Lussuria (New Version)

by SJ Molloy

  “Oh I would like that, Apple. You could sing in that sweet angelic voice you have. Now, keep your chin up. Have a wonderful time, and please let some love in, kid. It’s your time. I hear your granny coming back, so I will let you go before you get another scolding. Love you to the moon and back. Tell Ted I won the chess championship in Elgin last week.”

  “I will, Grandpa. I love you to the moon and back. Tell Granny the same. I’ll call you both when I’m back.”

  I hang up, then lift my hands over my face, trying to control my breathing. I hear Mr. Carlin shuffling through the French doors towards the sunroom.

  “So, Michael Parks has been released from prison. I’m sorry, I overheard.” He places his hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s okay. Yes, he got released early, but it’s fine. Really, it is, honestly. Because I’m here and he is there and well, it’s fine…”

  I’m sobbing, but I try to sound convincing. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself.

  Mr. Carlin sits down next to me on the tartan shawl and clasps his hands on his knees. He doesn’t say anything. This is his way of being compassionate. He doesn’t push me; he simply gives me reassurance and understanding by giving me his attention and presence.

  He’s a wise man.

  Chapter 4

  Burning Embers

  I shut my eyes and inhale a long slow steady breath.

  I was doing rather well until I heard this news. I’m a twenty-six year old woman who is disturbed by horrid memories of a little girl who was born into a life of blackness and torment. A little girl who was born into an unsafe environment that would daunt her whole life. Ironically, as a young child I was naive and unaware of the deep, sinister, unimaginable reality of my situation.

  It was, in fact, normal to me.

  All I knew.

  It took me many years to accept I had a place on this earth. Even now I sometimes feel unworthy—another insecure demon I battle with from time to time. Grandpa always tells me I’m strong, and a true blessing, but I’m not so sure.

  I thought Michael Parks would rot in a cell for the rest of his life and endure the darkness and torment we suffered. I truly hoped he would. Michael Parks is a psychopath. A mentally unstable sociopath who is tormented by his very own demons. He was raised by an unstable drug abusing mother and an evil monster of a father—the devil himself.

  Evidently, he would follow similar traits.

  He would be around thirty-five years of age now, and I shudder to think what he looks like these days, or what he is capable of. I remember him as a teenage boy, nine years older than I was, his sandy blond hair tied back in a rubber band, and his face long and thin. There was no mistaking his sleek, green, sleazy eyes. Opened fully, he looked like a serpent, conniving and hungry with possessiveness. Those eyes still haunt my dreams, my nightmares. I remember a scar across the front of his hand and running over his forearm; he’d sliced it on barbed wire as he squeezed through the fence between our land and the rugged bush while chasing me. I got brutally beaten for that.

  He was evil and tormented from an early age. When my mother first met him, he was only five years old, but he would strangle stray cats and spear frogs. This was going to be the start of a life of grueling antics for him; following in his father’s footsteps.

  His father Simon abused my mother, he abused me, and his mother, Scary Mary, abused us both.

  Michael smelled of moss—a stale, damp smell that I loathed. He would hover over me and grab my long dark hair from the back and yank it down. Sometimes he would whisper cruel things into my ear about what he was going to do to me, then bite my neck, drawing blood more than once. He would laugh and push me down to the ground, continually kicking me while I hugged myself into a ball and cradled my head in my arms.

  He’d never touch Cameron, but he’d manipulate and control him, often threatening him. He told Cameron that if he tried to stop him from harming me, he would shoot him with one of his father’s riffles, then drag his body into the bush and leave him for the dingo’s to gorge on.

  “I will let the dingoes eat ya alive, tearing at ya flesh with their razor sharp teeth. You’re nothing’ but a bloody useless bastard.” For Michael Parks, these were not just well rehearsed words. He meant everything he said.

  His mother knew he was abusive and evil, but she’d encouraged it. Mary would often be drunk, or high on drugs, when she wasn’t at her job at the local hospital. She appeared to have no grasp on reality, and it never ceased to amaze me that she held a position where she was responsible for other people. She watched Michael whip me with blazing hot leather straps the night I got the scars. He’d held them in the roaring flames of the bonfire, circling them in the hot ash at the bottom of the burned out wood, then used them to whip my bare back. He’d locked my mother and Cameron in the outhouse where they were sedated with the drugs Simon would use to put us to sleep. Mom eventually reached the point where she’d beg Simon for these drugs because she said it blocked out the pain.

