BONES

by Yolanda Olson

  My body betrayed my mind again and went off on its own, but this time I was lucky enough to stop myself before doing something quite regrettable in public. Something that would embarrass me enough to stay home for the next solid month.

  Putting the cigarette to my lips, I glance around curiously. What was it that brought me here? My thoughts were focused, and I had a purpose, but I lost my way.

  Why is it always so easy for me to lose my way?

  I’m not lost.

  I know exactly where I am now. I let the cigarette slip between my lips and inhale the sweet throngs of hollow death into my rotting lungs and smile briefly. This is exactly where I was a few months ago. It was where I found a street peddler that called himself Monet.

  He so desperately wanted to be a piece of art that he compromised himself and used a name that didn’t belong to him. I did give him some money though; a twenty-dollar bill, if you must know. Then I took him home. I promised him food, a place to sleep, and presented it with the kindest smile I could bring across my face.

  My smile makes people trust me.

  It’s tragic sometimes.

  Now that I know why my body brought me here, I go over to the spot outside of the small mom and pop store that he would sit outside of with his sign and sit down. I wonder how easily it would be to be able to swindle people out of money.

  You see, I quickly learned that Monet wasn’t as destitute as he presented himself. No, he told me that he was too tired to work ten-hour days anymore, and that he knew that three out of five people would find it in their hearts to give him their hard-earned money.

  As I bring my knees up to my chest, I chuckle. I understood his meaning, but I didn’t appreciate his candor. So when the time came to put an end to Monet’s simple life, I was sure to cut out his own heart and give it to him, like so many others had given theirs.

  I took my money back after that and went to a local Salvation Army bell ringer and dropped it into their old, red metal basket.

  I take another pull of my cigarette realizing I am near the filter, and decide to play a game. I look up and down the street before I flick what is left of the paper into the street, and ruffle my hair violently. Then I wrap my arms around my knees and look up at everyone that passes me with big, sad eyes.

  Will I say anything to them? No, they don’t need to hear my words, and I don’t need a sign either. My false sadness, my forced tears should be enough to garner some sort of attention.

  The first woman; she’s large, has brown hair pulled back in a loose bun, and a horrid amount of makeup smeared on her face, but she leans down and gives me a dollar.

  I wipe a tear away and nod.

  This is too easy.

  I wait until she disappears down the street before I get back to my feet, smooth my hair out, and walk into the shop. I quickly locate a package of gum and take it to the counter. With the woman’s dollar, I pay for the spearmint flavored breath cleanser, and tell the elderly woman behind the counter to keep the change.

  I need to get the taste of this cigarette out of my mouth. It’s making me insane and I’m not crazy.

  As soon as I walk out of the store, I use my teeth to rip away the edge of the gum package. One last look up and down the street is all I need as I pop a piece of gum in my mouth.

  I almost lost myself for a moment there.

  But my will is strong, and my intentions will get me to where I need to go.

  Back on track, toward the pain I need so desperately.

  Chapter Three

  It doesn’t take me long to reach the doors of La Douleur Folle. This is my safe place; my home away from home, and one of the few places I like to venture out to when I feel the need for human interaction.

  Hm. Not yet.

  I walk back down the wooden steps and go around the back of the building. I can hear the sweet serenade inside. Screams of pain, moans of pleasure, and the unmistakable sound of someone being bludgeoned to death.

  That was usually a mutual thing, when someone died. However, I could never find satisfaction in someone willing to die at my hands. I enjoyed taking life when it didn’t belong willingly to me, and that was what set me apart here. That’s what made them fear me, and it’s how I know that I can secretly own anyone here I want to.

  But she’s not here.

  I haven’t run across her in La Douleur Folle, and it’s actually a good thing. I wouldn’t allow others to touch her or treat her the way they willing do. She would be mine only, and they would hate me for it. They would wonder why I was keeping such a sweet thing to myself instead of sharing.

  It wouldn’t be good for either of us, nor for the sanctity of the others here if they attempted to take her from me.

  I don’t like to kill randomly, but I will if I must. If what I feel is mine is being threatened, I will destroy everything I have to to keep it safe.

  She’s not mine.

  For the moment.

  I let that thought consume me as I walk the entire length of the building, until I’ve reached the back, and continue walking toward the property line. It sits on a hill overlooking the state park, and sometimes just being here alone and staring out over creation helps to quiet my urges. Maybe I’d go home today instead of subjecting myself to the need for pain, but it was unlikely. I had already walked so far to get here that I wanted to be compensated in one way or another. Be it in flesh or blood, I wouldn’t leave until I felt like the pleasure of my company had been fully paid for.

  I stand on the very edge of the mountain, unaware that I haven’t yet said that the mansion sits on such. My arms cross loosely over my chest as I look out at the beautiful scenery. I love big sky country; it soothes me and makes me smile.

  “I thought that was you,” a voice says behind me.

  A small smile starts to creep across my lips. I know that voice, it’s someone that’s always been very kind to me, someone that enjoys when I visit the establishment, because if I’m feeling generous enough, I’ll let her watch. We all need to learn how to do these things, and I am an excellent teacher. My methods are my own, and I always make that clear, yet I like knowing that I’ve helped in some way.

