by Glass Eileen
My entire body tenses and my heartbeat thuds in my ears. “Well?”
Nothing.
“Is it that bad?” I whisper. I almost can’t stand to hear the answer, and I think I know. Being possessed and put through that…
Technically, Rex’s hands barely touched me. Technically, I was the only one molested.
Technically, I might have betrayed my friend.
Rex cuts through my turmoil. “It doesn’t matter or anything…just…” He sighs. “I get why you didn’t tell me before, I guess.” Before I can apologize and explain how much I wanted to, he blurts, “He’s killing me, Arrie.”
“He’s what?”
“Not physically.”
“Tell me.” Not a plea. A command this time, in a gruff voice I almost never achieve. My sexuality is of no consequence, forgotten just like that. My mistakes can haunt me later. I have to help him. “Tell me. Now.”
He confesses like a whimpering boy done something wrong at school.
“He’s erasing me. He steals my memories. And takes over whenever he wants. And I…”
He’s crying real tears, but the ink mixes and trails down, leaving several dark streaks like scars. I am pitiless, forcing him to finish, saying nothing. I must know about this thing taking residence with me. If it’s killing Rex, I will end it for them both.
Then her.
“Sometimes, I’m it. I think. I don’t know, Arrie, it’s confusing. We’re merging. But he determines which parts of me to keep.” A wretched whisper: “I can’t remember my mother anymore. She’s gone. What he doesn’t need, he destroys.”
But he keeps parts. That’s important.
“What is he? A demon?”
“No. Just something other. Not from here.” Rex speaks the solution I’ve already thought of. “You have to escape. It’s too late for me, but you can still go back.”
“And leave you alone?”
“What other choice do I have? I’ll never be fixed.”
“Maybe. She has an awful lot of books.” Wishful thinking, and we both know it.
“But Arrie, it’s getting more powerful. As he…absorbs me, he heals from all this. And he’s already more dangerous than you can imagine. I’ve only got a day, I think. He’s sifting fast. I don’t know how much of me will be left when he’s done.”
Snuffed out. That’s what my lovely Rex will be. Worse than dead? No, can’t be, I decide.
“It’s too late for me. What’s gone is gone. Forever.” He jerks, his left side jolting, his mouth half-frowning. “Guess who’s back?”
“The big bad wolf.” I barely speak, merely mouthing the thought.
“Yes.” Rex actually smiles. “He keeps you, you know. I feel most like myself when he’s thinking about you.”
I don’t know what to make of what he’s saying.
“You’re lucky, Arrie.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You are. He initially spared you on a whim you know. But now he’s fascinated. That’s the one thing he and I have in common.”
“You’re, uh…” Inappropriate question.
He twitches again, and his left eye becomes bright red while his right is still my Rex. His last words before his right side spasms and the beast is back: “No, not like that. I like you as a friend.”
“Bring him back,” I command, crossing my arms.
His grin is crooked, the lips pulling up over the teeth on one side so far that Rex’s gums show. Rex wouldn’t grin like that. I don’t even know if it’d be physically possible for him to grin like that. The silky black ears perk forward, so I sense he isn’t angry, but there’s a rumble of displeasure in his voice, a hint of aggression in the sight of those teeth.
“No. He displeases me,” the creature says, regarding me with half lidded eyes.
Evaluating. Perhaps.
“You’re jealous,” I say, and the beast’s head cocks to the other side.
“You want him?” The creature asks slowly.
“Just to talk. Please. Bring him back to talk.”
The ribbons snake out to encircle my wrists. I let them, though I’m wondering just how much control this thing has over me, just how powerful he is. And when I remember that he very well could tear me limb from limb…
I feel utterly exhausted.
Is there such a thing as getting tired of saving yourself all the damn time?
I sigh. “I’m a cross-dresser. You know what that is?”
“Different,” he replies, and I notice that he’s edging into my space slowly. There’s a sweetness to him, no matter what he’s capable of or how he reminds me of a demon.
