Dark Screams, Volume 9

by Dark Screams- Volume 9 (retail) (epub)

  “It’s so beautiful here,” she said.

  To this day, I’ll never know what possessed me to reply, “Not as beautiful as you.” The words slipped out before I realized what I was saying.

  Emma had never shown the slightest bit of romantic interest in me up to that point, while I had been in love with her for that entire year. I was prepared for her to laugh, or maybe give me a punch in the arm, as was often the case when I said something stupid.

  But she didn’t.

  Maybe it was the sincerity in my expression. Because the way she looked at me, it was as if she were seeing me for the first time.

  She reached up and took my face in her hands, pulling me down toward her. I can still remember the electricity I felt in my skin as we kissed for the first time, the palpitation of my heart, the welcoming softness of her lips, and the strawberry-flavored taste of her favorite lip balm.

  We kissed for what seemed like a beautiful eternity. Neither one of us had any experience, so exploring each other was exciting, arousing—and a bit scary. Emma and I never had intercourse; my religious upbringing was still too ingrained at that point, and frankly I was terrified of getting her pregnant. I had no access to condoms and our town was far too small for anyone to buy any without everyone knowing about it within forty-eight hours.

  I had a wooden clubhouse in my backyard that I had built with my dad. Emma and I affectionately referred to it as the “love shack” (though never within earshot of anyone else). We spent many an afternoon kissing each other there until our faces went numb.

  By our senior year I was so in love with Emma it made my heart hurt just to look at her at times. Even at that age I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

  And yet this also terrified me. Emma wanted to leave Copper Creek. But I had no exit strategy. Emma’s dream was to move to a big city, change her name, and start over. She talked about moving to Hollywood, because she naïvely thought it might be the one place where she would fit in, where she wouldn’t stand out in the crowd.

  Of course I went along with her fantasy. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she would stand out anywhere she went. Hell, she made most Hollywood actresses look like dog meat by comparison.

  But whenever she talked about leaving, it scared me to death because I knew that beyond the tiny borders of Copper Creek, there were countless suitors-in-waiting with far more to offer her than I ever could. I was just a lovesick fat kid with a low grade point average and lower-paying career options to look forward to. Don’t get me wrong; I was always smarter than people gave me credit for. I just didn’t apply myself much back then. It was a town that bred complacency.

  And I was smart enough to know that once Emma got a taste of life outside our tiny world, I’d lose whatever advantages I’d had up to that point. The closer we got to high school graduation, the more I dreaded it.

  And my worst fears were realized on the day after Emma’s eighteenth birthday.

  —

  Something felt wrong the moment I entered Margot’s home.

  I couldn’t name anything specific. It was a gut instinct, like the little voice that tells you not to go down the dark alley or stick your hand into places you can’t see.

  I ignored it. I was desperate to know Margot Walker.

  I had followed her home from the charity event into a fashionable neighborhood of Santa Monica. We had left separately at her request; I suppose to maintain some sort of propriety. My visit was under the guise of an interest in art, but there was no mistaking the signals she’d given me.

  Margot could have had almost any man she set eyes on. But for some reason, that night she chose me. I had pondered it during the drive over. Perhaps she was simply a free spirit with no hang-ups about one-night stands. Maybe having sex with a man in love with her doppelgänger was some sort of twisted turn-on. Or perhaps she didn’t date much because men were too intimidated by her beauty to ask her out.

  Of course, I’d like to say I had charmed her with my authentic and vulnerable approach. But that seemed the least likely of the possibilities. Once we got past her elaborate security system and entered the two-story house, she offered me some wine. I waited in the living room while she left to pour two glasses.

  The interior of the home was gorgeous, with a flair for the dramatic. There were stark black and white contrasts throughout, with white-stained hardwood flooring and a central black area rug. A white tile fireplace stood beside a white leather contemporary sofa, paired with chrome-and-black-leather chairs and a mirror-top coffee table. There were two large bay windows next to wide double doors on the lower level of the house, and five smaller but equally impressive windows along the upper level. Long, flowing draperies gave the room an even more elegant appearance.

  At first glance it was the kind of home you would expect to see in an interior design magazine. But upon closer inspection there were some dark artistic themes at play.

  On the coffee table was a bronze sculpture of a beautiful nude woman stretched out on the back of an enormous Minotaur, a creature with the head of a bull and the body of a man. It was down on all fours. In what appeared like a tender moment, the woman’s arms were wrapped around the bull’s neck gracefully, as if she was giving it a loving embrace. But as I stepped around the table to get a better look, I noticed that the beast’s extremely long penis snaked up from underneath and penetrated her from behind.

  Interesting, I thought.

  Staring down at me from above the fireplace was a large, unsettling oil painting. It was a young woman’s face that was somehow both striking and off-putting at the same time.

  “A classic jolie laide,” came a voice from the shadows, startling me. Margot had entered the room as silently as a shark swimming in the depths. She offered me a glass of red wine and looked up at the painting looming over us. “It means ‘beautiful ugly,’ a woman who is both attractive and unattractive. Leave it to the French to devise a concept of beauty so abstract.”

  “I see what you mean,” I said. “She looks…different, depending on the angle.”