  I watched as burning embers from the flames flickered and twined into the air in front of me while Michael held me against a huge tree, forcing me to wrap my arms around it as he tied them together. He pressed his large dirty hands at my neck while he slashed and slayed the burning leather across my bare back. All I could do was hug the tree and turn my head to the side, I’d screamed and screamed, trying to kick, but he was far too strong. I’d cried out to Mary to help me, but she’d just sat in a fold-up camping chair, drinking a bottle of beer from her icebox and smirking with amusement. She’d enjoying watching, her eyes hazy, half closed and out of focus.

  The pain had been severe, so intense that eventually with each blow I’d become dead, raw… I’d had no feeling left as my nerve endings twitched and pulsated responsively to the blows which thrashed again and again. Even without the use of drugs, he’d had a way of anaesthetising me, the burning sensation replaced by cool numbness. Michael had called me a fucking whore over and over again, and said I would pay and feel the pain because I should never have been born; that I was a fucking good for nothing bitch, and nobody wanted me here. I remember urinating while I stood wrapped around the tree. I’d sobbed with embarrassment, then vomited over my forearms, trying hard to miss them.

  I had been eight years old at the time.

  I’d looked into the remains of the fire and watched as the red and orange flames turned smoky-black as they danced and twirled into the dry night. My eyes had stung sharply from crying salty tears, and the smoke of the fire added to their tenderness. The moths, bugs, and mosquitos had flickered and buzzed around what was left of the dimming light above the ashes.

  The sun had set, and the Australian night air had crept in. I could smell dry bark close to my nostrils, mixed with the scent of moss, musk, urine and blood which made my head swirl. Dirty, bloody, sore and exhausted. I slumped down towards the bottom of the tree and tried to gasp for breath. My body had an odd sensation of both burning and numbness while my raw, raspy throat inhaled the intoxicated air.

  For many days after the attack, I was given drugs, entering in and out of consciousness. My mother had bathed my wounds with a filthy ripped cloth as she begged Simon for medical supplies. He’d eventually brought some ointment, eucalyptus oil, dressings and antibiotics which Mary had stolen from her shift in the hospital ward. In return for his generosity, he’d forced my mother to do inexplicable things that night in one of his repugnant, drug-fuelled role plays as he videotaped his dominance over her. It lasted for at least seven or eight hours until he’d made her crawl back from his house on the inhospitable remote land and into our decaying shed. She’d slept for almost two days after that ordeal.

  Looking up at Mr. Carlin with my eyes full of anguish, I stare blankly, but I don’t speak. He knows about the abuse and torture I endured, both physically and emotionally. His wife, Eleanor, had witnessed me breaking down one night in the back garden not long after we moved here and she comforted me when I needed it most.

&n
bsp; “You need to challenge these demons, Lexi, and face your fears. You’re too young to go through your life worrying like this. It’s time you moved on, Eleanor always said you were a worry, but you need to learn how to cope with these feelings and learn to trust. When you want to talk about it, I’m here for you. You need to take a leaf out of Hazel’s book. Now there’s a girl who is free spirited and open-minded.”

  As I put Mr. Carlin’s dinner out, I decide I’m not going to tell the girls about Michael Parks or my encounter with Lucca Caruso. I can’t be bothered with the sympathy chat or the romance inquisition before I go on holiday. I give Mr. Carlin a hug and tell him that I have placed Tupperware in his freezer with all of his favorite dinners; all he has to do is lift it out in the mornings to defrost and reheat.

  “Please take good care of Doris, and keep that heating down before you fry to death.”

  “Lexi dear, the heating won’t kill me. Your life is going to get to me first,” he mumbles and places his hand on his heart.

  I smirk at him dubiously as I make my way back next door.

  Chapter 5

  My Darlins’!

