Trapdoor

by Vixen Phillips

  “Ahh, what would you like me to do?” So I’m giving him control, the one thing he said he didn’t want. But then, he thinks that this is what I want, too.

  “Get undressed,” he says. “I want to watch you.”

  Okay, no problem. Ignoring the way my hands are shaking, which makes his request more difficult again, I pull off my shoes, followed by the jeans, the socks, and last of all my underwear. Now I stand naked and shivering in front of him.

  He looks me over, gives me a smile of approval, then beckons to me. “Come here.”

  Nervously I approach, until we stand so close we’re touching. He pulls me forward, and I fall against him, burying my head in his shoulder. In a flash, he jerks me up by my plait. I squeal in protest, but do my pleading in silence. I can feel how hard he is. Funny how fear proves such a powerful aphrodisiac.

  He scoops me up in his arms, and carries me over to the bed, where he lays me down upon the mattress. With one hand, he unties my hair, and combs it out with his fingers. Then he reaches out, cautiously stroking my cheek, barely making contact with my skin. He’s shivering too, as he gazes down at my body. But always he returns to the eyes, his expression so intense it burns into my soul.

  He sits near me on the mattress, turning aside to remove his own clothes, all except a pair of black silk boxers. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him naked—almost naked. From the outermost edges of my mind, I dare to admire him. You did say those words to me. No one’s ever said them before. Will you still say them, afterwards?

  No, oh no.

  I try to fool us both with an attempted grin. “So, what now?”

  “Now I’ve gotta ask you something.” He sounds serious enough that I can guess where he’s going. AIDS? Hepatitis? Any other nasty little germs floating around down there?

  “I’m…clean,” I struggle to say, closing my eyes. “I never—they always—I’ve been tested, okay?” I spit it out eventually. “No AIDS, no nothing. But if you don’t believe me, that’s your choice. Go invest in a condom.”

  When I open my eyes, his bruised hands cover his face. Then he lets go, and sighs. “That’s…not what I was going to ask you.”

  I frown, unable to make sense of his expression. He leans over me, and rests his cheek against mine. I can’t bear even this brief silence anymore. “What? What did you want to ask me?”

  He smiles sadly. I look at his soft lips, so close to mine. Why won’t you just kiss me already? Call me a fool, but what’s so wrong with a little romance?

  “Why are you doing this?” he says.

  I almost swallow my own tongue. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  He’s seen through your disguise. I must really be losing my touch. I sit up; my mind, driven by instinct, plots a path to the door. But it seems so far away, and I’m so tired of running, anyhow. “I only wanted you to be happy.” No. That’s not it. “I wanted to make you happy.”

  “And you think letting me rape you would make me happy?” He seems so angry when he uses that word, that word that I hate. What would you know about it?

  “It wouldn’t be like that. You said we’d be—” I can’t bring myself to say it. Making love. It seems I have a problem when it comes to even expressing the concept.

  “Yeah, and it wouldn’t be making love if you didn’t want to do it,” he counters. “That’s the definition of rape, remember?” With another sigh, he rises off the mattress and starts pacing beside the bed. “What did I say I wanted, just before?”

  I frown, trying to recall the context of the conversation. “That you wanted me,” I come up with, my voice very small, like a child who knows they’re in trouble but not why.

  “That I wanted you to want me!” He storms back to the bed. “Do you see the difference? Do you?”

  “I don’t see any difference.” I gaze blankly at the wall. There’s no need to see his reaction to that.

  “Guess I really freaked you out tonight, huh?” he says, reaching for my hand. When I don’t take his in mine, he grabs it anyway, squeezing it, holding on tight. “I know…I never did anything—” Now he’s the one having difficulty with his words, but unlike me he trusts their importance and pushes on. “But I’d never hurt you. Please believe me. I’m not—” He breaks off with a laugh. “I think I may be going insane.”

  I don’t understand. What do you want, then? Have I failed? “Do you want me to leave?” I venture cautiously.

  “You’re all I’ve got left,” he whispers. Somehow he’s in my lap, and I’m rocking him slowly to and fro, moving so my hair drapes across his skin, his scars, like a curtain. Feeling him break beneath me for the second time today, as I sit here in the shadows, thinking of ways to kill my sister.

