Never Fear

by Heather Graham

  I approached my apartment. My pace quickened, while my stomach grumbles and rumbles had begun to assert their desires louder and more forcefully. I passed one of the side alleys between my apartment complex and the now closed-down Mexican restaurant that bordered it. I was tempted to head down the alley, as our complex’s tiny yard was surrounded on three sides by a tall oak fence. The side of the fence in this alley had a door we had built into it. It was bolted from the other side, but they would open it once I bribed them with soda and chips. I turned into the alley, intent on getting some food and having a fun night. I deserved it.

  “Hey there, sweetie, you look like you're going to have a fun night. Wanna start it off with a bang?” The voice was sweet. It carried a slight tone that pushed the idea that it belonged to an innocent little girl.

  As I gazed toward the source of this sweet voice, a chill of horror swept across my body. The woman who had emerged from the alley, and now stood before me, was young, perhaps in her twenties. I could tell that just by looking at her. The word innocent would hardly describe her. Large black heels ran up moderately toned legs. Her skin, the majority of it, was the color of moonlight. Much of that exposed flesh came from those legs. She wore a mini-skirt, which covered little and showed off much. Her upper body was clothed in a thin, transparent fishnet shirt, small rips and tears showing its age. It covered much, yet still exposed her slender waist and perky breasts, which were covered with a simple black bra. What once had been a lovely face was now covered in a barrage of makeup, making her look like some kind of whorish clown. Short, and obviously dyed, red hair added to the horror show before me. But it was none of that which made me break out in a cold sweat, made my pulse skyrocket. My heart started to race until it felt like it would explode from my chest. I saw the small, rough-looking, reddish-brown dots that appeared to be various rashes all over her body, Many of them were healing, and the color was fading, but I knew well what this creature had syphilis.

  My eyes shot down to her hands, and even though they were clenched, I could see there was a massive congregation of those reddish-brown dots. It was in the secondary stages, which normally occurs two to eight weeks after being infected. She was new to the infection. She probably assumed it was something else. I knew from my research that the sores are painless, and she might not have even noticed the initial chancre, the small, painless, disgusting wound that forms around the infection area.

  But in a way only I would understand, this was excellent news. She had been corrupted recently; the filth spreading inside of her had not had enough time yet to go into hiding, to be able to conceal itself from the prying eyes of those who would know and understand what it was and what it meant. But I knew, and my righteous purpose was once more confirmed. It was almost divine, as if God himself had sent her here to my home to cleanse her, testing me, seeing if I would once again overcome my fears so the people of New York would be safe. Distant laughter snapped me out of my daze. I heard the loud infectious laugh of Susie come from down the alley. My family--they were in danger. This creature was not only endangering the random strangers in the city, but now she was after my family.

  I smiled, although it must have looked more like a sneer from a madman, as she took a step back.

  “That would be wonderful. Why don’t you go to the alley next to us? The building's Dumpster is there. Go wait for me. I need drop to this stuff off.” I could tell she was nervous, as her eyes became hesitant. She stared at me for a second.

  She was right to be nervous. That cold look I had given the news vendor had entered my eyes once more. My fear had been replaced with an urgency to deal with this filthy beast who had dared to come close to my home and my adopted family. She was going to pay for her audacity. I turned, heading toward the front door of my apartment complex. No one from my complex would see. They were all at the party in the back.

  “Hey!” she called out a little louder than I preferred, my body wincing for a moment. “We never discussed price. It’s one hundred if you want...”

  I cut her off, my voice snapping. “Price is not an issue. Now shut up and go where I told you.”

  “Fuck, you!” she snapped back. “You got ten minutes to get the fuck down here, cash in hand or I am gone.”

  She looked pissed, her pale face flushed in anger, lips drawn tight together. She stormed past me, heels clicking loudly upon the concrete. I thought she was going to leave, that she had changed her mind. But as I saw her disappear into the side alley I had told her to go to, I knew she must be desperate. Most hookers that I snapped at left, their instincts telling them something was wrong. Before I had learned to control my revulsion and anger toward them, many escaped to spread their filth and ruin lives of countless people. It had been hard to change, but lives were on the line. And her eagerness, despite my anger, showed how much she must have needed the money.

