by Lee, Edward
“What are you doing?” Ramsey commanded. “Put your fucking clothes back on, are you crazy! It’s freezing out here!”
The woman ignored him. Piece by piece, she stripped off her tattered garments and dropped them into the sea.
Then she turned.
Ramsey faced her, speechless, stunned in the silent midnight clarity of what he was looking at. The world seemed to stop as he stared. His heart nearly stopped.
She was beautiful.
Fully naked now, she stood stock-still by the port stanchion. Ramsey, as the ship continued to pitch, could not even conceive of a physical beauty this absolute. Moonlight bathed the flawless white skin and hourglass figure. She seemed to have no body fat at all, yet she wasn’t skinny. Instead she reminded him of a lithe beast—full-formed, muscular, tight. A tumult of dark russet hair hung well past her shoulders, and a plush patch of hair the same hue showed between the sleek, full legs. Big conical dark nipples pointed at him, stiffening in the ice cold.
Then Ramsey looked at her face…
A vertigo stole into him. His vision seemed to shift. Somehow the reality of her face became enlaced with memory: the nightmare. Like flitting a deck of cards. In stark flashes he saw her face, then the wolf, her face, then the wolf—
“Did you dream?” she asked. Her voice dripped with every imaginable desire: hot, dark, penetrating. Her breasts glowed in the still moonlight, her tight abdomen, her firm, creamy hips.
“What?” Ramsey muttered.
He felt adrift like the ship, something tiny in the clutches of something so vast as to be immeasurable. He felt helpless, inconsequential, meaningless before the image of her. She was an icon of flesh. She was a testament to an ideal of beauty that ruptured the limits of mere humanity.
Ramsey fell to his knees.
“Are you a sinner?” she asked him. She looked down in a coy, tiny smile.
“Yes,” Ramsey moaned in response.
“We all are.”
He was not himself now. Whatever she was at her heart radiated a power that crushed him. The ice-cold air dried the surface of his eyeballs as he stared at her perfect flesh.
“I could kill you,” she whispered.
“Kill me,” Ramsey said. He was lost. He was inferior before her: total flaw dwarfed by flawlessness. She wasn’t human. He knew that now. She was something more than human.
Something terrifyingly more.
“Did you dream?” she asked again.
He was freezing, his teeth chattered. His face felt like brittle porcelain in the dead night air.
“Yes,” he said.
“It wasn’t your dream.” The woman turned, stepped toward the stanchion cable. “It was mine.”
She looked over the side. The sea misted on her face and breasts. “You never saw me,” she said. “I was never here.”
Ramsey nodded, open-mouthed, numb.
When she looked at him again, the vertigo returned. Her face. The wolf. Her face. The wolf.
The wolf, he thought.
Ramsey blinked.
The woman’s eyes, only for a moment, were blood red.
She placed one bare foot on the stanchion cable. Ramsey’s gaze followed up the long, sleek leg, her rump, her sleek beautiful back. The muscles in her leg tensed. Next she was standing on the cable with both feet.
“Goodbye,” she said.
She dove off the cable, into the water.
(iv)
“What the bloody hell?”
Winslow ran to the stern. He knew he wasn’t imagining things: he’d heard a splash. Goddamn Ramsey must’ve fallen over the side on that last pitch.
His feet pounded the steel deck. He tore past the main cargo holds, the cold burning his face. He was about to shout “Man overboard!” when he saw Ramsey on the portquarter, looking over the side.
“Goddamn!” Winslow yelled. “What happened? Is someone overboard?”
Ramsey blinked at him. “What?”
Winslow leaned over the cable, scanning the sea at the waterline. “I heard a splash! Is someone overboard?”
“No, it was just a porpoise or something,” Ramsey said.
Winslow relaxed. Thank God, he thought. The sea churned below him, relentless, terrible. Thank God.
A person wouldn’t last a minute in that chop.
(v)
I think I was actually afraid for a moment. The water is black, endless, frigid. It’s like death. I felt consumed, I felt swallowed up and digested by its depths. Yes, I think I was actually afraid for a moment. But that’s silly, right? What do I have to be afraid of?
I’m purged. I’m free!
At least for a little while, anyway.
The ocean excites me now. Its deadly cold gives me life! It seems to shape my body in its great formless hands, remaking me in purity, in absolution. The awful cold makes me hot inside. It makes me feel passionate, loving, sincere, even crudely horny. It makes me feel a lot of things. Oh, how I love to just feel.
I’m dead.
It’s so nice to be able to feel when you’re dead.
I’m swimming now. I’m changing. I’m gliding through the black awful water—sleek, fast, nimble. I’m a shark. I’m a portent. I’m a destroyer.
I’m fine. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, and that’s the only way I can feel safe. Because if I don’t know where I’m going, then maybe he won’t either.
FOUR
Malefactor
(i)
Locke awoke with tears in his eyes. When he couldn’t write, he slept. He’d been sleeping a lot lately. It was dusk now. The sun looked like blood in the window.
He got up, coughed, and went to the desk.
REFRACTION by Richard Locke
I always got less than
the least from you.
