Abominations of Desire

by Vince Liaguno

  Tell yourself you have to leave. But... Say it!

  He tried not to look at Kit and the man, but his eyes were compelled by the man’s offensive face. By the time Matt reached the bar, Kit was gone. He set down his glass. The bartender called to him, asked if he’d like another. The question stalled Matt’s resolve. He considered the glass, casting a glance at the hunched man. A bruised light hovered over him.

  And Matt said, ““Hello,” and the guy said, “Hey,” and he asked, "How's it going?"

  His name was Carl, and he was as unpleasant to speak with as he was to look at. His cynicism was bitter without an ounce of humor to balance it, and after a few perfunctory questions Matt didn’t know what else to say to the man. Carl’s manner was disgusting, and his face was disgusting and Matt was disgusted with himself for pursuing this assignation, particularly at the whim of a horrifying and inexplicable phantom, but the light still hovered, and Matt had to believe there was a reason for it, even it wasn’t his reason.

  Carl’s apartment was a dirty, disheveled set of rooms on the east side of town, rooms smelling of mold and taco meat and the hoppy stench of old beer. Once inside, Carl’s demeanor changed. Instead of surly and complaining, he now played the role of supplicant, apologizing for the mess and the pile of dirty clothes on the sofa. He seemed eager for Matt’s approval, but all he would get was pity.

  Carl’s body was soft, spongy to the touch though he was relatively slender. Matt hated the way it felt against him. In the poor light, the man’s skin took on a greenish cast. Matt dropped onto the bed with him and felt breadcrumbs against his back when Carl rolled him over to start sucking Matt’s cock, and Matt closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was somewhere else with someone else. He attempted to conjure memories of Kit, his taut, tanned skin and lightly muscled frame, but what scenes he managed to bring forth were thin and transparent, they appeared for a moment only to be puffed away like wisps of smoke.

  The weight on the bed changed, and he opened his eyes to see Carl straddling his waist. The man was impatient, but Matt didn’t mind because that meant it would all be over soon. He asked if Carl had a condom and the man shook his head and said he liked it raw. Concern flashed only to vanish a second later, humming loudly then gone like an insect investigating his ear. The gray-plum light remained around Carl’s unpleasant face. He sat back, taking Matt inside of him.

  Matt closed his eyes and endured the experience.

  *

  He woke to the sound of breathing–harsh and grating exhalations like a dog trying to clear bad meat from its throat. Disoriented and with a thick film of sleep veiling his eyes, Matt sat up. He blinked. A shape, carved of shadow stood at the end of his bed, and Matt tried to remember whom he’d picked up and what might be wrong with the guy.

  Except, he hadn’t brought anyone to the apartment. He’d fled the rooms that had reeked of mold and taco meat and had come home to shower under scalding hot water.

  The heaving breaths continued, hitting his ears and then dispersing through his body like shards of ice. Matt reached for the bedside lamp. He grasped the ridged plastic knob and turned it.

  The light surged. The breathing stopped. The room was empty, except for Matt. He exhaled loudly and fell back on the pillow to wait for the adrenaline to dissipate and for his heart to slow to a safer rhythm.

  *

  Gavin called in the morning as he’d promised, and Matt found the conversation instantly soothing, extinguishing the nightmare of the night before. Unlike the vision, Gavin was real. His voice sounded rich and solid.

  They agreed to meet for coffee after work, but before lunchtime arrived, Matt’s boss called an emergency meeting in the conference room. A client needed marketing collateral – fliers, posters, a three-fold brochure – and the deadline was impossibly tight, so Matt called Gavin to cancel and asked for a rain check.

  Gavin suggested they have dinner the following evening.

  “Perfect,” Matt said.

  All day, he found himself immersed in work, but not wholly distracted. Moments with Carl returned to him, bringing stings of shame and anxiety. Matt had behaved recklessly, stupidly. Why hadn’t he demanded protection? Why had he been with such an obscenity in the first place? Though he had no answers, he told himself everything would be okay. In those moments of disturbed recollection, it became his mantra. It will be okay. It will be okay.