  I headed inside, for once taking the elevator. My fat gut could wait, people were in danger. When I got into my apartment, the chips and soda were discarded on the floor. If they were crushed or popped, I could claim they had been dropped them on the way over. Quickly, I changed my clothes. I tossed on a black windbreaker. I had a closet full of them. My gloves and knife were still soaking in bleach. I would need to use one of my other instruments I had hidden in my apartment. I quickly rummaged through my closet, pulling out a simple pair of black cloth gloves, not what I wanted, but they would make do. I hurried into my bedroom and opened the bottom drawer to my dresser. My fingers slid under the dresser drawer until I reached a flat, inconspicuous area. My finger pushed up, and after a second, a soft click was heard as the bottom of that dresser drawer popped up, opening the hidden cache. I reached inside and quickly pulled out a length of metal wire, each end having a solid, simple metal grip, which the wire had been threaded through. I rarely used the garrote. It was cruel, but this filthy whore had besieged my home and my family. She needed to suffer. From the hidden cache I also withdrew a smaller knife, the blade a few inches shorter than its larger bathing brother. The hilt was heavier, made of a composite material I had chosen because it was non-porous, like the garrote handles. Both of these items I concealed in my windbreaker. Focusing my mind onto the task ahead, I moved toward the door. My home was under attack, and not only I, but my family, was in danger.

  I cannot fail, I thought before I gently whispered, “I won’t fail.” And with those words, I began my hurried trek outside.

  She was waiting for me behind the Dumpster. I could sense her wariness grow when she saw my gloved hands.

  “What the fuck is going on? Why do you have gloves on?” She took a step back. She was tense, and if I was not quick, she would flee.

  I raised my hands, showing her the simple gloves.

  “Just some gloves. I saw you have a rash, and I wanted to be safe.” I slowly lowered my left hand and gently reached into my windbreaker jacket and pulled out a crisp, one-hundred-dollar bill. There was a stack of them in my apartment, and they were only ever handled when I had gloves on. Her eyes focus on the bill, her tense posture relaxing. She must have assumed that if I was going to do something I would not have brought the money. She was terribly mistaken.

  “Hundred bucks enough for a quickie?”

  A curt nod was given before her hand snatched the bill from mine. It was like watching a snake strike. Her hand was a blur. In the blink of an eye, she was stuffing the bill into her bra.

  “Where do you want me?”

  My head jerked toward the Dumpster. “Just grip it and bend over.”

  Pale shoulders shrugged in indifference before she complied, hiking up her skirt. She exposed a bony pale bottom. I moved behind her, and then suddenly stopped as a question formed in my mind. It was not one I needed to ask, but I felt compelled to do so.

  “You have a condom, sweetie?”

  Her head turned, lips, and eyebrows narrowed. “Do I look like a drug store to you? Do it or don’t, you already paid.” Head turned back to face the Dumpster, her bon
ey behind giving a little shake.

  “Ok, just checking.” My hands reached out gripping her ass. I rubbed gently, attempting to calm her more, fingers slowly spreading those pale cheeks. I saw it then around her small clenched sphincter: the round open sore, the point of infection. She must indeed be freshly tainted if this painless chancre was still an open wound. But the filth must be spreading fast through her if she was also showing the secondary signs. The oozing sore looked raw and infected, but she likely had no idea it was there.

  She giggled. “Calm yourself, hon, it’s ok. I promise my pussy will make you cum fast. I am nice and tight.” She reached down between her spread legs, fingers gently finding her pussy and spreading it, showing me her pink, slick insides.

