Why couldn’t happiness find her for longer than a fleeting moment? Why must her child be taken away like this? Of course she could spread her legs and get knocked-up again—once the herpes cleared up—but probably not with Mark. Although their “relationship” had been a farce from the beginning, it was his child she longed to have. His beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed baby. Male or female, she didn’t care.
She felt like a blow-up sex doll that had sprung a leak (complete with deflated boob). Now she would never meet Mr. Wonderful Widower at playtime. If she ever did meet someone with potential, she would have to be straightforward with him. “Hi, my name is Audrey. Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you. By the way, I’m diseased.” Samantha, a college roommate, had dated a different guy each week, up until the time she became infected. Afterward she hadn’t dated at all. In fact, Audrey recalled her roommate finding Jesus. As far as Audrey knew her friend had never dated again. Perhaps, if Audrey hoped to ever find a mate, she would have to stoop to searching the classified ads of alternative lifestyle magazines. Single white diseased woman seeks monogamous herpes-infected lover.
She shuddered at the thought. Damn, she needed a drink, and a full bottle of pre-mixed Long Island iced tea awaited in the refrigerator, along with another bottle she had opened before learning of her pregnancy.
A quick rinse under the running water left her head feeling nice and fresh, much unlike the rest of her.
Towel wrapped around drying hair, Audrey went to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. Who fucking cared if she hadn’t dressed yet. After filling a glass Audrey took several gulps to kick-start the binge drinking that would no doubt ensue. Then she returned to her bedroom, pulled on a pair of loose-fitting shorts, and a tight ladies tee. Not as tight as the last time she had worn it.
She needed pain reliever. In her purse was a bottle of Extra-Strength Excedrin. She went to it on the kitchen counter, popped three. She didn’t want to fuck around. Another swallow of cocktail carried the pills away.
In the living room she plopped down on the couch (where she had first made out with Mark). The buzzing in her body had lessened. Or she had grown accustomed. Perhaps a part of the pain had been psychosomatic. The shock of seeing herself hurt more than reality.
Still, she was fucked, clean hair or not.
Mother. She would eventually have to tell her mother at least some version of what had took place.
I’ll punish that motherfuckin’ pussy. Pound that nasty hole.
Tears cascaded down her face. Audrey began blubbering to herself.
“Hey Mom. Hi. Guess what. I fucked up. I’m a big fuck-up. Yeah, I know, I know. See, Mark never cared about me. No. It was all a big joke. ‘Hey, let’s fuck up some girls for kicks.’ Shit yeah.
“See, Mom, I’m a whore. Men pitched in to buy me these tits. I let them do what they wanted to pay for it. Let them take it out in trade. Sweet deal, huh? I sucked dick for this nice rack. I let other men trash my ass. Because I’m worthless. I’m shit. Nobody has ever loved me. Nobody ever will. My lord, I sound so pathetic.”
Audrey sniffled, wiped tears from her eyes.
“God, get it over with. Tell her she won’t be a grandmother.”
She took another gulp of her cocktail. Already she could sense the alcohol working. Drinking on an empty stomach probably helped. Reaching over she picked up the telephone. A couple of button presses later the phone rang. And rang, and rang.
Just like mother—not there when she needed her most.
“Pick up, dammit.”
The phone rang.
“Pick up.”
No answer.
“Pick up, Mom. You bitch. You good-for-nothing bitch!”
Still no answer.
“God damn you.”
Audrey threw the phone overhand at the wall. It shattered, sending shards of plastic flying. The battery, still attached to the bulk of the pieces, bounced off a shelf to land on the carpet.
“Dammit-dammit-dammit.” She punctuated each word by hammering the couch cushions with her fists.
A foreboding loneliness loomed over her. A path of heartbreak lay in her wake. The sea stretching before her broke choppy, treacherous. No safe harbor awaited her. To further complicate matters, she possessed no navigational skills. The boat held no life preserver. Completely lost at sea.
Audrey fell sideways onto the couch. She balled up tight, just like she had on the bathroom floor earlier. The couch felt softer, much more comfortable. But the bathroom somehow seemed more fitting. Although she wished to be on the cold hard surface again, she couldn’t motivate herself to move. Instead she lay there, motionless, for what seemed a very long time.
