Beyond the Pale

by E. J. Wood

  She is here at work, the woman from my dreams, her face still a haze. I can’t recognise her and wish I could. I know that at some stage a savage creature will hunt her down and there is nothing I can do to help her. I scream trying to catch her attention however it is no use; she does not hear me. I yell out to fellow colleagues yet my efforts are rapidly dismissed. They are out of touch should I say? A spiral of confusion and utter hatred trance me and I find myself unable to keep concentration. I know the work environment is not where I should be but more like a mental asylum, locked up.

  Suddenly I jolt with terror and touch my face to reassure myself that it is only a dream. I have broken out in a cold sweat and uncontrollably start to shake in fear. Am I dreaming my own death? Is this even possible? I remember reading that it represented a transitional phase in one’s life in becoming more enlightened or spiritual. Then again am I desperately trying to escape the demands of every day life? I pack my briefcase and run out into the corridor popping my head into Stephen’s office.

  ‘I’m heading home; I don’t feel well Dr Watkins will have to do the DB.’

  ‘Ame....’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I yell as I run as fast as I can and his voice disappears into the distance.

  ‘Look after yourself Amelia, I am here if you need me,’ his voice understanding and considerate.

  ‘Thank you, I will be OK,’ I bellow.

  I jump into the car and place both hands on the steering wheel, I breathe deeply and start the engine to drive straight home. I listen to “Joe Cocker’s Misunderstood” to try and re-focus my attention on Guy; so far the only person that can help me.

  I arrive home and I run inside as quickly as I can. The eerie atmosphere emphasises a sense of evil. I drop my briefcase, fling off my shoes and dive into bed slamming my face into the pillow to hide beneath the quilt where still the smell of Guy lingers; straight away I become calm. Suddenly I scream into the pillow and tears begin to well up. No messages from Guy. I need him here. Where is he? Neither car nor bike is on the drive way leaves me feeling lost. I scream into my pillow again and decide to dial his number. It is engaged, shit. This is too much to bear. “When the night falls in around me I don’t think I’ll make it through, all I think about is you - 3 doors down,” still present in my mind after “Cocker’s misunderstood,” no, no not again.

  ***

  Sunday 21st

  The following morning, the headaches, the pain and anguish have taken over my entire body. I finally console in some counselling with Psychiatrist Dr. Clarke and arrange to visit him four times a week. The nightmares slowly diminish but the thought of the mystery woman being hunted down by a morbid and lurid creature still remain in my consciousness. I have no choice but to suppress her and the anxiety. I know deep down that my shrink is suspecting a case of temporary insanity and I can’t allow that to affect my career I worked so hard to achieve.

  Guy remains my constant dependant; he pops round every few days to make sure I am alright during this period of my life. I have no qualms of his tenderness and support that he offers. Since the day we met a few weeks ago we have had such a connection, the physical part delayed but it soon came after the intertwining of our brainwaves sending unbelievable impulses throughout each-others bodies.

  ‘Ah,’ I sigh, relishing the fond memory. Our personalities, can you say click? All my life I have considered myself a cynic, sceptical of everyone; even my own family have disowned me and forever stolen my trust. My closest friend abandoned me and left my life in grave danger. My mother, oh my mother what can I say about her? Only that we don’t have a relationship, shame some say, blood’s always thicker than water, they say? What do I say? Bullshit.

  I’ve definitely had a rough start in life but have never allowed that affect my future, at least not until now. This might sound silly but I really do believe I’ve found my soul mate. Guy is there and something inside me tells me one way or another that he always has been. I suppose it is no real surprise we found each other. I don’t know if we are soul mates, surely it’s far too soon to tell?

  ‘Soul mates,’ I whisper to myself analysing each word. Is this a phrase anyone would use to describe the relationship between me and Guy? Or is it just deep emotional desire connecting us together? Love struck might be another description, but we only live once! Can Guy be viewed as a romantic? After all, what is romance? Can we merely define it as a term described as a pleasurable feeling of excitement and wonder associated with love, or is it a way to court amorously? Who needs romance nowadays, hearts kisses and flowers or lust, passion and forcefulness? I know which I’d prefer. Time will test our patience.

