Ad Nauseam

by C. W. LaSart

  Micah looked up at her, not sure what he expected to see. Anger or maybe sadness, but she just smiled at him, her head cocked to the side.

  “I see, boy.” When she spoke, her voice was soft, but crackly. “That’s too bad. Being a publisher is a respectable job, but I thought you wanted to be a writer. I thought you loved the life in the spotlight.”

  Muse rose with dignity, turning her back on him to walk to her bedroom. On the way, she called to him over her shoulder. “Too bad you can’t do this after one more. This one was going to win awards.” Then she disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind her.

  Micah was stunned. He thought he had achieved everything he wanted in life with the first three books, but the promise of an award winning novel flashed through his head.

  Award winning. He had done very well for himself, but had won no awards. Now that would be something to end my career on, he thought.

  Hating himself for being curious, calling himself a fool for even letting her bait him into considering doing one more, he still felt pulled. He walked down the hall and stood just outside the doorway, his expression serious.

  “What award?”

  Muse sat upon the single bed, her bag of tricks on the floor between her loafers. She didn’t have anything to pack, had brought nothing aside from the bag, no other clothing or possessions. Tilting her head to the side again and smiling slightly, she couldn’t hide the triumph in her eyes.

  “This one will win the Bram Stoker Award. It may even put you at the top of the game.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “You have to fuck me. But don’t worry, boy. The older the berry, the sweeter the juice.” She cackled wildly.

  Micah clenched his fists, a flood of anger making him want to pummel her face until there was nothing left. Muse only laughed harder.

  “Ha Ha! I’m only kidding! It’s nothing so awful as that! I’m too old to give a shit about your little prick anyways.” She still snickered.

  “So what do I have to do?”

  “I need a heart. One you cut out yourself.” Muse was all business now.

  “Are you crazy, old woman?”

  “Perhaps. But it’s what I need. Now close your mouth; you look like an idiot.” She leaned forward on the bed, her eyes bright with anticipation as she told him how it could be done. “There are hundreds of homeless in this town. People no one would ever miss. All you gotta do is get one to come home with you, promise him money or food or something. And when he’s here—”

  She clapped her hands together with a loud crack, and Micah jumped.

  “I don’t know. I can’t kill someone.” Micah felt ill, the whole conversation unreal. He had done some hard things over the last few years in pursuit of his dreams, but didn’t think he was capable of cold-blooded murder.

  Suddenly he wished more than anything he had never met Muse. He thought he’d give anything to go back to his lousy copy editor job, miserable but at least unaware of the depraved monster living within him. As much as he wanted to tell himself he wasn’t a murderer, he knew the appeal of that award was strong, and was starting to have an idea of how he could achieve it. It was crazy to even consider, but he knew that he would follow through. He wanted that award.

  “Okay,” he said. “One more.”

  ***

  The heart was warm and slippery in his hands and he almost dropped it on the floor, imagining he could still feel it twitching in his hands. The knife hadn’t been sharp enough to cut through the sternum, so he’d been left with no other choice than to cut the body nearly in half and get at it through the abdominal cavity. Even then, cutting through the thick vessels had been tough. He hadn’t want to damage the heart itself, so he had to go slow, unable to clearly see what he was doing through the gore. Soaked in sweat and covered in blood and body fluids by the time he finished, he smelled like the backroom of a butcher shop.

  Micah laid the heart gently upon the pile of stones and waited. Nothing happened. He thought he had arranged them in the proper order. He sighed heavily and scratched his forehead, leaving behind a gory streak at his temple.

  Despite the snarl of rage frozen on her features and the shocked accusation in her vacant stare, she had been surprisingly easy to smother. Cutting her open had been horrendous, her insides smelled worse than her outside, and he accidentally punctured the large intestine, releasing the ripe odor of shit and digestion into the room. Her slime seemed to cover every inch of him, he could taste it in his mouth, but he had gotten the job done. But it hadn’t worked! The stones just wouldn’t smoke. He wished he knew the correct words to say, those foreign, guttural mutterings of Muse’s. But he didn’t. It wasn’t going to work.

