Monstrosity
Page 15
Later that night...
Tabitha was out. I had subtly suggested a movie for her and her friends on a Friday night and she took the bait, along with a few twenties. I closed the store early and got to work making it look as though everything was disheveled. At least it would look as if I had been taking inventory. Or, at least, it would look like I was packing away my more interesting collection to discard in light of the new ordinances. As if I would give that up.
Looking through all the covers it reminded me that I had not fed in a few days. For the moment I was tempted to feed on one of the men that would come tonight. But no, that would ruin everything.
Sometimes I wonder what they get out of the experience. For a short time they may receive some pleasure, yes. I gain sustenance, but there is no joy in the act for me. Humans and my kind, we are caught in a cycle, both cursed. A succubus can give pleasure, for the moment, in order to survive. But that pleasure comes with many side effects, like infertility and weakness. But I need not leave husks of infertile people in this town and give cause for attention to myself or my daughter. But as I’ve said, these are lean times, and usually when such nutrition enters my store it…well, it is like taking crumbs off the plate with my finger.
It is probably easier for me to diet in this way and stave off hunger than it is for humans to do what equates to the same with them. I feed not because I enjoy it, I actually have a tremendous distaste for the entire process. The presence of another body has never given me pleasure in the way the humans have with mine. My joy has been in caring for my child, ironically enough.
There was a knock at the store window at the rear end of the store. Derek was early, motivated by his urgent fantasies about me. I unlocked the back door and he drew himself in, diving for my body. I had to gently extricate his eager, grubby hands from my breasts and re-button my shirt. Part of me wanted to feed, take a little sample, as I was a bit ravenous. I restrained myself. I needed him still under my control and that wouldn't happen. Instead, I attempted to distract his attentions by offering him beverages and running my fingernails up and down his arm to further mark my scent on him.
Regretfully, to stall, I even asked him about his opinions on certain biblical stories and passages. He was only too happy to indulge and show off his “knowledge”. Funny how wrong his knowledge was. The people he described were nothing like the real thing. Some even didn’t even exist and I wracked my memory trying to think of who could have inspired these things. It matters little, really, but it did keep him pacified.
While smiling and pretending I was interested, a skill I picked up not from my sisters but from the human women I have known over the years, there was a shadow outside the glass door. John Sr.’s balding head shone through the window in the moonlight, bobbing towards my store.
Showtime.
I shrieked. “It’s him!” I said to Derek, “My stalker! I just… I don’t know what to do.” Emboldened by his lust, by my subtle commands and his deep need to impress me, he pushed me aside. “I’ll take care of him!” he said, taking a heroic stance that was comical enough to force me to restrain a laugh.
“No, no, not here. Lead him away,” I whispered in his ear. “Take this and finish him off elsewhere.” I pressed his letter opener into his hand and licked the curve of his ear for good measure, making a mental note at the time to use mouthwash later.
He took his own letter opener without a second thought and marched out into the dark. I could see them from the window. John ran at Derek with what looked like a hammer as Derek likewise charged. First blows were missed at both ends.
They fought in the middle of the two-lane road in front of the store, with Derek stabbing at John and John swinging back with the hammer. Neither was making much contact, at least not at first. No doubt they could smell my scent on one another and that brought their blood to a boil. If this were not such a delicate operation I would have laughed. They fought like two clumsy lizards suddenly inhabiting human bodies. One would strike and the other would gracelessly dodge the blow somehow.
Each caught the other with small hits. John was bleeding from his upper arm and Derek was holding his side. As both proclaimed victory and an injury, their fury only grew. Attacks moved to kill— which is what I had been hoping for. A few people trickled out into the street to see what was going on. I came out too, and stood just upwind of them so as to let my scent carry to them both on the breeze. There was a strong wind; a fortuitous turn for me. I saw people looking to try and break up the fight. I could not allow that to happen. I resorted to a trick I had not performed in well over five centuries: Opening my mouth, I let out a screech at a pitch too high for human hearing: a succubus song if you will, which drove anyone in my thrall to a frenzy. My sister Helen had set off an entire war that way for fun. You may have heard of it.
They paused, like dogs taking stock of one another, and then lunged. John bashed Derek across the face and Derek pierced John in the chest.
There was a gasp, and then silence. I breathed out. The threat against our store was over.
October 28th
It took a few days for Derek to finally kick the bucket. While hospitalized he managed to choke out a few biblical passages. People prayed by his bedside. And when he croaked, I did feel more at ease.
The new council decided that the men who had come up with the recent referendums were probably not in a good position to dictate morality. A point I made as a newly, special-election candidate to the council. I won with a fair majority. People enjoyed my wares too much to permanently run me out of business.
