Trapdoor

by Vixen Phillips

  I pound on the door. Panic rises in my chest, constricts around my lungs. I fall against the stained glass panel, breathing in quick, shallow gasps, like I never stopped pretending I could keep it all at bay. Why the fuck did I come back here? Please, let me in.

  One last time, I stab the buzzer. The door springs ajar, so that I fall through into the hallway. First I gather up the alcohol, then look at Pegasus, who stands above me with a bemused grin on his face, wearing only a red towel dressing gown covered in pictures of kittens and Kanji characters. “Sorry,” he says, “I was in the bath. Asleep in the bath, actually.”

  I look to the floor. Little droplets are forming on the carpet. But it isn’t raining out there.

  Only here, in my mind. The storm’s broken. Now it’s washing me away, and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing. He may hate her just as well, but she’s always going to win cos she’s his mama, and—and—

  You won’t be seeing him again until you’re in hell.

  —but I already am, goddammit.

  It’s only when Peg puts his arms around me that I realise how badly I’ve broken. He covers my forehead and neck with kisses, whispering some sort of sing-song melody till I go quiet and lie against him, listening to his heartbeat and the words. They’re French.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers at last.

  “No.” I’m not going to lie to him, I’m through lying to him. “What was your song?”

  He flutters his lashes. “Oh, that. I don’t remember what it’s called. My mother used to sing it to me when I was small. Pretty catchy, huh?”

  I let out a heartbroken sigh, and pull him up with me. Nose to nose, we stand together, holding each other’s hands. I can’t bear it anymore. I’m glad he put off what might’ve happened last night. Whenever I look at him, I’m so afraid to lose him too, I can’t bear to think about what might happen if we actually—

  “Yeah.” I force out a smile and let him go to gather up the supplies. “If you know how to do it right.” My smile is a touch more genuine, as I lead him into the kitchen.

  · § ·

  A few hours later, Monty and Noriko arrive home with food. We sit in silence, eating our Japanese take-outs—it’s permanent take-outs here, I’m told; at least till the long-running dispute between the two of them as to whose turn it was to actually do the cooking and the washing-up’s been resolved.

  “How long has this been going on?” Pegasus feels obliged to ask.

  There’s a pregnant pause, before Monty looks up from his chopsticks and says calmly, “Two months, four days, six hours.”

  “Oh.” Pegasus and I exchange a knowing look. Probably as good a time as any to go for the scotch. I bring the bottles and some glasses back to the table, juggling the can of Midori and lemonade under an elbow. Drinking may not solve anything—I know that from harsh experience—but at least it lets you fool yourself into thinking that it does.

  After a few glasses of scotch, everyone’s feeling more chatty, except for Monty, who’d rather brood over his impending case. Noriko tells us we’re both welcome to stay the night, once they’ve drunk too much to drive Peg home, and this leads to a brief argument about who gets the sofa. He wins—guess he’s got more experience being the humble guest than I do. Although, after spending the afternoon asleep in each other’s arms, I don’t feel too guilty.

  We’re in the kitchen together, he and I, having washed up and moved on to a tea-towel fight, when the doorbell rings. He drifts out towards the hall as I start to stack the glasses, pretending I don’t care who it is.

  “Ted!” we hear Monty exclaim, sounding pleasantly surprised. See? Just a friend, paying a visit. Nothing for you to concern yourself with. Then, “How’s life at the old Barton and sons?”

  Barton and sons. A law firm. How do I know that? Where do I know that name?

  A law firm…the same one used by Wendy’s parents.

  The realisation hits just as Monty appears beside Pegasus in the doorway, not quite making eye contact. “Hey. Someone’s here for you.”

  No doubt my chances of scoring a cameo in a George Romero flick would be pretty high as I trudge towards the front door. On my way past, Pegasus’s hand brushes mine, but I shake off his touch.

  A man with the jowls of a St. Bernard waits outside, dressed in a suit despite the late hour and the fact it’s a Sunday. He’s got a few years on Monty, and his thin lips and serial-killer cold eyes remind me of Peg’s old man. “Raven de Winter?” he asks redundantly, plucking a stray rose petal off his jacket with distaste.