  I don’t turn around to face her, however she’s used to that by now. She knows that I’m not very personable and that I tend to keep to myself, but I indulge her conversations as they come and in turn, she usually leaves me be.

  Usually, though not always.

  “I was wondering when you would be back. I haven’t seen you in a while,” she states as she takes a stance next to me.

  I glance at her and raise a curious eyebrow. It almost sounds as if she has something for me—a gift—waiting inside.

  “I’ve been busy,” I reply.

  “Understandable. What brings you back today, Mr. Burress?” she asks with a devilish grin slithering across her thin lips.

  It’s a putrid smile, reminiscent of a garden snake that’s close to death from being left out in the sun too long, and I always have to fight the urge to rip her lips off her face.

  “Just in need of some company,” I say curtly.

  I turn my eyes away from her. She isn’t terrible to look at by any means, it’s just her smile that turns my stomach. She’s asked before to take part in my pain process, but because of that horrendous trait, I always turned her down.

  I let her watch, nothing more.

  “You came on a good day, then,” she responds mysteriously.

  “Oh?” I ask, stealing a glance in her direction.

  “We have a new member today. She brought her children with her; says that she can’t stand living anymore and she doesn’t want to see her children in the care of the state. She’s looking to go as soon as possible.”

  “And the children? What am I supposed to do with them?” I ask.

  “Whatever your heart desires, Mr. Burress. We aren’t equipped to care for children and she wants them to go with her.”

  I let out a sigh as I stare out over the park again, letting
my eyes drift up toward the now darkening sky. I’ve never had a child participate in the pain process and I wondered if I would enjoy it.

  “How old are the children?” I ask quietly.

  “One is fourteen; a terrible mouth on that girl. She’s been nothing but disrespectful since she’s arrived,” she says, her voice full of disgust.

  “And the other?” I press.

  She walks around me, teetering on the edge of the mountain and I fight the urge to push her off. That’s not who I am though; I don’t like to kill unless there’s a purpose. I look down at her face, careful not to focus on her lips, and instead search her simmering green eyes. With as much as I hate it, I can tell by the way her eyes crinkle on the sides that she’s smiling again. I can’t help but let my eyes travel down to her atrocious lips as she forms the words that sets the wheels in motion inside my head; the thoughts that I had spent all day trying to avoid are now becoming louder thinking of those waiting inside.

  “Still in the womb.”

  Chapter Four

  As I walk with Priscilla, the lady of the manor, back up the stairs and into the house, I have a plan already devised. I would do something different today; I would convince the woman inside to live. I would convince her to take her children with her and leave this place because they weren’t here for the right reason.

  At least not for me.

  The child growing inside of her couldn’t make the choice to live or die, and that she was taking away that choice and playing God was a bit disconcerting to me.

  Why she thought she was allowed to make such a decision in a place such as this, how she even knew how to find it, made me wonder if Priscilla spent too much time with her slimy lips wrapped around the cocks of too many men to have enough common sense to question it.

  It’s not my place to ask.

  We enter into the main room on the ground floor. It’s large with high wooden ceilings, low-hanging iron chandeliers, and interestingly enough, a check-in table near the western wall.

  I nod quickly at the young, barely legal girl behind the counter. She knows me well by now even though I don’t frequent the establishment as much as I used to. She knows to stay far away from a man like me, yet whenever we make eye contact, she always looks at me with seductive eyes, leans over the counter, her large breasts damn near spilling out of her shirt, and gives me a damn charming smile. Maybe I’d find time for her, but for now I am not interested. Especially since she has her long blonde hair pulled back into pig-tails. It makes her look younger than she really is, and I already have enough on my mind when it comes to children.

  “Where?” I ask Priscilla.

  “I put them in your usual playroom. I figured this would be something you wouldn’t pass up,” she replies with a chuckle.

  I should gut you. I really should rip out your intestines and strew them on the doorway like garland. I should, but I won’t.

  I nod and walk away from her. I can’t let the thoughts consume me. Nothing will get me kicked out this place faster than killing the person that keeps it running. The owner of dark secrets, the purveyor of every dark desire one could imagine, the supplier to our drug of choice; Priscilla will have to live or I will lose my sanctuary.

  As I climb the main staircase, I can’t help but sigh. In my heyday, the entire top floor belonged to me, but as my commitment to this place began to falter, as I came only when I needed to, Priscilla began to give away most of the rooms on my floor. However, the room as soon as I clear the landing is mine. I’ve done too much, accomplished too many things, for her to give that room away, and she knew it.

  I roll my eyes as I put my hand on the doorknob. I can hear them bickering inside; the mother and the teenage daughter. I can hear the daughter telling the mother that she doesn’t care what she says, she’s not going to die in a place she didn’t want to come to.

  And that’s when I pull the door open.