But how can I still call him Sweetie knowing that he’s essentially killing Rex? Or turning him into a vegetable.
He’s a parasite. No matter how beautiful, I think, looking at the ears atop full red hair. Cute would be appropriate if he wasn’t so dangerous.
“Are you destroying him?” I do nothing to stop thick ribbons that swim around my waist, tighten gently around my back like a dress zipped up by a warm gentleman. I let my voice carry my displeasure instead of my actions, holding ground against this thing.
His gaze slides from my direct stare.
“No,” he says, dragging the word out with a hiss.
“Liar,” I say, and I catch his flinch.
But I don’t feel powerful for long. The snug ribbons become tight, and I get a brief sensation of falling—like I’ve been thrown. But I crash into his chest instead, and as the ribbons rush out to cocoon me there, I realize he just picked me up and grabbed me to him. As easily as a child manipulating a doll.
I’m a plaything.
“Let me go.” Struggling is pointless, and I purposely don’t. All I have in this fight is my will.
I meet the beast’s glowing red eyes. I breathe evenly despite the tight rope around my rib cage, the taste of cinnamon and ash on my tongue.
“No. I want to show you.”
Tighter, they’re tighter. My ribs push out on the confines, I have the urge to struggle wildly. If I look down, I’ll see the stuff spreading over me, covering me like tar, dripping and sinking into my pores. And climbing higher, like I’m going to drown in the stuff. Light tendrils creep into my hair. Thicker ribbons curl up my chest, then snake around my collarbone like a boa and coil around my neck like a hand to strangle me.
“I can’t breathe,” I say calmly and clearly. I haven’t lost eye contact yet. Strength I don’t have, but willpower is my specialty.
“Shh. Want to show.”
I turn my cheek so his moving lips won’t dip to mine, but I hold his stare from the corner of my eye. Even as the last vestige of calm leaves me, even as the ribbons start to squeeze on my neck. Gently, but still suffocating, like a formal tie.
“This is what it’s like,” he says, and the ink tightens all over me, and not in a pleasant way.
“Stop it.”
“Won’t hurt. Want to show you.”
“It does hurt, now stop it.”
The pressure lessens, only a touch. Not enough to ease the claustrophobic screech I’m building up, but enough that I don’t fear a terrible, gooey death.
Another surprise image from my brain, this one not sensual: My eyes hang from bloody strings, my tongue pokes from my mouth like a smashed frog. Squeezed to death like a mouse once soft and pretty.
He could pop and squish me just like that.
The hold lessens a bit more. His hands—Rex’s hands—reach for my face, getting my attention.
“Not hurting,” he says, “Showing. See? This is what it’s like. In here.”
Suffocating.
When did my gaze drop to his nose? I was so determined to maintain eye contact. Now I’m studying the fine bridge, the slightly crooked tilt. He has a fine nose, better lips. Always a shame when a straight man gets a set of full, pouty lips. Why, if I had lips like that, I wouldn’t be single, I promise you.
“Now you see?”
I’m not crying. I don’t
have the energy for it. Eyes must be welling up from the burning, fiery scent of him. I’m choked, but not with emotion. A week’s sleep, and I might be capable. Right now the best I can do is haggard acceptance.
“Rats in a bucket,” I say.
“Hm?”
“Oh, see, you put rats in a bucket, they’ll eat each other. ‘Til there’s just one rat.” I clear my throat. “Nevermind.”
So what are you gonna do about this, Arrie? What are you going to say to the creature killing your…?
Blank. I’ve got no word for what Rex is to me, but the connection is there. He may not like what I am, but that’s no surprise. I never even entertained the thought of us spiriting away to the coast for a marriage certificate. Well, maybe once, when we were holding hands and he was talking about supporting me in my lofty ambition to become a fashion designer.
“I’m going to fix this.” I follow the bridge of his nose, pausing at every slight imperfection, every pore and two tiny spots that could be dirt, ink, or freckles. That is the nose of my man, label or not. “Don’t destroy anything else, alright? I know it’s hard. But give him another day. Let me try to fix this.”
