, when your dream has come true?

  *

  I dream of buttercream and cupcakes.

  I dream of my tongue moving through the soft folds at the top of Carrie’s thighs. I dream of spreading her wide and taking her again and again and again…and then I wake up to find I am coming in my own hand, the hot spray of semen marking the sheets and dampening my chest.

  I flush hot, feeling embarrassed and praying that she is still asleep. I look over to where she should be, but she’s not there.

  “Carrie?” I whisper into the darkness, but she doesn’t answer me. I sit up, and I use the duvet to wipe my semen off myself. I throw back the cover and I climb out of bed. I stagger to the wall, still drunk on sleep but hungover on fear. I flick the switch and see that I am alone.

  “Carrie?” I say her name again, but she doesn’t come. I open the bedroom door. Did I shut it earlier? The hallway and landing are dark, like Dracula’s robes. The house is silent, barring my raging heart. I move to the stairs and I go down them as silently as I can.

  If she is down here, I will be mad, and I don’t know what I will do. I don’t know if I will survive if she breaks me again. Downstairs is just as silent. I check the front door and see that it is still locked. Carrie’s bag has been tipped out onto the floor. I mentally list what was in it when I had previously looked.

  Cell phone.

  Keys.

  Purse.

  Mints.

  Lipstick.

  Condoms.

  Hairbrush.

  Everything is there but the cell phone and the keys.

  The keys were lost at the hospital and the cell phone I put down somewhere in the living room.

  I go to the living room and I push the door open.

  She’s there, but she doesn’t see me. Not at first. She’s sitting cross-legged facing the other way. The room is in total blackness, but I can see that she is still naked.

  I ponder, silently, on what she could be doing. What would make her leave my arms, her bed, to come downstairs in the middle of the night, still naked, and sit in the dark living room that still smells faintly of her piss?

  I open my mouth to say her name, but I can’t do it. Because deep down I know that she’s still a fake. That she’s still a fraud. That once more she has used me, and now she is done with me. She is ready to break me again.

  Because that’s what she does. This woman who is so beautiful on the outside but is so ugly on the inside. She uses people. Me. She uses them, me, and when she is done with them, me, she throws them, me, away like yesterday’s garbage. No, not like yesterday’s garbage, because she doesn’t actually throw her garbage away!

  My heart is beating so hard in my chest that I have to touch a hand to it to make sure it’s not ripping free from my body. Because that’s what it feels like. It feels like my heart is trying to escape before the ultimate carnage happens. Before she vomits out her lies and deceit once more.

  And she’s still just sitting there, and maybe I’m wrong, I think. If she was tricking me, she wouldn’t just be sitting there. She would have gone. She can’t get out the front door because it’s locked with a key and we don’t have the key anymore, the hospital does, but she could find a window. The window that I came in through. Twice!

  But she hasn’t gone anywhere; she’s just sitting there quietly in the dark. And I’m calming down and It’s okay, I think. It’s not what I thought at all.

  Perhaps she just needed some time to herself to think about our future. That would make sense. I can understand that. Now that she knows what she wants, she’s thinking about our future. About all the things we will do together.

  Perhaps she’s thinking about if I’ll ask her to marry me. I will.

  Perhaps she’s wondering how many children we’ll have. Three.

  Perhaps she’s wondering what I do for a living and how I will provide for our family. I’ll figure something out.

  Perhaps she’s wondering if we’ll go to my parents’ for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We won’t, Carrie, they don’t talk to me anymore because of what you made me do. They haven’t for a long time. But it’s okay; I only need you. I only ever needed you.

  And I smile even harder as I realize the truth in that statement.

  Fuck you, Mom. Fuck you, Dad. I don’t need you because I have Carrie. She’s not a bad influence. She never was. She was a good influence. Better than good—perfect. And my angry thoughts are all mixed up with hope and anger.

  “Carrie,” I say her name softly, gently, a smile on my lips so as not to startle her, but it does startle her.

  She turns to me, her features lighting up as her cell phone in her hand finally comes to life.