  I think back to my internship and my thesis on human beings. I studied Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium and learned that humans once consisted of four arms, four legs, one head but two faces. Yet Zeus feared the power of us mortals and split us in half, thus condemning us to spend the rest of our lives searching for our other half. In doing so he stated, “methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increase by numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg.” Interesting. Yet the Theosophists believe that God created androgynous souls both male and female. Theories postulate that souls were split into two with separate genders thus seeking one another as a result from incurring Karma playing around on Earth. Once Karmic debt has been purged, the two lost wandering souls will once again fuse together. Only time will enable us to have the power, yes time and patience is the answer.

  ***

  Guy, as far as I know is oblivious of my nightmares. I’m sure he has his suspicions and often wonders how I ended up incapacitated on the kitchen floor drenched in water. Hell, I have those suspicions let alone him! His demeanour excites me and I cannot help at times but ponder my very future with this man. Is he a perfect match? My soul mate? Who knows! My dreams aren’t as empty as my conscience appears to be. Nor can I allow any of my pain to show through.

  I most definitely think too much and try to clear my mind. I dial Dr Clarke’s number. The phone rings, pick up pick up’ my mind taunts.

  ‘Dr Clarke,’ a soft voice answers.

  ‘Dr Clarke, it’s Dr Amelia Sharpe, I need to see you right away.’

  ‘I can do next week as the earliest Amelia. I’m sorry I’m fully booked.’

  ‘I will ring you then.’ I hang up. Damn.

  I try ringing Guy but no answer, where is he? I panic.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sunday 21st Midday

  The atmosphere is silent, eerie without the voice of my subconscious trying to reason with me. A slight thundering sound from far away gradually increases in volume, louder, louder, so loud that my windows vibrate. What was happening? Violent uncorked rolling the sound of thunder stays a constant outside my front door. I open to see Ghost Rider? I chuckle no not possible, lifting up his visor he shouts.

  ‘Come here then,’ it’s Guy! On yet, another bike….

  Who is this Guy? I shake my head side to side in amazement.

  ‘COME ON, I’ve got you a brain bucket,’ he gestures me over.

  ‘A WHAT? CAN’T YOU TURN THAT NOISE DOWN?’ I shout and he turns the ignition off.

  ‘A brain bucket, a helmet, come on lets go.’

  ‘I’ve never been on a bike before,’ I nervously try to squirm my way out of going.

  ‘You will need to change into some jeans, as nice as the PJs are, they aren’t really appropriate,’ he declares. I don’t need much convincing, not with Guy.

  ‘OK, give me two seconds.’ I run inside, dropping the PJs to the floor, grab some jeans, clean panties, check, bra check, shaved? I look at my legs…..hmmm never mind. Locking my door I run like a school girl finishing class towards him.

 
; ‘I’m ready,’ I jump for joy, ‘let’s do this.’

  I’ve never been so excited yet scared in all my life. I climb aboard and grab onto his belt after putting the brain bucket on. A gunshot sounds from the exhaust as he starts the bike, slams it into gear and we’re off.

  ‘Hold tight, we’re late,’ he yells over his shoulder. SHIT what have I got myself into? This crazy bastard is going to get me killed and I love it!

  The wind is in my hair, fresh air, freedom no one else around. What the fuck? I’ve got bugs on my visor! October flies, who knows when their born but I know when they died. Now I can’t see anything. Fuck, my other senses heightened as my vision is blurred, the vibration between my legs becoming more apparent. Holy shit what is this? With my eyes rolling backwards I start groaning and my mouth gapes open. Oh, my, god this is far better than sitting on the washing machine at full spin! My thighs grasp tighter and I start to climax. Everything around me slows down but I can see the Speedo, 120, 140, 150 what? 150 MPH? Not possible……the speed, the thrill it’s all too much and tips me over the edge and I scream.

  ‘FUCK,’ I shout screaming and smiling at the same time.

  ‘Everything alright?’ He yells as I chuckle to myself, what a ride! Oh yeah sure, I’m just orgasming all over your beautiful bike…sure…why not.

