Ink Stains, Volume I
Page 3
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The boy is so pretty.
Very few of the children who show up and follow the caravan are. There is a certain sickness that permeates the sort of urchin who dreams of running away and joining the circus, the traveling shows. Or, maybe all children do, but it is usually the low, the malnourished, and the scarred that actually take the step and stowaway. But not this boy.
The boy snuck into one of the truck beds outside of Albuquerque. He had seen the boy run alongside, felt the dip when he jumped in and threw the tarp over himself. He hadn’t said anything and later would drop some bread where the boy would find it. He was always the one who drew the children out of their hiding places once they were far enough away that they couldn’t just go back. He gave them jobs, got them settled.
It was also his job to take care of them when, as happened from time to time, there were accidents. Some things are just too precious for this world.
And yes, now that the boy lies before him with lifeless eyes and a stilled heart, some of that sparkle and shimmer are gone, but there is a fragile delicacy replacing it that haunts him as he scoops the boy into his arms. He doesn’t really think of the why or the explanation, he just wants to show her this beautiful boy, to share this with her. She deserves pretty things; she knows how to appreciate them. She will help him prepare the body, make the boy shine again with her caring touch.
He brings the boy to her tent and waits for the crowds of grief and hysterical agitation to die down. He knows there are things he should be doing; they will have to pack up and move again, sooner than expected. All he can think of, though, is the reward he is sure will be bestowed on him, how overcome with emotion she’ll be and the allowances he’ll receive. The things he used to only have vague desires for have recently become reality and are now an obsession that drowns out all right and reason.
“Ohhh, magnifique,” she whispers through her teeth when she finally enters the tent and sees him lying there, waiting for her. “It is exquisite.”
Horrified, he thinks she doesn’t understand. This “it” before her isn’t a doll, not like her other playthings. He was a boy; only moments before, he had breath and hope, wants, needs, strengths, and potential, so much potential. But then she’s taking the boy’s clothes off, reaching for a large black bag, and with a quick and precise touch, she’s pulling out tubes and needles, vials, and IV bags of some sort of thick liquid. All the while, she’s singing a lullaby and looking fondly at her newest toy. And with a sick thunk of realization, he knows it was he who didn’t understand, had never understood. All those dolls, all those lives lost, and she wraps them in finery and glitter and calls it a hobby.
He feels the bile rise up in him. Then she looks at him, and she has that certain fire in her eyes, and he swallows the sick along with his self-loathing and comes to where she’s urging him. She gets on her knees before him. He wants to refuse, to step away and deny her fumbling fingers from removing his trousers. He wants to take the boy back to where he found him, leave him for the bereft, and forget those dead eyes that will never again close, will never again stop staring at him. What he really wants, what he prays for, is for his body to not react to her urgent attentions.
He closes his eyes tight and curses as he feels the prickle of his skin when her fingernails scratch up his thighs. He hears her whisper her endearments, her pet names for him, but underneath it he swears he can hear the boy, calling out for him. Take me to my family. Please, take me back. He tastes salt and soil on his lips from sweat and begs his body to remain as lifeless as the boy on the bed before them. A low, guttural growl is his undoing, and he whimpers as she teases. He feels his body’s betrayal. He opens his eyes and sees everything with a softened haze of the tears in his eyes. All he can do now is pray for a speedy release so that he may run away, may cleanse himself of this mess.
She holds him in her long, delicate fingers and breathes in hot whispers, as if she’s talking to one of her dolls. Her corpses.
“Shuddup,” he orders, and she thinks he means he needs her mouth. And in a way, he does, but not because he wants it, wants her. He wants her gone, wants all memory of her and his need of her gone.
As she wraps her mouth around him, his eyes find the boy and he pleads for mercy, absolution, or, at the least, understanding. I didn’t know, he cries silently. I didn’t sort out what it all meant.
This boy wouldn’t know though, wouldn’t understand. He imagines the boy’s never wanted for anything in his life, never been denied a single thing. He wouldn’t understand how hard it is to find this kind of devotion, wouldn’t appreciate what you had to do to keep it, how much of yourself you had to surrender. And as her glossed lips work him over, the loathing rises up in him. Not just for himself and the woman who gave him so much and took even more, but also for the boy too. The pretty ones don’t know, would never understand.
His breathing becomes erratic, and he moans, knowing his orgasm is coming, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the body on the bed. For a brief moment, he wonders if the boy ever felt this, ever had someone he’d do foolish things for, ever had someone do things to him that made him forget all reason. He hopes so. Maybe then he’ll be able to stop seeing the boy’s eyes every time he closes his own. But then he’s coming and he forgets all thought as she swiftly swallows the last bit of self-respect he has left.
He braces himself for the moment when she stands before him and looks into his eyes. He feels his eyes will reveal his revulsion, his fear, and his desire to flee and never return. Of course, he need not worry. She has no more time for him. She has a new pretty to add to her collection. She turns and stares at the boy before her.
“Merci, mon amour,” she whispers.
He sees his chance for escape and slowly and quietly backs out of the tent. Her words following him out the door. Thank you, my love…
He hopes fervently as he makes his way to his tent that they are the last words he will ever hear from her. Even as his heart, and a much deeper place inside him, know they aren’t.
About the Author
Tamela J. Ritter sits down every day with one goal in mind: to write happy little stories about well-adjusted and loving families, about relationships that work, where no one hurts anyone else with their twisted desires and obsessions. She really does.
They just don’t ever turn out that way.
Tamela’s first novel From These Ashes was released by Vagabondage Press in 2013.
She can be found at www.tamelajritter.com.