  Micah walked into the kitchen with the intention of washing up a bit before considering what to do with her dismembered body, but stopped in his tracks. Micah flew into the other room and hauled Muse’s smelly corpse over his shoulder, dragging her entrails behind him as he entered the office and dropped her in a broken heap next to the computer chair. Her glassy eyes stared at him as he drummed his bloody fingers on the desk, waiting for the computer to boot up. Everywhere he touched, he left smears of gore, but he didn’t notice. He was caught up in the clarity of his task.

  As the machine whirred to life, Micah sneered at the dead woman, visions of her hand jerking him off, dead kittens and the clenched fists of an infant, rolled through his memory. He placed his fingers on the keyboard as he worked a giant gob of snot up to the back of his throat. It felt hot and slippery in his mouth before he let it go, spitting the wad of green mucus into Muse’s dead face with a splat!

  He watched the chunky spit roll over the contours of her craggy face as his fingers battered the words across the screen. He didn’t need to look at what he typed, he knew what they said.

  Micah had all but given up on his dream of becoming a writer, he typed, on the day that he met Muse.

  FLESH

  The music thumped loudly over the crowded bar as Scott took a stool, his eyes scanning the dance floor.

  God I hate this techno shit, he thought, raising his chin slightly and holding up one finger when the bartender appeared. He exchanged a ten dollar bill for a fresh vodka tonic, indicating with a shake of his head that the man could keep the change. He turned his attention back to the dancers.

  People gyrated with abandon, bumping into one another in the limited space. Blue and red strobe lights flashed across them, lending the crowd a surreal appearance and painting the scene on the back of his eyes in small bursts like snapshots. Some of the women had removed their tops, their lacy bras glowing under the black light. Others wore shirts that revealed more than a bra, sheer fabric glued with sweat to bare breasts. In tight pants and short skirts they bounced and grinded, pulling the eyes of the men standing on the fringes, their drinks gripped in sweaty hands with cocks half stiff from the parade of flesh.

  Sometimes a brave soul would wander into the fray, only to have his advances rebuffed by the very women who had seemed to be inviting him to join them with their lewd moves and fuck me glances. It was a brutal sport.

  Someone bumped his shoulder and Scott turned, his senses assaulted by strong perfume and sweat. The woman smiled, her eyes glassy and bloodshot.

  “Sorry about that,” she shouted over the music, the yeasty smell of beer heavy on her breath.

  Scott nodded at her and looked away but she leaned in close, pressing her breasts against him. He felt her erect nipples poke against his arm.

  “Hey. Wanna buy me a drink?” Another wave of beer breath.

  “Not really.” He grimaced.

  “What? You a fag?” She might have been attractive were she sober and not wearing so much makeup, but she sneered in a way that emphasized her overly large mouth, and her running mascara made her eyes looked like two dark holes.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, fuck you, buddy.” She staggered away, quickly swallowed up by the crowd.

  Glancing dow
n the length of the bar, he was just about to give up for the night when he saw her, sitting on a stool with her back to the dance floor. Same as always. Scott sipped his vodka and swiveled on his stool a bit so he could see her as he pretended to watch the dancers. He eyed her long, dark hair trailing straight down her back in sharp contrast to the spikey, gel-hardened bobs and asymmetrical cuts the other women wore. He admired the conservative outfit she wore. Not a sign of her breasts or lace were visible through her modest clothing. It was all up to Scott’s imagination what lay beneath those billowy folds. And he’d spent many hours doing just that.

  The first time Scott saw her, he knew she was the one. He had watched her for three nights now, and the feeling had only intensified, burning in his chest as he watched her sip her drink, oblivious to the crowd around her, her slender hands twirling the straw in her glass. He would have her. Tonight.

