Ad Nauseam

INK



“It’s not fair.”

Andrea spoke a little too loudly, attracting glances from nearby diners. “My brother is dead and they get away scotch free!”

“Scot-free,” Stella corrected softly.

“What?”

“It’s scot-free. Not scotch free.”

“Who cares?” She waved a well-manicured hand. “I can’t believe the judge didn’t hold them responsible for Michael’s death.”

Stella pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, trying in vain to stave off the headache that always seemed to come when she spent any amount of time with her young sister-in-law.

“It was an accident, Andrea. Suing the restaurant isn’t going to bring him back.”

“Maybe not, but it’s not fair. Someone should be punished for this. Someone screwed up and I lost my brother. And it wasn’t an accident. Noel said that someone was directly responsible. It was murder.”

“Who said it was murder?” Stella kept her own voice low, hoping Andrea might follow suit.

“Noel. You know, my psychic. From the psychic advisor forum. I know I’ve mentioned her about a hundred times. Don’t you ever listen?” Andrea rolled her eyes.

“Yeah. The psychic. Sorry. So you’re doing all of this because some woman you met online says she knows that someone murdered Michael.” The urge to wring Andrea’s slim neck grew every time the girl opened her mouth. “How much are you paying this woman?”

“Enough. Don’t worry about it. She’s worth every penny. Noel said that Michael was murdered. That’s good enough for me. It never really felt like an accident, anyway. Not really. Deep in my heart it always felt like murder. I can’t believe you aren’t more supportive of this. He was your husband after all.”

“Damnit Andrea, it’s been over a year. You think you’re the only one who misses him? At least you still have Rick and the kids. I have nobody anymore. Just the house. I still have to sleep in that big bed alone, knowing that Michael will never be snoring next to me again. Hell, I even miss the snoring.” Stella dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a linen napkin before her mascara could start to run. “He was my whole world, but I accept that he is gone and nothing I could ever do would bring him back. It’s about time that you accept it, too.”

Andrea reached across the table and patted Stella’s hand, her face full of remorse.

She was silly and selfish at times, and extremely stubborn, but she wasn’t a deliberately cruel person. A lifetime of wealth and being pampered by her parents, then by her older brother after their folks were killed in a car accident, had left Andrea with little idea of how things worked in the real world. She was the only link Stella still had to Michael.

“I’m sorry, Stella. I know you’ve suffered, too. And you’re not alone. You are a part of our family, too. Rick and the kids adore you, and you’re like a sister to me. That’s why I’m doing this for the both of us. No matter what you say, I know we will both sleep better once there’s justice for Michael, once the killer pays for taking him from us.”

“What are you talking about? The judge ruled it an accident. The case is closed.” Stella would’ve given anything to be home in bed right then, rather than sitting in a fancy restaurant listening to Andrea’s schemes, but their weekly lunch dates were a tradition her sister-in-law had insisted should continue on.

At first Stella had thought Andrea was doing it for her, to keep her in some sort of routine, but quickly realized the lunches were also Andrea’s much needed diversion from the daily demands of motherhood.

The waiter interrupted then, bringing them the bill for their sandwiches and wine.

Andrea snatched it off the table and produced a platinum card from her small purse with a flourish. She didn’t speak again until after the waiter returned with the receipt, leaving with her signature and a healthy tip.

“It’s not over yet.” Finally, she dropped her voice low, leaning over the table toward Stella, her eyes alight with a cold sparkle.

“What do you mean?” Stella felt herself leaning in as well, against her volition.

“Noel introduced me to someone. A guy that handles these sorts of things, though I’m not allowed to speak his name out loud. He’s going to take care of it for me.” Andrea smiled, though it was a hard expression, with little mirth.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific, dear.” Stella frowned. “Because I’m not following. How does he take care of these things?”

“I’m not sure how it works exactly. Witchcraft, voodoo, hoodoo. All I know is that he has magic. And he promised to make the murderer pay. Like a curse or something.”

Andrea looked so serious.

Stella instantly regretted the laugh that escaped her, knowing the outrage and hurt on the other woman’s face was her fault. Despite the damage to Andrea’s ego, a few more giggles slipped out before a sobering thought occurred to her, erasing the hilarity of the situation instantly.

“Oh God, Andrea! Please tell me you haven’t been meeting with these people.”

“Of course not. I’m not stupid. The whole transaction took place online.” Andrea sniffed, her eyes squinted in offense like she smelled something bad and just realized Stella was the source.

“Transaction? You mean you paid this guy?”

“Of course I paid him. He wasn’t going to do it for free.”

