Mayhem

by Michael MolisanI

  Slowly, as her barriers lifted, more of Townsend’s mind opened up to her. Every minute was a plunge deeper and further into his memories, his dreams and desires. There were nightmares there too, dark recesses guarded by creatures like snakes with glowing eyes of gold and silver. She wasn’t a thing in his heart now, she was an idea, a liquid parcel, invading his blood and marrow, running deep and wrapping around those angry warnings his subconsciousness had created. Nightmares held their own physical weight, and Townsend moaned in release as each stone fell off his awareness. Margaret was at play in her favorite game now, her nails digging into his chest and fingers pausing to clutch and manipulate his nipples as her mind untethered his fear and ache, giving him permission to offer himself as a divine gift, bone and muscle, dream and sorrow, wrapped in tobacco and soap lard.

  “It's a gift,” Margaret writhed up and across Townsend, one hand tugging at the knot of linen binding her breasts, the other curling around his shorn skull so she could whisper into his ear. Her lips brushed the lobe and she could feel the warmth of her breath reflected, “You can’t be all mine when you’re tied to pain. Understand?”

  Townsend understood. He said as much. Perhaps out loud, perhaps in his mind, there was no way for Margaret to know. They were too close, pieces and parts that stitched up their minds had mixed together just as the sweat on their skin. For Margaret, this was a symphony she directed, one instrument at a time. Her hands teased, lips suckling at fingertips or gnawing on the soft flesh inside of his forearms. Her mind; however, pulled Townsend away from the waking world like a small toy stolen by tide. She wanted him to show her all his secrets, this play made from shadow puppets aroused Margaret.

  The other boys in the army always made fun of him. Townsend was just sixteen when he first kissed a girl. Old for a Collapse boy, most would have lost their virginity earlier - whether the girl said yes or not.

  “I like the way you kiss,” Margaret answered the memory, her lips pinching at his, pressing back his thick moustache, as she ran her tongue over and under his, matching the curious explorations of her hand as she reached down past his thighs, between his legs.

  The girl was named Katherine. She had freckles across her nose. Those freckles were beautiful and when Townsend kissed her, he didn’t close his eyes. He knew he was supposed to, the other boys told him he needed to, but he watched her freckles instead.

  Margaret blushed, and realized Townsend still didn’t kiss with his eyes closed, he was watching her freckles now, they’d swept up at his desires. Margaret answered by sliding her hand to his throat, pressing her fingers around his windpipe to remind him that his memories, his desires, were a manifestation with her.

  “Tell me about Katherine,” Margaret whispered again, her lips brushing on his as she withdrew from the kiss, a narrow strand of saliva falling down her chin.

  Katherine was an Ohio girl, her parents worked along trade routes. At sixteen, Townsend held post in the border towns and only saw her every few months. They’d make time, clumsy fingers reaching under clothes, hands exploring nervously, but breaking apart at the last second.

  Margaret was pressing Townsend backward, further and further, until he was prone on the floor, looking away, breathing heavily. She smiled, pulling herself up, leaning over his bare chest, adorned with his own scars.

  She pulled her mind from his, resting only at the ledge of his consciousness, just as she slid her own pudenda close to where a hand still clutched between his legs, viscous humectation dripping down her fingers.

  “Why did you always stop?” the words escaped on her long exhale, her body and hands still. Townsend was caught in a moment of tense anticipation. He spoke, and maybe the words were in the air, or maybe the words existed beyond hearing, but he begged Margaret to return. She shook her head, licking her own lips and halting the giggle that tickled at her throat; only for a moment, “Why did you always stop?” She repeated. She could take the memory, but it would turn bitter and spoil the presentiment.

  It seemed to Townsend that Katherine was perfect, a woman who shouldn’t even exist by the covenant of desire. It felt to him as if the moment they crossed over from playful fumbling and slobbery experimentation that the covenant would be broken, and she’d never seem so beautiful to him. Her breasts would never curve the same, and her laugh would turn dull, listless.

