Wait — why was it rattling like that? There was nothing in there to make such a sound.
She peered into the drawer again, pulling aside the papers. As she did so, the bottom of the drawer lifted a few centimeters. A false bottom. His drawer has a false bottom. Val glanced over her shoulder, and then lifted out the wooden tray, holding her breath.
A journal. He was hiding a journal, similar to the one downstairs, but newer and less scuffed, and beneath it, a sketchbook she had never seen him bring to class before. She said the sketchbook aside, blinking in shock when she read the words “I saw two lions mating today,” written in a hand similar to, but more elegant than, the writing on the case of butterflies.
This wasn't a chess log, then. This was an actual journal. His.
Val glanced at the door again, then smoothed out the pages and began to read.
Chapter Twelve
I saw two lions mating today.
Not in real life, but in Biology. The teacher showed us another video. Since he is losing his job at the end of this year, I suppose he doesn't see the point. Of anything. I've seen him drinking in his car before class, and from a hip flask, no less. I think he knows that I know. How else to explain that I never turn anything in and yet am still able to maintain a cozy A in the class?
But anyway, the lions.
We're learning about sexual education, the underlying assumption being that the students of this school are not conducting their own independent studies of the subject on a nightly basis. Though this does not explain why the textbook chapter reads more like a waiver than an instructional guide.
Regardless, human mating cannot be shown in class so animal mating must suffice. Horses. Apes. Dogs. We had to suffer through an entire menagerie. But then came the lions and I could tell right away that this pair was going to be different.
The female was growling, hackles raised, as they circled each other. The male pounced, forcing the female down to the ground with his powerful forelegs. She tried to fight him. With a growl, the male sank his teeth into her throat, increasing the pressure until she lowered her head to her paws in submission. Then he mounted her and took his worthy prize at his leisure.
In the dusty sunlight of the African savanna the two of them looked like burnished idols.
What would it be like, I wonder, to have such power over a woman? To feel her beneath you, as beautiful and golden and lovely as the sun, half-willing, half-resistant? To know that you have her by the throat? I should like to have such an experience for myself.
But I want someone untamed — who, like a wild foal, I can break and reshape the way I wish. There is a kind of sweetness required for proper submission combined with a latent sensuality. Such women are innocent but only because they need someone to provide them with the release they would be otherwise incapable of seeking out on their own.
I have been studying a freshman girl in my art class who seems promising. She does track and field. I saw her while sitting in the bleachers one day, completing a rough sketch for Art — I can't even remember what the subject was, so transfixed was I by the way she ran.
She looked so wild and free out there in the field. It took me a moment to place her as the demure girl with the strange name who never breathes a word. The uniform, too, revealed a body of which I had never before had cause to take notice. But I'm paying attention now.
Whoever she is, I want her.
And I've been drawing her, though she doesn't know it. I drew us, together, cloaked in the darkness of the Biology classroom — me as the lion, her as the lioness, her head turned to the side to bare her throat to me. I clothed her in the skins of her prey, the claws and teeth and bones of her various kills strung on a necklace that hung heavily at her breast.
Myself, I drew in fur. Black, instead of gold, to better hunt among the shadows. Blood smeared on my hands and chest, my hand around her neck, the other tangled in her hair. And all the while, my pants grew tighter until I could scarcely breathe and I had to leave the classroom.
She raises feelings in me so powerful that there are times I don't know what I'll do. I think I might hurt her if I get too close. No. I know I will. Because the thought of hunting her instills in me the same thrill as the men who chase a vixen through the wood. And then I consider my plans for the future, and how a woman such as this could destroy them should I happen to be caught.
But then, what if she wants to be hurt? What if, like a flint to tinder, I can coax her to flame? To burn for me, and only me? And I remember that girl running against the wind, and I know that there's no going back. I am her future — and she is simply that: mine.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Her name is Valerian. It suits her, but then again, I expected no less.
Some cultures believe that knowing someone's name — their true name — gives one power over that individual's soul. I am not given to superstition, but it is an interesting sentiment. Knowing her name certainly gives me access to more information to a strikingly apropos effect.
I like seeing how close I can get before she is aware of my presence. There are times when her eyes seem to lock with mine, and there are times when she is painfully oblivious. Today, for example, I could have reached out and grabbed her. I could have stayed silent and watched her.
But I am a gentleman at heart, and so I left her a gift. A red rose, for passion. I was tempted to leave her a sprig of fresh jasmine, as well, but that seemed tastelessly forward. Perhaps for the best, considering the rejection with which my offering was met.
Interestingly, she chose to keep the poem. Sentiment — or caution? I suspect the latter but it amuses me to think of her as a romantic, so easily seduced by pretty words and empty promises.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
My observations have accorded me with far more than I anticipated. I must admit that I am very pleased by what I have seen so far. Very pleased.
That friend of hers is cause for some concern. She sees right through me — or thinks she does. In any case, she sees enough to know not to like it. Clever girl. She, too, is lovely, but cold and hard — and far too conniving. Hardly worthy of my time and attention at all, though her feisty repartee was quite entertaining. Hate list, indeed.
