Within seconds of entering the kitchen Tallulah’s on her back on the floor, writhing with impatience, grasping my wrists with white-knuckled exertion—the kitchen’s walls and cabinets are a blur of jerky motion, the white tiling of the floor’s blazing bright enough to half blind me, or so it seems in my stunned and dazed and alarmed frame of mind. “Do it, you bastard!” I hear her yell as her feet strike my shins. “Tie me up! Wait… Tape me up! The duct tape by the spices, use it to imprison me—make it so I can’t move! Make it so I’m at your mercy and there’s no way out for me except to be punished for being bad and shown I need to be sorry! And you’d better have the guts to do it! You’d better bring me close to you and put a stop to my confused feelings and loneliness with your heartfelt participation! I swear I’ll scream if you don’t! I’ll go in the hall and scream so loud it’ll be as if wolves are mauling me! Let’s see what the neighbors do when I tell them you’re trying to rape me!”
“What?” I exclaim, tearing my wrists from Tallulah’s grip—not hesitating to remove the ski mask and toss it in the sink, uncaring if she likes it or not. It’s as if I’ve been doused with cold water: I’m instantly crystal clear in my thoughts and stock still inside, such that the visual distortions vanish and I see every line of Tallulah’s face in sharp, neither blurred nor glaring, light—instantly fully conscious of the implications of her threat, determined to banish it from consideration. “You’re that evil? You’re telling me that out of all the girls at the club I chose a downright malicious one? That’s who I’m stuck with tonight—who I brought to my home—who I trusted? You look and dance like a princess, but you’re a witch at heart and I don’t mean a mysterious and appealing witch! I mean a mean-spirited, spiteful, malevolent girl who’s not above resorting to the shoddiest behavior imaginable—threatening to do something that’s absolutely low and disgusting, not funny in any sense of the word! A girl lacking…”
“Justin, how can you speak to me like that?” she breaks in, hurt in her voice and tears welling in her eyes as she slowly rises to her knees. “What I said…it wasn’t meant to be taken literally. I wouldn’t do that really, I couldn’t, I…” She trails off, pleading with her glance. She looks like a frightened child.
“But, Tallulah, you shouldn’t make threats of that nature,” I say gently, now feeling I’m the one who went too far and questioning my choice of words, none too pleased with myself: I’m never happy to see a girl cry. At the same time, though, I must admit I’m very relieved Tallulah’s no longer angry and is displaying rational behavior again—that is to say, behavior grounded in readily ascertainable cause and effect. Seeking to capitalize on what appears to be authentic regret on her part and bring her back to being the sweetheart she was at the beginning of our night, I continue in the same gentle vein, “What am I supposed to think when you say something like that? It was very unexpected, I was surprised you would say that, it didn’t seem like you at all, and... Look, I’m sorry I said what I said—it’s not true, not true at all. I overreacted to something you said in the heat of the moment and didn’t mean, I see that now—I absolutely do not want us to be against one another. How could I want that? I’m the lucky guy who’s brought the best girl in the club home and I only want to show you I know it and for you to be happy you’re here. Why don’t we…”
“So the truth comes out!” she cuts in with a yell, immediately taut and shaking in every limb as lightning flashes from her eyes. “What you said was base cruelty, a cold-hearted lie! It’s fun to hurt a girl and make her cry, isn’t it? So much fun! Do you feel like a big man when you tell lies and make girls cry? Do you? Answer me!”
