by Athan,Jon
As he gazed at Samantha's bare crotch, counting each stray pubic hair, Lucas asked, “You ever have sex with a corpse?”
Dean sneered in disgust and said, “No. I've never even thought of that. It's fucking sick, man. It's wrong. You're wrong. Shit, man, what kind of question is that?”
“What? Come on, I was just asking. I've never done it before. I mean, maybe I've thought about it, but I–”
“What's wrong with you? Huh? What the hell is happening to you? You–You're changing, man. You're different. You're talking about raping a corpse now. You realize that, don't you? You realize why it's wrong, right?”
Lucas smiled as he gazed into Dean's eyes. He could see the concern clinging to his body. His troubled mind was clouded by doubt. If he wanted to live with the young man, he'd have to take control of the situation. He'd have to replace the bank of fog clouding his mind with one of his own – a blanket of poisonous vapor.
Lucas sat on a drying machine across from Dean. As he fiddled his thumbs, he said, “I know I'm a fucked up individual. I've been told that since I was a kid. Parents, teachers, cops, lawyers... They'd all say, 'Lucas, you're one fucked up man and you deserve to rot in hell.' Maybe it's true, maybe I am sick. All I know for certain is... I'm trying to improve and you're helping me. I don't want you to feel like I'm taking you for granted. That's the last thing I want.”
Dean huffed, then he said, “That's bullshit. You'll say anything to have it your way, won't you?”
“No. No, not at all. It's the truth. You don't see me snorting cocaine, do you? Hell, if it weren't for you, I'd be rubbing that shit on my gums all day. But, I know how much you hate drugs, son. I know it. I know we can use those drugs to better ourselves, too. You see, I'm thinking more clearly now. I admit, this might have been a mistake. I shouldn't have stalked her, I should have listened to you.”
Dean shouted, “Then why'd you do it?! Huh? Why the hell did you do this? Why'd you drag me into this? She didn't do anything wrong! She was... She was innocent.”
Lucas sighed and shook his head as he stared down at his dilapidated sneakers, watching as his feet swung a foot from the ground. His outfit was a remnant of a past he wanted to forget. The sneakers were a reminder of his life in prison.
Lucas said, “You go to prison for 20 years and you only see men. Everyday, everywhere... it's only you and the boys in there. Sure, you can get yourself a nudie mag smuggled inside, but that's only if you have the connections. Like I told you, Dean, everyone knows I'm a bastard. Who would want to help a man like me? Huh? Who? Well, I'll answer that for you: no one. So, I had to sit there and wait for two goddamn decades for something like this. It may not mean much to you, but this was important to me.”
Dean shook his head and stared at the dead woman. Rape was simply not justifiable. Can a 40-year-old virgin rape a woman and use his involuntary abstinence as an excuse? The answer was obvious to any civil person.
Upon spotting the doubt in Dean's somber eyes, Lucas said, “I'm not all bad, though. Killing that drug dealer was the right thing to do. He was a bastard like me. Even though I know you hate me now, I know you hated him more. He reminded you of your uncle, didn't he?”
Dean clenched his jaw and gave off a slight nod, then he said, “Yeah...”
“Well, I'm glad we got rid of him. I hated that bastard. You know, like you, I had a nasty bastard of an uncle, too. I guess it was more of a nasty bastard of a family. I wasn't lucky like you, though. I'm more like your brother, Dean. Yeah, I was... I was more like your brother.”
Dean glanced at Lucas, baffled by the confession. He disliked the man for his deviant behavior, but he did not despise him. Like a child mad at his father for missing his big game, the young man still had some respect for the ex-convict. He was sulking, he was disappointed, but he would get over it. Lucas' confession of abuse made sense to him, too. He was skeptical, but the piece fit with the rest of the puzzle. Deviants spawned other deviants – it wasn't absolute, but it was likely.
Dean said, “I'm sorry to hear that. I guess I can understand some of the reasons you do what you do...”