  Margot took a sip of her wine and nodded. “It’s a masterful work by an artist named Makalo. I discovered him eight years ago. He’s a phenomenon now.”

  We discussed the painting a bit more, and then she invited me upstairs to see her private gallery. As I followed her up the steel-and-wood spiral staircase, I couldn’t help but admire the view of her backside, which she seemed more than happy to share. She glanced back at me once with a sexy grin.

  The gallery was much larger than I expected, and there were so many pieces of art I hardly knew where begin. Dozens of framed paintings and photographs adorned the walls, accented with tasteful, directed lighting. Small sculptures, distributed throughout, broke the room into a variety of natural lateral paths.

  As I scanned the array of art, I was stunned at the many facets of ugliness. There was a hyperrealistic-looking pig with profanities spray-painted across its skin; an aborted fetus sculpted from blood-red glass; a series of monstrous tinfoil figures in a wild orgy; and the largest piece of all was a particularly brutal crucifixion of Jesus created from cans of Coca-Cola.

  Margot stood close, and the touch of her skin sent a jolt of electricity through me. “An appreciation of ugliness is necessary,” she said. “The beautiful and the ugly are not opposites, but aspects of the same thing.”

  I nodded, taking that in. Then I said, “What is ugly to some may be beautiful to another.”

  She brightened at that, revealing her perfect teeth. “Exactly. History shows us that aesthetic values constantly change. Today’s monstrosity is tomorrow’s masterpiece. Look at the Eiffel Tower. It was denounced as ugly and hateful when it was first built—now it’s one of the world’s most loved monuments.”

  I took a long drink and continued to browse her unusual collection. “Anything in particular attract your eye?” she said.

  Without any forethought, I turned to her and said, “I think we both know the answe
r to that.”

  She looked up at me and I saw a great hunger in her eyes. Though I towered over her, I felt powerless under her gaze. I’d never wanted to kiss anyone as much as I did at that moment. But when I leaned in she immediately dropped down to unzip my pants. A moment later and she took my erection into her mouth, her eyes never leaving mine, ablaze with lust. It was a sexual fantasy come true, and yet I couldn’t shake a growing sense of dread.

  —

  Emma disappeared on a Thursday.

  The day before was her eighteenth birthday, which we celebrated at our favorite pizza joint. She didn’t want any fanfare, just a low-key celebration with me. If I had known it would be the last time I’d see her, I would have done a million things differently.

  The picture I keep in my wallet was from that day. I took it later that afternoon while we walked along one of our favorite desert trails. We kissed, held hands, and talked about anything but the future.

  I suppose it was because neither of us wanted to face the reality that our relationship was finite. High school had ended. I was flipping burgers at a fast-food joint, and she was working part-time at a secondhand clothing store. Career options were bleak in Copper Creek. I had saved two summers to buy a decent computer and was already starting to play around with graphic design, but I never considered that as a potential future career at the time.

  Emma’s father, Frank, had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis several years prior and had recently lost the use of his legs. Emma had to spend a great deal of her free time taking care of him at home while her mother worked.

  When we got home that evening, we sat for a long time in the ’67 Chevrolet van my father had handed down to me. We kissed for a while, and to my eternal regret, I didn’t make love to Emma on our last night together. The van had plenty of room and she seemed willing, most likely because she knew it would be our last time together.

  I had sensed her pulling away emotionally for weeks, and I was afraid that if we slept together, it would somehow give her the reason she needed to end it. I didn’t want to risk losing the love of my life over a quickie in a van. My only goal in life at that point was to marry Emma and spend the rest of my life with her.

  After I walked her to the front door of her house, she kissed me again. I was shocked because this was something we never did on her porch. Her parents would have raised hell. She saw the look on my face and offered that devastating grin of hers. “I’m eighteen now,” she said. “I’m free.”

  She had a point. I smiled back and kissed her for the last time. “See ya tomorrow,” I said.

  She gave me an intense stare. “I can never thank you enough. You know that?”

  I laughed. “For cheap pizza?”

  She smiled, but there was sadness peeking out at the edges. “For seeing me as more than a pretty girl.”

  And then she turned away and went inside her home.

  The next day I found the letter.

  It was written on her pink stationery and taped to the driver’s-side window of my van. I tore it to shreds after reading it, but I can still remember its contents. Something like that you never forget.

  It described in horrifying detail the despicable things Emma’s father had subjected her to for most of her life. Sexual acts so vile that I will not go into detail here. It explained so many things about my Emma, including her propensity for self-loathing.

  The worst part of it all was that she believed she was somehow at fault, that maybe if she had been born less attractive, the heinous acts of her sick father wouldn’t have happened.

  She’d disappeared in the middle of the night. And the only clue she’d left was that she was going to Los Angeles. In the letter, she wrote that she couldn’t bear the thought of being her father’s caretaker after everything he’d put her through. She had purposely kept her plans a secret from me because she knew I would have done anything to keep her in Copper Creek.

  And, of course, she was right.