Angie, Ella, Steve: it’s here that I find myself in the situation I dread being in with these disturbance-racked girls—they’re adept at twisting circumstances around and turning emotions topsy-turvy, such that I become the one who’s misbehaved and they’re animated with outrage, hell-bent on obtaining satisfaction. Tallulah’s glaring at me like she could kill me—gone is all trace of the compunction she exhibited moments before. Need I say I’m chilled to the marrow of my bones? What’s real? Given how quickly Tallulah’s reverted to rage I can’t help but think she’s feigned her tears and, furthermore, that she’s quite capable of following through with her rape-accusation threat. What have I gotten myself into? Who is this person I’ve brought home? I hear myself think. Pictures of acutely distressing possible outcomes leap into my head: I envision Tallulah pouncing on her phone, calling the cops or, worse, her parents and crying wolf, wailing up a storm—convincingly portraying herself as the innocent victim of a savage assault, regardless of whether the assault’s fictitious. She was born and raised in Manhattan and her parents still live here, frighteningly close on Sutton Place, and I don’t need them making scenes in my building, wishing me dead on account of something I haven’t done. Failing to indulge their daughter’s twisted yearnings is the actual reason they’d be summoned, but how would they know? I already know, as deduced from allusions on Tallulah’s part during earlier conversations, that she’s essentially been spoiled from birth and is accustomed to getting her way; and who knows how far she’d go to get her way?—whether she’d be capable of adding a bruise or two to her face to lend weight to a false accusation? As these thoughts devil me I’m also feeling I went too far in expressing remorse for my reproachful words, annoyed at having thrown away a possible opportunity to keep Tallulah within manageable boundaries. Given that I’m dealing with a thoroughgoing conflict-addict (as is becoming increasingly obvious with each passing second), I shouldn’t have ventured that far out on a limb with conciliatory words, in the naïve belief she’d reward me for doing so. Be that as it may, I still would very much like to defuse the situation, or at least reduce the tension—get her to stop looking like a wildcat thirsting to spring at my face—so I lift my hands in resignation and say, “Is there anything I can do that will bring the happy dancer back, get you to want to be the sweetheart I know you are at heart? The last thing I want is to fight with you—I think I’ve made that very clear. Why do you want to fight with me? Why can’t we be nice to each other? Why can’t we calm down and go back to having a wonderful night?”
“Oh, that’s just so sweet and rosy!” she snarls. “You answer a question with questions! You ignore my question and use flowery words to say nothing! Think your smokescreen tactics are going to work? Listen carefully, this might surprise you: I spit on your evasive words!” Suiting the action to her declaration, she lunges forward on hands and knees and spits on my legs several times, until she’s only making spitting sounds, having drained her mouth of saliva; then, raising herself back to her knees, whipping her hair behind her ears, and smiling derisively, “Is that enough happy dancer for you? Because guess what? This sweetheart of a dancer isn’t anywhere near happy! I ask for honesty—ask to be taken seriously—and you only want to keep treating me like a mindless plaything with no personality and keep doing the typical and stupid things we’ve already done! It’s incredible! You’ll try anything to get out of doing what I want you to do! First you say I’m crazy then you make me cry then you just plain ignore everything and say we should calm down and be morons! Not happening, buster! You’re not going to boast to your buddies about how you made the hot dancer cry so she’d hang her head and give up and go home so you could have second helpings with someone else! You’re not replacing me, get that through your thick skull! No obedient bimbo’s coming over so you can be boring with her—not on my watch! I’ve told you I want to be taped up and shown some serious attention and disciplined and you’re going to do it, unless you want to experience the true meaning of hell hath no fury! You brought me here and have assumed the responsibility, so you’re going to set aside your conceit for a change and be a man for a change and do what I need you to do! I’m not going anywhere until you follow through—I don’t let evasive lying creeps off the hook! It’s just plain sick, the way you’re treating me like I’m not a person and I won’t stand for it!”
&n
bsp; Anger’s not the advisable response to Tallulah’s anger: she’s the sort, I know only too well, who welcomes and feeds on reciprocal anger and rides it to a delirious state of... Of what? Forgetfulness via extremity of feeling? What is it she’s seeking to forget? Why do these hellcats crave tumultuous excitement so fiercely, as if they’ll wilt without it? Why this drive to spread their discontent to the far corners of a room, charge every particle of the air with it, until it engulfs me as well? But I’m wandering… Suffice to say I do what I know I shouldn’t do—that is, indulge Tallulah’s hunger for drama—without being able to help myself, like a dog prodded by a stick. “Is that how you get your jollies, by throwing fits?” I hear myself yell. “Do you enjoy deviling people? If you want to know what’s sick, that’s an example! I haven’t done anything to you—I mean you no harm! Why are you doing this? I’m sick of being dragged into conflict for no reason and it’s going to stop! You can forget about being taped up and any other warped fantasy of yours! I’m not game for your sick games, get it? I don’t care what you want, get it? We’re done here! I want you to put your clothes on and leave!”
