Women
Scorned
By
Angela Alsaleem
JournalStone
San Francisco
Copyright ©2012 by Angela Alsaleem
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
ISBN: 978-1-936564-38-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-936564-39-2 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012935829
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date:
Cover Design: Denise Daniel
Cover Art: Philip Renne
Edited By: Elizabeth Reuter
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I would like to thank my husband. He gave me a year off from work to launch my writing career. In that year’s time, I finished Sanitarium, Women Scorned, and Breaking Thresholds. In the years since, I have been fine-tuning these works to make them ready for publication, as well as working on new novels, all with his support and encouragement. There have been days where I have wanted to give up on the idea of ever becoming an acknowledged author. Juggling a career, a family and my writing has been exhausting, but he never let me quit. Because of that, Women Scorned made it past the cut. He was my first reader, my first cringer. And, most importantly to any writer, he told me the truth about what he liked and didn’t like, what terrified him and what fell flat.
My family has been the best support system a writer can hope for, pushing me toward my dreams and goals, encouraging me every step of the way. I want to thank my mom for reading those dreadful first drafts and loving them anyway, my grandma for always shouting, “Woo HOO” at every success along the way, and my daddy for keeping my website running (and keeping it beautiful) as well as all the work he does proofreading my work for typos and word choice errors.
I want to thank my daughter for always asking how many words I wrote each night and for wanting to read my work (she’s only 10 and so hasn’t been allowed to read it yet, but I have a feeling she’s going to be just as much of a horror fan as her momma). I want to thank my Aunt Nat for always being there, always reading, always commenting. My family has never failed in telling everyone (and I mean even perfect strangers…I have books circulating in Germany and Jamaica because of them) about my work. Every writer needs book advocates as forward as this group. I don’t know where my fan base would be without them.
And, for my best friend and writing companion, Claire L. Fishback, I owe such deep thanks. If I hadn’t been competing against her in a flash fiction, prompt driven, horror contest, this book would never have been written. It was the prompt, “He/She/It stood at the fork in the road…” that introduced Camilla to me. I read Claire’s story, which was fantastic, and knew I had to write something really clever to beat it. The flash fiction story I wrote for that prompt is now a prominent scene in the novel. Camilla appeared to me in another flash fiction piece and I began wondering who was this woman, where did she come from? Claire was with me every step of the way, reading my terrible first draft that only got half written. She introduced me to a writing method that helped me organize my thoughts and really make this story flow. She provided line-by-line feedback. Claire is the best writing companion anyone could ever hope for.
Matt R. Konopka deserves thanks for being honest enough to tell me my characters talked to themselves too much. As a screenwriter, Matt knows a thing or two about how to get the point across when it comes to what a character is thinking without that character needing to announce their thoughts for the audience to hear. And he was right. When I first came up with the idea for Women Scorned, I wanted to write the book like a movie with as little internal thought processes as possible. To make up for the lack of thoughts, I made my characters talk. They are often alone in this story and all their blathering was annoying, a cop-out. Rather than show, I was still telling. Because of Matt, my characters are now more realistic in how they react in stressful situations and what they say and don’t say.
My co-worker, Cheryl Bristow, was kind enough to read my work and find all the typos and word choice errors throughout so that when I submitted the work to the publisher, it would be as free from errors as I could make it. I didn’t want to publish something I would regret. Because of Cheryl, it was much easier to make the later edits necessary for publication.
Thank you to JournalStone for taking a chance on this novel. I am so pleased with the artwork, the editing, and the attention I’ve received. This has been the most positive publishing experience I’ve ever had. I appreciate that they listened to my ideas as far as what I had in mind for the cover art. The fact that they are taking the time to read and re-read the work to make sure it is as flawless as it can be makes me feel secure in the knowledge that this will be the best work I’ve published to date. I look forward to working with them again with other manuscripts.
Finally, I would like to thank you, my reader for allowing me to entertain your wicked mind. Without you and your hunger for terror, Women Scorned would have never left my group of friends and family. Thank you for your support. I look forward to meeting you again.
Dedication
Eelah Habibi:
Anta oumri.
Part One
The Question
Chapter One
A shriek ripped through the night before it was muffled, then silenced. A police cruiser sat behind a beat-up blue car that rocked in the headlights. Grunts and moans came from within. A man’s legs protruded from the backseat, feet grinding in the dirt, police uniform slacks pooled around his ankles. The man laughed. A heavy metallic smell hung in the air.
After a satiated groan, the rocking stopped. The peace officer heaved himself from the backseat, his groin and hands covered in blood. He stuffed a woman’s naked legs inside the automobile and closed the door, leaving behind a red smear. In his other hand, he held chains dangling with charms of various materials and sizes - necklaces. The policeman duck-walked to a bucket filled with sudsy water sitting next to his cruiser and cleaned himself, stripping latex gloves from his hands, scrubbing his face, groin, and arms, careful to remove all traces of her.