“With a credit card? Oh Christ! These people will clean you out. What if they’re scam artists, Andrea? How could you be so dumb?” Stella regretted the words the moment she spoke, but the damage was already done.

“I won’t talk about this anymore,” Andrea said, her jaw tight and her eyes downcast. “I think I should take you home.”

“Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”

***

The drive to her house was long and filled with a tense silence while Stella tried a hundred times to form the right words to apologize. In the end, she just blurted it out, not willing to open the car door until things were better between them.

“Look, I’m sorry Andrea. I didn’t mean it the way it came out. You know I love you and I worry, right? It’s okay if you want to believe in that stuff, but when they start taking your money, well, I get defensive of you. I want closure as badly as you do, sweetie. But I don’t think paying some guy to get revenge for an accident is the way.”

Andrea nodded, reaching over to hug her sister-in-law. After the awkward embrace, Stella smiled and pulled away.

“How about we go shoe shopping tomorrow? It’s been a while since I got a new pair of shoes.”

“Yeah. We could do that.” Andrea sniffed a bit, but smiled softly. “I’ll come by tomorrow to get you. Noon? We could do lunch again.”

“Sounds great.” Stella got out of the car and stood in the driveway, waving as Andrea backed out onto the road. When her sister-in-law was gone from sight, she turned back to the house and just stood, staring at it. Her dream house.

She remembered how excited she had been when they first saw it. How her heart had hammered in her chest, and how she refused to look at any other places, begging Michael until he bid on this one. How she made him raise the amount twice when they learned others had shown serious interest. It was still beautiful. It was still everything she had ever wanted in a home, but lately it felt like just a house.

Walking in through the front door, she averted her eyes from the couch by the picture window, but still saw it in her mind. The cop on his knees, retrieving Michael’s Epi-pen from underneath the sofa, not in the breast pocket of his jacket where it belonged. Stella hadn’t sat on that couch for over a year now. Every time she tried, she saw the sad look on the cop’s face, the apologetic shake of his head. His soft words to the grieving widow.

“It wasn’t your fault, ma’am. It must’ve fallen out and rolled under.”

Stella walked through the dining room to the fridge, retrieving a chilled bottle of Moscato and a wine glass from the cupboard. A sweet wine with a dry and bitter aftertaste, like a marriage could be.

Leaning against the counter, she stared at the empty dinette table where they had eaten their last meal, trying hard not to see the panic on his face as he realized some incompetent cook had allowed a single piece of shrimp to contaminate his take-out chicken stir-fry. After a few seconds she closed her eyes, letting the images come, knowing they would prick at her senses until she gave in.

She saw his handsome face turning red, his smooth voice gasping for her to retrieve the rescue syringe, hands digging at the outside of his throat as if this could somehow stop the swelling within. Those hands reaching for her from where he had fallen to the floor when she returned empty handed, his face purple, his eyes bulging and begging for help. She heard her own tearful plea for help from the operator, and the whine of the ambulance in the driveway.

The whoosh of breath from the paramedic performing CPR as he dropped his weight on her husband’s chest, his clenched hands breaking Michael’s ribs. The soft beeping sound of the machines in the hospital, slowing then stopping as they unplugged the life support and let him go. The sound of Andrea wailing that they couldn’t be sure, he might not be brain dead!

Stella wiped her tears with the back of her hand and finished her wine in one long gulp, before refilling the glass once again. She toasted the empty chair at the head of the table.

“I miss you, Michael. I never knew I could miss you this much.”

The two glasses of Moscato on top of the martinis she drank at lunch, along with the recent onslaught of melancholic memories began to conspire against her. Stella placed her glass gently in the sink before stumbling to the bedroom. Collapsing upon the bed she and Michael had shared for five years, she gave in to the sobs and cried herself to sleep.

***

Stella woke from a nightmare so awful her stomach churned, sending her scrambling to the bathroom in just enough time to see the day’s meal and alcohol reappear into the toilet. When her retching had subsided, she turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it, and stood beneath the scalding stream, the remnants of the dream fading slowly. She knew that in it Michael had been alive again. She could hear the fading echoes of his voice calling her vain. Calling her a whore.

Standing before the full length mirror she ran her hands gently across her bare body, stopping to caress the concave smoothness of her belly before trailing her fingertips over the small tattoo on her right hip. Michael had hated it, saying it looked trashy and marred her otherwise perfect body, but Stella loved that tiny rosebud with its delicate, encircling thorny vine. Leaning her forehead against the cool mirror, she let her hand wander back to her stomach with a heavy sigh and thought about what was really behind the nightmare. The fight. That stupid, wretched fight.