  “Not for much longer.” I’ll try to reassure him, even as my mind overflows with murder. It’s all too easy to daydream about doing to Wendy what Raven did to those arseholes tonight. Only in my fantasy, there’s no one to tell me to stop. Always Father’s favourite, sweet little Wendy. That’s why Father’s lawyer comes knocking on our door. Bastard.

  Too easy…

  Breaking out of my violent trance, I notice he’s staring at me again. “I’m going to roll a number,” he announces, indicating the foil on the bedside table. “Do you want some?”

  I shrug, not really thinking about the question. “Sure.” Why not. He kisses me lightly on the lips, then unwraps the foil. While he works, the silence rings in my ears, and I train myself to relax, tracing imaginary patterns over his scars. Memories lurch past the boy at the club, to the conversation between Monty and Noriko in the kitchen. Now it’s their doubts and fears that traipse the corridors of my brain.

  “Raven?”

  “Mmm?” he says, his tongue in the process of sealing the paper.

  “We’re not going to lose him, are we?”

  Another question I regret, but it’s already too late to take it back. A match flares, and he lights the joint and sucks the smoke into his lungs. He exhales a thick cloud before answering, “You just keep an eye on me. I’ll worry about the rest of it.”

  I almost believe him. I’m nearly fooled. Just like he was nearly fooled, when he thought I wanted—

  We know each other too well. It might be the one thing that saves us.

  The next lot of smoke is reserved for me. Cautiously, I accept the shotgun toke. This time, I don’t even cough.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re melting in the warm haze of embrace. Outside our door, over the birdsong, Monty and Noriko dash here and there, swearing and stressing for being late.

  Chapter 9

  Raven: The Sixth Degree of Separation

  I’m lying on my back beneath the old, familiar ceiling of white and shadow, and I’m alone. Which should come as no surprise. The more I recall, about last night, the more I feel my tentative hold on sanity slip. The knuckles on both my hands are burning.

  I sit up in bed, and my mind blurs in and out of focus. Of course I’m alone. What reason do I give him, to stay?

  I dig my toes into the carpet as I get to my feet. An icy wind slices through the curtains and rakes its fingernails over my naked body. Down the hall, a tap drips. A clock on the wall tick-tick-ticks. I thought I heard an alarm go off earlier, but I’d simply rolled over and drifted back to sleep, incapable of facing any reality so soon. This reality.

  For the house is entirely empty. Nobody here at all. Least of all myself.

  I rub at my forehead and go on glancing around the room. The breeze at the open window gets into my chest, closing around my heart, and I let it. Everything gets easier, when I don’t need to feel. What’s the point in getting up?

  But there’s no sanctuary for me in this bed, not with a single strand of purple hair coiled across the pillow and my blood gone cold on the sheets. Did I hurt you, Peg? Is this what form my love for you takes? I don’t understand anything, except I want you till all the stars burn out, but I don’t even know what you feel.

>   Well, you do now. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.

  My knees start to tremble, so I sink to the mattress. For the first time, I’ve got absolutely no idea what comes next. There’s always been somewhere else for me to run to—someone else—and now—

  Tick. Tock (drip) Tick. Tock (drip.) Tick. Tock (drip).

  A metronome to keep time with my madness, missing only the razor’s beat. I seek for its cruel salvation on the bedside table, but the blade’s gone, replaced by a sliver of white. A letter. For me.

  Holding my breath, I reach out a tentative hand, then snatch it to my chest, fearing the paper might vanish the minute it realises I’ve become aware of its existence. I breathe in a sob and exhale his name, as I hold it up to what little light filters through the curtains. Might as well get it over with.

  Yeah, that’s his handwriting—delicate, like calligraphy. Even where some of the words are scratched out, this is a far too exquisite means to convey the final description of my doom.

  My Raven,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you happy last night. Sorry I got you into all this…trouble. I wish you could forgive me, that I might forgive myself…and I thought…

  If you still want…me…I’ll be at work until seven. You could meet me there, perhaps? If you don’t come, I’ll understand.

