Girl Desecrated 1984: Vampires, Asylums and Highlanders, page 10
She turned her condemning eyes my way. “What were you thinking?”
I opened my arms, palms up, “Obvioushly…” The word slurred against my teeth as the last whiskey hit my bloodstream. “I wasn’t.”
I leaned back, the pressure of my body against the taxi seat releasing the smell of vomit and sweat into the moist air of the cab.
Trying to change the subject, I said, “Happy to see you in once… one piesh,”
Her black hair flew out from her head like whiptails, as she rounded to face front.
“You never think past your own needs!” She yapped in her most exasperated mother’s voice.
Depending on Lene’s mood, I would either have to walk home from her place, or she’d pay for the cab to take me home after she got out. Since she was playing wounded mama, I was pretty sure I was getting a ride all the way home tonight.
The cabby caught my eyes in the rear-view mirror, and tented his bushy brows in disapproval. Always, the judgement. I ran my tongue provocatively along my upper lip. He quickly looked away.
The street lamps made yellowish globes of murky light against the dark night. I mourned my lost chance to ride the Scottish bull and sighed, fogging the glass.
The cab pulled out into the street, but the red eye of the traffic light stopped the car in the shadow of the Church of Our Lady. The light of the full moon turned our foggy exhaust into white plumes that floated up toward the gothic spires of the church. The twin towering peaks lorded over the city of Guelph, and below, the ornate wooden doors whispered of the wonders within. I was tempted.
A hollow echo heaved in my stomach at the thought. The sensation was stronger than before, and I wanted to lift my shirt, see if I could catch movement beneath the skin lying taunt on my stomach. Another loud grumble rolled through my intestines.
The cabby gave me a worried look in the mirror, “Are you going to be sick?”
I shook my head. Lene turned around and gawked at me, then turned back saying, “She’s just trying to get attention.”
The moonlight streaming through the window glowed on my shirt. Slipping my cold fingers under the black lace, I waited, holding steady while the seconds passed. Then I turned my gaze to the concrete steps that led up to the Church’s door. The bubbling pulse started, and I quickly yanked up my shirt. Right above my belly button, my skin twisted, as if someone had grabbed it and turned it counter clockwise from inside.
I gasped, then pulled my shirt down, checking to make sure Lene and the cabby hadn’t seen what I’d seen. They were busy watching the street light, ahead.
Sweat broke out on my forehead. I tried to rationalize what had happened. The doctor said I might start seeing things. Well, no shit, Sherlock, I had. In one night, I’d already seen more than my fair share of weird. This was just one more unexplainable event to add to my list of insane happenings.
I wanted to cross my arms, but I was afraid to rest my arms on my stomach.
The green light beckoned. The cabby put the taxi in drive at the same moment I heard heavy footsteps slapping the sidewalk.
“Wait!” I yelled at the driver.
He hit the brake, and I twisted in my seat hoping to see Angus rushing to rescue me from Lene.
A dark figure smacked his hands down onto the roof, his body blocking out my view of the church’s tall stained glass windows.
“Don’t…” Lene’s warning was lost in the squeaky descent of my window as I rolled it all the way down.
Before I could look up at his face, the man threw something at me. It hit my chest with a plastic rattle and tumbled into my lap. I grabbed at it, and when I looked up he was gone.
“What is it?” Lene asked, trying to see what I was holding.
The cab moved forward, and I held up a cassette tape for Lene to see.
“Weird.”
The cold wind blew my hair across my eyes.
“I’d say,” I agreed, and tossed my hair back. That made my head spin, so I stopped moving. The passing street light momentarily lit up the black square in my hand.
“Who’s it by?” Lene asked.
I squinted, trying to see the worn out white letters on the cassette label. “I can’t make it out.”
The cabby took a turn, and I tipped drunkenly sideways, almost fumbling the tape out the open window. “Shit!”
We stopped at another light, and I rolled up the window before anyone else could throw junk at me.
“Who do you think that was?” I asked Lene.
