In reality, I exited the freeway and turned down Joe’s street. Mentally I drop the last of my verbal bombs on him, swiveled around on my stiletto heels (dream shoes, in real life I had on Chucks) and glide out the door on my Injured Party carpet, leaving Joe huddled in a corner—a weeping, blubbering mess, despondent at a life without me. However in real life, as I pull up to his house to fulfill this daydream, I see a car already parked in front. I know it’s not his; not only had Joe refused to pay management for covered parking but he only drives a cherry red BMW in his fantasies. I told myself it’s possible the driver of the vehicle was in the wrong spot and was visiting one of the neighbors. But as I get out and walk past the car, I saw one of those stickers on the back window showing a man, a woman and a baby. That sign chilled my heart. My daydream was rapidly turning to ashes—I was supposed to be the only female in this scenario. I mean, it might be hard to glide around on a carpet of indignation if another woman is already on it going the opposite way. But still…I strengthened my resolve and kept walking to the front door. I gave myself credit for standing my ground and continuing on to the confrontation. I wanted to do this, to have it out for once and for all. I needed to do it! It would represent closure. Right?
#
Now here’s where Dr. Hall and I disagree on the turn of events. I believe that’s because he wasn’t there; if Jerry had been inside that living room, he’d probably be a patient here too. Or worse. The main point is, I walked into a scene that had a traumatic effect on me. It was kind of my fault, since I didn’t knock at the front door like a regular person. I simply tried the knob—I knew it would be open, and it was. Joe never locked doors anywhere. I had always joked with him that Tennessee living would never leave him and his country was showing when he left the door unlocked. I fervently wish now that some city boy had gotten into him. Maybe if the door had been locked I would have turned around and left, leaving it at that. Maybe if pigs had wings…
I walked down the hall to the entrance to the living room and felt sick to my stomach. The walls had the usual family photos lined up. There was a picture of Joe and a pretty lady with long hair and glasses. She didn’t look like a shopping fiend, or cracked up. I didn’t see any baby pictures, just the two of them. There were a couple of pictures of Joe’s parents and his brother. But there was also a picture of the lady, with a couple that must be her parents and two other people that were probably family. I already knew, but seeing those pictures really brought it home—Joe was full of shit from the very beginning. I again filled up with anger, like a water pitcher. I continued down the hall slowly, gathering my words. I heard slow music playing somewhere, fulfilling every angry cheating fantasy
I’d had. But when I came around the corner, I froze at the sight in front of me. Joe was on his knees dressed in his Sunday best with his back to me, placing a huge diamond solitaire onto some Other Woman’s finger! She was smiling and nodding, so the answer was apparently yes. They were so enthralled with each other that they hadn’t even noticed me. By the time she looked up and saw me, it was way too late, for all of us.
When I saw Joe there, in the middle of the room, his head looking up entreatingly at someone else, I almost stroked out and died. Dionne Farris was playing and faraway in my mind I thought, Love Jones soundtrack; great movie. I could see a ring box on a table next to glasses of what I surmised to be champagne. The whole scene told me that Joe never intended to call and issue any kind of excuse. What he was going to call and do was BREAK UP WITH ME--TO BE WITH HER! I could see he was a liar, but to catch him PROPOSING to another woman while he was dating me! He must have been seeing her the whole time he’s been seeing me, maybe even before. It’s bad enough to know you’ve been used, suspecting that he was cheating on the side. I mean damn, Joe, you couldn’t even be bothered to dump me. Even after meeting me, knowing and supposedly loving me, he still chose someone else!
The whole time, I was nothing but a poor unwanted second choice, not even worth being dismissed.
Right then is when I first felt that tingle.