  ‘Fancy a catwalk?’ He asks. I doubt this is one of those questions I actually have a choice in; before I could answer he pulls the front end up and we’re flying over the brow of a bridge. Holy….shit. I climax again. The adrenaline is addictive, he’s addictive; this Guy never ceases to amaze me. Guy knows exactly how to read my body and before I know it I have forgotten all about the nightmares, the pain and anguish. Instead I end up with soaked-through panties and a very sore minky. Flange, love tunnel, cha cha, coochie, meat curtains, hair pie, beaver, fuck it, pussy - no matter what you call it, it still sounds crude. It shall now be referred to as my bearded clam. Good job I have brain bucket on as I have an ear splitting smile and my muff is no longer in a huff.

  We arrive; a fine restaurant with a stone fascia beguiles me.

  ‘Where are we?’ I question with a negative gut feeling. Not sure this is your scene Amelia – my subconscious whines.

  Guy takes the brain buckets and secures them to the bike; I check my appearance feeling rather underdressed, raising my eyebrows waiting for an answer. He clutches my hand squeezing it softly and leads me inside. The musky scent tickles my nose. Stone clad walls, dim candlelight and grape vines climbing inside are astonishing.

  ‘One of life’s great joys when you are comfortable,’ he whispers into my ears.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ My brows crease at his comment as we continue to take a gander through the cellar of a connoisseur. Listening intently to the guide, I grasp Guy’s hand tight not believing what is happening. A tall slender man appears from the crowd dressed in a light gray suit, thinning blonde short hair and large blue eyes. His head tilts seeing if he has the full attention of everyone before him and he clears his throat;

  ‘I’m glad you could make it Mr Davidson,’ his eyes returning to the crowd. ‘You will discover that wines have unpronounceable names from places you’ve never travelled. This is all part of the charm of a great wine; the more obscure it is the more valuable it becomes to the truly rich. Wine is a game of one-upmanship where exclusivity and rarity are as important as iron-clad prenuptials with a divorce lawyer bearing his blood-drenched fangs.’ We all chuckle. Perhaps this won’t be so dreadful after all. My eyes rise looking at Guy – you so got told off. I laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,’ I apologise.

  Guy is taking me wine tasting, how very elite of him. As apprehensive as I was and the thought so daunting of me trying to fit in, the challenge as always, is to use my best cursory knowledge as the bridge to gaining acceptance by the upper crust. I best stay quiet. While you would think that fitting in with a group of people that drink all evening would be a simple task, recall that, like being in bed with a first boyfriend. One always spits and never swallows. So you will not be able to use tipsy-induced charm to win over your tanned swilling compatriots. Yes, it is best I just stay quiet.

  Guy leans down close to my ear with his tongue grasping my lobe. I groan, still conscious of not making too much sound and drawing attention.

  ‘Mr Davidson please, keep your composure, we are amidst the elite.’ I say guarding a stiff upper lip. He chuckles.

  ‘Amelia you are never fully dressed without a smile, and remember those that can, do, and those that can’t teach,’ he gestures toward the guide. ‘Come let’s go, we can’t drink too much, we’re on the bike.’ He clasps my hand tight and yanks me to the entrance.

  ‘GUY, you’re crazy!’ I yell, and he leans over his shoulder winking.

  ‘Don’t you forget it; I need you back in bed!’

  We put our brain buckets back on.

  ‘Pit stop first,’ he declares. I should really be getting back to work … I need time off; I shove my hand into my sub-consciousness’s face and lock her in the wardrobe suggesting such a dirty thought.

  ‘Now I suppose girls like you are made up from all things sugar, spice and everything nice?’ he states quizzically. He’s so puzzling, charming and sexy.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I exclaim once again. This Guy is so out of my league. He clasps my hand and we run down the street holding onto our brain buckets.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I laugh, ‘NOWAY,’ we stand in front of a designer cupcake store; you’ve got to be kidding me. Thank heavens Mrs calorie counting Claire isn’t here. She would have a fit! I glance at Guy; surely this wouldn’t satisfy the sophisticated sweet tooth of a high net worth individual. Then again maybe it would.