  They both stop their back and forth nonsense and turn their eyes to look at me as I enter. I close the door behind me and turn the lock, but I don’t look at them just yet. I find that one of the best feelings in the world is when you gain trust, and to do that I know I have to remove the intentions from my eyes.

  Clearing my throat, I walk past them, the mother swollen with her unborn child sitting on the edge of my bed and the teenage daughter standing above her. I keep my eyes low to the black, shag carpet. Priscilla quickly learned that when I needed my doses of pain that blood was usually on the menu, so she replaced the usual white rug with a black one. She said it was more for my protection, so that whoever entered my room wouldn’t know how ungodly my desires could be, but, frankly, I think she was just tired of cleaning up my messes.

  Not that I minded, because while Priscilla had that hideous mouth, the rest of her could be pleasant on the eyes. If you like that sort of thing, anyway.

  I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me. My ritual is always the same. I turn on the faucet and splash hot water onto my face to get my blood flowing. I always pick the soft, white hand-towel second in the stack, and scrub my face vigorously to wake myself up. No matter how ready I always am, I get hit with a sense of tiredness before I begin.

  Maybe it’s because that’s when all sense of humanity in me goes dormant to allow me to act as I truly should, but I can’t be sure. And if I’m to be completely honest, I don’t care. I know how to snap myself out of it, to bring the evil that harbors the thoughts of madness to the surface, and that’s what I need most in these moments.

  I place a hand on either side of the skull carved porcelain sink, and look into the mirror. My eyes, normally electric blue, are almost completely overcome with their dark center and that’s how I know.

  It’s time.

  I place the hand-towel on the side of the sink and turn away from my reflection knowing that I’m a different man now. Knowing that I can commit any atrocity that will satiate my desire as I have so many times before.

  It’s a powerful feeling and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy it.

  As soon as I step back into the room, the girl, with her face twisted in anger and disgust, crosses her arms defiantly over her chest and stares at me. I’m sure the look is meant to make me cower, to second guess my intentions, but it doesn’t work, and I smile in place of the fear she was hoping for. A slow, deliberate smile that lets her know who’s in control in this room.

  “Who the hell are you?” she barks at me.

  My eyes leave her face and land on the mother, who now has her hand resting on her stomach. She’s looking at me with pleading eyes, and it only makes my smile widen slightly.

  “Do you know why you’re in this room?” I ask her softly.

  She nods.

  I raise an eyebrow. I had expected words because I wanted to know what the sound of her voice sounded like before it was thick with agony.

  “And are you sure this is what you want?” I ask, my tone softer than before.

  She nods again.

  I want to rip her face off; stomp on her neck until her windpipe is crushed for her lack of words, but I control myself.

  Self-control is key.

  I walk over and sit next to her on the side of the bed. She’s too eager for this; too unaware of what comes when partaking in the pain and perhaps ultimately dancing with death.

  I have to convince her otherwise, and when I’m sure she wants to live, I’ll kill them all. It’s much easier that way and much more enjoyable.

  “Then let’s begin,” I say, rising to my feet.

  Chapter Five

  It’s no easy feat to convince someone to live when they’re truly resigned to death, but I have my ways. A gentle touch coupled with kind words usually does the trick, but this time I have two in my room with only one to convince.

  However this scenario will play out, one thing is for certain: I will get the pain I came here for today. I walk away from the bed and toward the girl. Her face is no longer twisted in an ugly fashion of ange
r and false hatred. Now I see a small glimpse of fear.

  Good.

  “What’s your name?” I ask as I take her by the elbow and lead her to a large wooden desk that sits near the French doors. I like the view here, I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before. It’s calming and serene and allows me to enjoy the beauty of nature when I’m in my moments of passion and destruction.

  “What do you care?” she spits back as I sit her down firmly in the chair. I chuckle and lean down, placing a hand on the desk, becoming eye level with the girl; a breath away from her face.

  “Because I like to know the names of those I’m mourning after they pass,” I reply in an even tone.

  “You’re going to ... kill us?” she asks, her voice breaking slightly.

  “I haven’t decided yet. I will need your help, and maybe if you assist me, you might be able to walk away from this. A damaged heart, broken will and with, what I would imagine, a mind rotting with what you will witness, but you’ll walk away,” I reply as I stand back up to my full height.

  I watch her cunning eyes as she tries to steal a glance past me. I’ve purposely blocked her mother from her view, and I think that’s the courage she needs to agree to the ultimate betrayal. To take the life of someone who gave it to you is one of the most horrendous atrocities one can commit, but when faced with the prospect of death, I’ve seen many people agree to terrible things.

  Her eyes look up the length of my body slowly, as if she’s devouring me standing in front of her, and our eyes meet. She nods just once to let me know that she agrees to the possibility of life, and I hold a hand out to her.

  “My name is Verona,” she finally relents. “What’s yours?”

  I can’t help but smile. For some reason her name speaks to me greatly; to the man inside of me, and the maelstrom of evil swirling within.

  “Guy Burress,” I reply with a slight bow.

  “That’s funny,” she says with a girlish giggle. Finally, I see a glimpse of the child she really is and not the angry woman she’s attempting to be.