  Late in the evening, his eyes were dry and sticky and the new images, which finally arrived from the client, appeared blurred and sapped of color, as wan and lifeless as exsanguinated corpses lying flat on a steel table. He finished a comp of the brochure and another for the poster, and then he called it a night.

  The compulsion to visit the bar before leaving downtown hit him hard, blindsided him as he pulled out of the building’s garage, making him remember kind-faced Phillip and his assertion that Matt was an addict. He couldn't argue the point any longer. A compulsion accompanied his visions of Kit. Reason and control eluded him whenever he was in the thing's presence.

  Tonight the addiction was easier to fight, though. The buzz in his chest persisted, but he could resist it. Recent, ugly memories had armed his resolve, and though his system thrummed with the desire to find Kit and whatever companion he had chosen, Matt made it to the freeway and then he made it home. But all the while, his desire to stay in town, to find a trick tore through his torso.

  He was shaking so badly by the time he closed the apartment door it took three attempts to turn the deadbolt. He raced to the bathroom and swallowed two of the anti-anxiety pills, washing them down with water from his cupped palms. Breathing deeply, He refused to look at his reflection in the mirror. He closed his eyes. Come on. Whispering into the sink, he urged the pills to take effect. Come on. Come on.

  When Gavin called ten minutes later, Matt still clutched the rim of the sink. His eyes remain closed. He nearly missed the call, because he dreaded what movement might mean.

  “No, it was a good day,” Gavin said, “but…uh…You know, busy.”

  “Same,” Matt told him, and he liked that he could say that. Same. As if noting the busyness of a day was a rare and intimate circumstance, somehow denied to billions of others.

  Gavin’s voice erased Matt’s irrational need. His humor and intelligence soothed the burn, and they spoke until the pills took full hold, and Matt was forced to sleep.

  *

  In the early morning hours, Matt again woke to the rasping pant he'd heard the night before. This time when he opened his eyes and was able to bring coherence to the shadows, he spotted Kit in the corner of the room. A band of gray light played through the narrow gap between the curtain and the window frame, drawing a line down the center of the dismal thing.

  Kit's hand worked furiously on a lump of tissue that protruded from between its legs. Bulbous and misshapen the thing's cock appeared more like a rotting fungus than genitalia, and emaciated, knobby fingers rubbed it frantically, causing the tissue to warp and gather before being again pulled smooth.

  "You can't be here," Matt whispered.

  The residue of his partner, now seeming wholly solid and in its own way real, ignored the pathetic scratch of words. It continued its grotesque masturbation, punctuating its strokes with the horrible grating breaths. Occupied by its self-pleasure, it showed no notice when Matt turned on the light.

  Unable to fathom either the absurdity or the repulsiveness of the act being performed across the room, Matt stared slack jawed at Kit.

  The grating breath grew louder until the sounds resolved into grunts. A thick, dark fluid, like crude oil gushed from the end of the fungal appendage, splashing the curtain, the wall and the carpet. The respiration became a harsh staccato, like a carpenter's rasp chewing across a length of maple. The thing dropped to its knees and lurched forward, dragging its tongue through the foul discharge, lapping it up noisily. It swept the floor, tongue sliding over the carpet nap, ingesting the fluid that had been expelled from its body. Matt's throat tight
ened, locking closed against the sickness pushing its way up from his belly.

  Kit righted himself and crawled to the curtain, grasping a handful of drape in his twig-like fingers. A glistening blob of ejaculate drooled along the cloth, and Kit shoved the fabric in his mouth, suckled at it hungrily, before turning his attention to the walls, which he attacked with the same repulsive determination. When he'd finished, his posture straightened. Then as if finally realizing he was not alone in the room, Kit turned his head and looked at Matt, who pressed himself as far back against the headboard as he could manage.

  Then Kit smiled, a broad, predatory smile. His eyes widened as if in response to a pleasant surprise, and Matt screamed, bellowed his dread at the grinning, fluid-smeared face. And he continued to shriek until the apparition vanished, which happened only moments later.