Lucas responded, “Thank you for your understanding, son. I'm trying to do better. I'll try to tame myself. I'll–”
“It doesn't excuse everything, though,” Dean interrupted as he paced down the aisle. “It doesn't make everything go away. I can't handle all of the violence and death. It's not part of me. I just can't do it...”
“You can do it. Remember how good it felt when you beat this drunk? Remember how liberated you were when we killed that dealer? That's what you should be feeling. We fucked up with the girl, you're right about that, but don't forget about everything else. Killing is good when we kill the right people. Killing is the ultimate stress reliever.”
The ultimate stress reliever – marijuana, anti-anxiety medication, and plenty of sex and porn would surely relieve some stress. Murder? Murder was a stress reliever for psychopathic killers who didn't reach their monthly murder quotas.
Still, Dean agreed to an extent. At heart, he enjoyed killing the vulgar dealer, but he would never admit it.
Dean said, “I'm going to sleep.”
Lucas nodded and said, “Alright. I'll make sure everything's locked up here. I'll head inside in a minute.”
“Yeah, sure...”
Lucas watched as Dean walked out of the laundry room. The young man was flustered by the savage day, but the ex-convict was able to keep him around. He knew how to use his life of torment to persuade people. He was apathetic, but he could play with anyone's sympathy like a world class cellist. He smirked as Dean escaped his vision.
Lucas rushed towards the door, then he shoved the plywood in front of the doorway. Only a slit of moonlight poured into the dreary room. As long as he secured his privacy, he did not mind sealing himself in the room with the putrid stench of death. In fact, after a lifetime of murder, he grew accustomed to the vile aroma. It was like the perfume on a woman's neck – alluring.
Rubbing his hands together, Lucas returned to the end of the aisle. He whispered, “I'm sorry to do this to you, but I didn't get to officially finish. It's not fair. I figured you owed me one before you start to rot. Just one...”
Lucas nervously smiled as he dropped his pants. He knelt down in front of Samantha, sitting on his knees on the frigid concrete floor. He leaned forward, inching towards the woman's crotch. He sniffled, whiffing like a canine searching for drugs. He planted a tender kiss on her crotch, quickly followed by another.
Before he knew it, the ex-convict was fully erect and ready to penetrate. He shuffled an inch forward, moving awkwardly, then he tumbled on top of the ravaged victim. He had trouble slipping inside. He spat on his hand, then he rubbed the saliva on his penis – that should do it. Veins bulged on his brow and neck as he finally entered the corpse.
He whispered, “I was... I was fucking right. You're tighter now that you're dead, aren't you? That boy must have been too scared to admit it. Or maybe I'm just going crazy.” He chuckled, then he said, “No, I'm not crazy. You're tighter.”
Lucas tightly shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. His breathing was heavy and his thrusting was methodical. In his mind, he was leaping through a times table, analyzing the numbers on a multiplication chart – math aerobics to keep his mind busy. Even with a corpse, he refused to ejaculate prematurely. The humiliation would be too much to endure.
What could he possibly do if the dead body were to gossip about his premature ejaculation to the other corpses in town?
Lucas whispered, “I'm going to make it last, sweetheart. This boy won't give me another chance. I know it. I'm going to...” He tilted his head towards the ceiling and moaned from the immense pleasure. He said, “You're amazing. You're fucking amazing.”
Lucas continued to thrust into the woman, delving into his most deviant desires. His moans and groans seeped out of the room, echoing through the bad side of town. To the common wanderer, the ruckus could be dismissed as homeless pe
ople having an orgy. To the only man familiar with the situation – Dean – the noise only led to one conclusion: necrophilia.
Chapter Eleven
Dean, Dean, Dean
Lucas sniffled as he awoke, smacking his lips like a horse waiting for his meal. He turned on his back, stretching and yawning. His slumber was unusually peaceful. He dreamed of darkness – pure darkness. His dream could be dismissed as regular sleep, but the ex-convict was sure it was a vision of his dark mind.
He glanced around his surroundings as he sat up. He had fallen asleep beside Samantha's corpse inside of the laundry room. His pants were wrapped around his ankles and his crotch was unclad for the world to see. He couldn't help but smile as he pondered the previous night. He was hypnotized by his lust, forgetting about all of his problems.
