The call

The phone is ringing; its two o’clock in the morning, why is the phone ringing? Has someone died? Has my brother been arrested again? It can only be bad news. Do I really want to get it? Get the call? Get the bad news? I mean, if I get it, I’ll have to deal with said bad news on some sort of emotional level, which in turn means I’ll have a sleepless night and I have to get up for work at six o’clock. Sigh. But if I don’t get it, I’ll just end up lying awake all night long anyway, wondering what the phone call was all about and conjuring up every possible bad scenario that could result in a 2am call.

It’s Tom, my brother. He is hysterical, which in turn has left me hysterical. I don’t even know why yet, but I feel like I’m about to pass out from the shock. Tom never cries. Never. He just keeps repeating that he has messed up, “...bad this time sis, bad...”

His sobs are violent. I’m scared. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But I listen anyway. He needs me, just like he always has. Someone has to help him pick up the pieces, and that someone has got to be me.

It’s a blistering hot summer’s night. I throw on a tee-shirt and shorts and run out the house. In my hast I’ve completely forgotten to put on a pair of shoes. But that’s of little concern now – I need to get to Tom, fast. It’s dangerous to drive 160km/h, I know; the cops might pull me over and we all know how that plays out, but I have to take the risk. Tom can’t think straight right now. I’m worried about what he might do. He is such a fragile soul. Why can’t people see that he needs to be handled with care? Why can’t someone just love him the way that I do? Accept him for who and what he is?

The lights are on and the door is wide open. He is nowhere to be seen. I told him to lock up and wait for me outside, why can’t he just listen to me for a change?

I park the car and rush inside. It’s a shocking sight. I wasn’t prepared for this; he said he had lost his temper. He said he didn’t mean to hurt her. I anticipated that there was a very good chance that he’d killed her – by accident. I was too scared to ask over the phone. Maybe that’s because I already knew. I thought he might have choked her.  Or pushed her too hard, letting her fall and hit her head. I expected to find her, still, beautiful, warm and in a peaceful sleep on the floor.

The smell has ambushed my empty stomach. I’m left heaving while I try to locate Tom. It’s a vile stench, much like the accidental discovery of a dead pet that had been slowly decomposing in the back yard somewhere while you searched the streets for it in vain. The white bathroom tiles are stained black from the dried up blood. The shoe prints on the floor give me the mental image of slippery sludge – thick blood oozing out of her and covering the floor like a red velvet carpet. The blood might have dried black on the floor, but its bright red in the bath, mixed with water and possibly, vomit. She isn’t beautiful. The sight of her scares me. I’m bound to have nightmares over this – bloated, grey and green, maggots feasting on her eyes. Her lips are missing – she’s so badly decomposed that I can’t tell why, but I have a suspicion; I imagine her saying something – something rather distasteful, difficult to hear. I see Tom grab her head with both his hands, yank her forward, as if to kiss her, only, he bites her. He rips her lips right off her face with his bare teeth.

We have a plan. We pick her up, but she’s so heavy. Her flesh has absorbed a shocking quantity of bathwater. She is heavily swollen. We place her on the black bags that I’ve rolled out on the tiles. I immediately wash my hands but I just can’t seem to get the feeling of squishy dead feet flesh off my palms. Wrapped up tightly, we carry her to my car. It has to be my car. They’ll be searching Tom’s.

We take her to the river; it’s flowing violently. We’ve had a good rain-season. I wonder how far she’ll wash downstream? I wonder if we should just dump her in and wait to see what happens when she is found, or if we should tie rocks around her feet so that she can sink, like they do on TV? She’s so decomposed that she couldn’t possibly be recognised, but police have their way of finding out who the victims are. I hope I didn’t leave any prints on the black bags. I wonder if they will wash off with the strong current.

We decide to burn her. Tom says they’ll find our prints if we don’t. As I watch the shadows dance upon his face, I realise what a monster he is. My own flesh and blood. I can’t believe what he has done, not only to another human being, but  to one he cherished so much. How could he hurt someone he loves like this and only realise what he has done a week later? Maybe... maybe he still hasn’t quite grasped what he has done. Or maybe he knows exactly what he has done. Maybe he is using me to help him cover up his mess!