  I realized after her comment that she had felt my hands shaking. The sight of the open chancre had unnerved me. I knew this was most likely the sight of the initial infection. She mistook it for nervousness. It was the last mistake she would make. I pulled the garrote from my right-side jacket pocket. It was quick. I looped it around her neck, and before she could utter a word, I had crossed the cords over one another and spun myself around, my hands tight on the grips as I pulled it over my shoulder. Her body rose and slammed into my back. She struggled.

  Oh, how she struggled. I could hear the gurgles and other frantic noises as she tried to fight. I felt her twisting and pulling. That only made it worse for her, made her suffer more. I was glad she was twisting and pulling. She needed to suffer for coming to my home. I leaned forward, tugged hard. I could feel her shaking. I could almost feel the life draining from her as her struggles began to lessen, her kicks becoming less pronounced. Soon, her hands dropped to her side, and I looked over my shoulder. A smile of delight crept onto my face while I saw her fingers twitching gently. They were bloody. She must have ripped at her throat in an attempt to remove the wire. Light spasms shook through her body, but that was ok, she was dead. I released the wire, and with a heavy thud, her body slumped to the ground. I looked down at her, then quickly gazed around to make sure no one had wandered by and witnessed the struggle.

  I saw no one and heard nothing but the normal city sounds. But just in case, I reached into my jacket and pulled out a large pair of sunglasses and put them on. It was night already, so these would conceal my features better if someone decided to walk down the alley.

  It had happened once, before I moved to New York, before I trained myself to be aware of my surroundings. A young man had wandered below the overpass I had been working in. He found me crouched over the girl. He had raced over to see if we needed help. I had hated to kill him, but he would have never understood my task. So when he came close, I had called out for his help. Luring him in, the same knife that was now soaking in bleach had been used to end his life. It had been quick, a lucky strike had pierced his heart on the first thrust. That death had come with a price, I had been sick for days with the knowledge that I had killed without purpose, without proper reason--beyond saving my own hide.

  My head shook, there was work to be done. With a soft grunt, I flipped her over. Her glazed eyes had rolled back in her head. Her pale, once beautiful throat was torn by the wire, bloody rakes furrowed her delicate flesh where she had clawed her skin off in an attempt to get her fingers around the wire, a futile and painful last act of desperation.

  Reaching down into her bra I pulled out the hundred-dollar bill she had stashed there. I knew it was clean, but I always played it safe if I could. Something else fluttered out from her bra, a small square piece of what I thought was paper. I reached down to pick it up and place it back inside her bra, when I saw it was actually a picture: the girl without the rash holding what looked like a young, little male toddler--her son. My body rocked, as if hit by some unseen force. The pictured slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the ground. Memories flooded into my mind, and with those came emotions, ones I tried to keep locked down, but struggled with constantly. Now they overwhelmed me. My sight went red. Rage welled up inside of me. Without thinking, without thought or logic, I took my knife out and leaped upon her like some savage beast, the knife rising and falling as I plunged it in and out of her flesh. With no rhyme or reason to where the blade fell, the thrusts became slashes as I carved off hunks of her flesh. I removed her nose, slicing it off like a fisherman removed shark fins. I sliced at her mouth, until her bloody teeth grinned at me. Ragged lumps of flesh lay everywhere. I don’t remember ripping her bra off, but I must have, as I carved off those perky pale breasts, leaving the ragged bloody hunks of breast-flesh upon the ground, one on each side of her. Massive gapping wounds now replaced what had once been soft white breasts, the remains of which laid next to her, now longer recognizable. My knife continued to work over her in a frenzy. I plunged the knife into her stomach. Wet, delightful pops greeted my ears with each plunge of the blade into her gut. The red rashes on her skin were soon camouflaged by the blood that oozed out. Her heart had stopped, thankfully, so it was not spurting. And when I try to think back to that time, I don’t think I would have cared if it was.

  I stood over what once was a person, gasping. My body trembled. I ached as the adrenaline-fueled rage wore off, and I gazed down, beholding in horror what I had done.