In five years of marriage, Michael and Stella had their share of quarrels like any other couple, but that last one had been different. There had been such a hardness in Michael when he said he would leave her. She’d known he meant it. She couldn’t even blame him for it. Not really. Hadn’t she been the one to lead him on about his desires for a family, only to find every excuse possible to put it off?

She’d been the one lying to him, saying they would try for a baby while secretly taking the pill for years. She’d even let him go to the doctor and get tested, when he believed their failure to conceive had been because of him. It was only natural he would feel betrayed upon finding her birth control, tucked deep in the cabinet behind her tampons where she thought for certain he would never look.

It was even her fault that he had come to the conclusion he had about why she did it. She hadn’t corrected him when he said she was vain and didn’t want to ruin her body with a child. That she was selfish and didn’t want to be saddled with the care of another human being’s needs. It was even almost true.

If only Stella had been honest with Michael. She could’ve shared her deepest fears with him. He was her husband, the one person with whom she was supposed to hold back nothing. She knew in her heart he would’ve forgiven her. He would’ve maybe reassured her, and she could’ve left all those fears behind. Michael had loved her. Despite whatever failings he may have had, he always loved her.

Stella stepped back and looked at her reflection again, cupping first one small breast, then the other and releasing them, observing for any sign of sagging. Maybe she should get that boob job Michael had refused to let her have. Her breasts still looked good, but they could stand to be a bit bigger.

What Michael hadn’t known was, at the root of her vanity lay fear. The terror of being thrust back into poverty, to struggle for everything she ever had, like she did before she married Michael. He had never been poor. Never known what it was like to have nothing but your looks to get you by. Never had to use his looks to fight his way through the world.

What if she had a few kids and Michael stopped loving her? What if her stretch marks and sagging tits made her so unappealing that he started having affairs? What if he left her for a younger woman? It happened every day. Men almost routinely left the women who had borne and raised their children for younger, more attractive girls. What would she have then? In the end, it was a risk she hadn’t been able to take, and when Michael found out, he had been devastated. Though she’d calmed him and promised to work it out, she knew that he would’ve left her soon. The rift was too much to repair.

Leaving her robe on the hook behind the door, Stella walked through the house, stepping out onto the back porch where floodlights reflected off the swimming pool’s blue water. The ocean’s surf crashed a few blocks away, another thing Michael had taken exception to. She could hear him in her head: Having a swimming pool this close to the ocean is pretentious, dear. We will look like a*sholes. Stella didn’t care. Deep down, she liked pretentious. She deserved pretentious. The high fence around the backyard prevented all but those in the upper levels of the neighboring houses from seeing her nudity, though their windows were dark.

The night was warm, but the water made her gasp when she entered, each step submerging more of her, until the cold slipped over her breasts in a pleasant sensation that took her breath away and chased off any lingering, brooding thoughts. Stella swam laps until her limbs felt rubbery with exhaustion, then reclined on the steps, allowing her body to float out in front of her as she rested her buoyant weight on her elbows. She wondered what it would be like to just let the water soothe her to sleep, slipping under to drown in her slumber. Something splashed into the far end of the pool, a soft noise she heard but disregarded without opening her eyes.

The floodlights flickered, then went out, leaving Stella to float in the dark. Her heart lurched and began to pound with fear. Don’t be a ninny, it’s just a rolling blackout. Too many people in the city running their air conditioners. She laughed to herself, but the sound did little to calm her nerves. With the moon behind a cloud, the night was pitch black, and the sound of the surf seemed to swell in the darkness. She reached out a hand and could barely see it before her face. Time to get out.

As Stella sat up on the steps, a strange sensation made her pause. A tickling started at her hip, before slowly spreading up her side to her breast, as if someone were lightly running their fingertip across her bare flesh. Goosebumps rose along her body as a wave of heat followed the path to her nipple, pleasure exploding from its peak to wash over her.

She laid back slightly, the pleasant feeling causing her to moan. There had been no one since Michael’s death, no lovers beside her own infrequent masturbation, and the unexpected rush paralyzed her with pleasure. It spread to the other breast and she nearly cried out from the intensity. Twin lovers suckled her breasts, though no one shared the pool with her and her hands floated by her sides. The tickling wove from her hip around her thigh, where it traced its way across her * and into her vagina. She gasped and let her thighs fall open, arching her back and thrusting her pelvis upward as the first ripples of orgasm flowed through her body.