When the two of them left I studied the kittens trying to see what Val saw in them that held her so. Is it the innocence and helplessness that she finds so appealing? The thought makes me smile, for that is exactly what it is about her that keeps me in her thrall.
The kitten bared its fangs at me when I picked it up for examination. I held its chin aloft so it could not bite or move its head, staring directly into its wide blue eyes as I waited for it to cease spitting and struggling. Eventually it lost interest in biting me and when its small body stilled, I relaxed my hold. Tentatively, it sniffed my fingers and, eyes slightly lowered, rubbed its cheek against the knuckles of my hand. I stroked it obligingly, though absently.
She is good with animals. I've seen that. She can coax the stray tabbies from the brush, to take food from her hand and even, on occasion, to let her stroke their fur. They do not fear her, the way they do me, and yet in her own roughshod way she does project a vague air of competence that is both unselfconscious and formidable. A protector. I suspect that it is this the animals are responding to, that makes them trust her so implicitly.
A sudden tickling sensation brought me back to the present. The kitten was getting restless, and had begun to squirm in an attempt to pour itself over the side of my hand. The claws that had cut Val were retracted but that would soon change. The little creature was getting impatient. I gave it a final pat before setting it down with the others.
There is a freshness to her that does, indeed, remind me of flowers — Val, I mean. Not the kitten. And her skin must be so soft, so delicate, to be wounded so easily. My fingers can wrap around her wrist and still touch. The bones of her wrist were so fragile, and nestled between them her pulse thrummed hummingbird fast.
Because of me? I wonder.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
I submitted the order for my cap and gown. I can't believe I have less than three months left in this tedious place. I'm considering applying to a program for Animal Behavioral Science, or perhaps even Psychology. It amuses me how everyone is under the misguided impression that their thoughts and emotions are opaque, when their bodies lay everything bare all the while.
I look forward to disillusioning them.
That boy, for example. He so clearly wanted to impress her, to make her feel poorly about herself. Poorly enough to settle for second best if he gets shot down by the other girl he's been sniffing around, far less pretty but a good deal more willing.
I almost laughed when his plan backfired, and he found himself cast as the one spurned. And I watched his eyes flick to her continually throughout the entire class. As if he was wondering whether he might have made a foolish choice and found the answer rather poor.
Yes, she does look very enticing in green, doesn't she? I think so, too. It gives her eyes a distinctly feline glow and brings out the lush, red ripeness of her lips. She has a gorgeous mouth. When I think of all the possibilities of what I could have her do with it, I feel faint.
As I imagine you did, when you watched her. And repented.
But she won't have to settle for you, anymore, will she? Not anymore.
I saw the way you looked at me. Locking eyes is considered aggressive in the animal kingdom. It makes me wonder if perhaps you want to go head to head with me. Over a female, no less. Very appropriate, but not at all wise. In fact, I really don't think you want to fuck with me at all. You're welcome to try, though. The human species would do well to be rid of your genes.
Oh, Val, what are you doing to me? It's been a long time since I've felt so alive. So ready. So eager. I would do anything to keep this feeling bottled up inside. Anything.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
I feel I could kill. I feel that I might like it. And I know that this should scare me, but it doesn't. It excites me. I am in Plato's cave, watching the shadows and fraught with the desire to hunt what casts them. I close my eyes and at night I dream of blood.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
You suspect, don't you? You're not sure what — not yet — but you suspect. I doubt you'd be able to guess, though you always do seem able to surprise me. You have no idea how close I was to taking you up on that innocent little gaffe of yours. How much it taxes me to play the role of the cavalier gentleman. Not that I mind. I admit, it's diverting. I've always had a penchant for theater. I suppose that makes you my ingénue.
But I suspect there's a bit of the femme fatale in you, as well. Why else would you pursue your own pursuer, if not to satisfy your own baser instincts? I've seen the way you look at me, when you think I'm not watching. That wasn't an innocent glance. You were undressing me with those bewitching green eyes of yours.
I wonder, would you let me kiss you now? Caress you? Would you let me tie you up? You've already let me touch you. How far would you let me go, I wonder, before it became too far?
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
I grow weary of utilizing the same subjects, over and over. Not even Val can satisfy me — not on canvas alone, at any rate. Ms. Wilcox suggested I try my hand at abstract art. I nearly laughed; “abstract art” is an affected contradiction, an oxymoron.
But I could not say that. I have a role to play for Ms. Wilcox, too. And so I lauded her for her wisdom, even as I made note to disregard it.
Perhaps a chess game, at a critical turning point. It has been a while since I thought of chess. Shaping a game out of nothingness — I could do that, I think. I keep my old chess logs in a drawer. I can amalgamate the best games, to create a striking work of brilliancy —
But with a twist. Blood seeping from a felled piece, perhaps. I must think on this.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
I have been denying myself the privilege of watching her run, savoring the anticipation and letting it culminate, and then breathe, like a fine wine. I admit, I was afraid that the effect of seeing her would gradually diminish with repeat exposure, but my fears appear ill-founded. All the same; it is not an experience to be squandered away.