  But I’ll wait for you. Forever and always.

  The letter’s signed with a single x. A kiss. A smile skitters across my lips, but I wipe it off before relief gets the chance to swell to hysterics. We’re a pair of fools, me and you both.

  I stare at the clock, registering what it says for the first time. Four-thirty, in the afternoon. A perfectly civil hour to be waking up. And that leaves me nearly three hours.

  I glance once at the bloody sheets, then make my way into the bathroom. While the water from the shower quenches my scars and pounds my bruises, an image drifts into my mind, stealing my breath. Veiled in tears, he’s lapping at my chest, my blood staining his tongue and lips. The razor blade flashes as he slides it down the arc of my throat, his touch so warm, the pain so exquisite. And he opens his mouth and says, We’re not going to lose him, are we?

  I turn off the water and hold myself close. Too many things to remember. Just once, I’d like to forget.

  · § ·

  I get off the tram along Chapel Street. One hand grips the letter; the other’s at my neck, reaching for the cross—his first gift to me. Back then, I mocked him for his faith. Now it’s the last light in a vast, dark sea. What else could keep you next to me, Peggy? What else could make me want you to bind my soul with thorns, though I know all too well what power you hold, to destroy me, to take from me everything I define as my self, my life, my reason?

  Only a few blocks to go, and I can already sense his presence, calming me, soothing me—just like that night I reached out to brush the ice-blond hair aside, and he held out my new-born son—

  No. That was only nightmare, vision, dream. Another thing I don’t understand, another thing that scares the hell out of me. Should I tell him about it, ask him what it means?

  As if he’s not scared enough of you already. I hardly need to go around advertising the true nature of my insanity.

  I’m waiting for a car at the last intersection, when three figures turn the corner and head my way: man, woman, child. I take my foot off the road and step back, watching them get closer and closer, till the shop lights reveal their faces. An older man in a suit; yuppie, by the looks of it. Wendy. Damien…

  She sees me first, and freezes mid-stride. With a flick of her hair, her features twist themselves into a mask of hate. Then Damien screams out, “Daddy!”, and the suit herds them into the nearest restaurant.

  I draw in a deep breath, fingers twitching. So, Wendy. Now it’s your turn to play happy families? And you think he wants that from you? Do you think he cares about Damien, thinks he’s cute, wants to marry you and make a ‘decent woman’ of you? Are you thinking at all? Really, you almost had me fooled. I always thought I was the bigger idiot in our unfortunate relationship.

  Whatever. In the end, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to cross the road—just act like nothing happened, show them nothing; you’re a boy, a man, you can at least do that, can’t you?

  Bang! A door slams, and footsteps pound the pavement straight for me. Next thing I know, I’ve dropped to my knees, and Damien’s hugging me tight. His tears tickle my neck as I press my face into his hair. I never want to let go.

  “Daddy,” he sobs again, staring into my face. He looks so sad and so grown up. So much like me. “Mama says you don’t want me. Mama says I’m bad so you don’t love me anymore.”

  Don’t know what I’m saying; anything that drifts into my mind will do. How much I do love him. How much his Peggy-sis loves him. How I’m going to take them both away from all of this real soon, somewhere— Somewhere we can be safe. And happy.

  Somewhere she can’t blame him for my mistakes.

  “Come on now, don’t let’s be stupid.” A lazy male voice—Wendy’s companion. Jonathan? I glance up, shifting around to shield my son. But there’s no sign of the queen bitch herself. Only her joker. “You know the situation. You wouldn’t want to get in any trouble, would you? Not with the court case coming up. Remember?”

  How much did she tell this ponce? But Damien’s grip tightens around my neck. He’s whimpering in my ear, and trembling. Why is he so fucking scared—of you?

  I sneer at the piece of shit in a suit till he backs off, fishing in his pockets for…a gun, mace, a hand grenade?

  A mobile phone. Of course. The ultimate in high-class wanker defence systems. “Put the kid down, or I call the cops, okay?”