  Feeling slightly better after my hot shower, I prepare to be organized. I’m glad that I had my waxing and nails done yesterday as I’m pushed for time tonight and wouldn’t have managed to squeeze them in today. I moisturize my legs and arms with Brazil nut body butter and then apply moisturizer to my face and neck. I like to look after my skin. I think from all the exposure to the sun when I was a child has made me paranoid.

  Turning around and dropping my towel I look in the mirror and heave an exasperated sigh. My eye gaze trails down the long noticeable thinned out scars of pink soft tissue entwining and weaving across the skin of my back, from just around bra strap level until the top of my backside. It repulses me, makes me furious with rage and flares my insecurities. I apply a leave-in conditioning treatment to my hair and run my fingers down my long strands to the roots, ensuring it’s evenly spread. I put on my grey yoga pants and a black camisole top, then make my way into the living room.

  Hazel is sitting in her animal print sleep shorts and cream stretch vest with her laptop on her knees, her long blonde straight hair sitting just over her shoulders. She has a pale complexion with rose tinted cheeks and lips and beautiful flawless, porcelain ivory skin with bright blue eyes. As usual she looks good even in slump wear. She is watching the latest Body Step Choreography DVD and engrossed. Doris is sprawled out in front of the fireplace.

  “You’re as bad as Mr. Carlin! He’s gotten you used to the heat, young lady.” Doris jumps up, wags her tail and bounces up to me, but when she starts barking, I know the doorbell is about to ring, so I dump the clothes in a pile on the floor and walk to the front door. Jessica comes in with a suit bag draped over her arms. She gives me a kiss on the cheek and scowls over at Hazel.

  Jessica looks beautiful, as always. She’s wearing an emerald green blouse that I love on her and black skinny jeans with black suede pumps. Her autumn, rustic-colored, wavy hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she has minimal makeup on, boasting the most amazing green eyes you have ever seen, and her gran’s little pearl studded earrings. She always looks smart, but with minimal effort. She is truly lucky.

  “How are you, my darlin?” she asks with a singsong tone. We all started greeting each other this way in university, and it stuck.

  “Good, but would be better if I had this case packed up,” I tell her.

  “Well, don’t fret, lovely Lexi. I will help you.”

  “Thank you, Jess. You’re a star! Set your stuff down and I’ll get us a wine. Marlborough?”

  “Please, honey. That will be wise.”

  I pour a large red for myself, and a white for Hazel and Jessica. Hazel accepts, but doesn’t look up from her laptop, and I shake my head in disapproval.

  “How was work, Jess?”

  “Oh good, honey. Just an easy day today, what about you?” I love this about Jess. Even if she has had a rotten day, she would still say it was good, she is always the optimist.

  Doris starts barking again. Jess leans over and pats her on the head, rubbing her ears to calm her down. Hazel still doesn’t flinch. I walk over to the bay window and place one hand on the chunky, teak-stained, wooden window ledge. With my free hand, I wave at Samantha to come in.

  I can hear her high heels click clack on the terrazzo tiled hallway floor, then watch as she holds onto the door at the living room entrance, and leans against the wall to kick her heels off. She looks picture perfect with a beautiful figure, her shoulder length, multi-tonal blonde, layered hair is parted and tucked neatly behind her ears. Admiring her dress, I smile thinking she definitely has many amazing clothes.

  She does have too many amazing outfits for one person.

  “Get that fuckin beast away from me. I swear to God, Lexi, if that thing jumps up and gets my new cream pencil dress mucky, you will be buying me a new one.”

  Oh my, she is abrupt and cranky tonight. I giggle, and she scoffs at me while Doris does her happy rain dance. It is freaking Sam out.

  “Okay, Okay. Let me put her in the dining room. Sam, why don’t you go up and change into a pair of my pyjamas, then you can relax. By the way, you do look amazing, I love your dress but why are you wearing something so elegant to work?”

  “I will borrow some jammies, thanks. I don’t want that beast near my cream frock and I had an important meeting today with management after an office lunch, so I had to look decent,” Sam replies.

  I drag Doris by the collar as she bounds towards her; this could end in tears. After dragging and putting Doris in the dining room, I give her one of the raw hide treats I bought for her today. She looks up at me with her human-like, sad eyes. She is not going to like being cut off from us and banished to her bed. Sam doesn’t like animals, but I wish she would try to like her more.