What’s cute petite delicate flower Tallulah’s response to my request? She punches me squarely in the stomach, then slashes at my chest with her nails, screaming with fury, such that her voice is on the verge of cracking, “How dare you tell me to leave when I’ve told you what I want from you and you haven’t even tried to do it! Think I’m one of your brain-damaged bimbos? Think I’m a pushover, a cinch to toy with and manipulate? Think I take orders from pathetic boys?” Then, as I endeavor to grasp her wrists to halt the scratching, she jerks herself a couple yards away, slides across the floor with a dancer’s grace and agility—something I’d pause to admire, if the circumstances were allowing it—and scoffs, still screaming, “You’re going to have to be a lot faster than that if you want to declaw me! You’re going to have to come over here and pounce on me and tape me up if you want peace! Wake up and grow up and confront me like a man and discipline me, or else!”; then, seating herself on the floor and wrapping her arms tight about her knees, she adds at less volume but in a more menacing tone, “Want a real eye-opener? Want to know what a sweetheart I am? I say that if I was a man I might hurt you now! You’re lucky I’m not a man!”
For a few moments I’m tempted to rush at Tallulah and rid myself of her presence—whirling through my head are pictures of myself dragging her kicking and screaming to the front door and shoving her, regardless of the fact she’s unclothed, into the hallway of my building. At this point, what with my scratched and stinging chest and the way she’s glaring at me while vibrating with hate and with her latest acrimonious words ringing in my ears, not to mention that she’s likely only beginning to demonstrate her capacity for extreme behavior, I’m close to past caring what tales she might choose to spin concerning rape or anything else. But I refrain from advancing towards her, seeking to expel her from my apartment: a persistent part of me is still fancying it’s possible to escape from the disorder that’s engulfed this night seemingly in the blink of an eye. Sounds preposterous to be fancying such a thing given the situation, but I’m recalling how Tallulah was less than an hour ago—her bright smile and cheerful face and babbling-brook giggle and gentle touch. Or is it simply that I’m thoroughly in shock, too emotionally disarrayed to be capable of rational thought? After all, the visual distortions have returned, more pronounced than before: the air’s quivering and fuzzy, shot through with scattering light; the tiling at my feet’s fluid and unstill, undulating up and down and back and forth; the walls are slamming in on me, reducing my field of vision to a narrow gap that’s framing Tallulah’s infuriated face. As I reach to the side and grasp what’s probably the counter to steady myself, am I fully aware of where I am? Then I hear myself say as if from a distance, such that my words seem to be originating from outside the kitchen door, “Tallulah, I don’t understand why we’re against each other, what I’ve done, why we can’t get along. What’s happened to the wonderful time we were having, is it really necessary to…? Look, whatever I’ve done to upset you, it was unintentional—there isn’t a chance I could want to upset you. But I accept full responsibility and apologize—sincerely apologize, with all my heart. Please tell what I’ve done wrong and I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right, that’s a promise, I… What I mean is I don’t see how either of us can want what’s happening now and I’m sure we can work together to go back to how things were earlier and be happy together. We have it in us to be happy together, don’t we? It wasn’t long ago that we had no misunderstandings, I don’t know how this has happened, don’t understand… Tallulah, I just want to fix it, and not fight anymore. Honestly…”
“Don’t you honestly me, lying creep!” Tallulah breaks in with a shriek, seizing her cheeks and shaking her head from side to side with such vehemence she tilts sideways and nearly sprawls across the floor; then, abruptly ceasing to shake her head and slapping a hand to the floor to steady herself while brushing her hair from her eyes with the other, “You—you’re the one who’s sick! You take advantage of me in bed—you suck my neck and touch me all over and lick me and tell me how pretty I am and get exactly what you want, then deny me one measly request! Do you think I’m an easy lay who gets naked for every guy? I’m not and I don’t! But I’ve gotten naked for you and it gives me some rights! I want you to tape me up and yell at me and keep me prisoner here and you’d better do it! I’ll bite and scratch and kick and scream to high heaven and raise the dead if you don’t! You’re going to have one very nasty bitch on your hands, unless you man up and give me what I need! It’s not a choice!” No sooner are the words out of her mouth than she, with glazed and fixated eyes, flings herself at me as if I’ve threatened her life. I feel her seize one of my hands, frenziedly yank at it while attacking my shins with a flurry of kicks—feel her teeth scrape the base of my palm just before I yank it out of reach—hear her curses and wails rend the air as my eyesight blurs into silver-white planes of light pulling apart, splintering in all directions, leaping and flickering like furious flames. I swear it’s as if vast expanses of blinding haze are swirling between me and my perceptions—the walls of the kitchen seem to be dissolving, flying off into formlessness without end. I’m overcome by an oppressive sense of being absolutely alone, derided and abandoned by every person I’ve ever known and loved, as I seize Tallulah’s shoulders and wrestle her onto her back on the tiling—as I gather her hair, stretch its curls, and wind it about her throat. Am I angry? Am I afraid? I’m in a place where emotions whirl into intensity and are no longer identifiable. I’m blind impulse, being governed by a will that seems to belong to someone else.