The refrigerator motor kicked on, off. The air conditioning completed a cycle. She prayed for sleep. Sleep never came. Her stomach growled. The refrigerator kicked on again. By the time another cycle of air conditioning completed, the refrigerator had already stopped. She hungered for something good to eat, but lacked the motivation to do anything about it.
Audrey wished she had a gun. A big one, with a long barrel. Let him suck it. Open wide, stick it in. Make him gag. Pull the fucking trigger. Swallow that.
She would never do anything like that. But she wanted to.
What she wanted was another drink. Peaceable numbness wasn’t enough. Not even close.
Audrey levered herself up into a sitting position, drained her glass. When she stood her body swayed. It felt nice. But she needed more. A lot more.
She headed toward the kitchen. And tripped—fucking cat, good-for-nothing male cat, Leo—falling, sailing, landing sprawled out across the carpet, cat screeching, ice cubes clattering onto the linoleum in the kitchen, glass bouncing across the floor.
“Ow! Goddamn you, Leo. Remind me not to feed you.”
Painfully, Audrey picked herself up off the floor. She gathered the scattered ice cubes, tossed them into the sink, then retrieved her glass. It went into the dishwasher. With a new glass from the cupboard she poured herself another drink, planning to drink until the bottle was empty.
A cramp drilled into her abdomen. Going to the doctor would be a good idea, she thought.
“Fuck it. Who cares?” Audrey said, returning to the couch, switching on the television, not caring what program played. A home-improvement show featuring a bathroom remodel aired.
Halfway through the program a knock sounded at the door. Audrey, nursing her drink, oblivious to the program, jerked to attention, nearly spilling her drink.
“Just a minute!”
Maybe it was Mark—like he would stop by. Maybe Jaylon. If so, she would ask if he had herpes. Dammit, the way her mind worked irked her. Screw both of them!
“Who is it?” she asked as she swung open the door.
A tall, lanky guy—about eighteen or nineteen—stood at the door holding a pizza. He wore an orange and blue Pizza Pantry T-shirt. A hat with the same muscled pizza carrier superhero emblazoned across it as the T-shirt sat askew on his head. Long red curly hair tumbled to his shoulders.
“Sixteen twenty-four, please.”
“I didn’t order any pizza.”
“Sure ya did.” He glanced at the receipt taped to the top of the box. “Pepperoni thin-crust, with onion. Apartment 327.”
“This is 327, but I didn’t order a pizza.”
“Maybe someone else ordered it.” Peering over her head, the guy tried looking into the apartment.
“I am the only person here. And I did not order any pizza.”
“Yeah ya did. Apartment 327. Says so here. “Sixteen twenty-four.”
“Let me see that. That doesn’t say 327. It says 329. Can’t you read?”
“Sorry.”
The guy turned. Her stomach growled.
“No, wait. I did order that pizza. Hang on, I’ll get your money.”
“No can do. This pie is going to 329.”
“Like hell it is. Get back here.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck me?”
> “You heard me.”
“Look, come back here. I’ll give you twenty. I’ll call in an order for 329. So what if they have to wait a little longer. No biggie, right?”
“No can do.” The pizza guy stepped back. Audrey followed him out into the hall.
“Please? I’m hungry.”
“So?”
“So, I want that pizza. I need that pizza.” Why were men always being so difficult?
“My job is worth more than twenty bucks.”
“Jeez. You won’t get in trouble,” Audrey slurred. “I’ll make it twenty-five.”
“No can do.”
“Okay, thirty. That’s my final offer.”
He contemplated the offer. “Thirty-five and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Audrey was sure she didn’t have that much cash in her purse. She specifically recalled getting forty dollars from the ATM after work on Friday, and then spending nearly ten on fast food on the way home. She said, “I don’t have that much.”
With a shrug, the pizza guy headed toward the correct apartment.
“No. Get back here. Thirty dollars and a blowjob. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like you’re really are hungry, lady. Why don’t you just call in your own pizza?”