  Matt scurried from the bed and slowed his pace as he crossed the room. He took a series of deep breaths, attempting to control his pulse. Another vision? Another myth of his grieving mind like the night before? Certainly. Yeah, that has to be it.

  But the logic failed him. Kit had to be real. Or else why would Matt follow the residue's bidding into so many beds, into so many fucked up and miserable unions? If he accepted that Kit was real, why couldn't he believe the perverted spirit had made a visit to his home? Our home.

  The possibility was awful and he refused it, preferring to believe himself deluded or even losing his senses. Regardless of what he would allow himself to believe, he relaxed noticeably when he saw the curtain and walls carried no stains. Even the carpet at his feet appeared clean. It would have been impossible for Kit to reclaim every drop and spot of his discharge.

  To prove the point, Matt knelt. He held his hand out flat and pressed it into the carpet, where his palm sank into a damp nest of fibers. Matt recoiled in disgust, crab-walking backward until he was on the other side of the bed. Then he gained his footing and fled the room.

  *

  The next morning he woke on the sofa. With a slow turn of his head, he checked the corners of the living room and eventually poked his head into the bedroom. He refused to cross the room to the corner. Seeing it vacant was enough for now.

  By three that afternoon the project was completed. His bosses were pleased and the client was satisfied, and Matt spent the rest of his time at the office making progress on the projects that had been delayed. His mother called to remind him about dinner on Sunday, and he told her he was looking forward to seeing her and his father. He struggled to keep from blurting out his belief that Kit had returned in a monstrous form, as a being that thrived on sex or misery or some disgusting hybrid of the two.

  He finished at the office with an hour to spare before his dinner date. Instead of driving around town, he left his car in the garage and walked. Time was not an issue. The restaurant was less than a mile from his office. Besides, it was a beautiful day, with a slight breeze to offset the unseasonably warm temperature.

  As Matt walked, his head down, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, he felt relieved, as if he’d survived a devastating accident or an attack.

  Approaching the next intersection, he looked up to make sure he was at the correct street. He was. As soon as he turned the corner, he would see the restaurant at which he was meeting Gavin halfway down the block.

  Kit waited on the sidewalk, blocking Matt’s path. He crouched like a gargoyle, carved by a shattered mind. Sunlight cast long shadows down the glistening face, making it appear even harsher and exaggerating the frown and the droop of the brow. His chest and belly were lumpy and engorged, but his legs and arms, appeared as near-black sticks, jutting from the swollen torso. The tip of his fungal cock grazed the sidewalk. The residue’s grating breath devoured all other sound.

  “What do you want?” Matt asked.

  Matt needed to know. He’d never known, and yet he’d sought Kit out, followed what Matt believed were his wishes, degraded himself with one awful fucking man after another. Why?

  Kit didn’t reply. Except, this wasn’t Kit.

  Whatever this figment was – a product of Matt’s inconsolable mind, a projection of his gnawing grief – it contained nothing of the man he’d lost. It couldn’t.

  In the presence of the grotesquerie, Matt let himself understand. The knowledge was always there, somewhere low beneath the denial: this fabricated being had manifested from his own needs. He'd been depressed and lonely, and the momentary distractions of promiscuity had given him sparks of amnesia, rushes of bio-chemical pleasure. He'd been self-medicating against depression, but guilt and his moral calibration had refused the solace of multiple random fucks, so he’d created an illusion with Kit's face, imbuing it with power and giving himself over to that power. The thing crouching on the sidewalk was a lie he’d told himself to get what he needed and to punish himself for needing it.

  Pedestrians passed. Concerned with their own joys and tragedies, they paid no attention to Matt and took no notice of the being, crouching on the sidewalk.

  Bursts of static electricity stung Matt’s heart, his lungs, and they crackled, and they hummed. He told himself that he would walk past this thing and meet Gavin for dinner in exactly the way he’d planned. If the being was symbolic, as he believed it to be, then he would defeat it with a symbolic gesture. Matt would ignore it. Take away its power.