“You can’t.”
I shout, “Let me try!”
The noise is like a stone dropped in a puddle, waves splashing against the walls, ripples penetrating the chair. I think I see a buckle sway.
And above, a distant creak. Not over head, but from farther in the house, from her bedroom.
Sweetie reacts at once, moving so fast it’s like he phased to the bars, and I get knocked back, the ink releasing me except for a few ropes that hold my ankles and wrists. Like shackles, he’s attached me to him.
They don’t hold me down, though. I come up behind him, go to touch his shoulder—and hearing the rumble, sensing the anger, think better of grabbing him unaware.
I listen with him.
“She’s not coming.”
He grumbles.
“You’d hear her bedroom door. Then the stairs. Then her steps above us. Then these stairs,” I explain. “It’s an old house. Movement travels through the entire structure. And sometimes, wood like this just kind of talks, I guess. We’ll know if she’s coming.”
I see his shoulders droop a little and let my palm rest on him. Still shackled by kinky silk ribbons. I’m so ashamed for thinking that. Or rather, I will be in the morning.
The jacket is wadded up behind my head for a pillow, but I’m in no need of a blanket. He’s like a furnace, my own personal fleshy ball of warmth, and where his physical body doesn’t touch, black slick covers and strokes. I thought I’d never sleep, so upset over Rex. The more I thought about him, the more I realized he would be worse than dead. He would be replaced. An animated corpse, I guess, but his body would still live. A clone. An empty husk.
But not the fault of my Sweetie.
I have to give up calling him beast and creature and thing. He clings to me like a child, curled tight as can be at my side, making snuffle noises where his head nestles into my neck. A monster perhaps, but a sweetie too, and when he whimpers I sneak my hand through his hair and scratch lightly at the space between his inky ears, which twitch occasionally.
Light glares through the small window, making the place brighter than I care for. The yellow sun rays hit me, make me flinch, and I get to thinking about the world out there. My poor goldfish. My unaware parents. My facebook account. (Will anyone notice that I haven’t posted today? Not likely. Might be a week before someone says, Maybe I should send Arrie a message, make sure he’s doing alright.)
By the time my face shows up on the news, I’ll be long gone. That’s the reality the morning sun brings, and I wish it’d get snuffed out.
He huffs into my neck, making a little sound like a piggy snort that makes me smile.
He hasn’t changed in the morning light. And oh, he’s amazing. A thing of magic. No wonder Edith wanted him. It must be so dull to know magic but not have anything to show for it.
My fingers tap anxiously on his arm, and I will them still.
I’ve got a secret. Sweetie says I’m not for eating.
I hover over an ear, smooth it carefully down, let my index finger swirl the tip and watch the tendrils wrap around my nail and slide away.
A spell of my own, whispered and felt to be true: “You’re mine.”
I’ll turn him against her.
(But will you kill him to save Rex?)
One body, two souls. I can’t have both and I know it. Rex came first. But Sweetie is…
(Amazing. And unlike the human, the wolf reciprocates your longing. Which will you choose?)
The sun won’t let up, it just keeps getting brighter. And the ugly reality is, I don’t know.
From the other side of the door, I hear her keys jingle. The lock clicks.
“Sweetie, wake up.”
Slam!
The deadbolt hits, and I’m awake. Just like that, from deep sleep to hello another day with that sound.
There’s no sleepy dream clinging to my consciousness, no pondering where I am. I remember everything instantly, I’m wide awake and checking on my sleeping cellmate before she’s even pushed on the door.
Rex is slower to rise, but my shaking brings him to. He blinks, looks at me, and I can watch her presence dawn on him, his soft expression vanishing to tension and hate. His red eyes glow brighter, the black ink surges over his face, forming a snout.
Asleep and cozy, he’d been a puppy to be cuddled, with a soft face, two perky black ears, and a snore that made me want to ruffle his hair.
There’s no trace of cuteness once he’s awake.