  “Yes,” I answer anyway, switching to auto-pilot. A strange sense of déjà vu, of being completely powerless, washes over me. Just like in high school, with the teachers, who thought they had me figured out based on the cut of my fringe and what bands I listened to.

  He starts fishing through his briefcase, making it all look very official. “A few matters, so I’ll try to keep it short. First—” he thrusts a document into my face ”—your presence is required at the family court next Tuesday at eleven a.m. sharp. Second—” he hands me another page ”—I have here a temporary restraining order, which decrees that you are not allowed to visit, make contact with any resident of, or come within five-hundred metres of the occupants or their residency at 112 Portugal Terrace, specifically those persons being Ms. Wendy Delaware or Damien de Winter. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” No. No, I don’t fucking understand. How can you march round here and toss me this fucking worthless piece of paper that tells me I’m not allowed to see my son?

  “Good.” He beams, somewhere between butcher and politician. “Then I’ll see you at eleven a.m. next Tuesday. Better bring a good lawyer, though I don’t recommend Monty personally, you understand.”

  I’ve got no idea how long Peg’s been standing behind me, but now I hear his voice, speaking the words that I can’t say. “Just get the fuck out of our house.” With that, he slams the door in the lawyer’s face.

  For a moment nothing, nothing at all. Then I let the papers fall from my hands. I figured I’d be angry, but I just feel—

  What? I wish I could be angry, build myself up to a whirlwind of fire and ashes. Anything would be better than this slow black hole void. Pegasus grasps my shoulders, eyes wide, pleading with me to lose myself in them, in him, in his soul. Why would you offer me that, when you know it’s not what you want yourself?

  I can’t feel, not anything. Not with those words buzzing around my brain, amplifying and multiplying upon themselves, till a million clones crowd my head, all babbling about family courts and times and addresses and restraining orders and cackling maniacally as they tell me what this really means, of course, is that I’ll never be able to see my precious little angel ever again. Through the haze, Peg’s lips are moving, but echoes of the evil laughter take the place of whatever he’s trying to say.

  I search the corners of my mind, desperate for some kind of sanctuary. Instead I stumble into an even darker recess—a red flash, and I’m wrenched back to a memory of the night we ‘created’ Damien, to when I could fool myself, although in truth Wendy was the one doing the fooling this time around. Forced to watch myself from the outside, being with her in that way I always despised, I see her transform as she starts to climax, putrefaction unfolding in fast-forward. Maggots bloom from her every pore, and drift out of her cunt instead of cum. Before I can blink, they’re swarming across my dick, crawling up my torso, coming to eat their way through my ears and up my nostrils, into my brain—

  Jesus. I’ve got no idea if I’m still breathing, or whether the scream that’s reverberating through my mind managed to make it out of my mouth…whether I’m there or here.

  But now I’m someplace different again. I recognise this place, where even the roses are white. I’m at the hospital. And, I know what day it is. September the sixth. Damien’s birthday. Damien’s very first birthday.

  I find myself in the maternity ward, not entirely sure what new tricks my brain’s got planned for m
e this time. On the surface, at least, everything about the memory plays out as normal. The nurse, a curvaceous black girl sporting a perfect smile, ushers me through into a private room. Only the best for Wendy and their grandchild. I step inside, but it’s empty.

  No, these are just first impressions, shallow of truth. I can’t see the bed cos it’s hidden by some kind of curtain that blends into the walls like smoke. I approach it as that last little voice of sanity begs me to stop—just turn, and run.

  There is nowhere left to run. Another voice in my mind, a powerful voice. It overrides my terror, drawing me down into cosy paralysis. All I can do is watch, as my hand lifts up the curtain before me—

  —and there on the bed sits my son, same as he looked the day he was born. It’s been nearly four years, so I’ve almost forgotten such pure torment. It runs through my veins, pinpricks of sweetest agony, as I finally come to realise, in that tiny little blanket, that little creature, that little version of me—only so much more perfect—is the one thing that’s going to save my life. That will give me a reason to keep living, after all others have become null and void. God’s mocking me, all right.