Her breasts throbbing with pleasure and her pelvis awash in ecstasy as wave after wave of climax rocked her body, Stella whimpered, all thoughts of the darkness and leaving the pool lost in a haze of sexual splendor. The lights came back on, but she didn’t notice, shuddering in the water as her phantom lover worked his magic on her senses, making her cry out her joy. The sensations battered her until she feared she may lose consciousness, drowning in her own pool to be found blue and lifeless in the morning when Andrea came for their shopping spree.

Reluctantly opening her eyes, bewildered by the power of her arousal, Stella glanced down at her body where it floated in the water, and a scream bubbled out of her throat. Something small and strange had attached itself to her tattoo, a jelly-fish like creature with short tentacles and a translucent body. She flicked at it with her hand, but it clung to the flesh, unwilling to be dislodged.

With a cry that was part terror and part revulsion, she squeezed its soft body, gagging as it let go with the sound of a suction cup peeled off glass. She threw it over the edge of the pool, her eyes wide in shock as she looked at what the awful parasite had done to her body. Her legs numb as orgasms continued to rip through her, she crawled up the steps and got to her feet, making her way unsteadily into the house and to the bedroom. Standing before the mirror, hands braced against the wall, her legs threatened to give out as yet another climax rocked her body. Her breasts still throbbed with sensation, though it now bordered on pain.

Stella began to cry as she gazed at her reflection in disbelief. She took one hand off the wall and ran it over her flesh, sobbing as she traced the lines of the tattoo.

Thorny vines that had once encircled the small rose bud on her hip, now streaked up her torso, encircling both her breasts and darkening her nipples. Her torso resembled a demented puzzle, thorny lines covering it in crazy jags. The vines also trailed over hip and across the shaven mound of her sex, disappearing in the cleft.

She bent her knees slightly and spread the fleshy lips apart, crying out when she saw the tattooed vines disappearing into her vagina. Her slick flesh visibly rippled with the force of the pleasure/pain that gripped her pelvis. No, no, no. It can’t be! What the hell is going on? This can’t be happening to me!

Movement on her chest caught Stella’s attention, and she looked up at her reflection, her eyes wide in her pale face as she watched the vines grow, dark ink sliding under the skin, across her chest and up to her neck. Crazy. I’m going crazy! Large buds began to form on either side of her throat. Her legs gave out as orgasms continued to shake her, now more painful than pleasant. Dropping to her knees, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, watching as the buds continued to grow, starting to bloom on her skin.

An unwanted vision rose in her head. Andrea finds her dead on the bathroom floor and shakes her head, a voodoo priest replete with painted skull face and feather bedecked staff stands beside her and points at Stella’s lifeless form accusingly.

The buds bloomed fully, revealing a pair of hands that wrapped around Stella’s throat, the ink moving fluidly as it spread under her skin. Her face turned red, then purple as she began to cough, no longer able to draw breath as she felt pressure on her windpipe. She could see small blood vessels rupture in her face, dark blotches appearing in spider web patterns. Sliding down the glass, she fell to the floor, her face pressed against her own reflection.

Her own face faded from view, replaced by a ghostly reflection of Michael in the mirror, his face purple with death, but his eyes boring into her own, accusing, knowing.

Though there was no way he could’ve seen into the living room from where he had collapsed onto the floor that night, Stella knew that he knew exactly what happened. And he knew why. Looking into those hate-filled orbs, she saw herself rushing from the kitchen and finding his coat slung over the chair. Grabbing the Epi-pen from the pocket, she watched herself freeze, a look of panicked consideration on her face. She knows what was going through her own mind at the moment. He’s going to divorce me. He will leave me with nothing.

Stella stands for a moment with the rescue syringe gripped in her hand, then she throws it under the couch, tears streaming down her face as she walks back to the kitchen. Michael reaches a clawed hand toward her, his mouth moving, but no sound emerges. She can read his lips. He says, ‘Please.’ Grabbing the phone off the cradle, she waits another five minutes after Michael has ceased moving to dial 911. She sobs into the phone asking for help and really wanting it, wanting someone to undo what she has allowed to happen, but it’s too late. The events can’t be undone.

Stella lay on the floor, unable to breathe as the blood pounded in her head and her chest burned with the effort to draw in air. Her face was pressed against the mirror, but she could no longer see herself or Michael as bright flashes of light overtook her vision. She heard a roar in her ears and a cracking sound as the cartilage of her windpipe gave way. I take it back. I didn’t mean it. I was afraid. I’m so sorry! I take it back! Darkness took her sight as she drifted into unconsciousness, a searing pain in her chest as her heart sputtered and stilled.

I’m sorry.