“Who knows? Some hobo, probably.” She turned back to face front.
“You don’t think it was Angus?” I asked.
“Who’s Angus?”
I slipped the cassette into my jacket pocket and leaned back against the seat.
“Never mind,” I mumbled.
I no longer had the spins, but I was nauseous. Sickened by the thought that my friend didn’t care enough about me to even know who I was talking to all night.
And I wasn’t the only one who had talked to him.
I had to go see Dr. Casbus and tell him about the voice taking over. And maybe while I was there, I could see my mom.
I checked my pockets for the yellow foolscap letter Man-boy had delivered from my mother. Then recalled I had thrown it into the washroom garbage.
Struck by daughter guilt, I decided when I went to the Homeward, when I saw my mother in a straightjacket, her hair wild with knots, her condemning lips rolled in under her teeth, I would make a point to ask her about the letter, and her reference to the biblical Job. It would make her happy to preach at me for a while.
Another ripple moved under my shirt, and I slapped my hand down onto my belly, accidently knocking my wind out.
“Ignore her,” Lene said to the cabby.
JAMESTOWN: CAIN OF ARRAN’S FIELD
~
WILLIAM’S BROTHER, EDWARD, HAD BEEN wary of the She from the beginning, from that first day at the Jamestown bride pairing. Edward had been struck by the majesty of the woman walking directly towards him, her steps as sure as if she already knew who she would choose as a husband. Edward’s heart had leapt into his throat and a fine sheen of sweat had broken out onto his forehead beneath his golden hair, for he had thought that beauty was coming to choose him.
He had pulled his hat from his head and would have already been in a bow, if he could have torn his sky-blue eyes from her countenance. That’s when his older brother had stepped forward, swept his hat off his head in a flourish of grace and aplomb, the corner of his hat coasting above the ground, then stood to present himself without regard for decorum.
“My lady, I am William Cain of Arran’s Field.”
“Honoured, I’m sure,” she had simpered in the musical cadence of her newly acquired colony speech.
As Edward was occupied with composing himself enough to speak, William continued, “And might I have the honour of knowing your name?”
“Why, it’s Scarlett, of course!”
The joyous lilt of her voice and the warmth of the smile she bestowed upon them left the two men desiring to hear more.
After a few halting seconds, William remembered himself and introduced his brother Edward. But for William’s dark hair, the two could have been mistaken for twins, but Scarlett’s sharp glance picked out the minor differences between them.
A flash of her lashes and Edward barely resisted dropping to his knees in the dirt of the street and begging for her hand. An action that would surely have led to social embarrassment, if not total scandal.
The lady briefly took in Edward’s trim figure before her eyes returned to conduct an unseemly appraisal of William.
“My darling, Scarlett,” William said, taking liberties that set Edward to blushing, “have you by chance seen the red songbird that shares your name?”
The lady had the grace to look surprised. “You do not mean the Scarlett Cardinal, my favourite bird of all?”
“I do indeed!” William held out his elbow, and Scarlett stepped up to place her slim-fingered hand upon his arm.
“And what of these beauties?” She looked around at the women standing in conversation with would-be suitors. Some ladies were strolling arm in arm with lucky fellows who had succeeded in extricating brides from the crowd. “Do you have any feathered favourites among this flock?”
Edward, not to be left behind, took a few hurried steps to catch up. He moved to the lady’s other side, and graciously offered his arm, of which behaviour, Scarlett approved. Placing her hand upon his arm, she walked between the two most eligible and sought after men in the colony of Virginia.
Before William could think up a pleasing answer for Scarlett, Edward, attempting to be clever, said in a rush, “He’s soon to wed the Indigo Bunting.”
That stopped the lady’s small boot steps.
“Oh!” Scarlett took her hand from William’s arm to touch her throat. “Tell me it is not true. Quickly, before I succumb to my disappointment.”
“It is not true.” He gave another of his graceful bows.
“But…” Edward started.