When he finished, a crimson fleck clung to his cheek. He didn’t notice. He pulled his pants up and patted his legs, smacking dust from the fabric. After dumping the bloodied water onto the graveled shoulder, he placed the bucket in the trunk, rubbed his hand over his Marine-styled hair, and got into the cruiser with a sneer plastered to his face. The red dome lights circled in the darkness, lighting his twisted grin. With a sigh, he pulled away from his mess, his taillights diminishing to pinpricks before disappearing around a bend in the road.
* * *
The moon shone down on the abandoned car, the night hiding the dark secret inside. The wind settled into an ominous stillness. The air grew heavy and something rumbled in the distance, something felt more than heard.
A loud crack split the silence. A dark form materialized, a
woman swathed in shadow shifting toward the car, feet crunching through gravel. Her matted hair untouched by wind, her naked body covered in scars, she moved with the darkness. At a touch, the back passenger-side door opened. Naked legs flopped out, covered in blood and new bruises. The body was motionless, vacant eyes staring. The shadowed stranger laid her hands on the legs dangling from the back seat.
The moment she touched the girl’s thigh, blinding light seared the night, radiating from inside the car, illuminating for one brief moment a torn picture on the dashboard of a smiling girl with spiky, black hair and haunted eyes. A man’s hand rested on her shoulder, just inside the tattered edge.
The light vanished. The shadowed figure stood. As the wind blew, she became as immaterial as the night itself and vanished.
Once again, silence pervaded the back road, the only sound the car engine ticking as it continued to cool. Indifferent stars went on their nightly course overhead, and the trees swayed in a new wind. From the forest, yellow orbs glowed in the shadows between the trees. They disappeared as a howl spliced the air, wavering at its peak before it trailed off to mingle with the other noises of the night.
A gray wolf emerged from the forest, trotted to the car, circled it, and then rested next to the open door. It sniffed the dead woman’s toes then howled again. Several howls responded from the nearby trees. Five smaller wolves filed out and took their places, forming a circle. They threw their heads back, their cries echoing through the distance. The dominant male’s voice outlasted the others’. They growled and huffed air out of their cheeks, a chant with almost recognizable words and meaning. The largest wolf’s fur glistened in the moonlight, rippling with an aura of its own. The leader remained fixated on the woman’s toes hovering above the gravel, dripping blood. They twitched. The wolves stood and walked back to the forest.
The woman’s toes twitched again. Her leg jerked.
Blood dripped from the backseat of the car, seeping into the gravel. It came from between the dead woman’s cold legs, saturating the cushion on which she’d died. Her torn shirt exposed her breasts. Hand shaped bruises marred her flesh. Semi-circle wounds covered her belly and shoulders. A gash on the side of her head oozed cold, tacky blood. On her left ear, a silver rose tangled in her spiked hair. The right lobe split and smeared red, matching earring gone. Her arms rested above her head, crossed at bruised wrists.
But her face, dark and haunted, was unmarred. Vacant eyes gazed at nothing, glazed with death's kiss. The shadows cast from the moonlight made her face a foreign landscape, her pointed nose a possible mountain, her lips the foothills, eye sockets the valleys. Black makeup caked her eyes and streaked down her cheeks in tear stains. Her slack mouth exposed a small overbite, white teeth gleaming in the dark.
Camilla sat up and screamed, a drawn out, whistling sound. This can’t be happening to me, she thought. San Francisco. That’s where she was supposed to go, to be an artist, to live her life. She would be famous,
….but not as the victim of this cop.
Body tense, she splayed her arms to either side, bracing herself against the seats, drawing her knees to her chest, ready to kick and fight. But no one invaded the backseat anymore. No one was attacking her. She pushed herself against the closed door. Darting glances out the back window, the open door, the windshield, over her shoulder, moaning deep in her throat, she pawed her face, head, breasts, legs.
Where’d he go? She checked the windows again and murmured to herself, her voice high, strained, the words spilling over one another. No red lights, no cruiser. Quiet. All around. Alone in the dark. Surely he’d be back. The last thing she remembered was him on top of her, ripping her shirt off, pressing his palm to her mouth. She tongued the cuts on the inside of her lips where the tender flesh had split, smashed against her teeth.
She felt her chest and neck. Her necklaces. The fucker took her necklaces. Breath coming in harsh gasps, she moaned deep in her throat, the precursor to tears. But she wouldn’t cry. Tears were useless now.