  She also confessed that she had been saving money for years, in anticipation of her eighteenth birthday. She didn’t mention the amount, but I knew how much money she made, so it couldn’t have been much. As much as the details of her abuse tore my heart out, I think what hurt most was discovering how much she had kept from me: the abuse, the money, and her plan to leave Copper Creek forever.

  To leave me forever.

  She apologized, of course—over and over again. The letter closed with a promise to always love me. But that was cold comfort.

  Over the next few weeks, sorrow turned to hate. Hate turned to rage. It was directed squarely at her father, Frank. He was the one who had damaged my Emma. He was the one who had forced her to run away from me.

  As a legal adult, no one could force Emma to come back, although her mother eventually filed a missing-person report. The local police questioned me, but I told them nothing. Of course, Emma’s disappearance was the talk of the town and the subject of ludicrous speculation from small minds. I heard most of it only thirdhand, as most people were intimidated by my size and didn’t dare rile me.

  That was a good thing. I’m not sure what I would have done if I’d overheard anyone saying awful things about Emma.

  A month later, her mother flew out to Los Angeles for a couple weeks to stay with her sister, who had lived there most of her life. Her mom suspected that Emma might reach out to her, since her aunt was the only person she knew in the entire city.

  I wanted to leave with Emma’s mother and help her scour every inch of L.A. But instead I offered to help out with Frank while she was gone. It’s the least I can do, I told her. She was grateful.

  As I said, Frank had MS and needed someone to help him get around. I worked as his live-in caretaker for a full week, studying his routines, learning his patterns, and watching for weaknesses. I had to give the performance of a lifetime, acting as if I didn’t know what a monster he was and what he had done to Emma.

  I even had to spoon-feed the son of a bitch.

  I dropped the charade at one a.m. on a Saturday night.

  Frank liked to drink, but his wife made sure he didn’t overdo it. I gave him all he wanted. Once he’d passed out, I carried him upstairs to his room and tossed his useless body onto the bed. I lit one of his cigarettes and set his sheets ablaze with it.

  I made sure his wheelchair was downstairs.

  For several minutes I waited down in the living room—where I had been sleeping on their couch—until I was sure there was no chance Frank would survive.

  When the upstairs became a raging inferno, I remember being disappointed not to hear any screams. I ran to my home and called the fire department.

  I told myself I did it for Emma. But the truth is, I did it for me.

  The blaze was deemed an accident and the fire department was able to ascertain the cause. The empty bottle of whiskey and cigarettes I planted had worked perfectly. I saw Emma’s mother only one more time, at Frank’s funeral. She gave me an awkward hug, mumbled something about not blaming me, and then left me standing there speechless with my parents.

  I later learned that Emma had never contacted her aunt.

  Everywhere I went in town, eyes were on me. I was no longer able to fade into the woodwork, as I’d done my whole life, despite my size. After the scandal with Emma, followed by her father’s death, I was the next best thing to a celebrity. But people looked at me with pity rather than scorn.

  Within six months I had moved to Los Angeles with the goal of finding Emma. I lived in a cheap apartment in East Hollywood with two shitty roommates who fancied themselves actors. And I worked at a fast-food chain until I was able to land a job in the mailroom at a large telecommunications firm. I worked my way up to the in-house marketing department, where I was able to build on the graphic design skills I had.

  The only time I ever went back to Copper Creek was for Christmas and an occasional visit for my parents’ wedding anniversary.

  I spent every spare moment trying to find Emma tho
se first two years in L.A. I even maxed out my first credit card hiring a private investigator. But she had vanished without a trace. Naïvely, Emma hoped she could run away from her past in the city of dreams—but I was pretty sure she had run into its dark underbelly.

  In those moments between dusk and nightfall on Hollywood Boulevard, when neon glows a bit brighter and the throngs of tourists begin to fade, you can see the remnants of these shattered dreams. It’s in the faces of young, homeless figures huddled against the buildings. An endless parade of kids will always come to Tinseltown because they believe it can offer them a second chance. They see it on TV. It’s familiar. They think they can make it.

  Many of them turn to survival sex—trading their bodies for food or a place to sleep, or self-medicate to cope with the harsh realities lurking behind the curtain of this unforgiving town.

  I looked for Emma’s face in those huddled masses for a long time.

  I never stopped grieving for her.

  —

  I woke up in Margot’s bed at 3:07 a.m. and she wasn’t there.

  It was difficult to concentrate. Red-wine headaches are the worst.

  I was naked and bruised all over. My body ached. I had done things with Margot I never would have imagined. Things I’m not proud of, and would never do again. She was twisted. A sexual deviant. I think she enjoyed her power over men. Most likely abused it. It was clear to me that this was a regular thing with her, and our depraved evening had convinced me of one thing: She wasn’t my Emma.

  The master suite was as dramatic as the rest of Margot’s home was, decorated in varying tones of black and gray. As you looked past the foot of the king-size bed, there was a partial stone wall with a fireplace and television built into it. Seating areas were located in front of several of the windows.

  It was still dark outside. The only illumination came through an arched doorway at the other end of the large master suite: the entrance to the bathroom. I waited patiently for Margot to finish so I could relieve myself. But ten minutes later, my bladder refused to wait any longer. I searched for my underwear, slipped them on, and stepped down onto the cold stone floor.