  In the dream, I turn to his mama, and find myself reaching out to stroke the long ice-blonde hair. No, wait—that’s wrong. Wendy cut her hair once she started to get fat, and it was never that shade of blonde. The face that looks up at me glows with a pale angelic smile, and I recognise its voice as the one that drove off all my fears. “Raven,” it says.

  Pegasus…

  The carpet reels beneath me. “Raven!” Now he’s calling out my name.

  Are we in the real world yet? I dash down the hall, and wrestle with the handle of the toilet door. Which layer of hell is this?

  As it gives way, I fall in front of the bowl like it’s an altar, so violently sick that it blocks out all other pain.

  Therefore I never want it to stop.

  Chapter 8

  Pegasus: Blood Makes Noise...

  I wish they would just stop.

  I wish it would all just stop.

  I lie on the sofa, staring at my reflection in the mirror of the blank TV. No light, no sound, no point.

  They wouldn’t allow me to see Raven, after he was sick. But I heard them talking, in the kitchen, once they thought I wasn’t around to hear.

  “Are you taking the case?” Noriko asked.

  “I don’t know, Nori,” Monty replied, standing over the sink with his head down, arms folded beneath him. “It’s hardly my area of speciality. Besides, even if I am free on Tuesday—”

  “What? He needs you. You’re family.”

  “Yeah? And what if I lose, huh? Could you imagine? He’d never forgive me. I couldn’t deal with that. Fuck, I never asked for this kind of responsibility!” He seemed close to breaking, but I couldn’t feel any pity for him. He was the one who’d told me not to see Raven. That it wasn’t a good idea. He was the one who invited that son of a bitch in at the door, to tell Raven, to tell him—

  “Yeah, it’s not like you lawyers have a thing for dealing with responsibility, huh?” she said then, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Monty rubbed at his hair, then straightened up. “There’s a colleague of mine—you met Judy. She’s had more experience with these sort of things. I’ll put her onto it.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to win, do you?”

  They exchanged a glance, Monty open-mouthed but silent. Go on, say it, you bastard. Tell the truth.

  “No,” he said. And then they both turned to see me standing there, like two parents caught out playing Santa at Christmas. I ran off. Neither of them followed.

  So here I sit, in the silence of my doom, broken only by her screams and his grunts and their moans coming from down the hall. They’re fucking, like nothing happened. You don’t care. Neither of you care. And you call yourself his family? You make me sick. I’m the only one who cares.

  I’m the only one who cares, and yet here I am, just sitting here, staring off into space. To hell with this. I’m more than these fears.

  I fight my way out of the doona and my numbness and follow the carpet down the hallway. With every step, the screaming and moaning and grunting and panting grows louder. I have no idea which room is Raven’s. But at least I know which one to avoid.

  The first door on the left, past the toilet where he was sick, is the first door I try. I knock gently to announce my entrance. Then I cautiously turn the handle. The door swings open, and I step inside.

  My eyes don’t even need to adjust to the light; white candles crowd the small space, burning constantly into the night, burning like they’ve always been here, as though, if their flames were ever to die, another more precious thing might die with them. Definitely not Raven’s room.

  I glance about the walls, feeling like an assassin who crept into a house, only to find the occupants already dead, massacred in their sleep. A cot sits in one corner, its edges draped with tiny crocheted clothes. A mobile hangs over it, plush figures singing a music-box lullaby, a sad and lonely sound. As I sneak towards the dressing table, I spy a framed photo of Monty and Noriko, her belly round and big. And a letter, written in Japanese. I don’t need to understand any of the words to figure out what’s gone on here. Noriko’s baby. So, she could get pregnant once. They lost a child, too.

  They should know better, then. I leave the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

  Past the laundry, beyond the bathroom, one last room, unaccounted for. Once again, I start to knock, when from inside I hear something. A soft hum.

  “Raven, are you awake?” I ask the stupid question. “Can I come in?”