She fluttered her hand over the cut in her head and winced. She felt her breasts and cringed, the ridges of his bite marks tender. Her pants were gone. She sniffed and ran the back of her arm under her nose, hitching in a breath. No tears. She was a big girl. She could handle this. She squeezed her eyes shut and explored between her legs. She pushed her fingers inside a slit much larger than it should be, made larger by the cop’s knife. She remembered how large it had been, how it had glinted the red lights from his cruiser into her face. Bloody mucous draped her fingers like string when she pulled them out. She shuddered, recalled his grin as he had cut her open. She pulled her torn shirt around her, leaving smears on the white fabric and scrambled for her pants, hands shaking so badly it took her a couple tries before she could get her feet into the correct holes.
Alive.
She slid between the two front seats, leaving traces of herself on the upholstery and plopped into the driver’s seat. She didn’t dare venture outside. Not after what had happened. The scent of cherries wafted from her air freshener, masking the unpleasant smells from the back seat. She turned the key in the ignition with a shaky hand. The car wouldn’t start. Slamming her palms into the steering wheel, she screamed, “No, no, no!” After a minute, she regained control and took a deep breath.
“Okay.” She looked out the window. “Okay, okay, okay.” She took three short breaths the way women do when giving birth, just before pushing. With her last held gasp, she opened the car door and stepped into the windy night. Still. Waiting. Listening. No one there but her.
“Okay,” she said again.
Blood soaked through her clothing. She looked at her crotch and touched the fabric. Wet. She needed help, or she would die. There was a town up ahead. She could hitchhike. Maybe no one would notice all the blood in the dark. Or maybe they would and know she needed help. Either way, she needed to get to a hospital.
She walked away from her car, surprised by the lack of pain between her legs. So much blood. She was probably in shock. Her jeans squelched, cold and sticky against her thighs. Rocks bit into her naked feet. Her duffle bag, full of clothes, sat on the floorboards, forgotten. She hugged her body. Her open shirt fluttered in the wind. Crimson footprints marked her passage.
Headlights stabbed through the darkness as a car approached from behind. The first car in hours. She stuck out her thumb and stopped walking, turning toward the vehicle, a half smile on her face, eyes lit. The driver didn’t slow down. A look of shock erupted on her face. Her hand dropped and smacked her leg in its descent.
“Fuck!” She kicked the ground leaving a red smudge in the dirt. “Damn it!” She hugged her chest, covering her breasts and shuffled on. Her small, slow steps didn’t get her very far, but she couldn’t move faster. How long was this back road, anyway? She passed a couple empty houses and what appeared to be a boarded up market, but nothing else. Night turned to day and she trudged on, each labored step scuffing the ground. In the daylight where she knew her condition would be obvious, someone would have to help her. Another car came and went. And then another.
The sound of an engine rumbled from behind her. She was ready to flag it down when she noticed the dome lights on the roof. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She was certain it was the same cop, certain he had come back for her to do more damage, stop her from telling. She darted off the road, seeking the shelter of the trees. The cruiser passed without stopping, a female officer behind the wheel. When Camilla was sure the road was clear, she ventured out again, legs more shaky than before.
When a car approached from ahead, Camilla stood in the middle of the road and waved her arms above her head. The driver would have to stop or hit her, she decided. Enough of this passive shit. She could make them give her a ride to a hospital. Or at least make them give her their phone. Something. But when the driver didn’t slow, Camilla let her arms drop. It hurtled toward her at an alarming speed. At the last moment, she lunged out of the way, scraping her knee on the road. S
he lay on her back staring at the blue sky above. A hawk circled.
“I’m not dead yet, you idiot,” she said to the bird as she got back to her feet and kept walking.
The next day, Camilla took to twisting her belly button ring up and down as she shuffled along, shoulders hunched, head drooped. Her matted, black hair stuck out at odd angles, the gel she’d used to style it two days before still there, holding the basic shape of her textured spikes. Another car approached from behind. She didn’t raise her thumb, but instead extended her middle finger at the dwindling taillights. Over the last two days, too many had passed without stopping for her to get excited anymore.
She stopped her slow shuffle and thought back over how long she’d been walking. Her brown eyes lost their focus as she looked inward, her lips moving as she counted under her breath. Three nights. Three nights without stopping. She’d been traveling along this back road without rest, without food. The town looked a lot closer on the map. How long until she came to civilization? She looked at the ground, then into the forest. Should be resting, she thought. She stepped off the shoulder, toward the forest, in search of a place to sit. She wasn’t tired, knew she could keep going, but logic said she needed rest.
After finding a mossy patch at the base of a tree, she reclined, back against the rough bark. The blackness swarmed around her, choking out the light, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes, heaved sighs and then shuddered. Her body tensed as she tried to relax, back arched, neck straight, head leaning against the trunk. Camilla wrapped her hands around her knees and hugged them close to her chest causing more blood to ooze from between her legs, soaking through her jeans, staining the green moss beneath her.
Women Scorned Page 1