William raised his eyebrows in warning. “My dear brother, how could I possibly be marrying Miss Anne when I am betrothed to Miss. Scarlett?”
Edward looked stricken. His eyes darted to Scarlett’s glowing face, which was composed and peaceful. They seemed to enjoy Edward’s confusion. With a sly grin, William even seemed to be daring him to challenge the subject.
Edward did what any fine gentlemen of the time would have done. He brought his heels together, reached out his gloved hand for the lady’s and bowed over it, while saying, “Let me be the first to welcome you to the Cain family.”
But inside that calm, socially trained exterior, one word was ringing an alarm in Edward’s thoughts about his brother’s easy surrender.
Bewitched.
CHAPTER 9: CALLING ON HIS NAME
~
I OPENED MY EYES AND looked at the door of my one-bedroom, basement apartment. It gave me no clue as to the time of day, for the thick curtain was drawn on the window.
The darkness signalled I should sleep more. But, my bladder cramped out a toilet call. Throwing off my quilt, I staggered into the space that was my kitchen. In the pitch dark, I avoided the corner of the kitchen counter, but mistimed and tripped up the one step leading to my bathroom. Putting out my hand to stop my fall through the bathroom door, I rapped my knuckles on the sink and let out a yelp as my shoulder slammed the door against the wall.
“Shhhhhh,” I warned myself and listened for movements from upstairs.
The new landlord and his wife lived above in the main part of the house. She wanted me out, and he just wanted me. I was careful not to give either of them what they wanted.
Satisfied no one had heard my less than graceful entry, I slid my hand up the wall trying to find the light switch. A flick of my newly bruised knuckle and the bare bulb hanging from the tile-stained ceiling flashed on. The harsh light stabbed my sleep-drunk eyes. I raised my hand and waited for my pupils to adjust.
As I stood in front of the mirror, my eyes sheltered from the glare, a familiar sense of dread crept over me.
What if I look into the mirror and it isn’t me looking back?
I cleared my throat and tried to shake off the paranoia, but memories of other episodes crowded my logic. Many times, after waking from a bad dream, I would feel disconnected from myself. I would begin to think the feeling would manifest into flesh. That I would be replaced in the mirror’s reflection.
I hoped the fear was part of my psychosis, confirmed by Dr. Casbus’ diagnosis of my alternate personality. Reason told me my ‘alter’ couldn’t change how I appeared on the outside. But the idea of a part of me getting so strong it could take over my life and look at me through my own eyes left me quaking.
My raised arm began to ache, but that was only the beginning. If I didn’t face myself soon, I wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror, not now, not tomorrow, and possibly not ever. I had to face myself.
Slowly, I lowered my hand and looked at my reflection.
A riot of rebellious, pillow shredded curls framed my oval face. My skin was a little pastier than normal. Lack of sleep and too much drinking can do that. Or maybe the dried berry shade of long lasting lipstick, which still kissed my pouting lips, made me look pale. I leaned closer, peering into my eyes. The velvety brown of my irises led straight to my tortured soul, but nothing in that rich colour, nor in my Bette Davis lids drooping in sleepy invitation, hinted of sinister doings. No duplicity, no threat. That wholesome-gone-trashy girl looking back at me, was plainly, me. I closed my eyes and dropped my head back. What a relief!
Pushing my layered bangs back off my face reminded me of Angus. With a thrill in my belly, it all came back—my birthday drink-a-thon, the Scottish invasion, Lene breaking off with her loser boyfriend, Reg. Hotter than hot Angus and his muscular thighs, glass after glass of whiskey burning through my guts. And… and Angus. The way he had thumbed my chin up, so he could look deep into my eyes, the way he had wrapped his arm around my shoulder.
Looking at myself, now, I didn’t see what made Angus so attentive. And thanks to Patrick and his demands of celibacy, my well-honed skills in the sack were going completely to waste.
I probably wouldn’t see the Scot again.