That’s always how it starts for me, signaling disaster ahead. I stood in the entryway of that room, watching the man I’d loved for the last 12 months propose to somebody else in front of me. My shock was almost tangible; it may have been hard for me to breathe, but unfortunately my vision was not at all impaired. Joe was standing up after her agreement and they were clasping hands and smiling at each other. Their failure to even notice me was infuriating and I hated them at that moment. Hated them more than I’d ever hated anyone in my life. More than any other man, woman or thing. How dare they refuse to acknowledge me— DARING not to see me!
And I felt that feeling again, that same tingle but much stronger; in the small of my back. A strong current of energy rolled up my spine, leaving pleasurable spasms in its wake. My skin prickled and the tiny hairs all over my body stood on end. The feeling began to spread all over my body, making my fingertips and toes tingle.
My whole body: every cell, every follicle felt on fire with energy. My nerves screamed and crackled and I could feel … everything. I could feel the wind from the open door behind me coming down the hall, caressing my skin. I felt the rumble of a passing car from outside. Dionne Farris’ musical notes thrust themselves into my eardrums over and over.
The energy rolled over me again, stronger this time. It felt like those lamps from Spencer’s with the ball of electricity inside that followed your finger when you touched it. Except I was the glass lamp, and the power was inside me sparking all over my body. I was flushed, and could feel my temperature rise. It centered itself in my groin, and I started getting hot; my cells were generating heat. I could see the air shimmer in front of my face. Behind it, Joe and company were hazy, I could no longer see them clearly through the heat. Then, my body started reacting. I swear my breasts swelled up to a C cup like I’d always wanted-how ironic-and my nipples could have cut glass. I felt a familiar trickle of moisture begin between my legs and I could remember thinking — What the hell was this? I’d had an episode similar to this before, but nothing as powerful. I could not move my body, yet it felt like I was flying, using every muscle in my body somehow. I vaguely thought how I would be so sore tomorrow. But no thoughts whatsoever on what it was I was about to do that would make me sore. All I could do was stand there and let this energy flow outside of myself. It was too much for me to control, I couldn’t stop it, it had to come out and it did; through every open pore, every orifice, any opening available. And as it excited me, it got hot. And it burned. Everything but me. Because I’ve been burned enough.
The heat being released by my sexual excitement must have finally alerted Joe and his woman (fiancée)s to my presence; their heads both turned toward me at the same time, not understanding but somehow realizing there was danger (Danger Will Robinson!) afoot inside their house. I saw in their eyes that they don’t comprehend the source of the threat. It was almost stamped on their foreheads: Surely not this woman standing in OUR home, she’s unexpected sure, but she has no weapons, she doesn’t look scary.. Their eyes blinked stupidly like sheep but fear still swam there; pupils dilating and nostrils flaring. WHERE? Where is the monster, the maniac with the AK47, the source of danger that has raised alarms buried so deep in their subconscious they don’t even know what’s been triggered. But I am the monster. I’m the bogeyman, the killer clown, the serial killer.
And they don’t even know it.
Then my body caught fire--EXPLODES and I saw something fly from me and smack them. I wanted to pull back, walk away, STOP but it was too late and I could feel my body starting to react, that special wetness flowing into my cotton panties, making me sticky. Joe and his BITCH are shaking, vibrations of my pain at being lied to and used, ripping them apart, visible waves of heat made their skin slough off like a snakes, falling to the ground in small glops as chunks of epidermis stained the carpet. In seconds, the muscles and tendons of their bodies became fully exposed, then they too were hit by more he
at finally getting down to the bone. Their bones fell to ground, breaking apart and charring as they joined the chunks of flesh already on the ground.