Roberta is also doing well. An old law in the town charter allowed her to take her deceased husband’s seat with no contest if she desired. It was what she really wanted anyway, she was running that seat before in everything but name only. We are civil to each other. I suspect she knows I caused whatever happened between the men. Perhaps part of her hates me for it, but I believe more of her respects me—or, perhaps, fears me enough not to make it into more than need be.
My little one did go through heartbreak. After his father’s death, John Jr. started dating that golden-haired girl. In my heart I suspected she knew he didn’t like her. The young can fall in love with the dream of a person. They turn them into a fantasy of what they want them to be. Tabitha cried in my arms. We ate chocolates. We closed the bookshop for a day and she skipped school. On that sunny day we went hiking. As we climbed, I saw my daughter heal, grow stronger. It’s all I wanted.
She hasn’t asked me to go to church again.
Earlier this evening, Kristie came to my store at closing and while Tabitha was at a friend's studying. She tried to confront me, torn between her hatred of her deceased husband, her own fantasy of herself, and a strange realization that was beginning to occur to her. I locked the doors. She cried and yelled at me. I covered the blinds. She picked me on a day that I had not had a chance to feed.
I remembered one of Helen's tricks: I opened my blouse and exposed my breasts to her. Kristie’s eyes glazed over with a dawning comprehension. I was forgiven. I was fed.
Kristie left my shop that evening only a little bit dazed, as I did not take more than I needed. She had a new sense of self. I came home without the crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes that I’d had that morning.. I only told my child when asked about it that I had tried a new eye cream.
Acknowledgments
There are almost too many of you to thank, but I'll try.
Thanks first to my husband and forever partner David “DJ” Dittman, who read everything I wrote and wanted more. Who also spent long nights formatting and proofreading and generally being the best husband that ever was. Thanks to Mike Amato, my bestie, who read a lot of my work across three time zones to give me feedback. None of this would be possible without my business partner Enrique Bedlam, especially not without his constant enthusiasm.
Love and thanks to my mother and father, who helped me in little ways and for whom I was too embarrassed to have them read thi
s book with all its curse words and sex scenes.
My Patreon patrons are a class all their own. Brandon R. Chinn, who has made the leap from twitter mate to friend and was my first patron. Kevin Joseph for being kind and supportive. Priya Sridhar who is quick with a pet photo or kind word on a bad day. Chris “Freaking” Taylor who always represents his friends.
Special thanks to Kurt and Nicole Larson for their support. Thanks to Leza Cantoral and Christoph Paul for publishing me in Tragedy Queens. Thanks to Amanda Bergloff and Kate Wolford of Enchanted Conversations. Another thanks to Nadia Gerassimenko of Moonchild Magazine for her kind words. Thanks to booth and panel buddy Elyse Reyes, who is incorrigible and incomparable (and I mean that in the best way).
Apologies to anyone I may have forgotten. You'll be pleased to know that I will probably remember that I forgot someone a week from now and will beat myself of over it.
Love,
Queta.
Publication Information
“Without Him (and Him, and Him) There is No Me.” Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath, edited by Leza Cantoral, CLASH books, 2018, 45-52. CLASHbooks.com
“El Vendedor Y La Bruja o How Eduardo Found His Heart.” Enchanted Conversations, A Dream of Love issue, 31 Jan. 2018. TheFairytaleMagazine.com
“The Swamp King.” Enchanted Conversations, Donkeyskin issue. 28 June 2017. TheFairytaleMagazine.com
“Plum Moon.” Midnight Whispers 2017, edited by Enrique Bedlam, Smoking Mirror Press, 2017, 41-79. SmokingMirrorPress.com
“Mandibles.” Moonchild Magazine, Issue 3: Exquisite Corpses, 15 May 2018. MoonchildMag.net
Notes
Without Him (and Him, and Him) There is No Me
1 First published in Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath, CLASH books 2018.
La Bruja Y El Vendedor or How Eduardo Found His Heart1
1 Published in Enchanted Conversations, Jan. 2018.
2 In Spanish texts, dialog is not denoted by quotations, but a dash (-). Dialog is further distinguished by italics.
The Swamp King
1 Published in Enchanted Conversations, June 2018.
Plum Moon
1 Published in Midnight Whispers, Smoking Mirror Press 2017.
Mandibles
1 Published in Moonchild Magazine, May 2018.
The West Hamberline Bordello Opens at Five
1 Like much of MiCorps™' assertions about its androids, this turned out to be a lie.
About the Author
Laura Diaz de Arce is a South Florida writer with a weakness for musicals and chocolate. She lives with her cat and husband in a cabin built on a swamp.