“I want that goddamn pizza, kid. Man up and get your dick out. What guy doesn’t want his dick sucked?”
“My girlfriend can suck it later. I’m not interested in some old, lopsided titty bitch. Leave me alone!” He dashed to apartment 329, pounded loudly on the door. “Pizza Pantry! Hurry up, please!”
“Quick, get back here,” Audrey barked, careful of her volume.
The pizza guy flipped her the bird right before someone answered the door to 329. As the occupant, a middle-aged bald-headed man craned his neck out the door, Audrey darted back into her own apartment.
Old bitch? Lopsided titty? Turned down for head?
Stomach rumbling she rushed to her drink, determined to drown her hunger. With a tip of the glass, she drained its contents.
She would show them. She would show them all.
Chapter Twenty-one
* * *
Fuck them. Fuck them all! Goddamn Mark Wilder. Goddamn Jaylon. Goddamn Jefferson, Janice, Carl, young tubby chick. And goddamn all her co-workers. Especially Carolyn Benning.
Who is Mark Wilder. Tell me about him. He is interested in you?
Fuck you too, mother.
Fuck everyone. All she wanted was some pizza—a little attention. Someone to love her. Someone to want her. Of course everyone wanted something. But they didn’t want her. Not really. They just wanted sex. Wanted her as their toy. Just a goddamn joke to be used, abused, trashed, and then discarded.
Maybe that abuse had led to the miscarriage. It had definitely led to a prolapsed rectum, the ruptured implant. The herpes.
Would this nightmare ever end?
I’ve got a hundred bucks on her—that’s good enough for me.
You really know how to pick ‘em.
Yes, this was some kind of fucked-up joke. Of that Audrey had no doubt.
A joke in which she planned to have the last laugh. Now if only she knew what to do.
She decided to start by finishing off the cocktail in the refrigerator. She took the bottle back to the couch to think. Sipping straight from the bottle she thought hard. A handgun popped into her mind. Simply stuff one in her purse, show up at Club Nadir, entice some men into the shower. Blast gaping holes in their chests, rinse all the blood down the drain, clean herself up. It seemed a perfect plan. A plan full of holes. What about the bartender? He would be a witness. The bouncer probably had a firearm of his own. He would probably be more adept at using it. In fact, Audrey might miss some of the men. Others could escape before she could kill them. They kept records. Not everyone would be there. She would be a prime suspect, even if she pulled off the perfect crime.
No, that would not work. It wouldn’t work at all, as tempting as it might be.
A rush of heat flushed her face at the frustrating thought.
Maybe she could concentrate on just one. Mark Wilder. Fuck him, he must die! It would be easy. Take the day off from work, follow him on his way to a sales meeting. It could take place in another city altogether. Kill him, and them return home.
But as much as she hated Mark Wilder, more than any of the others, he had given her the baby-to-be. He hadn’t played a part in her losing it. He hadn’t trashed her body, or, she believed, infected her.
As much as he must pay, if she were to kill someone, it wouldn’t be him.
Jaylon. He had destroyed her body. Not only him, but his entire team. But, she realized, it would be hard to find him alone. He usually traveled with an entourage.
Shit, shit, shit! Someone must pay. Maybe Jefferson. Maybe Carl. Definitely Janice. If nothing else Audrey would fuck up that bitch’s car. Yes, of course. No matter what else she did or didn’t do, she would wait for Janice to go back to the club. Then she would scratch her car, smash her side mirrors, perhaps even crack her glass. At the very least it would allow Audrey to blow off steam—while Janice was busy blowing men. Probably Mark.
Let her choke on a dick.
Car damage being decided, Audrey still needed more. With Mark and Jaylon off limits, who else might she kill. Jefferson? Carl? Out of everyone at the club, Jefferson remained the last person she willed ill fate upon. Carl seemed too far removed from everything. The only pro to killing him would be ridding Janice of her sugar daddy. Although that held quite an appeal, it would not be good enough.
Nothing was good enough for those bastards.
Audrey guzzled more cocktail straight from the bottle. The room had begun to tilt. Soon it might spin.