  There’s a long pause. Just when I’m about to either turn away and return to my gloom, or open the door and walk right on in anyway, there comes a “Sure…”, so faint I wonder if I imagined it.

  I step into the room. This time the harsh light stings my eyes. I squint at the bedside table, noticing the razor blade, covered with blood—and, too, the sheets—

  And Raven.

  “I—I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him. He’s lying on the bed, semi-naked, hands folded behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling. Every now and then he breaks in and out of that random humming again, each time finding a different tune. I want to hold him, I want to touch him, I want to—

  But my feet seem to have grown roots down through the carpet. So instead I watch the red teardrops trail down his chest.

  “Yeah, I knew there was a reason I left this place first chance I got.” He chuckles without warmth as Monty and Noriko both give out a long final grunt-and-scream-and-sigh-and-moan, and everything returns to silence.

  I take a seat beside him on the edge of the mattress, unable and unwilling to take my eyes off the blood. “Are they always this bad?”

  “Usually. For about three weeks of the month.” He grimaces. “And then, they’re worse.”

  The implications of this timing make me cringe. “Eww.”

  He laughs. “I take it you’re not into blood?”

  “Not like that,” I start to say, then look into his face. He’s staring straight at me. I swallow; my mouth’s begun to water. Ashamed of my shame, I feign a sudden interest in the Munch reprint hanging off the closet, and start to babble as fast as my mouth can save me. “Are you okay? They told me to let you—I wanted to see you—I didn’t know what to do, I still don’t, but I just wanted to make you—make everything—” At last my brain catches up with my tongue. I put a hand to my face. I must sound like an idiot. A stupid child. What am I trying to say?

  “You cut yourself,” I whisper at last, and my gaze wanders back to the slashes under his nipples. Around these new wounds, older scars poke through, and scabs the same as the one I touched, that night we first touched—

  “Yeah, well.” He tries to shrug it off. “I’ll clean up the mess in the morning. I couldn’t sleep either, okay.” He glares at the ceiling again, then mutters, “I don’t want to dream.”

  Anything I say t
onight will come out wrong. I didn’t come here to fight with you, Raven. I just want you to understand—

  “Tell me why you do it,” I say, my fringe trailing in the blood as I lean closer to his body. “Tell me what it makes you feel. I’m…curious.”

  Tell me you want me to do this to you.

  No! The part of me that’s always afraid cowers in a corner of my mind, as I lower my head completely and place my lips over his nipple. Gently, slowly, I begin to lick and suck at the broken skin. Soon, the sweetness of his blood washes over my tongue, down my throat.

  This time, the response is immediate. With a shudder, he grabs at my hair and tries to pry me off, but this is before he realises he’s enjoying it too much. His fingers grow limp, and he starts to breathe in short, ragged gasps—nothing as melodramatic as the fuss Noriko and Monty kicked up earlier.

  I move down to his tummy, following my tongue, to discover another fresh cut, this one much deeper. He lets out a moan, and my mind trembles as lust flares beneath my skin. Why now? Why am I okay with this now? Because he has nothing left? Or because I’m so in control here, or at least feel that I am?

  As if to confirm my thoughts, he whispers, “I’m not in control…of myself. Or anything. Don’t want to be— Please—” He gasps again as I nibble at his belly, leaving ghosts of my teeth in the blood to mark out where I’ve been. “I need this to remember—oh, God—”

  I strip off my own t-shirt and lie against him, press against him, naked against all the blood, feeling our hearts beat in sync. “I want to do it,” I beg hoarsely.

  After a moment, he nods and hands me the blade from the bedside table.

  I trace my way down the centre of his torso with a fingertip, as though mapping out the imaginary cut, and pausing at the waistband of his track pants. I wonder… “Do you ever—?” I ask, trailing off as we look to where my hand rests, upon his crotch.

  “I’m not that brave,” he says, and we laugh, but it’s a laugh without innocence, without happiness, without sanity or judgement. I draw the razor’s edge carefully along the side of his throat. His eyes roll back, turning inwards to look upon pure ecstasy.