Lust Demented

{V}

LITTLE STONES TRAPPED IN CONCRETE slabs forced into the grass. The path to the front door disintegrated before it materialized. With a somber greeting, Sgt. Bethany Powers quickly ushered us to the back of the house. Center of gravity shaken, it occurred to me the amount of time that passed since I stepped foot inside an actual house and not an apartment.

Stories hidden within stories. Trails of reality dosing dream logic. From the outside the three-story shell looked no different than the other dilapidated shitshacks that the longshoreman used to stain with sweat. But inside the ceilings were strangely arched. The second and third floors were completely removed and the walls reinforced. The three of us exchanged glances under slices of light. Gothic stone statues and heavily carved furniture were scattered everywhere allowing very little room to move.

The officers stopped short, releasing air from their constricted lungs. It was time. I looked down at the body and quickly looked away.

“That’s not Missy.” An unfathomable error. They must’ve already known. Fury built up inside of me. I felt stretched vertically as if the devil was kicking her high heel up my ass.

“What do you mean?”

“Who is it?” Sgt. Bethany Powers and Det. Anderson studied my reaction, all but taking notes.

Light through the stained glass ceiling divided the victim’s body into occult fractals. The dead writer lying on the ground, skull split, body thrashed by an evaporated predator was a polar opposite of Missy.

“Monika Gloom.” There was a strange silent understanding between the icy amazon and I. The sensation carried true into her death.

“It looks like her vocal chords were cut out with a pair of scissors.” Sgt. Bethany Powers traced an imaginary line centimeters above Monika’s throat, snipping away with long spindly fingers.

“Whoever did this tore the folds of flesh right through her neck after they were done peeling her open.” Detective Anderson’s intellectual tone conjured images of the scores of fatal wounds a person would have to examine before gaining such expertise.

“Pages thrown all over her. Once again all the books ripped off the shelves…”

“… separated from their binding.” I was turning into one of them. Finishing their sentences for them in the fashion they originally hoped.

“Okay… Farrow let’s get it over with now and not at the station. Tell us everything you know about her.” We were all playing the same game in different ways. Certain facts had to be left out to allow myself the greatest available freedom, which seemed to be diminishing in violent flashes of time. I had to give the cops something.

“She wrote the dark stuff. Her talent… her presence was intimidating.” The more I looked at Gloom, the more I zoned out. The place I entered, I didn’t want to go. I tried to drift back, but it wasn’t happening quickly enough.

“D.O.A. had a reading scheduled tonight on the Bowery.” A random cop appeared to be a fan of Gloom’s schlock. “It starts in a half hour.”

“Get moving then!” Red hair whipped me in the face, nearly stripping me of my unalienable rights.

“Farrow! Let’s get shaking, huh.” Detective Anderson nudged me away from Monika’s body.

“No chance. I’m done with you guys.” Bloody pages of A Greater Truth were stuck to my shoe. It took a few Radio City kicks and half the Harlem shuffle to shake them off.

“Have it your way.” Detective Anderson exaggerated his huffs, theatrically storming off, leaving me in the room alone with Sergeant Powers and Gloom.

“You artists are always broke, but usually can still lose yourself in a good fuck.” She grabbed my belt buckle pulling me close enough that I could smell the napalm on her breath. One hand slid between my underwear and my skin. The other she kept closed in a fist. Slowly she uncurled her fingers, revealing a crumbled twenty dollar bill in her palm. I took it and she pushed me away. Then something hit her. Her brain was storming. Lizardish oracle eyes locked on my belt buckle. Somehow she knew Percy kept my pants from falling around my ankles. Somehow she already knew.

“I don’t want to get involved.” Clearly writer genocide. Slit throats flooding, screaming vowels and owl eyes of frozen cadavers. Burn all books, drain all ink, smash all screens.

“We have nothing. Believe me when I tell you this. Remember you or someone you love will be next. Go to the reading. Just go and see if anything feels strange.” Damn sexy how she mixed her bullshit with sincerity as she found a better grip, stroking me.