  I raise a brow. Oh yeah? You think you can hold me to ransom? You think I give a shit? Go ahead, call the fucking cops. The more the merrier. Tell ‘em after I ram your head up your arse, I’ll shout them all a round of fucking donuts.

  But a little hand brushes against mine, a reminder to keep my mouth shut. It’s true: he can hold me to ransom. I’m just a puppet, with too many cut strings.

  Damien starts to wail as I put him down reluctantly. Prying off his fingers one by one feels as bad as if I’m breaking them. I sicken myself. You sicken me, Wendy. “Daddy! Don’t you want me, Daddy?” he screams in my face, hugging himself till his whole body stiffens. I shove my hands deep in my pockets, otherwise—fuck it all to hell and back—I’m going to kill this bastard lapdog of hers. Then storm into that restaurant and make an entree out of her innards. Instead, I hate myself for looking away as the sleazebag snatches my son out of reach.

  “You think you’ve got a chance?” I spit. “He’s my son. He’ll always be my son.”

  The suit just laughs, lugging my little angel under one arm as though he’s a slab of beer, not a precious life. Not my entire fucking universe. “Hell, I don’t give a shit about the rugrat. I only want to screw her.”

  With that, he tosses his scarf and retreats to where that bitch is holed up. Damien keeps his eyes fixed on me, till the door slams closed. I spin round and kick a garbage can out onto the street. Its guts spew across the road, straight at an oncoming car. The driver swerves out of the way, blaring his horn in a stream of protest. I pick up the stray lid and hurl it after him, stumbling into the gutter on my follow-through. All my energy drained, I put my head in my hands, laughing or crying I don’t know which, except that no tears ever come.

  · § ·

  It’s five minutes to seven when I push open the door of Lenny’s Instruments, ignoring the ‘get a life, we’re f***ing closed!!!’ sign hanging in the window. As I step inside, I gape at the rows of guitars, but only out of habit. Soulless copies, most of them.

  “Heya blackbird!” Lenny calls from the rear end of the shop, holding up a half-rolled joint. “You musta been able to smell me! Lock that door, will ya? Don’t want no more strays like you blowing in.”

  I manage a nod, flick the latch, then wander
towards him. He slaps me hard on the shoulder, then goes on sealing and lighting the joint. I make myself at home by shrugging my coat onto the floor and fixing a cup of coffee. “So,” he says, past a cloud of smoke. “How’s tricks?”

  I stir two sugars into the tepid black liquid, forcing myself to concentrate on each little action. I’m not the only one. Blue eyes watch my every move from beneath scraggly burgundy tufts—despite the fact he seems to breathe marijuana, Lenny always looks so alert. No doubt pot’s got the same effect on him as alcohol does on me. “Oh,” I say, playing it down, “to quote Saint Nick, you could say I’ve been contemplating suicide.”

  “Well, so long as you remember how it actually goes.” He sings the rest of the line in a low, soulful voice. Then, with a smile that could be knowing or pitying, he passes over the joint. “It doesn’t suit your style, blackbird.”

  I shrug and suck back a deep toke, feeling the smoke burn down my lungs. Straight away, a not unpleasant haze drifts across my mind. Damn, he always knows how to get hold of the good stuff.

  “Speaking of style,” he adds, turning away as I try to pass on the joint, leaving me to take another drag instead, “check out what came in today.” He turns back, cradling a guitar in his arms. But not just any guitar. A black and white Fender Telecaster, in mint condition. We trade—the joint for the guitar. I lift it out of his arms and do the customary check of the insignia on the head. No soulless copy here. “Original?”

  “You betcha.” Lenny grins. “Don’t get any of that cheap Mexican crap in here.” He pretends to look hurt as he adds, “You know me better than that, blackbird.”

  Sure I do. I pull up a milk crate and turn the guitar over, then place it in my lap. “How much?”

  He gags on a mouthful of smoke. And when he’s done coughing, he’s still laughing. Yeah, thanks. “Much more than you could ever afford, my friend. Better for you to hope that kid of yours grows up and becomes a lawyer, or investment banker, or something. Then he can buy it for you.” He giggles, spooning three sugars into his own coffee.