As each layer of their humanity disappeared under the force of my will, I got more excited against my will. I was disgusted at my reaction. What I was seeing was terrible, horrific even — shouldn’t I be screaming or vomiting, I wondered? How was this even happening? Instead, my nipples got harder and I could feel my labia swelling, engorged with blood; my vagina was contracting, my clitoris was peaking. It was the most intense sexual experience I’d ever had and I started shaking too, frozen in place but starting to moan as I felt release coming upon me. Joe and the Girl had no flesh left on their skeletons, and was hard for me to look at it as (GUILT) started to dissolve itself, pieces of bone marrow and chips of bone landing on what wasn’t covered by their previous human detritus deposited there. All that remained of my former lover and his former fiancé was bloody jelly and at that moment I came ferociously, like an act of nature; Mt. Saint Helens or Vesuvius exploding in my pussy and like Pompeii, my vision started to go black. I couldn’t get enough air. I was passing out with the pleasure and DAMN it felt so fucking good and I started falling forward (Oh Shit! No!) towards that pile of jelly-flesh, the pleasure center of my brain overloading hips bucking as I fucked my rage and my rage fucked me. It was the best orgasm I’d ever had.
#
Now let’s talk about what really happened to Joe.
I told you what happened to him!
Cassandra, you know what you told me is an impossibility. How can you get better if you won’t be honest with me?
I told you that I killed him; how I killed him.
You want me to believe you killed Joe without touching him? That you killed him with your mind?
No, not with my mind! Damn, are you even listening to anything I’m saying?!
Yes, yes I’m listening, just - explain again.
I killed him with some other part of me, my—my madness or anger or something. My emotions, I think. I killed him with my emotions; it was like, emotional murder.
Hmm, your madness, huh? (writes)
#
This has happened to me before, and each time my sexual gratification got hotter and stronger from the incidents. The injuries to the ex-boyfriends in question got worse each time, too. The first time, a boyfriend at summer camp got a bad sunburn and severe dehydration after dumping me for not putting out. He was released from the hospital the next day. But he told everyone in town I was a witch and had put a death spell on him. As a freshman at Cal Poly, I caught my guy hitting on my roommate at a party. I felt that tickle coming on, and the cheating bastard somehow suffered third degree burns on 90% of his body while at a basketball game — where I had caught him with someone else.
He was rushed to the ICU. In the confusion, no one saw me fall down, crying in the ecstasy of his misfortune. I tried to stop dating permanently then, because I don’t really like hurting people. But I’m just not made to live alone, I need companionship! And anyway, the next guy hit on me, not the other way around. But now he’s in an irreversible coma due to excessive brain swelling that never went down. I really don’t know how that happened, usually there’s heat involved. I hear the two whores I caught him sexing in my bed apparently visit him every week.
But I never hurt the women! I mean technically they never lied to me, they never cheated on me and therefore owe me no loyalty. If they’re okay being the Other Woman, fine—that’s their business. My anger usually focuses on the lying, cheating men. But I guess the shock of finding Joe and her together like that, planning to get married right in my face…a little too much reality at one time for me. But I’m sorry, I really am! I said so in court at my sentencing. Especially about her. She was just unlucky, I tell myself. I don’t want to obsess on those memories; flashes of their hallway family pictures and their living room, and the face of a frightened toddler, peeking around the edge of a couch watching his parents fall apart silently.
My therapist Jerry tries to reassure me that I’m really not some crazed succubus-like creature, dispensing my own twisted justice to those I despise as I literally cum all over their dead bodies (or in their dead bodies, in this last case). That the orgasms are getting stronger (better) each time this happens is what worries me. What if I start killing men not because they hurt me, but just for the orgasms? What if I already am? What does that make me?
I worry.
#
According to Dr. Jerry Hall, therapist extraordinaire, the whole thing was a sort of self-psychosis brought on by disturbing events. Of course it was assumed by the courts that after catching my cheating boyfriend proposing to someone else, I killed them both in a fit of t emporary insanity. They say I tried to dissolve their bodies with household cleaners, though they don’t know which ones since they didn’t find traces of any chemicals. The fact that I told them what really happened and refused to testify at my own trial got me a mandatory 10 year stint in the psych ward I’m currently residing in. But why testify when I know no one will believe me? Dr. Hall says I should focus on the lack of control that led to me killing the couple, not on the method of death. I disagree.