Pizza really sounded good. Primarily because she had been denied it. Then she realized nothing was stopping her from dialing up Pizza Pantry and ordering her own goddamn pizza. If the same guy showed up she could shoot him instead of leaving a tip. Only one problem. She didn’t own a gun. Besides, he would recognize the address. They would send somebody else. Maybe the next guy would want a blowjob.
Screw him too. Fuck all men. None of them deserved her, or her sexual favors. Let them find someone else.
They probably wouldn’t have a problem doing that. Plenty more fish in the sea. Fish with low self-esteem. Bottom dwellers. Like her.
Audrey sighed.
She didn’t deserve anyone. Without Mark she was a lone cat lady, destined to work, eat, sleep, masturbate until death. Now she would have no child. Nobody to hold, to love.
She had nothing to live for.
One final swallow drained the bottle of Long Island Iced Tea. Furious, Audrey launched the bottle across the room. Narrowly missing the flat-screen television, it bounced off the wall where the phone had shattered. An indentation marked her frustration in the drywall. The bottle rolled across the carpet.
“Fuck you,” Audrey said. “I don’t need you. None of you. Suck my dick. Lick my ass. Shove a beer bottle up your cunt.”
Wobbling, she stood up from the couch. She stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. Numb from alcohol, in an emotional haze, somehow each step resounded with a painful soreness in her ass. Flames licked her crotch.
“I need a bath,” Audrey said. Its soothing warmth would be heaven.
Wrestling out of her clothes along the way, she finally reached the bathroom naked after bumping into the wall a few times.
She twisted both hot and cold knobs, and stoppered the drain. As she turned she noticed the toilet. It sat like some great mouth, closed for the time being. It had swallowed up her child. Audrey herself had flushed it away. Down. Gone. Forever.
Knees giving way, Audrey fell. Somehow she caught the edge of the claw-foot tub before hitting linoleum. The close call helped her recall nearly drowning not so long ago. How she had floated restfully in the warm water, candlelight dancing along the walls, sweet emersion. Until soapy water filled her mouth, her nostrils, her throat …
All wel
come memories compared to that of her miscarried baby—
Candles. She needed candles.
Several sat perched along the shelf running the length of the tub. Audrey turned to get a book of matches in the drawer by the sink. The boxcutter lay waiting on the counter.
She lit three jasmine-scented candles, and then switched off the bathroom light. She shut the bathroom door, but left it unlocked.
Bath oils and salts added to the water lent a soothing perfume to the rising steam. On a whim, Audrey took a crystal canister of potpourri sitting on the counter near the sink to sprinkle some of its contents into rippling water slowly rising in the tub.
Having never before added such a plethora of things into the stew of bathwater, Audrey admired the beauty. Dried flower petals—rose, Mignonette, lavender, jasmine—rode the rippling waves. Cloves, cinnamon, mugwort, rosemary, and cedar created intoxicating flotsam. Audrey longed to dive in.
First she tested the water with a finger. She drew an invisible heart in the surface. The water, extremely warm, felt just right. She didn’t need men, she realized yet again. She didn’t need her mother’s approval, or her co-worker’s gratitude. She needed peace, happiness, wellbeing. Only she could provide that for herself.
Smiling, Audrey returned to the sink counter. From the plastic sack which contained the box cutter she fished out the package of razor blades. She removed one new blade from the package. She unwrapped its protective strip of cardboard.
The bathroom, typically neat and tidy, had always been her place of solitude. So she cleared the counter of clutter by placing the bag, cutter, and package of blades into the wastebasket next to the (fetus) toilet.
The razor blade, Audrey placed on the shelf between two candles. She carefully stepped one foot then the other into the steaming hot bath. The water continued filling the tub as she sat down. The water stung her ass, but almost immediately began to sooth both ass and crotch.
Sinking down deep, watching at eye level, she saw the steaming hot water pouring in. For a short time the nipple from her inflated breast broke the surface of the water. Rose petals swirled delicately by, causing Audrey to envision a remote whirlpool fed by a raging waterfall in some tropical paradise. The dancing orange of candlelight instead a far off campfire.
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