Forgive Me

The Beast

The two men under the tree were long gone. Now all that remained was the presence of Death in the form of an innocent flower.

-2/15/1920

David Holly is a nuisance. The plot cannot be discovered. Do not blow your cover.

48 Lewis St.

The moisture on my tongue had fled to some inconceivable place, replaced by the spike of dehydration under the flesh of my throat. I read the name again, desperate to prove the note a simple hallucination, but found it gleaming with demon warnings on the red parchment. They howled with brief bursts of laughter, pointing a mocking finger into the dread spilling over the brim of my heart.

The stranger never took her eyes off me, observing the fragile scar of horror slither up my face, and started only when I lifted my head from the poppy.

"Who are ya?" she asked, callous in her tone. "There's a lotta bad people who can't stop ravin' about ya."

My response was automatic and cruel. "Why should I tell you?"

"Well shucks, I'd like t' know what's so significant about ya! 'cause, so far I've seen nothin' of importance."

Had I not been strangled by the name and address in the poppy, her words would have struck me across the cheek. Had there not been slashes of torn skin trickling down my neck, her insult might have broke open the raw, pink flesh binding the savage emotion.

Suddenly remembering my deeds, my limbs tensed and my mouth split into a scowl. Who was she, the messenger of my destruction, to claim my worthlessness!

"Tell me, miss," I began, something dark and wet sliding its way from my stomach to my throat, "are you afraid of me?"

The stranger puffed up her fat cheeks and expelled wave after wave of horrendous, choking laughter. "If ya think you're scary, you've got another thing comin'!"

Like wild animals, refusing to be tamed, my arms pounced for her, finding something fleshy and bulging to grip. I held her throat in a cuffed hold, squeezing the rolls of fat until I could feel her saliva gulp down the tube. The other hand held my pistol-- I didn't remember ever grabbing it-- with the barrel aimed above her ear. Even if I didn't end up pulling the trigger, she would have a permanent, bloody indent where I had shoved it into her skull.

She froze, then began to thrash at the arm around her throat. Her face was staining a sickly bruise color and was beginning to sweat from every available crevice. Even as she kicked my thighs and bit at my arm until it bled, the Beast would not relent. It held as still as a statue, but grew tighter with every movement its victim made. The squeals of her pig throat thrilled it-- compelled it to drill her writhing body into the ground.

"I am innocent," it breathed, loosening its grip and dropping the still woman to the dirt.

* * * *

"I am not innocent!" I cried. "Non sono innocente! Non sono innocente!"

Lars, if you could see me now, what would you say?

I glanced at myself in the lengthy mirror in Arctic Gold's dressing room, examining how alien the gown looked on me. It wasn't meant to cover much and it never pretended, instead focusing on how to make the breasts spill out of the fabric. Besides the tight belt hiding the folds of a corset and brassiere, the dress was plain. It ended at a scandalous length at the upper thigh, sporting just enough to give passerbys a peek.

There wasn't enough of me left behind the mask of makeup to recognize. My knuckles were white: dressing themselves in the throb of blood lust. They itched to clasp around the breathing tube of a victim and squeeze until they fell above the clouds.

I trod through the unearthly forest that was my half-consciousness and stumbled upon paths lade with familiar faces. There were June's gem eyes, hollowed and brimming with salt water. There was Lars' smile, cut from one corner of his cheek to the next with a battered knife. There was my father's incessant tapping, twiddling rotting fingers underneath maggot-soil. There was the Monster. Oh God, there was the Monster.

Then I was back in the bar, slamming my head against the table until it became a rhythm to David's music. Yes, he was full of music! Frustration, envy! Despair, lust! And it never stopped! His fingers never slowed, his throat never faltered! He sung and he sung and he sung until not even his body could stay intact. He ripped himself to shreds with the music, falling in pieces around my bruised forehead.

"David!" I gasped, throwing my hands against the dressing room wall. The bar disappeared around me, the familiar faces faded into mockery and laughter. The wall was there, the mirror was cracked! I'm real! I'm real!

My head bulged with the pain of a jutting lance and I stumbled to pry the dress from my body. I wasn't there; I was hovering, watching as the Beast tripped over its feet and lost its every control. But I doubted that, even with my soul to govern it, my palms would still ache and my knees would still wobble. My limbs would still jump, my head would still twirl, and my heart would still stop.

A sudden vessel in my nose zapped me back to reality-- back in my twisted body-- and a pearl of blood dripped from my nostril down my cheek.

"Lars," I choked, pinching the bridge of my nose and leaning against the wall, "if I do this, will you come back? Will you smile for me? Just once?"

I breathed in the Camel's exhaustion and allowed the smoke to join my blood in my veins. It was warm, like the hearth of a fire after struggling through the snow, and left me addicted for more. I often described my Camel as a restorer: something to expel the darkness brewing where love usually took residence.

The Detective's office was not far from Pendant's Home Daycare but at enough of a distance to be surrounded by pristine neighborhoods. The particular building was stout and layered with uneven, jutting bricks. If I hadn't known any better, I might have mistaken the place for a junkyard igloo.

As I neared 48, my legs refused to take the brisk pace I had gone so far. They shifted from heel to heel in my towering shoes, bitten by the cold of the air, and seemed timid approaching the man's work space. My heart, too, snatched the energy meant for my legs and fueled its sprint.

"This is for you, Lars," I whispered, nodding my head to the Wind's gentle breath.

The smoke of the Camel was the master of my puppet strings and inexperienced. It thrust the Control back and forth, to feign my steps but never really moved me forward. I was an infinite marionette, stuck in the same position with the same task, never really reaching new heights. But, as I struggled to bring myself along the porch steps, the strings tore from my limbs and hung, awaiting my return.

I reached my destination: the front door. It was normal-- too normal. The mixes of mint and avocado blurred together into one vomit-stained glass. The chunks of intimidation slid down the wood, demanding I abandon the very idea of destroying a good man. They ordered me to leave them be-- to take June and run. But while my heart ran from my chest, my fury and madness boiled.

I would not let the oxygen drown me again. I would not let my nose bleed. I would not let my hands tremble. I would not hesitate.

I would not hesitate.

The hand of the Beast guided my fist to the door and rapped nine times: nine times for its own pleasure.