  Scott watched with clenched fists as the muscular bartender leaned across the bar, saying something in her ear. The bend of the other man’s lips as he smiled at the girl told Scott he was flirting, but she only stared back at him with those fathomless dark eyes, neither smiling nor speaking until the bartender shook his head and walked away. Scott watched as she turned her head in his direction, her face expressionless. His pulse raced as he looked away.

  From the corner of his eye, Scott saw her stand to leave, weaving her way through the rowdy crowd. He played it cool, finishing his own drink at a leisurely pace. He knew where she was going.

  Walking out into the parking lot, Scott lit a cigarette and leaned against the rough brick wall, taking a deep drag and holding it for a moment. He hated that all the bars had gone smoke free. He couldn’t see the woman anywhere, but it didn’t matter.

  ***

  Scott drove past the unassuming, single-story house and parked down the block under an ancient maple tree that hung low to the ground. The car would be all but hidden. Punching in the dashboard lighter, he surveyed the quiet neighborhood. The knob popped out and he lit his cigarette, smoking it at a leisurely pace. It was foolish to rush. Rushing might make him careless, and he couldn’t afford careless. Reaching into the glove box, he pulled out a pair of leather gloves and a mask he had bought in an S&M store in the city. He fit it snuggly over his skull, zipping the vertical zipper over the back of his head, leaving the horizontal one open across his lips. Scott liked the option of using his mouth. He also liked the terror it inspired in his victims. Reaching under the passenger seat, he retrieved a large hunting knife with a serrated blade. Looking at the digital clock on the dashboard, he saw it was a few minutes after one in the morning.

  Time to rock ‘ n’ roll.

  He got out of the car and closed the door, careful to be quiet in the still night. Remaining in the safety of darkness beneath the tree, he scanned the street, paying particular attention to the neighboring houses. All were dark and silent. Good. Slipping on the mask and gloves, he crept out from under the tree and walked over to her house, keeping to the shadows. Tall hedges bordering the property assisted him in his stealth as he crept around to the back.

  The garage was attached, and Scott had determined on a previous visit that it would be his best course of entry. There was a back door to the garage, but when he tried the knob, he found it locked. Using the sturdy handle on the knife, he punched a hole in one of the lower panes of glass in the door’s window, hesitating to listen for sounds of alarm. When none ensued, he picked the remaining glass out of the frame and carefully reached through to unlock the door.

  Scott crept through the garage to the door that went into the house, and grinned as the knob turned with a gentle twist. He pulled it open and peeked around the corner, seeing nothing but a dark kitchen. His shoes made soft noises on the linoleum. There was just enough moonlight through the windows for him to navigate by as he made his way into the living room. A sound from down the hall caught his attention and he froze, straining to track it.

  Scott smiled when he realized she was singing. Soft and soulful, her song was interrupted by the sound of water splashing. She was in the tub. He pondered the situation. Usually when he broke in, the woman would already be in bed asleep, defenseless as he slid in next to her and placed the knife against her throat.

  Should I wait until she goes to bed? I can’t just walk in and take her from the tub, she’ll be slippery and hard to hold onto. For the first time in a long while, he was unsure how to proceed. In the end, her haunting voice spurred him on.

  Her bedroom was at the end of the hallway. A slash of light spilled into the hall from the master bathroom. Scott entered the bedroom, grateful for the thick carpet that masked the sound of his approach. He crept up to the bathroom door, which stood ajar. In the shadow of the room, he looked around the door frame, and felt a flood of relief when he saw her sitting in the tub with her back to him. If he stayed quiet enough, he might be able to watch while she bathed. Glancing around the dark room, he decided he would slip into the closet when she got out, and wait until she slept for his attack.

  The woman lay slouched low in the tub, her body hidden by its high ceramic sides. All of her long, silky hair was pinned in a loose bun, and he could only see her profile. Her eyes were closed and beads of sweat gathered on her upper lip. The air above the bath shimmered with steam. The only sound was that of her body parting the water. She had quit singing and that pained him. As he watched, her mouth parted and she let out a breathy moan, making him wonder what her hands were doing beneath the water.

