The Need

by Andrew Neiderman

  “I stood back, admiring her. Her beauty was so extraordinary, I had to offer her some solace.

  “‘Think,’ I said, ‘think of the part you would most cherish, the role that you would seek with all your heart. Put yourself on the stage on Broadway. Imagine audiences giving you a standing ovation night after night; envision the lights, smell the makeup, listen for the swish of the curtains opening.

  “‘If you are really as good as you think you are, you will carry yourself off and no longer be here suffering.’

  “I could hear Clea scream: ‘She didn’t give Mark Bini any relief. Why are you giving her any?’

  “I undressed and straddled her. When I looked down, into her eyes, I saw she had taken my advice. She had a far-off look. Her ears were filled with the sounds she wanted to hear.

  “I dipped myself into her, first feeling as if I had lowered myself into a cold bath after being in the steam room. The chill made me shudder and I realized, the chill was coming from her. It was almost like making love to a corpse and for a moment, I nearly retreated; but I felt a pressure on my lower spine—Clea’s hand pressing me down, demanding I do what I had come to do.

  “Gradually, I went deeper and deeper into her until I reached her warmth, the essence of her life, that subterranean pool normally well protected, shielded from thirsty predators, and I began to drink, drawing her life into me, absorbing her. The peach tint went out of her cheeks; the light dimmed in her eyes. Her breathing became labored; her heart clamored for richer blood, her brain screamed for oxygen. I could hear the alarms, feel the bedlam and the turmoil as all her organs cried out the danger. The frantic messages shot through her veins and arteries, every part of her demanding attention.

  “And then as incredible as it might seem, I thought I did hear a thunder of applause and shouts of ‘Bravo, bravo, bravo.’ The ovation trickled to a single pair of hands clapping sharply, until that final salvo ended and the stage went black. When I opened my eyes and looked at her, I saw that the gleam in her eyes was gone. Her lips went slack and fell away from her teeth. Her skin quickly turned cold, clammy, as if a sheet of thin ice had been drawn over her.

  “I lifted myself from her, or rather, what had been she. The odor of death was already escaping through every pore, every orifice. A putrescent cloud of dying flesh settled over her. Without looking at her, I dressed quickly.

  “It was at this point that I felt Clea take more control. Normally, I would have simply left the motel room and driven off to retreat within Clea, but Clea was more demanding. Justice and revenge had become too tightly entwined. She wanted more; she wanted some poetic irony.

  “She made me dress Ophelia, which was something I had never done to a victim before. I hated every moment of it, hated the stiffness in her joints, the icy way her eyes glared accusingly in their death stare. As soon as that was completed, I went to the doorway and looked out. Darkness had begun to fall. Thin, murky shadows were draped over the parking lot. It was as if some giant had thrown a grey veil over the world, but it was quiet, safe. There was no one around.

  “I went out and opened the car door. Then I returned to the room, scooped Ophelia off the bed, as if she weighed no more than a pillow, and carried her out to the car. I sat her up in the front seat, keeping her firmly in position with the seat belt. Of course, her head drooped, but she appeared to be no more than someone dozing.

  “‘Now let’s see, what should we talk about now?’ I asked the corpse as we drove off. I knew Clea enjoyed the humor. ‘Should we still talk about you, or have we exhausted the subject? You do look somewhat exhausted.’

  “Clea’s laughter followed me all the way back to the college. By the time I had returned to the campus, the shadows had darkened and thickened. Night had taken a firm grip. Still in my Shakespearean mood, I thought it was truly the time of day when graveyards yawned. The dead did walk. I drove over the campus street slowly, my car moving like some ghost of a car, a dark spirit threading its horrific way through the darkness, hovering as close to shadows as it could, cowering away from the illumination of the streetlights as if the light had the power to destroy it instantly.