Recent events, however, have made me feel entitled to a bit of stolen pleasure. I received a letter today from Her, asking me when I planned to visit. I was most displeased, as I thought I had made it quite clear that I had no intention of returning to New Jersey.
However, Anna-Maria is getting married and this event appears to require my attendance. She is my least favorite of my sisters. There is too much of our bitch mother in her. Any man foolish enough to open himself to her claws is well deserving of his fate. I may have to go.
I watched her — Val, not my sister — from the shadows beneath the bleachers. Empty cups and cartons and stubbed-out cigarettes littered the ground at my feet. There was something exquisite about the darkness, the rot, when juxtaposed against Val running through the rain. Something real. It was true, what I'd told her before, about disliking posing.
She acts differently around me. Tentative, skittish — almost fearful. It's very amusing and not at all like the woman I have come to know from the track field: fierce, determined, confident. Despite her mild temperament, this hidden side to her leads me to suspect that she will be a ferocious lover when I manage to get her into my bed.
I can easily imagine her nails digging into my shoulders, the bite of her teeth in my lip, her breathy screams —
I unbuckled my belt.
This is why I watch from the shadows. Not out of shame, but so I can watch, observe, and do as I please. Unseen. Unheard. But very much a part of the background. I would be lying if I said that the prospect of caught didn't amuse me a little. Among other things.
Oh, Val.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
I had her in my net for a few precious moments. She was very ambivalent towards imprisonment, which did not surprise me. However her continued wariness towards me in spite of my efforts did. She is more perceptive than I gave her credit for, and I cannot but respect her all the more for it. She trembles just like a butterfly when she is in my arms.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
She slammed the covers closed. There was more, but she was unwilling to go on. She'd had enough. More than enough. She looked at the sketchbook with dread. Her hands were sweating. She wiped them on her shorts, causing the fabric to darken, and flipped through the pages.
A wave of dizziness crashed over her as she recognized her own face staring out at her. Oh god. She dropped the sketchbook back in the drawer and replaced the bottom. She couldn't remember how to breathe. Those drawings were not the imaginings of a sane man.
“Val?”
It was like something out of a horror movie, hearing his voice echo through the hall. She heard a knocking sound, just a few doors down, and covered her mouth to stifle a scream when the bathroom door opened and then slammed shut just as quickly. His footsteps were moving down the hallway with purposeful precision.
He knows.
Val pinched the journal beneath her arm and headed for the door to the adjoining bedroom. She closed it quietly behind her, struggling to keep in the loud sob threatening to bubble straight past her lips. It was an irrational thought, for an irrational situation.
Reality, for Val, had swiftly become a nightmare.
As the office door opened a horrible thought occurred to her. Did I close the drawer? She honestly couldn't remember — reading the journal, and its contents, had wiped her mind so clean as to render it a blank slate. Papers rustled. Val's nausea grew. She hadn't heard him open the drawer. Oh, god, then he knows. He knows I know.
And he would kill her to keep his secret. No. Not kill her. Not right away, at least. Images from the sketchbook flooded her head. Worse.
“I know you're nearby, Val.”
She stared at his bedroom closet.
“You have something of mine.”
He was toying her, like a
cat with a mouse. Enjoying her terror, basking in it. Well, she wasn't going to wait around for him to find her in some nightmarish game of hide-and-seek. She bolted for the closet and had only just slid the door closed behind her when the office door burst open.
Something behind her jangled as she nudged her way towards the back. The muffled vacuum of the closet amplified the sound into a startling gong. She reached out automatically to still it, and inhaled sharply when she realized what it was she was holding. Handcuffs. Metal handcuffs.
Her back hit the wall and one of the coats fell on her, smothering her with the sandalwood scent of whichever aftershave or wash he was so fond. Beneath the coat she quivered, hugging the journal to her chest. He's completely insane.
The closet door opened. Clothes were shoved aside and light flashed on the other side of the coat as the contents of the closet were bared to unseen eyes. Val didn't breathe. She wanted to check, to ensure her entire body was covered, but to move would mean death.
Please, please, please —
She screamed when she felt herself being lifted into the air, coat and all, and then again, with a renewed sense of fear when he yanked the coat off her head and she realized where she was. “You seem to have lost your way,” he said mildly, though there was nothing mild about the expression on his face.
She backed away and jumped when her back brushed against the wooden headboard. Gavin watched her for a long, terrible moment and then picked up the journal which had fallen from her numb fingers. He thumbed through the pages, an odd smile on his face, before tossing the book aside. It hit the floor with a hollow thud that made her jump again.
“Or perhaps not,” he said, inclining his head in her direction, “perhaps you were looking for something — something specific.”
“I don't — ”
“Let's not play games, Val. We both know that you read the journal — but you never stopped to consider the fact that I might want you to find it.”
Fearscape (Horrorscape) Page 13