  “A day came that you couldn’t stop.” Margaret made the bet, promised it to the air around them. Looking away from Townsend, out the foggy glass of his room, she reached down between them to the juncture of their writhing bodies, warm and sticky. She didn’t want to rush this, it was her favorite part, throwing the dice. Her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings, darting and weaving, suckling for something sweet.

  The day did come that Townsend didn’t flee, didn’t let go. He thought he loved Katherine in that moment, believing the two would marry and grow old. How could they not? Their bodies pressed together like lost puzzle pieces, each responded to the other in perfect symmetry.

  The dice fell, and Margaret won her bet. She shrieked like a feral cat when she forced herself down onto Townsend and came almost immediately. This was the moment, the crescendo she most desired, just as the first clamor of thunder at battle. Just as first blood was spilt. There was no difference in her mind; she was the conductor of carnal desire, both rich and bitter.

  “That’s sweet,” Margaret grinned, laughing, cackling as her body responded to the release of tantalization, “But, I’m not so sweet.”

  Margaret wasn’t. Her hips swayed into Townsend, a hungry, starved animal grinding flesh off bone. She was violent, pouring through his dreams and memories, allowing it to fall across her body, back arched, mouth agape, thirsty for every single ounce of anger, satisfaction, triumph, loathing.

  Townsend stood at the plains of Omaha, front-left, center-lines, main company ordered to hold pending release order. The antique M1 rifle is braced against his shoulder, he was looking down iron sites at a range of perhaps one-thousand yards. Only a fool would take the shot, only a fool would defy orders. Townsend was that fool. He took the shot and the rifle reported across the open air of tan wheat and dry soil. The Omaha scout took a thirty-ought-six in the chest and exploded like a ripe watermelon. Townsend was the king of this battle. Townsend would live forever.

  Margaret’s fingers joined at his solar plexus, thumbs crossed. Her hands slid down to where their bodies met, leaning into him, suffusing her own mucilaginous discharge. She couldn’t tell him with her voice how it felt to know his victory while she drove him further inside her. Her chest felt like it would rip open and her bones would conduct electricity. She wanted to scream with laughter and maybe she did.

  Or maybe she attempted to asphyxiate him with her tongue.

  Whatever remained of his gentle probing had vanished in a cyclone of desire. Margaret and Townsend ceased to be unique people. Though uninclined, Townsend responded to Margaret’s embers of emotion and memory, and the two operated succinctly. She wanted him to clutch and tug at her flesh, down the sides of her breasts, wrenching at her as if she was an unseen foe whose castigation was required for survival. He did, no words or thoughts exchanged, and it hurt, thumb size welts raise along her pale, moist skin.

  Lost in lurid, physical ecstasy, memories played out in every fiber of her being. Margaret orchestrated the symphony to its climax. It was such a gray idea that she dreaded the introduction, the climb in tempo, the play of tone and notes across her body. No matter how good the meridian was, this was the end, and Margaret hated endings above all else. Her favorite moments were now long past, the gamble, the victory and the raging, ungovernable ferocity of feeling another inside her for the first time.

  She didn’t release him, only ceased the assault of her hips and leaned in. Townsend’s breathing was ragged, and his eyes closed. Part of his mind was pulled backwards into sleep, his soul as spent as his body. A piece of him remained, watching and listening, wondering at the small woman that clutches hi
s body to her own.

  One last secret, one more box to open. Margaret couldn’t resist.

  It was not simply that Lady Mayhem’s freckles reminded Townsend of Katherine, long in the grave. It was the way she smiled, sweet and vicious, merciless and obliging. This night would be his to treasure.

  Margaret, caught in a similar web of exhaustion, put this secret back in the box. She didn’t want to hurt him. He’d given her far too much and she’d never been an ungrateful lover. It wasn’t the first time a man harbored feelings for her. In his secret dreams and hopes, he imagined Margaret at his side, at the cusp of some great battle, immortal in their dominance over some old, great foe.

  She allowed herself to fall asleep on his chest, covered in sweat, dreaming of Omaha and Katherine’s freckles. Margaret would never allow herself to visit a partner a second time, and at this moment she regretted that.