Lucas lifted his underwear and pants to his waist. He poked Samantha's head and asked, “How was it for you, sweetie? I know you just wanted to rest in peace, but I had a lot of stress to relieve. I promise, next time, I'll only go once.” He held his hand to his face and snickered. He whispered, “Who am I kidding? I'm going to use you until you fall to bits...”
Lucas closed the laundry room with the weak plywood. He hummed a soft tune as he strolled towards the front of the building. The early morning sunshine was balmy and reassuring. Only a few white clouds were plastered on the grand blue canvas above – a beautiful morning. There were a few people wandering across the street, but the world still seemed oblivious to the couple's murderous rampage.
As he strolled down the hall, Lucas shouted, “I know, I know! I was supposed to come in last night, but I fell asleep while I was cleaning up. I was tired.” At the doorway, he asked, “How did you sleep, Dean? How are–”
Lucas stopped – not a twitch or tremble through his entire body. He glanced around the living room and kitchen, then he peered down the apartment's small hall. Dean was nowhere to be found. His regular sleeping spot was empty.
Lucas walked through the apartment, examining every nook and cranny. He diligently checked the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom, but to no avail. There was no sign of a struggle, either. The apartment remained stagnant, frozen in time.
As he returned to the living room, Lucas whispered, “What the hell happened to you, boy? Where did you go?” He sighed as he glanced at the ceiling. He extended his arms away from his body and said, “I apologized. I said I was wrong and you still have the nerve to do this to me? I apologized, damn it! I said I was sorry!”
Lucas inhaled deeply through his nose, fighting to contain his fury. He glanced at the boarded window above his sleeping area. A crumpled sheet of paper was wedged between the boards – an old eviction notice. The note fluttered with the soft breeze, calling his name. He didn't remember seeing the paper during the past few nights.
The ex-convict yanked the paper from the boards, then he straightened the sheet. The ink on the eviction notice was faded – the details were illegible. The other side of the sheet, however, was scrawled with a fresh message. The note read: Had to meet a friend. Don't wait for me. Don't come looking. I'll be back at night.
Lucas rubbed the nape of his neck as he analyzed the simple message. His eyes were brimming with tears and a lump materialized in his throat. He felt abandoned by the world, lonesome and crestfallen. The message felt like a breakup note from a girlfriend – a stab to his heart, a prick at his ego. He went out of his way to form a bond with Dean, so he believed he should be the man to break it off if the relationship truly deteriorated. The note fell to his sneakers and settled on the dusty floorboards.
Lucas whispered, “Nothing to do now but... but wait. Wait, drink, and see.”
He dug his hands into his pockets, checking for the cocaine. To his delight, Dean did not steal from him. He could only hope the young man didn't catch him with the corpse, either. Necrophilia was difficult to excuse – I was just checking her pulse.
As he strolled out of the building with a smile plastered on his face, the ex-convict said, “Beer, cocaine, and relaxation. You'll regret this, boy, but I'm going to enjoy myself...”
***
With the dazzling noon sunshine beaming down on him, Lucas walked out of the liquor store with a brown bag in his right hand. There was a whiskey bottle with a green tint 'hidden' inside of the bag – anyone could see it, really. Standing at the edge of the sidewalk, he nonchalantly opened the bottle of alcohol. He did not care about the pedestrians or their opinions. He certainly didn't care about the law. A brown bag did not legalize drinking in public, but he liked the iconic style.
Lucas took a swig of the whiskey, then he said, “That's what I needed...”
The ex-convict strolled down the sidewalk, savoring his freedom. He walked down the block, taking a glance at each passing store. The area was not affluent, but it was more stable than his current neighborhood. There were a few vacant lots, but most of the businesses in the area were able to stay on their feet. The middle-class was a resilient group, refusing to leave their status.
The liquor store shared the same block as a laundromat, a doughnut shop, a video rental store, and a discount shop. A few people lingered in each store – some browsing, others stealing. Across the street, there was a large grocery store. The market's parking lot was swamped.