No words pass between us. He’s on his feet and snarling as the door creaks open.
I wait to hear her speak. Hear her footsteps clack on the tile.
But I hear nothing, and Rex—Sweetie, actually, my mistake—he blocks my view.
The night has been hell. Waking up constantly, panicking at the sound of every might-be foot fall on the stairs, every squeak in the ceiling that might be her coming to us.
The only thing worse than knowing that she’s coming is not knowing where she is in the room. I creep forward to peer around Sweetie, catch a glimpse of her that will at least put a location on my fears, but walking forward is like getting caught in the branches of a tree. Ink ribbons stick to me and hold fast, no matter how I pull at them. And the further forward I step, the more entangled I become.
I hear her: “Where is she?”
Tap, tap. Her footsteps enter the room one by one.
“How did she escape?!”
I cower from her sudden shout. Sweetie only growls.
I like that sound. Not directed at me, of course.
“Tell me! Where is she?!”
Tap, tap, and she should be standing before him now. I can imagine her red lips pulled in a displeased frown. Never too early for clown make up, that’s Edith for you. She likes her cosmetics.
I’ve always preferred a more natural look, a little foundation, a little blush. Mascara is where I layer on the paint. With naturally long lashes, I can be quite pretty with little for eye shadow.
“I know you can talk, don’t play dumb. Stop that noise. Now.”
He makes a sound like he’s choking, then goes quiet. His limbs still shiver though, and his shoulders hunch low. He has no choice but to do as she says.
“Speak.” She commands him like a dog.
“No.”
“Oh that’s cute. Yes, yes, very clever.” Tap, tap. He lurches backwards, the ribbons pulling me further into his shadow. She’s gotten too close. “Tell me where she is,” Edith demands.
There’s a green glint on the wall, cast by the gem around her neck.
He fights it, grumbling, mumbling. But she’s patient, and he loses.
“Behind me.” He finally grunts, and the ink gets unbearably tight, so that I squirm. He’s scared for me, I realize.
“Well, what did you do to her? Let me see.”
All at
once the coils retract, the silk ribbons let go, and I stumble without their support, already used to being held I guess.
“No.”
I think I can hear her teeth grind. Dentures. Whatever.
In a deadly whisper: “You don’t say that to me.” Then, perplexed: “What did you do with her? Let me see.”
A ribbon snakes out, to yank me out front I think, and I throw up an arm to deflect, but instead it pushes at my chest, forces me backwards.
But the others all rise up and point hooks at me. He’s resisting.
“Enough of this! You submitted to me already. You’re mine! Now show her to me!”
She stamps her foot, and the beast clutches his head, hisses, and stumbles aside.
I catch his arm to help him. I guess I had to look at her ugly face sooner or later.
The hair atop her head is thinning, there’s spots on her skin. She has lines around her eyes like a bulldog, but her cheeks are pulled back and smooth. Extra plump lips that look swollen rather than luscious. Long red nails to match the crayon-thick lipstick.
I’d like that color on my knuckles. I’d like these bars to vanish.
Oh, they will, I promise myself. I can work magic too.
Her penciled eyebrows raise, wrinkling her forehead. “You’re alive…?”
I do jazz hands for her. Not for long. I’m not that cocky. (Though in a literal sense, I’m more cock than she bargained for.)
“How?” She whispers this quietly to herself, thinking it over. “How did you do it?”
She starts pacing. Tap-tap, tap-tap.
Ugh, I’m getting a head ache. I break my silence, if only to stop her annoying heels.
“I asked nicely. He’s a sweetie, isn’t he?”
Her eyes bug out at that, so I decide to mess with her.
“That’s what I named him,” I say, drawing him to me, petting his cheek with the back of one hand. “Isn’t that right, Sweetie?”
He doesn’t look sweet. He’s got snout and snarl pointed at the old hag, silently growling since she took his voice. He’s got tendrils tapping at me, coiling around my wrists and arms, tugging ever so slightly like he wants to snatch me from view but can’t.