  3:03am January 10th, 39 Veilfall

  Stockton, California

  Margaret sauntered across Stockton’s cobblestone streets. More durable to the elements, they’d long ago replaced crumbling asphalt. Her bare feet trod softly, pebbles and dirt biting between her toes.

  Her entire body was bound up in the glow of satisfaction, spent and gazing nostalgically over the memories of Townsend. Consuming so much of another person was intoxicating, better than strong liquor most nights, if she was honest with herself.

  “Got a light?”

  Margaret had believed herself alone on the street, but a woman a few yards away swung herself outward with one hand clutching a cast iron lamp post. It hissed as it burned, illuminating the street in bounding yellow light and mirror. Margaret’s hand clutched the subcompact pistol that had been wrapped up in her cleavage, concealed under the corset that draped over her left arm. Her finger moved to the trigger, and ice water dribbled down her spine.

  The woman wore too much makeup, her lips were painted a red that would make flame feel inadequate, and a great deal of time had been spent making her hair appear naturally mussed. Her clothes were expensive, leather bustier and boots, suede skirt, and a fox fur coat. A whore, an expensive one at that, not a common street walker or pussy peddler. Her eyes; however, were not eyes. Her eyes were the ocean, windows to a clear, blue sea, waves rippling, hinting at unfathomable depths. Margaret could have sworn she heard the cries of seagulls and water lapping at rocks out of sight, lulling her into an uneasy calm.

  Margaret blinked, hard, once and twice, a ritual she’d learned as a child. Each blink built barriers, boundaries more intense than the walls which silenced crowded streets. These defenses were active, moving, a latticework of energy that unwrapped like a bow in her mind, spinning up and around her: projected curtains. It didn’t matter how this entity had surprised her, it mattered now that she be prepared for anything.

  The woman smiled, and Margaret’s chest caught mid-breath. The whore shook her head, “Tell me you’ve met gods before. Tell me I’m not yanking virginity out of your throat.”

  She smelled like salt breeze and moist genitalia. Pungent with lust, desire. At the edge of that sensation was a sharp set of knives that poked and prodded playfully with the ribbons of defense Margaret found herself behind.

  “I have,” Margaret whispered, barely a sigh.

  “Mar-gar-et. Mar-gar-et,” the whore sang quietly, releasing the iron of the gas lamp, head tilted down and a smile creeping across her face. With one hand held out, wrist up and fingers embracing a single, white cigarette. “Got a light?”

  Margaret began to stutter. It wasn’t a sense of fear, it was a physical reaction to being near so much manifest power. Her clavicle and larynx vibrated as the other woman moved and shifted in the air that Margaret shared with her. When she did answer, her voice was clear and the words measured, “I don’t smoke.”

  “Is that so?” the whore giggled, “I bet you want one now. Don’t you?”

  She was right. Margaret had been craving a twig since she’d woke on top of Townsend, crusted in ejaculate. Townsend was a smoker, his moustache smelled of tobacco, and his cravings had been imprinted on parts of her mind, an itch beyond scratching. “I suppose,” Margaret nodded, “but I still don’t have a light.”

  The whore withdrew the offered twig and held it up to her lips. When she inhaled, the paper and tobacco burst into flame. Margaret was every bit as aroused as she had been picking apart Townsend’s mind. “Tough luck, Mar-gar-et. Perhaps you need to return to your boy’s apartment, wake him again, say goodbye, and steal a stogie.”

  Margaret swallowed, “I don’t know your name.”

  The whore cackled, lavishly opening her arms in a wide, sweeping motion. Reality seemed to curve up around her and the cobblestones moved like an undulating ocean. At least in Margaret’s mind. “You should know me very well.”

  “Bastet?” Margaret asked, on a deep inhale.

  The whore’s eyes turned from a calm sea to the churning of a hurricane gale. Her rage was as solid as a fist, not just as an element or an emotion, but a violent anger inside Margaret’s bones. The ribbons of defense evaporated like mist on a warm morning and Margaret found herself naked in the face of a storm’s fury. She was a child again, the same child who grew up with Maggi Lopez as she bellowed her anger at Margaret for daring to be alive when her partner had died. “Do I look like a fucking cat to you?”