Lucas bit his bottom lip as he glanced down at his stomach. His diet consisted of diner meals and fast food. Considering his long incarceration, he had not had a home-cooked meal since he was a child. Brisket and mashed potatoes – he remembered his last meal. If it came down to it, he would order the same meal before his execution.
He whisked the bittersweet memories away with a swig of alcohol, drowning his childhood with whiskey. Murder was a natural stress reliever, alcohol was an unadulterated pain killer. He couldn't kill someone in broad daylight, but he could manage his emotional pain with a bit of whiskey – or a lot of it.
As he sauntered down the sidewalk, the troubled ex-convict muttered, “I don't need it, I don't need any of it. I only need myself and... and Dean. I don't need anyone else. I don't need a home-cooked meal, I don't need a whore of a wife, I don't need bastard children... I don't need any of it.”
Lucas stopped at a crosswalk and vacantly stared across the street. There was a towering church with red brick walls. Unlike the rest of the dilapidated city, the structure was pristine. Apparently, the residents – law-abiding and criminal – showed more respect for religion than they did for each other. There was a small park with a playground in front of the church. The park had kempt grass and lush trees.
Lucas wasn't interested in a confession, he wasn't awed by the beauty. He remembered the diner, he remembered the young woman. A theory formed in his mind with the limited clues, consuming his every thought. Drivers honked their horns and swerved as the man heedlessly staggered across the street.
Lucas whispered, “You fell for her, didn't you? The park... A walk at the park, right?”
The ex-convict walked on the finely-sculpted path leading to the playground towards the middle of the square. He sat on a wooden bench beside a black lamp post and a grated trash receptacle. From the bench, he could see the sandbox, the church, and the branching paths spread across the park – the perfect vantage point.
He sipped his whiskey, then he whispered, “Where are you, Dean? Where did this whore take you?”
Dean was nowhere in sight. Lucas figured he must have arrived before the couple's date. He also feared he might have arrived at the wrong park. Two decades had passed since his incarceration, so he didn't know if more parks were erected while he was away.
Yet, he decided to wait and see. He had heard the term a million times from his lawyers – wait and see, wait and see, wait and see. Most of his life consisted of waiting and seeing, so he could wait a moment longer.
As he sat on a bench, watching his shadow like a clock, the ex-convict peered towards the playground. The atmosphere was buoyant, fueled by the children's natural exuberance. Kids played
on the jungle gym, the spiraling slides, the pendulous swing sets, and the spinning merry-go-round. The joy was contagious for most people.
Lucas, however, felt a different sensation.
The man took a swig of his whiskey and inconspicuously rubbed his crotch. An itch, he thought, I'm just itchy, that's all. At heart, the savage man was itching to pounce on a child. He wanted to sprint through the playground, snatch a kid, then retreat to his humble abode. It was out of the question, though.
Lucas whispered, “I can't get sloppy now. Not now... There's too much at risk.”
From afar, Lucas scowled at the playful children. He glowered at the parents surrounding the large sandbox. He was envious of their happiness, he despised their freedom. His tormented past fueled his anger. Abuse begat abuse – the ex-convict was willing to continue the cycle.
He whispered, “Not now. Not now, but soon...”
***
Sunset slowly approached – seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours, and hours like days. Happy families came and went, spending an hour or two at the park and soaking in the sun. The church received its fair share of visitors, too. Some people arrived in formal attire, others visited in casual clothing. Like yesterday and tomorrow, the day was normal for most people.
Lucas sat on the bench, inebriated. His head swayed every which way as he glanced at his neighbor. A homeless man had joined him. The poor man had long gray hair and a matching beard down to his heart. He wore layers of coats and tattered black pants. His boots were scuffed, barely holding together after years of abuse.
Lucas rapidly blinked and asked, “Who... Who are you? Wh–Who the hell... Who are you?”
The man glanced at Lucas. He shrugged and responded, “Just a man trying to live, I suppose. A man like you, friend.”
“A–A man like... like me? No, no, no. You... You can't compare to me, old man. Do you know who I am? Hmm? Who... Who are you? What the hell are you doing on my bench?”