I don’t know of anyone else who can kill cheating boyfriends with their minds—or vaginas, for that matter. And what does it say about me, that the destruction of a man I once loved can send me into paroxysms of pleasure?
I asked Dr. Hall about that, but I think he’s a bit uncomfortable discussing the sexual aspects of my problem. His pink face gets shinier and he tends to lick his lips a lot. He gets flustered when I call him Jerry and can’t meet my eyes. I think he may have a slight crush on me. Now that I think about it, he does have some nice thick lips for a white guy. I wonder if he uses those in bed?
Maybe if Dr. Hall—I mean Jerry—gives me a hands-on example of what a normal sexual relationship should be like, I could be healed faster. He seems like a nice guy…the type of guy that would never cheat on me. I can just tell…
Kim
by Nicole D. Sconiers
She looked like she wandered away from a Mennonite farm, like she belonged to those women who gave bags of hand-me- downs to my mom. Her gingham dress hung to her ankles. It was a sly blue color, like a robin’s egg in which a baby vulture slept. No prayer covering weighed down her hair, which swirled around her face in jagged wisps. Unlike those well-meaning Mennonite ladies, she held no bag filled with castoffs for needy black kids. She came that summer bearing nothing in her hands and she left with the bones of our dreams.
I saw her first. We were practicing our lyrics in the underpass off Johnson Highway. Me, Trina, Vanessa and D. The Cherry Street Crew. Few cars traversed that old bridge, on the side of which someone misspelled HYPNOTIZE in chunky red graffiti. Back then, when we were girls, the underpass was our impromptu studio. No one bothered us as we recited our rhymes. Our voices echoed off the walls of the bridge. Pure. Steady. Our sneakers pounded gravel, dodging concrete that had fallen from the ceiling and bits of broken glass. I wasn’t the best dancer in the group. I often stood off to the side, watching the feet of my girls, trying to learn the routines. That’s when I looked up and saw her there, at the mouth of the underpass. Watching. With nothing in her hands.
It was June 1982 when she came. The summer after all those black kids were killed in Atlanta. I was 14 then. Although we lived in Wing, Pennsylvania, a mill town some 800 miles north of the murders, we weren’t allowed to walk to the store or ride our bikes alone. Too much blood had been spilled. If we wanted to play outside, we had to travel in groups.
Most days after school, I hung out with Vanessa, Trina and D. We were all the same age, except for Vanessa, who was a year older. Her nickname was Vee-Money. She did everybody’s hair on the block, charging five dollars for cornrows or a press.
The four of us walked up and down the streets. Restless. We were girls, so there wasn’t much to do besides jumping rope or going to the store. A few years earlier, they played th
e first rap song on the radio. “Rappers Delight” by the Sugar Hill Gang. You couldn’t pass a stoop or barber shop that wasn’t blasting that song from the speakers.
I felt special because I carried my brother’s boombox, a black Magnavox with removable speakers. Even though we were just walking up and down the block, past lopsided row houses, past men lounging on stoops (“Hey, Redbone. Can I walk with you?”), blasting Sugar Hill on our portable stereo, we felt like we were going somewhere.
Trina started rapping first. She was soft-spoken, a pretty brown-skinned girl who slicked down her baby hair with black gel. One Saturday when we were heading to the corner store, she surprised us all when she began to rhyme:
standing on the corner yellin
young girl/yo girl always on the go girl
you too old to hit on us
tryna feel me up
when I’m at your sister’s house
hands all up my blouse
like what…
She spit those verses really quick too, as if she had been holding it in for a while. D added a few lyrics of her own:
young girl/yo girl
why you gotta go, girl? how you grow up so fast
what you doin with all that ass…
D wasn’t the brightest one in the group, but she was able to laugh at herself, which made her smarter than a lot of girls I knew. Her real name was Dorethia. I don’t know what her mom was thinking to give a girl such a heavy name—a grown woman’s name.
Sycorax's Daughters Page 16