More memories of the night before filtered in past my booze-soaked brain. Donald’s greasy scent, the southern slip-ups, the voice on the phone, the impulse to break Lene’s neck, and the stranger who had thrown the cassette tape onto my lap through the cab window.
“What a weird kirked out night,” I squeaked to the mirror.
At the sound of my voice, my heart jacked up, pushing blood through my system and pounding in my ears.
“Stay calm, hoser,” I whispered.
Sitting on the toilet, I finally released the hot urine that had irritated me awake. From where I was seated, I could see into the L-shaped hall that connected the washroom to the kitchen. Not much light leaked out into the hall, but there was enough to show me something dark lumped on the lime green rug off to the side. I blinked to clear my vision. I hadn’t seen it on the way into the bathroom, but then again, the lights had been off.
I stood up, flushed the toilet and cautiously stepped closer to the bathroom door. My body cast a long red shadow, my shadow colour, over the lump, which was red and black. And plaid.
A dark feeling slithered up my spine and embedded itself in the base of my skull with a dull burn.
The thing crumpled on the rug was Donald’s Muskoka dinner jacket.
I braced my hands on either side of the door jamb, and searched my memory for any reason why the American’s jacket would be in my apartment. I came up blank. I had no memory of meeting up with Donald at any time last night. I had no memory past the cab ride, past the point when someone had thrown that cassette at me.
Had I been so drunk I’d had a blackout?
What if I had brought Donald home, and what if he was out there, in my apartment, waiting for me to leave the washroom?
I crossed my arms over my thin t-shirt and listened intently for any sound of movement. The refrigerator hummed, and the kitchen tap dripped with a plunk, every few seconds. The faint sound of a car driving by outside, its tires making a muffled swishing sound on the asphalt, carried to my ears.
If Donald was out there, I had to go out and face him.
As soon as I made the decision, the air seemed to pull out of the room sucking me into place. I tried to move my feet, but I was held fast by an unseen pressure.
Terror skittered over my limbs like rats leaving a sinking ship.
My senses went into overdrive. Nostrils flaring to catch a scent, the roaring of blood coursing through my system, thrumming in my ears. All normal fight or flight responses.
And then something abnormal happened. My left arm warmed from the outside. It felt like someone was leaning against me.
My eyes shot to the mirror to see who was standing at my side. The only person in the reflection was wide-eyed with terror. And that was me. I could still feel the presence, the pressure. I started to reach out with my right hand, intent on feeling the invisible form that was there. But I never got a chance to touch it.
It touched me, first.
The unmistakable brush of a hand against my breast shocked a cry from my mute throat. I fell to the side, my arm driving down into the toilet. Cold water splashed onto my face. Sputtering, I pushed off the toilet seat, and spun wildly trying to get to my feet, droplets spraying off my hand onto the wood-panelled walls.
I ran out of the bathroom, crossed my apartment in record time, and leapt the last few feet onto my bed. The old frame groaned, the head board banged against the wall with a sharp slam, rattling the window above it.
Like a child, I scurried under the covers and pulled the blankets up over my head.
In my little den of safety, surrounded by my panting, I trembled. I was too much of a coward to even think of facing down whatever was out there.
Instead, I inhaled my stale morning breath which carried less oxygen with each gasp until my head started to throb.
My mother had told me the demons would come and would punish me like Job, with blisters and horrors and loss.
My childhood fears were running wild.
I tried to think logically. Dr. Casbus would tell me I was suffering a psychotic episode brought on by misfiring brain chemicals and neurons.
But, if my mother was right, I needed to call on God’s name for protection.
If Casbus was right, I needed to calm down, dial zero, and get an ambulance.
Flapping my arms up like a bat, I flipped the ends of the blankets out like a net to capture fresh air. Then I wrapped it around my body again, sucking in the cool lungful.
“You’re just my imagination,” I whispered under the blanket.
Help me.
“It’s just me being stupid.”
The feeling of being watched trickled like ice water over my back. I pressed my lips together and waited for a hand to yank the blankets off my head.