  “Here and there students hurried across the lawns, some returning from late classes, most going to the dorm cafeterias. I drove around to the theater building and parked in the darkness. There I waited, the thump of my heart sounding like the beating of two hearts, Clea’s pulse rushing over mine at times, just as Clea’s thoughts invaded my own.

  “I could feel my skin softening, my bosom aching as the breasts locked within began to throb like an incipient toothache. My penis tightened, retracted. Muscles throughout my body were dwindling. My waist was constricting. There wasn’t much time left. Clea was pounding on the door closed between us. She wanted to emerge and savor the moment, but she was being impatient. Just like a woman, I thought, expecting everything to be done the moment she wanted it done.

  “I got out of the vehicle and went around to unbuckle the dead Ophelia and scooped her into my arms again. With Clea pressuring me to metamorphose, my superior strength began to diminish. I was practically as weak as an ordinary man and Ophelia was, after all, dead weight.

  “Scurrying across the theater parking lot, I made my way to a side entrance. Fortunately it wasn’t locked, for I didn’t think I still had sufficient strength to yank it open. Once inside, I listened to be sure I was alone. Satisfied I was, I made my way down the corridor and entered the auditorium. I rushed down the aisle and placed Ophelia on the foot of the stage. Then I climbed onto the stage and opened the curtain.

  “The stage was set up for The Zoo Story, a one-act play taking place on a park bench. I put Ophelia’s corpse on the bench, tilting her head back so her gaping mouth would be visible to the audience. Then I went to the costume and makeup room and got out the makeup kit. I returned to the stage and worked on her face until I had her looking like the mask of tragedy with two long black tears down her now-chalk-white face. I returned everything to the makeup and costume room and went up to the lighting panel. I found the light I wanted, a single spotlight placed to cut out the bench from the rest of the stage. I tightened the focus until all that was visible was her ghoulish face.

  “That done, I stepped out into the audience and inspected my work. I could hear the clapping begin deep within me. It was Clea’s clapping. It built in momentum and volume until it took over my arms and hands and I was clapping. Clea emerged more and more with each clap. I felt myself sinking inside her, and I felt her satisfaction. I retreated somewhere below the thunder of her applause. I would no longer resist metamorphosis.

  “I had done what she had wanted.”

  I looked up slowly from the diary, aware that there were tears streaming down my cheeks. Whenever I read this section, I cried because it reminded me how much Richard loved me and how he would do anything to please me.

  My detective simply stared, his head still propped up by his hand.

  “And so,” he finally said, “I assume that was the way Ophelia Dell was discovered?”

  I nodded. “Early the next morning.”

  “No one checked on what time you girls arrived at night, or saw to it that you did arrive, so she wouldn’t have been missed?”

  “No. It was a fully liberated dorm. We could have men in our rooms; we could smoke, have alcoholic beverages. We came and went as we pleased.”

  “What happened next? Surely, there was an investigation that involved you.”

  “The custodian who found Ophelia’s corpse on stage called the campus police. The story spread like a forest fire during a drought. Students flocked to the theater to see if they could catch a glimpse of the ghastly sight. You know how people are attracted to gore and death, how they slow down on the freeways to gape at an accident—their infatuation with the macabre.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said dryly. “I know all about it.”

  “Some students actually got to see her before the body had been removed. And many who did exaggerated what th
ey saw—there was a slash across her neck, her eyes had been gouged … stuff like that.”

  “But the police questioned you, of course.”

  “Oh yes. The girls who had been in the dorm lobby described Richard, and I was questioned about him. I told them no one of that description was familiar to me, and I had no boyfriend now or in the past called Thomas.”

  “They believed you?”

  “What could they do? It appeared some psychopath was clever enough to use my name. Oh, it was hairy for a while—the scrutiny. They traced him to the motel and brought me a composite picture drawn by a police artist who had listened to the motel owner and some of the girls at the dorm. Naturally, I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Weren’t there any resemblances?”

  “Nothing that they picked up on. Of course, I was very worried for a while and so was Richard. He made no effort to emerge for months afterward.