Now I hope that the rats come
and feast on you.
Was that how he felt? Bitter? Vengeful? These were useless emotions. They were false. He knew why he’d written it: because he thought that was how a man was supposed to feel when summarily rejected by a woman. Asshole. You’re supposed to write about how you feel, not about how you’re supposed to feel. The senselessness of the observation seemed to make perfect sense. What else could poetry be except for the re-creation of an emotion into an image, via black and white words?
To be a true poet, he must reflect truth in his poems. The truth of how he saw things. The truth of how he felt.
How did he feel? How did he feel really?
I still love her, he answered.
He cranked the four-line poem out of the typewriter and tore it to shreds. It was phony, a lie. Bitterness and spite often eased the edges of sorrow—Locke wished he could feel bitter. But he didn’t. He purely and simply didn’t. In all the time that had passed since she’d broken up with him, he still loved her. He still wanted her. He still wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. It would be so much easier to hate her for the inexplicable and expeditious manner in which she’d ended their relationship. But that would be false too. He didn’t hate her, he couldn’t. Even now, after over two months, Locke loved her as much as he ever did.
The emotion was a lie. Hence, so was the poem. He dropped the shreds of paper into the wastebasket, which sat full with many, many more shreds. The garbage can of his muse.
He stood in the middle of the room. He felt desolate. He wiped the crust of his tears from his eyes, and felt ashamed. Grown man, he thought. Bawling like a baby. He’d even cried in front of her once, on that last night. He’d begged her, he’d pleaded with her, he’d cried at her feet. What must she have thought about that? Had she been disgusted? Repelled? Locke had no idea. He had no idea about anything anymore. When Clare had told him that she no longer loved him and that the relationship was over, he’d begged her to give it one more chance. He’d assumed complete responsibility for her sudden unhappiness even though he was certain he’d done nothing to make her unhappy. He’d felt last-ditched. He would do anything to save th
e relationship that she’d already decided was over. It was useless.
And today? Just now? He’d been asleep, he’d been dreaming of Clare. Of course he had—he always did now. It didn’t seem fair, that his own mind should conjure memories of their past, back when her eyes were bright with love for him. Locke felt betrayed by himself. Each dream unreeled as slow torture: their first kiss, their first date, the first time they’d made love, and the first time she’d said I love you. It was terrible.
Locke sat down to write. It was his only escape, or at least he thought it was. Before, he’d written of social themes, relevancies re-formed in art for the reflection of the reader. Now, though, he could only write of her. He’d written nothing good in months.
Writer’s block? No, there was no such thing. Writer’s block was an excuse for writers who didn’t want to write. Locke always wanted to write. Mode, he thought.
Selfishness. I’m being selfish. Poetry was emotion—a personal one. But real poetry must always be relatable. Locke must change the mode of his vision. He must turn his indulgence into art, or at least try. God knew, nothing else was working.
He must transcribe how he felt in a way that was relative for the work.
But how?
Be honest.
Even now, he would do anything to have her back. But she didn’t want him back. He knew that—she scarcely spoke to him anymore. Where once he’d seen the brightest love in her eyes, he now saw only discomfort or dressed-up annoyance. Locke was a blight to her—that was how she felt.
But how do I feel? he asked himself again.
I still love her. I love her more than anything in the world, and I’d do anything to get her back. I’d do anything. I’d even wait forever.
Really? Forever?
Yes! he thought.
He began to type.
FOREVER by Richard Locke
I ascend in light, then I fall
In the ashes of this last curtain call.
There’s nothing else but love, you see,
And this beckoning siren that carries me
Into heaven or the saddest realm of nether.
And even though you’ve cut the tether
My love for you goes on forever.
Yes. That was it. That was how he felt.
He stared at the piece of paper. He saw black ink on white pulp transcended into an image of his truth.
Then he tapped out another, a gust of spontaneity:
What sad phantoms stalk the warrens of your spirit?
What pale shapes rise on angel’s wings?
Have you traded the chasm for resplendence?
Or have you stopped believing in all of those things?
The window darkened. His eyes flicked down at the picture of her: beautiful, resplendent, in love.
My love for you goes on forever.
A single tear crawled down his cheek.
Forever, he thought.
(ii)
Forever, the malefactor thought.
“I am forever,” he whispered.
“What?” the girl inquired. “Did you say something?”
He smiled and faintly shook his head. She giggled, quite childlike. She’d unbuttoned her bright vermilion blouse several notches. He could smell the sweet youth of her flesh. He could smell her heart.
I am oblivion, he thought.
He wore black, all silk; he shimmered in his own darkness. The heater kicked on and fluttered the dark-green drapes. He peeked out, frowning. San Francisco, he thought. An abyss. A canyon. Seamy light, crime, lust. What wonderful blood for a city. I’ll miss this city, but it’s time to move on, she’ll be northward, and we’ll find each other, and she will be mine again… forever… The lights looked like stardust in ebon streaks, through which tiny dots travailed—tiny dots that were human beings. How insignificant, the malefactor considered. He hadn’t been here in ages.