But am I not a monster too, for standing by his side? For helping him get rid of the evidence? Why didn’t I call the cops? Why won’t I turn him in when all this is done? Why am I consoling him and assuring him that I’ll take care of everything?  That he has nothing to worry about? Because he needs me. Because I am all that he has. I am all that he will ever have and in some sick psychotic way, that’s just the way I like it. I recall the subtle seeds I’ve planted over the last month; “I don’t like her. You don’t need her. She doesn’t really love you. She’s using you”. I even wished her dead. I know that he’ll never hurt me... and that knowledge leaves me with a warm fuzzy feeling inside. I’m the real monster. I started this. I groomed him into the monster that he is today. I am the one that exercises complete control. He is my monster. I control the beast. 

The Black Widow

The chemistry between Michael and Angela was electrifying. Michael couldn’t care less about the neighbours in the elevator; he held Angela up with his right arm – hand firmly gasping her tush – her legs wrapped around his waist - while his left hand pressed into the arch of her back, bringing her closer (if even possible) while they violently sucked, kissed and breathed each other in.

It took them a good twenty minutes to unlock the apartment door. Michael was so distracted that he just couldn’t identify the right key – you see, in order to identify the key, he’d have to look at it.

Once inside, Angela grabbed Michael’s tee shirt at the neck and split it in two, apparently effortlessly ripping it from his body. It was one of Michael’s favourite shirts, but this was hot. He made a mental note to frame what was left of it.

Michael grabbed a fist full of Angela’s hair and pulled her in, kissing her hard, so that she knew what he meant. She bit his lip, softly, but hard enough to make him pause. She stepped back, looked him in the eye, and started to undress. She was exquisite. Angela had long pitch black hair, pale porcelain skin, big blue eyes and pouty lips with healthy flush to them. It was these very same striking features that had caught Michael’s eye just hours before at the bar. He knew then that he wanted to strip her down and have his way with her. But once there, faced with Angela’s naked body, something happened to Michael - it felt a lot like falling in love. Angela was tall and slender, yet “womanly”. She stepped forward, loosened his jeans and gave him a teasing lick before she turned away and headed for his bedroom. Michael followed, naturally.

With her back toward him, Michael stepped closer. He swept her long black hair over her left shoulder, so that he could kiss the right. Angela’s skin was soft and smooth. She smelled sweet and spicy. The combination made his heart race. He traced his fingers down her spine till he reached the small of her back, moving to the side he took a firm hold of her hip, his right hand still holding her right shoulder where he slowly moved his mouth across her delicate skin.  

Angela moved forward, steadying herself into a crawl onto the bed. The curtains weren’t drawn, and through the moonlight Michael noticed large angel wings tattooed on Angela’s back. They started on her shoulder blades and spread across her back, tipping at her hips. Michael wasn’t the tattoo loving type, but on Angela, it was almost expected and added a lot more “naughty” to his experience.

Michael grabbed Angela’s ankle and pulled her back down toward him. She turned on her back, inviting him in. Her kiss was hot, her lips were sweet. Soon he was lost in her spell. The passion was intense, erotic. She’d taken over – a total dominatrix. She was on top, the sweat on her body glistening in the moonlight. Michael was about to – you know – when out of the blue, Angela’s tattoo lifted off of her back and spread across the room, wings spanning from wall to wall. Caught up in the moment, biting on her lower lip and eyes closed, Angela dug her nails into Michael’s chest and ripped into him. Michael let out a shout, but the sight of her majestic wings coupled by the violence only intensified his climax.

They were both spent, sated, dripping in sweat. Angela leaned forward, brushing past Michael’s lips with her own and stopping at his ear. She wanted to say something. He was waiting for it. She was waiting for it. But then she moved back to his mouth, and gave him one final kiss.

Pushing herself up, Angela smoothed her hands over Michael’s face, coming to a rest with both palms over his temples. It was just then, that Michael started to come out of the trance, but before he could speak, a bright light burst from Angela’s palms through Michael’s temples. With nowhere to go, the light came bursting through his eyes, nose and mouth, burning away the sockets and leaving four ashy holes in his head, as black as coal.

Angela got up and walked over to the window. After taking a moment to stare at the night sky, she drew the curtains closed and walked over the en-suite bathroom. Angela flipped the light switch on and came to a standstill in front of the full length mirror. When confronted with her naked reflection, Angela turned her body to analyse her side profile. She lifted her hands and rested them on her belly. She felt movement. Angela smiled.

She rinsed the ash from her hands before changing back into her clothes and leaving Michael’s apartment. In 9 month’s time, Angela would be a proud mommy. She could only hope that her daughter would inherit some of her father’s feisty spirit.