  The whore snarled, her voice raising gooseflesh across Margaret’s body and causing the gas lamp to flicker and flash.

  “Okay, no!” What's wrong with you? “Aphrodite?” Margaret pulled herself together, pressing away mirrors of her mother and standing fast in the face of her error.

  “Did you ever hear the joke about hand grenades?” The angry ocean didn’t abate in the whore’s eyes. She placed her hands on her hips and tipped a chin up, working her jaw as if she wanted to bite off a piece of Margaret and eat it.

  “Close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades?” Margaret smiled, tipping her chin up in reply, refusing to be intimidated.

  “Are you calling me a horseshoe, or a hand grenade?” The wail of a god could easily have turned an uninclined gray, and even Margaret fought a wave of nausea clawing up from her stomach and pulling her low. This wasn’t a hint, this was a demand.

  Margaret had made a point in her life to never kneel, at least to the flesh and bone mortals of the world. It was a willing display of submission she could never tolerate. However, she’d insulted a god, and humility was her only path to salvation. This was Aphrodite, and if any part of Margaret still knew how to fear it would have turned her inside out now.

  Dropping to her knees, the elegantly stitched corset fell to stone, along with the click and clatter of her .380. “I beg your pardon.” Margaret said.

  “I would have praised you, offered you a gift for your fine tribute, but now I merely find myself disgusted to look at you.” Aphrodite answered. What was she talking about? I didn’t worship her, I didn’t give her offerings or hold her above other gods. To be true, Margaret had never prayed to any of the old gods.

  “I’m sorry.” Margaret forced the words out, spittle falling to the cobblestone. Her lips were numb, her face burned hot in rebellion. It was decades since she’d spoken those two words.

  Aphrodite’s flesh suit sighed, and she answered, “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d rot your cunt out with the hatred of a thousand cursed souls. Stand.” Margaret did exactly as she’d been told, and when she looked upon the whore’s flesh again, Aphrodite’s eyes had changed to a cooler, green sea, still churning. “You’re not scared.”

  Margaret wiped the drool from her lips with the back of one hand. She could still smell Townsend on her fingers, “I forgot how to be scared.”

  “I see that,” Aphrodite nodded. “I would have asked before, but now you owe me for the insult. You’ll need to repay that with a favor.” She inhaled the cigarette, hard, but while it smoldered it didn’t burn down. Her hands moved and flourished with such grace that it was hard to believe smoking could ev
er be so erotic.

  “Never accept wooden nickels, and never owe a god,” Margaret closed her eyes, waiting for the rage to return.

  “You should have considered that earlier,” Aphrodite paused, and Margaret opened her eyes again, now as spent as she’d been with her legs wrapped around Townsend. “I will make you a promise. The favor I ask will not harm you or anyone who you love.”

  Maggi would be disgusted with me, “Deal,” Margaret nodded.

  “You should want to help me, little Margaret. I’ve helped you.” Aphrodite replied with a whisper that curled Margaret’s toes. I don’t dare ask her what she means, Margaret thought, and Aphrodite followed with a hiss, “Oh, you don’t dare ask? The years crawl on, yet you look as elegant and beautiful as the day that Maggi Lopez died.”

  She wasn’t lying. Though Margaret was easily in her mid-to-late forties, she’d never looked it. Gray in her auburn hair was uncommon, lines didn’t cut at her eyes, and her breasts had never really sunk as low as gravity would have demanded. She’d considered herself lucky, but a witch ought to know better. “Why?”

  Aphrodite kept her voice low, watching under brows. She inhaled her limitless cigarette again, chewing on the smoke and exhaled, “How many have you enamored with your graces? How many beguiled and bewildered? You didn’t just spend a lifetime satisfying your own lust, you spent a lifetime introducing others to love. You think, perhaps, that might escape my attention?” Aphrodite didn’t remain at a distance; skin twisted, and bones stirred. When she moved, it was a serpentine act, smooth and calculated.

  “I only did what I wanted, it wasn’t for you,” Margaret answered, with as level a head as she could muster. The slinking steps by Aphrodite weren’t, upon themselves, seductive, but the warbling flow of power deep inside her was.