He’d only loved one woman in his ancient life. The girl, here, in the vermilion blouse and short black-leather skirt, was something less. No, he didn’t love her, but he rejoiced in her. She was warm. She was alive. She was food. How old could she be? Twenty? Twenty-five? Her vitality whispered to him. The malefactor sensed a deep and wonderful dichotomy: the absolute contrast of her youth and the sheer age of what she was. Strompet, he thought. Whore. The consideration impressed him. Her profession was perhaps the only human thing on the earth that was close to his own age.
He’d paid her a thousand dollars cash, five times what she’d asked.
She looked wholesome somehow, cherubic—another contradiction of self and effect. She wore no stockings, her young legs looked smooth and sleek in the lamplight. Nor did she wear any panties, he noted, when she wriggled out of the tight leather miniskirt. The malefactor watched from across the room. Fake, pretty blonde hair, long and straight. Chocolate-brown eyes. A trimmed and nearly black pubic patch. Each of these images assembled into a complete contemplation. The freshness of her being. The surge of her youth. Her blouse slid off her shoulders to reveal smallish, pert breasts and pointed nipples.
“What’s your name, by the way?” she asked.
My name is oblivion, he thought. My name is forever. What would her reaction be if he actually said that? I don’t really even have a name. What worth are names? He smiled at her again.
“I know.” She laughed. “It’s John Smith, right? I get lots of John Smiths.”
“My name is Lethe,” the malefactor said.
“Well then why don’t you come over here and join the party, Mr. Lethe? You’ve got me for the whole night.”
No, I’ve got you forever. “Just…” he began. His eyes grew wide on her, the vision blooming. It was an erotic vision, a fleshy and sensual one: the young girl sitting naked at the edge of the big hotel bed, coyly smiling. All she had on were black high heels.
“I know,” she postulated. She leaned back, splaying her pose. “Lotta guys like to watch a little first. They like to look.”
“Yes,” the malefactor said.
She lay back on the bed and parted her legs. She closed her eyes and sighed, and began to caress herself. The malefactor felt enraptured; this was beautiful, watching the beautiful young girl delight in the pleasures of her own body. Her hands roved her breasts, distending the nipples. In moments she was touching her sex, fervidly plying it with her fingers. She writhed on the sheets. Her heels kicked out of the black shoes. And in just moments more, she’d climaxed.
Yes, the malefactor thought.
She seemed exhausted, astonished. After lying back to catch her breath for a minute, she leaned up. “God,” she whispered. “I don’t know what happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“I…” She faltered, squinting at herself. “I never come that fast. Usually I don’t come at all, when…” Her finish dissolved.
“When you’re with a…client,” the malefactor finished for her. “You don’t generally find pleasure in the province of your profession.”
She looked at him. Sweat dried on her chest. “Something like that,” she said, at once seeming sad.
“But why shouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t you find pleasure in yourself? Why shouldn’t you rejoice in yourself?”
Now her smile was a crux. Of course, she didn’t understand him. She would, though, in a little while.
She didn’t scream at all—they never did. She wrapped her legs around him as he thrust. With each thrust he could feel the frantic contractions of her sex, her repeated climaxes. “I love you,” she breathed each time she came.
The protracted incisors sunk into the beautiful white flesh of her throat. Sleight of mouth, he thought. She continued to climax as his teeth dug out the sternomastoid and scalenus muscle groups, exposing the jugular and the common carotid. They pulsed side by side amid the shorn muscle. The malefactor bit into them both.
She writhed beneath him, still convulsing her own silent, hot ecstasy. Lovely, he thought. It was lovely, to consume her so ardently. He swallowed all t
hat she was in essence, not just simply her blood but her beauty and her vitality, her youth, her whole life.
The malefactor sucked her dry.
I am forever. I am oblivion.
He felt warm deep in his guts as he dressed. She didn’t look beautiful anymore, she looked vitiated, wizened. But that was all right. Her beauty was in him now. She was in him.
Faith was power. Belief was power. He’d known that for eons. Everything was either an insouciant lie or an unassailable truth. In all his years, in all his centuries of gleaning, that was perhaps the only real thing he’d ever become convinced of. It often depressed him—the fait accompli that the true quintessence of meaning was meaninglessness.
But I still have my love, he accounted. He adjusted the knot in his tie, aware of himself in the mirror. More superstition. He saw a thousand different things. Were they facsimiles? Were they falsehoods? He saw himself red as blood, covered in the blood of ages.
He stuffed the girl’s poor shriveled mouth with clumps of garlic. There was no potential here, no reason to bring her along as he had others, she was, regrettably, just food. He opened her eyes with his fingers. Love like blood, he thought. From the small bag he’d brought along, he removed a common red-bladed hacksaw.
Then he sawed off the girl’s head.
Words drifted across his sentience. They weren’t his words. Whose could they be? Into heaven or the saddest realm of nether…my love for you goes on forever. A poem, an edict. Someone’s love unloosed unto the night. The malefactor felt sad now, not for the girl whose head he’d just sawed off but for himself. It was a cruel trust. I still have my love, he repeated. Even that sounded like a lie.