  Scott held his breath as she sat up, affording him a side-view of one small, firm breast. The nipple was so pale it was almost indistinguishable from the rest of her white skin, which steamed from the heat of the water. She moaned again.

  The woman let one arm slide over the edge of the tub, revealing pink scar tissue running in stripes all the way up to her shoulder. She reached to grab something on the floor. An old-fashioned straight razor lay on the bath mat, its blade open and gleaming in the light from the vanity. She grabbed it by the pearl handle, bringing it up to her lips for a reverent kiss. Sliding back down in the water, she raised her right leg to shave.

  Scott contemplated her disfigurement, both repulsed and excited. He longed to run his hand over her skin, feel the texture of those scars. Perhaps leave a few marks of his own.

  Similar marks ran the length of her leg, some straight down the shin while others curled around the calf. They varied in color from a pale pink to a deep angry red, shiny and vibrant against her paleness. Resting her foot on the edge, she held the razor to her skin and sighed, a breathy exhalation of pleasure.

  Scott held his breath, caught up in the intimate moment as he watched her run the razor up her leg, the beginning of an erection stirring his crotch.

  She used no gels or soaps. Laying the blade against a spot on her ankle, her knuckles turning white as she pressed, she broke the skin and cut a ribbon of flesh off her shin as she drew the razor upward, blood rolling down her calf and dripping into the bath.

  What the fuck is she doing? Scott’s stomach turned as she flayed off a perfect strip of her skin. Setting down the razor, she held the flap in front of her face, and with another heady moan, stuffed it into her mouth. Blood and sweat ran down her chin in a pink line.

  Taking a step back, Scott bumped into something and gasped.

  The woman’s head snapped towards the door in surprise, her eyes narrowing as she continued to chew. Scott froze. What the fuck is wrong with her eyes? I thought they were brown.

  Unable to move, Scott watched as she stood and stepped out of the tub, water running off her slender body and darkening the blue bath mat. For a moment they just stared at each other, he in the shadows, she in the light. Blood flowed down her wet shin and dripped onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice. She smiled at Scott, her teeth pink with her own blood.

  “Well, hello, lover. It’s about time you showed up.” The woman stepped toward him, her hand outstretched.

  Scott stood his ground
, the knife pointing outward at hip level as she came toward him. Glancing down at the blade, she wasn’t deterred. Moving forward as if to embrace him, she allowed the knife to slide easily through her flesh, puncturing her side as if she were made of cream cheese, instead of flesh and bone.

  She gasped with pleasure, her flesh seeming to suck at the knife as he pulled it out.

  At the sound of her ecstatic moan, Scott’s resolve fled. Any trace of an erection shriveled and his stomach cramped at the thought of her eating her own skin.

  Crazy. Bitch is fucking crazy. I have to get out of here. He took two running steps toward the bedroom door, then his ankle connected with something solid on the floor and his arms shot out to keep his balance. Plunging forward anyway, he reached his left hand out to break his fall, conscious of the hunting knife in his right.

  His head banged against something hard. The moment before everything went black he mused about still having his mask on; At least I won’t cut my head.

  ***

  Soft, beautiful singing tugged Scott from unconsciousness, the comfortable darkness that swaddled him in its grip. Coming back in layers, he noticed his ferocious headache first. Subtle light pushed against his closed lids, but even that was too much for his aching head. He tried to rub it, but found he was unable to move his arms or legs.

  His eyes snapped open in alarm, which caused the throb in his head to double.

  It took a moment to recognize his surroundings and he had a panicked second when he thought he had somehow blinded his peripheral vision. It all came back to him in a rush, the woman in the tub, the singing, and that he was still in her house wearing the mask.

  No wonder I can only see straight ahead.