  He stepped forward. The being let loose a growl, like a garbage disposal grinding through ice. Then it sprang.

  The thing slammed into Matt’s chest, hitting him with a spongy, damp weight, like a giant slug latching itself to a twig. Matt stumbled back, shocked to find the being had genuine substance. He drove his palms into its sides trying to remove it from him, but his palm sank into the pliant, viscous form. Before him, the face lit with surprise. Wide eyes and open mouth regarded him from only a few inches away. Its head dipped forward and the terrible mouth locked on Matt’s.

  He tried to breathe, but the elastic material of the face engulfed Matt’s nostrils and the whole of his mouth. Its grating breath filled him and resonated through his mind. The being had no scent, and no taste, producing instead a sensory void, an empty, unfathomable nothing. It moved its lips in the mockery of a kiss, and the flat tongue, like a tapeworm, worked into Matt’s mouth and began tickling the back of his throat until he gagged. Matt couldn’t breathe. He continued to struggle, but he could not separate himself from the being. He punched at its sides, and spun in tight circles, hoping to break its grip, but it held tight as if melded to his skin.

  His head became light, and he retched repeatedly, bile filling his mouth and throat, coating the invading tongue and his own. With his knees weakening, Matt sank to the sidewalk, and finally, the creature pulled its face away.

  The eyes were softer, more like those of the young man they had been designed to mimic. The edges of the frown lifted until the mouth presented a neutral line. Matt spat and gasped, trying to clear his throat of the foulness that had risen from his stomach. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly, to push away the tears coating them.

  When he opened his eyes, the expression on the monstrosity was placid, perhaps even kind. It uttered a single word. Garbled and poorly formed, ejected over a tongue that was not trained to fabricate language, it said:

  “Love.

  And as soon as he had control of his body, and without consideration for what that word might mean to such a being, Matt said, “No.”

  The arms released him, and the being that had once reminded him of Kit backed away, gained its footing and turned away. Instead of vanishing as it had done so many times in the past, it slouched down the sidewalk, sunlight drawing shadows beneath protruding shoulder blades.

  Voices crept in to replace the being’s harsh breathing. At his back, a gathering of concerned pedestrians muttered. They offered words like, “seizure,” and “epilepsy,” amid soft obscenities denoting their confusion and concern. A woman carried on a one-sided conversation, describing a sick man on a city sidewalk and noting on what cor
ner the emergency personnel could find him. During this exchange, which Matt reasoned was between the woman and a 911 operator, the soft click-hiss he associated with phone cameras sounded half a dozen times.

  A hand slid under Matt’s arm, and helped him to his feet. He looked to see who was providing this assistance and saw that it was Gavin. The man appeared worried with a veil of dread covering his features.

  “What…?” he asked.

  Matt didn’t respond. Once on his feet, he stood next to Gavin, as close as he could manage without taking the man in an embrace, and then he watched the being, the residue, the thing that was not Kit, grow smaller and less defined as it found a future of its own.

  I nvestment Opportunity

  Evan J. Peterson

  Circles drawn in salt upon tile floors. The gleam of steel instruments as they explore life forms rarely glimpsed by human eyes, or forms not quite living, as humans understand the term. Bodies changing shape, changing substance: crystalline bodies. Gaseous bodies.

  A trio of men, barely touching, though the places of contact usually demand attention. A greater circle of bodies surrounding them, watching. Observation as a form of participation, as a form of complicity. The three men each lift their left hand, bind the ring finger in razor-thin wire, tighten the garrote until the finger separates. The crowd is pleased.

  *

  To Paul Pinder, the building appeared to be a perfect cube. He entered the lobby through one of two sleek glass doors, handles side by side, that met at the front right corner of the building. He assumed it to be the front, though no words or text of any kind appeared on the façade. No logo or motto necessary. These would in fact be a liability to a group that keeps itself as indefinable as possible. He knew enough about Temple Laboratories to wonder if even the plumbing had been crafted and installed according to some arcane system.