  I stumbled back, blinking. The fog of rage had befuddled my thoughts, but they were coming back now. With haste, my shaking hands jammed the knife and garrote into my windbreaker pocket. I should have gone over the scene, but the mutilated corpse below me stared back with vacant, bloody, oozing eye holes. Her bloody, lipless smile was now a constant rictus of repulsion. The sight of her mutilated chest, the countless other wounds where I had removed so much flesh, and the wet bone that shone back at me, made me sick. I gagged twice, but my jaw clenched till it hurt, and I kept myself from being sick.

  I made my way back toward the corner of the building as my feet tore through the dirty puddles that lined the alley. The sound of my racing heart was all I could hear at first, till my thoughts finally broke through my panic. Calm yourself! I screamed to myself right before I ran out of the alley. At the corner, I lowered my head, my hand braced against the brick wall. I gulped in deep breaths of air for just a few seconds while I waited for the street to empty for just a few moments, allowing me to slowly, albeit unsteadily walk back into my home. Once inside my apartment, I slammed the door and collapsed against it. I gazed down at my hands. I saw and felt the blood had soaked through my gloves. The wool did not protect me like my leather ones did. I knew I was dirty. In my rage, her filthy blood had gotten on me. I could feel it: the corruption in her blood attempting to find entrance into my body, to make me what I had so long strived to destroy. I needed to be clean. Clean meant safe. I could almost hear my mother speaking those words to me again.

  I stood, my clothes were removed quickly. I grabbed the small trash bin by my door and dumped them inside. I went into the bathroom, my body still quaking; I was terrified, and just wanted to curl up and cry. But one desire overwhelmed even my fear: I was dirty. I needed to get clean. I had to be clean.

  The pounding of water filling the tub made me wince, I knew what was coming, but had no choice but go onward. As it warmed, I went under the sink, grabbing two of the many gallons of bleach I kept. Then I poured the bleach in the trash bin where I had stuffed my diseased-covered clothes. I filled it to the brim and let them soak.

  I gazed into the mirror and what stared back was horrifying: a pale scarred, hollow creature, so very different from what I had seen this morning. But this morning I had been confident, and that confidence had fueled my delusion. It had strengthened the barricade I had placed around my past memories that kept me from seeing the truth. The truth was disturbing and something I hide from all others. Much of my pale body was covered in smooth scars where the flesh had been scrubbed off. Other than upon my head and in sparse patches around my groin, I was smooth. But this mutilation of my body was proof I was, and would remain clean. My mother had shown me this truth; she had forced it into my mind.

&
nbsp; I stepped into the tub and hissed at the heat. But the heat was cleansing. Burning made all that was bad, clean. My skin grew reddened, but this was just the start. I reached for the pumice stone. I began to scrub. Tears rolled down my cheeks as my hands methodically scrubbed along my body, tearing away the old, corrupted layers of skin, baring the new flesh to the searing kiss of hot water. I rocked, closed my eyes, and remembered.

  * * *

  “Come on, baby, stop crying, Momma needs to get you clean!”

  I was nine, and my mother was kneeling next to me while I sat in a small cast iron tub with the hot, steaming water filled to the brim. My skin was red and raw, the water a pinkish color from the parts of my skin that were bleeding. And yet my mother scrubbed across my body, scouring almost every inch with that pumice stone. It hurt, but it was my mother. I glanced up at her with wide tear-filled eyes. She looked sick--in more ways than one. Her painted-up face did little to hide the massive, open, boil-like sores that covered the right corner of her mouth. They had popped earlier today, whether on their own or by her hand I was not sure, but I really didn’t care. I had come home from school and found my mother preparing herself for company. She always had company come over: strange men and women coming day and night and at all hours. They stayed for a while, and Mommy made me stay in the second guest bathroom.

  She had been acting funny today, talking funny and wobbling. It happened when she drank her adult juice. She had given me a kiss when I came home. But then my mother had started screaming about how she was sick and asked why I let her kiss me. It happened often. Mommy was sick often, and sometimes, she scrubbed me even if we hugged or sat close to one another.