  I laugh and ask him,

  ‘Lady Baltimore?’ or ‘Dirty Blonde?’

  ‘Decisions, decisions, Miss Sharpe,’ he rubs his hands together. The elegance and tastefulness of ribbon wrapped sugary goodness has him beaming at his thoughtfulness and once it comes to naming these savoury delights, he is figuratively, if not literally eating out of my hand.

  After choosing our designer cupcakes and crumbs all over my face I mumble,

  ‘An excellent conversation starter; your affection for cupcakes will win hearts, minds and stapled stomachs. Be sure to save the ‘Sexy Red Velvet’ for the beautiful heiress she may turn out to be your sweet temptation!’ I warn. He laughs and chunks of cupcake crumble from his mouth. We end up with cupcake everywhere from laughter.

  ‘“Do you believe that pleasure can ever be sinful?”’

  ‘I do, and I want to give you everything Amelia, you are my original sin.’

  ‘Take me home now,’ I demand.

  ***

  We ride home as fast as the wind will carry us, clocking an average 120mph. We ask no questions of each other. The speed is fast and erotic. Everything slows down as we pass cars, trucks, coaches and every other motorist. Such a sense of adventure; forget fancy restaurants, five star hotels and expensive plane tickets; this is all you need - the open road and us together. It sure does remind you of one’s mortality but we also know that you could die just walking down the street. The speed is constant and the sun starts settling in front of us chasing dusk, little tornados of dust and low banks of fog start creeping in as the temperature drops. This moment I capture in my heart forever. I can see the attraction that, when the going gets tough the motorcyclist gets going. Guy’s helmet moves from side to side constantly observing his surroundings; our lives depend on this. He appears to be in control but surely this is an illusion? I lean forward slightly and grasp the belt around his waist, he leans over his shoulder.

  ‘Everything al-right?’ he says as his left hand squeezes my left knee. I smile inside my brain bucket.

  ‘Perfect,’ resting my head on his back as he blips the throttle harder and our speed increases to 140. He leans in towards the ground closer and closer. Oh...my...god I can almost touch the asphalt! I scream inside.
>
  ***

  He opens the front door to his house; nothing like mine, visually the same but not inside. The white walls, minimalistic furniture and white Persian rug are all very modern art deco. Furnished with an elegant black sofa, a sleek floating white cabinet, open shelving and a wall mounted flat screen TV. In the dining room that features stylish pendant lamps, there is a modern black table with sleek white chairs. He obviously doesn’t spend much time here, it’s far too clean. I’m taken aback.

  ‘It’s stunning!’ I’m breathless and the words struggle to leave my mouth.

  ‘It’s just material. Come here. I’m going to fuck you silly,’ he gushes. My attention immediately re-focused on the Adonis removing his shirt.

  ‘Yes Sir,’ I salute him and we giggle off into the bedroom like teenagers. It has been a while since I behaved like a teenager and I’m loving every moment of it. He presses play on his iPod, “3 doors down – kryptonite.”

  ‘Are you my superman?’ I question chuckling at his tender kisses.

  ‘Hush Amelia,’ he demands. ‘Now stay still,’ he eases off me standing at the base of the bed unbuttoning the top of his jeans that hang off his perfectly shaped hips. My heart almost stops beating. Oh boy, my subconscious that is still locked in her wardrobe bangs on the door– not now I mumble to her. The music chorus hits and he mouths the words.

  ‘“If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman? If I’m alive and well, will you be there a – holding my hand? I’ll keep you by my side with my superhuman might Kryptonite.”’

  I am speechless with horror and laughter all at the same time. My brows rise as he undoes his jeans revealing blue and red undies. We instantly burst into laughter,

  ‘Superman pants? You planned all this,’ his smile insatiable – his laughter and humour incorrigible.

  ‘I can’t get enough of you Mr Davidson. Now come here and fuck me silly.’

  ‘With pleasure Miss Sharpe.’

  Moments later a book shelf catches my eye and some rare books stand out among the rest. I can only assume Guy is a voracious reader from his poetic letter. Try to get him to open up, maybe this is the way my subconscious requests. I get off the bed quickly avoiding bodily contact.