  “And when Janice found out, she was very angry. She was going to pull me out of the school. I had to promise that nothing like that would ever occur again while I was there. After a while, the police investigation dwindled to nothing. We all went on with our lives.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “Asphyxiation. Just like all the others.”

  “Did you have any regrets? Feel any remorse once time passed and you realized what you and Richard had done?”

  “None whatsoever. She got what she deserved. I went on with my acting and received rave reviews, enough to draw the attention of a theatrical agent—Freddy Bloom, who came down from New York to see me.”

  “And that’s how you got discovered?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I closed Richard’s diary and leaned back on the pillow. My detective continued to stare at me. I ran my fingers through his hair.

  “You have nice hair, healthy hair. They say you can tell a person’s state of health through the condition of his or her hair.”

  “Goes all the way back to Samson and Delilah,” he said.

  “Yes.” I laughed.

  “When are you going to turn that diary over to me?” he asked, nodding toward it on the nightstand.

  “Soon. Are you anxious to get on with your investigation and rid yourself of me?”

  “Just keeping my eyes on the prize.”

  “Can’t you forget who and what you are for a while?”

  “Can you?”

  “Sometimes.” He looked skeptical. “Especially when I’m performing, assuming another identity.”

  “That’s why you wanted to be an actress,” he said quickly. “It provides you with a means of escape.”

  I turned away. I certainly didn’t expect he would be so perceptive. It was a bit frightening. There were things I didn’t want him to know. Now I wondered if it would be possible to reveal so much and not in the process reveal it all.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Something I picked up yesterday, something you said about you and Richard being different from other Androgyne. There is a little too much of, what shall I say, inferior blood in you. Perhaps somehow your family line became diluted over the years.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It can’t happen. We don’t mingle with inferiors. I told you—only Androgyne can propagate Androgyne.”

  “Maybe in your history there was some inbreeding, an accident.”

  “No.”

  “How else can you explain it?”

  “Explain what?”

  “You desire sometimes to be an inferior.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Sure you do. It’s why you permitted yourself to fall in love with Michael,” he said.

  I turned to him sharply. His eyes were penetrating. Usually, I didn’t underestimate an inferior male’s abilities. Why had I underestimated his?

  “I’m thirsty,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Wouldn’t mind,” he replied shrugging. “What do you want? I’ll get it.”

  “Just some orange juice on ice.”

  “Okay.”

  He rose from the bed. Naked, he walked out of the room. I lay back and closed my eyes. My heart began to pound. Richard was pulling himself up out of the darkness within me. I could feel his struggle. When I heard his voice now, it was softer, calmer, concerned.

  “Let me come,” he pleaded. “For both our sakes. Before it’s too late. Please, Clea. Let me come. You have told this policeman too much. I have to end it. Now.”

  Perhaps he was right, I thought. Just thinking it permitted him a toehold. I could feel him pull himself up and out of the shadows. I didn’t want him to emerge, but it was dangerously close to the point of no return, like going too far with a sexual embrace. The heat in the blood rushes over any hesitation and all restraint is quickly melted down.

  My fingers tightened into a fist, my fingernails cutting into my palms until I felt the pain. My legs straightened and hardened. I felt a trembling in my bosom as my breasts became firmer. They were beginning to dissolve, the pectoral muscles beneath them enlarging. My shoulders started to thicken. When I ran my tongue over my upper lip, I could feel the emerging face hair. Soon, it would be too late to stop the metamorphosis. Richard would be waiting in this bed when the detective returned with my juice.

  EIGHT

  “ARE YOU ALL right?” my detective asked. He was standing at the side of the bed looking down at me, but I hadn’t heard him return. I felt the beads of sweat on my forehead and when I looked up at him, I realized my vision had become blurry because his well-developed pectoral muscles looked like breasts.

  “Here,” he said when I didn’t reply. “Drink some of this and you will feel better.”