  Chapter forty:

  “No,” I say the word, but it means nothing because it’s full of yeses.

  She looks down at the cell as it beeps twice, the battery charged enough to bring it back to life. It vibrates as a message comes through. Then another and another and another. As several days’ worth of messages begin to come through.

  Fuck, I think.

  “Give it to me,” I say.

  “No,” she replies with a fervent shake of her head. And then she looks back down and starts to type in a number.

  I stride forward and she scoots back, her bare ass dragging along her filthy, piss-stained carpet. I reach down and she lashes out and punches me. But it’s nothing; a fly could do more damage than her. And I laugh, and I don’t recognize the laugh because it’s all bitter and twisted up and it doesn’t sound like me, but there’s only me and her here so I guess it is me. Her hand swats at me as I reach for her, and now it’s my turn to hit her as she tries to dial a number on the cell.

  I don’t punch her this time, but I slap her hard with the palm of my hand. I slap her so hard that her body lifts off the floor and her whole body flies backwards. She falls onto her back with an “oomph” as the air leaves her lungs. The cell falls from her grip but she’s up and she tries to grab it before I can stop her.

  I kick her hand away but still she grabs for it. She’s desperate and ‘time is ticking, Carrie,’ I think as I stand on her small hand with my bare foot.

  I am stronger than her.

  I am a man, not a pussy, and I feel the delicate bones in her hand crunch as I put all of my weight onto it.

  Her grip loosens and she cries out, a cry full of so much pain that it’s almost torturous to listen to. Almost. I reach down and I pry the cell phone from her broken hand. The numbers are still lit up and it shows who she was calling.

  “Really, Carrie? Really?” I snarl out. Because I’m shocked, really fucking shocked at her. And then I press even harder on her hand because I want to hurt her.

  I have never wanted to hurt someone as much as I want to hurt her right now.

  Not the woman in the coffee shop.

  Not Benny for being a pervert.

  Not even my dad for not loving me anymore.

  The pain inside me is a living, breathing monster and it is swarming my senses, begging for validation and revenge.

&nbs
p; Carrie is sobbing, and she’s begging, and she’s saying something but I can’t understand a fucking word between her pathetic hiccupping sobs that remind me of the time her drunk mother turned up at the door asking for Carrie to come home before her dad finished work. But I have no idea why Carrie’s crying right now—other than I am crushing her hand, of course (I’m not stupid). She’s the one who has broken my heart. Broken me. My body, my soul. Again. Like she does every single time she is in my life.

  My fucked-up life, which she fucked up.

  Which she ruined.

  Which she stole.

  I reach back with my other foot and I kick her in the ribs as hard as I can. I know how much that hurts. I remember it from prison. I remember the searing pain as I desperately tried to suck air into my lungs. The tears that burned my eyes as each breath sent splinters of agony rippling through me. And the kicks that were never-ending as they rained down on my young teenage body over and over until I was coughing blood and blacking out. Until the guards were dragging me to the infirmary and telling me I was lucky that they were there because I could have died.

  And then my lawyer spoke to a doctor, and then I spoke to a doctor for a really long time. And then I was back in court and then I was being transferred.

  A hospital was supposed to be better, but it wasn’t—not really. But at least I got to speak to my-counselor-slash-therapist-slash-Mr.-fucking-Jeffrey every day about all the thoughts that were spinning around my head.

  Carrie screams out as my foot hits her again, and then she curls up into a ball and I kick her again because Fuck you, Carrie. Fuck. You!

  And maybe I should have listened to my counselor-slash-therapist-slash-Mr. fucking Jeffrey when he told me to leave the past alone, because no good ever came from looking to the past. Because I should definitely have left Carrie alone. I would have been better never knowing that she was alive, and thinking that she was dead and gone and that I just didn’t remember killing her, because,

  ‘Her blood was all over that crime scene. It was everywhere, son, so tell us what you did with her body.’ That’s what they’d said to me over and over. As if saying it to me would make it make any more sense.