  “Darlins, how are we all?” Sam addresses Jess and Hazel.

  “Good, my little ray of sunshine. Now, what happened at work today? Come and sit down. Tell us about it.”

  Jessica is just so patient and wholesome, I love this about her.

  “Get my wine, Lex. I’m going to put something comfier on, and then I’ll tell you all my complaints.”

  Sam goes upstairs as I pour her a large pinot noir in the kitchen and watch Jess start to fold my tank tops and shorts at the table.

  I take the wine through with bowls of olives, tomatoes, mozzarella and basil with some pesto on crostini, and some antipasto meats spread out on a large platter. Making my way back and forth from the kitchen, I put some rosemary focaccia bread in the oven, and leave a balsamic and olive oil dip in a bowl; I set them on my walnut wooden chest in the living room, then return with the bowls, napkins, side plates, and cutlery.

  “Hello, my little darlin. Are we all set for Tuscany?” Lucy is beaming at me, obviously enthused with what I’m leaving on the table. “I’m starving! I didn’t have time for dinner. This looks lovely, Lexi.”

  “Fill your boots, ladies.” I wave my hand in front of the platters hen give Lucy a kiss and cuddle. Sam is curled up on the couch with my black pj bottoms on and my grey long sleeve sleep top. She looks relaxed...finally.

  “Lucy, my darlin, your hair is the business. I love it,” I tell her.

  Lucy got her nickname because she has the most amazing, jet-black, shiny, bobbed hair with matching defined eyebrows and lashes. Tonight she has a black tank style top on with black slim fit pants, a black blazer, a red neck scarf, and the most big red rouge lips you have ever seen. She reminds me of an old classic movie star, like Audrey Hepburn.

  “Thank you, Lexi. You know I’m not content unless it’s at full shine.”

  “You do have the most amazing hair, little Lucy ladybug. It’s always shiny.”

  Everyone giggles, even Hazel.

  “Oh, so you are alive and joining us,” I say sarcastically.

  “I’m multitasking. I can listen and watch. It’s a skill, Lexi,” she retorts b
ack. “You know, Lucy, you look like an air hostess parading about like that.”

  Hilarity bursts through the lounge, and Doris starts barking again in conjunction, hating that she is missing out.

  Poor girl.

  “This is ridiculous, get a bloody grip.” I slam the laptop shut on Hazel’s lap. She stifles a groan, then emits a huge sigh and finally agrees to socialize. “So have you packed your case?”

  “Yes, of course I have. It’s as packed as it’s going to get.”

  I’m dreading the discussion that comes when she realizes nothing matches, and she has nothing dressy to wear to go out. I roll my eyes at her and purse my lips.

  “Lexi, do you want my cobalt blue dress? And I have my favorite emerald green one shoulder dress here too. Oh, and the little coral sun dress.”

  “Yes, Yes and yes. Thank you, honey. Can you pack my tan belt and high heels? They will go with the blue. And my black and gold nude lace peep toes and clutch to go with the green dress.” I‘m glad Jess is the same size as me because we can swap clothes frequently.

  “Why the fuck do you want to take all the glam ones? It’s a villa house thingy in the middle of nowhere that will be filled with geriatric pensioners playing chess and the sorts. I’m telling you, Lexi, you won’t need really fancy things.”

  Hazel has spoken…

  “I want to take nice things in case we go to Pisa or Florence.”

  “Whatever, but don’t blame me when you get charged with excess baggage.” Hazel rolls her eyes and takes a chug of her wine.

  I fetch the fresh bread from the oven, leaving the girls to chat amongst themselves while Jessica sorts through my belongings.

  This is what I am looking forward to the most about our two weeks on holiday: good food and wine, learning the art of proper Italian cooking, and making great dough for breads, pizza and pasta, all from scratch. It’s something I have always wanted to do, and I think it will be relaxing and therapeutic, especially as I enjoy cooking. I lift the bread out of the oven, juggling it between both hands. It’s hot and smells divine. I place it on another pretty platter, and fetch Doris to let her out the back and give her a small piece of bread to eat. I really shouldn’t, but she loves it.