  I didn’t respond, so he brought the glass of juice to my lips, held my head and tilted the glass so the fluid would run in over my tongue. It was difficult to swallow, but I managed to ingest some. The cold juice was welcomed. My insides had become as blistering hot as the insides of a furnace. I knew my body was crimson and to my detective, it must look like a fire raged within, the flames just under my skin. I thought I would soon be consumed by the blaze and go up in smoke right before his eyes.

  He put his palm on my forehead.

  “You’re feverish,” he said. “Something’s happening, isn’t it?”

  I could barely nod. I heard him rush into the bathroom and run water into the tub. Moments later, he returned and slipped his arms under me. I was surprised at the ease with which he lifted me and carried me toward the bathroom. When I rested my face against his chest, I thought the heat from my body would singe him, but he was oblivious to pain or discomfort. This close to me, he looked even more distorted. His lips were long and very red and his eyebrows were thin. His eyes were suddenly almond-shaped eyes and caught the light like crystal. I had to close my own eyes.

  He lowered me slowly into the tub. The cold water was shocking. I tried to pull myself out, but he held me down, forcing me to endure the flow of the ice-cold water over my legs, my stomach, my torso. He dipped his hands into the water and anointed my head with it. I shivered and cried out, but he didn’t stop. It was as if he knew it was Richard crying out, not me; for the cold bath was having its effect.

  I felt Richard lose his firm grip on the rope of identity. His fingers slipped as if the water I was submerged in had run down the rope, turning it into a cord of ice. He held on but continued to slide. He sunk quickly into the dark pool of anonymity again. I heard his final cry of panic and defeat, and then, all was quiet within me. I lay back against the tile, numb.

  My detective lifted me from the water and quickly brought me back to my bed where he wrapped me in bath towels. My body still quivered so he embraced me and held me to him, rocking me as if I were a baby as he rubbed my back in small circular caresses. Soon, I felt a surge of warmth returning. It crawled up my body, covering me with a pleasant afterglow.

  I sighed. My clear vision returned; my heartbeat slowed; and I resumed normal breathing.

  “Ho
w are you doing?” my detective asked. All the distortions in his face were gone.

  “Better. Thank you. But how did you know to do that and so quickly?”

  “Just basic first aid,” he said nonchalantly as if he did something like it every day.

  “Hardly basic. I doubt very much that anyone is taught how to stop a metamorphosis.”

  He laughed and stood up.

  “I took a shot, hoping it would help. You looked like you were on fire and water puts out a fire,” he said, shrugging. “Drink some more juice,” he advised and gave me the glass. This time I could hold it myself. He watched me drink, his eyes intent, riveted, looking like the eyes of a physician who studied his patient.

  “What happened? What brought it on?” he asked. “I hope it wasn’t something I said,” he added, smiling.

  “Sometimes, it just happens,” I replied, shifting my eyes away from him.

  “But you usually have warning. Isn’t that why you seduced me earlier?” he asked, his smile turning salacious.

  “I let down my guard and Richard took advantage. It’s as simple as that,” I added quickly.

  “Why?”

  “Why did I let down my guard or why did he take advantage?”

  “Both.”

  “I was careless, forgetful … perhaps because I had just finished reading his words.”

  “It didn’t happen to you when you read his words before,” he pursued. “Did it?”

  “Oh, what’s the difference. It’s over.”

  “Why would he want to emerge now?”

  “To rip off your head,” I snapped. I glared up at him. “Satisfied?”

  “So then I saved my life by coming up with the cold bath therapy, huh?”

  “I’m sure you did. Perhaps you should go.” I turned away from him and pulled the blanket over me.

  “You want me to leave? After all that’s happened to you?” he asked incredulously. I didn’t reply. “What if someone tries to kill you again? What if Richard metamorphoses while you’re asleep?”

  “So then you will return and arrest him for the murder of Michael Barrington.”