“You want me to be a big bad man, you messed up mixed up girl?” I hear my voice shout as I pin Tallulah to the floor with a knee and tighten her hair around her throat—not too tightly, mind you, just enough to demonstrate I’m physically in charge. “You stay flat on the floor and don’t move a muscle or, I swear to God, I’ll wring your neck with your hair! That’s right, you stay frozen—you don’t so much as twitch—while I get the tape or your hair becomes a murder weapon!” Am I really saying and doing these things? I certainly don’t enjoy doing so! But what choice do I have, given that Tallulah isn’t going to stop attacking me and turning the night upside down until I tape her up? Again, I must stress that it’s as if another will has overtaken mine and is directing the bulk of my actions, not to mention carrying me to frightening places: never in my darkest dreams have I imagined myself capable of winding a girl’s hair about her throat and threatening her with strangulation, even if I’d sooner die than make good on the threat. And speaking of darkest dreams, I keep envisioning the worst—keep vainly seeking to fend off mental pictures of blood and mayhem, avoid hearing echoes of terror-inspired screams. As bad luck would have it, there’s a meat cleaver in open view on the counter, gleaming all too vividly—almost beckoningly, it seems to me—in the bright light. It’s there because I used it to chop ope
n a coconut in the morning and neglected to return it to its place in the drawer. What’s to stop Tallulah from scoffing at my warning, springing to her feet, seizing the cleaver, and waving it about? It seems to me we’re balanced on an emotional razor’s edge, such that at any point—on account of something as slight as an involuntary twitch of a muscle or extra sparkle of electricity in our nerves—the night could collapse into ungovernable tumult and turn ugly, in a manner there’d be no turning back from. I’m telling you this is the sort of situation these hellcats routinely plunge me into! I’m telling you I don’t understand why it’s necessary to taste of raw fear—feel I’m scampering about on the edge of my sanity, being pushed to the limits of mental and emotional endurance—every time I bring a girl home! Why does something inside them insist upon annihilating feelings of security and safety, unleashing forces as untamed as a thunderstorm in my home?
But I must be doing something right, somehow orchestrating the proceedings effectively despite my considerable amount of consternation, because Tallulah heeds my instructions to the letter when I release her to obtain the tape. From a seemingly far-off corner of my eye, as if I’m observing her through an imaginary window on the kitchen’s furthest side, I see she’s not only remaining motionless but contemplating me with something that resembles admiration, even joy: I’m roughing her up and threatening her with violence so she’s pleased! That’s why she’s content and cooperative for the time being, right? But scant comfort do I derive from Tallulah’s appreciation: my imagination’s far too preoccupied with undermining apparently real perceptions with their opposites; when it comes to what matters most, as in whether her cooperation’s sincere and how long it’s likely to last, it’s as if I’m clearly seeing and discounting the same thing at the same time. She, contrary to appearances, might very well be playacting her acquiescence and, in any case, it comes at a price: I must not only continue to participate in this insane domination and abuse game, but convince her I’m doing so wholeheartedly. Make no mistake, I’m little more than Tallulah’s puppet—she’s pulling my strings every step of the way. That I’m playing the dominant part is an illusion: I’ve been conscripted into slavery, pure and simple—physically and emotionally abducted. Yet again, a crazed cutie’s pushing me around in my own apartment, constraining me to feel a lot of things I don’t want to feel and do a lot of things I don’t want to do. The cleaver continues to glint on the counter and who knows what Tallulah’s capable of? After all, I’ve only known her for a few hours and she’s already scratched and bit and kicked me and threatened to cry rape, given my apprehension more than enough fuel to feast upon. And think about it: it is inherently risky to bring strangers home, especially when it comes to the ones I wind up with. I must continue to do Tallulah’s bidding because I don’t want to experience the consequences of noncompliance and discover how menacing of a stranger she can be. I don’t want to see that cleaver in her hand, slashing at the air as venom spews from her mouth and lunacy leaps into her eyes.
Tallulah Tempest Page 2