“What was it like when you were with him?”
I stand, pacing the expanse between my two bedrooms. Crossing the thresholds feels like moving between my two selves—sex kitten to lonely woman. JessReilly19 to scheming murderess. I pushed against his hard chest, and then he was there, in my mouth, his tongue pressed gently against mine, and my own traitorous mouth responded, my heart rate increased, my hands moved of their own accord to his strong arms. Shoving the blade of the box cutters deep into his skin, the blood bursting from the movement, spraying gently upon my hand. I tasted him, greedy for everything; my hands roamed everywhere, grabbed at his shirt, hastily undoing the buttons. If he came back, if he came inside, I could be more prepared, could succeed in my quest for death.
“Deanna?”
I halt, trying to focus. “I’m sorry—what was the question?”
“What was it like when you were with him? How did you feel?”
“I wanted him.” On me, in me, dead beneath me.
“In what way?” Derek’s voice is so sensual, so soothing, so male. I make a decision, moving to my pink bed, and lay back on the sheets that smell of lube and latex.
“Every way. I wanted him to continue, to touch me, to run his hands up and down my body. I wanted to feel the warmth of him against my skin. I wanted his cock, hard and firm, fucking me in and out—” I stop, my fingers inside of me, my * soaking wet, my back arched – posing for the camera that isn’t on me. I have done it. I have slipped into the Jessica role, into my habit of graphically describing sex, the habit that my clients loved and the habit that made them hard and caused them to come. With Derek. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is any part of me left? Or have my two egos claimed it all?
There is silence on his end. Silence and breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, sitting up and trying to resume some semblance of a professional tone. “I wanted him to fuck me, but I also wanted to kill him. It was exhausting—an inner battle that, at one moment, would have the sexual side dominating, winning the war—but then I would lose control and want only to hurt him. I don’t want to go through that again.”
“Then you have your decision.”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
I glance at the clock, waiting, willing the numbers to change. They behave, dutifully changing as my eyes watched. “It’s been thirty minutes. I’ll talk to you on Monday.”
“Deanna, we need to finish this—”
I hang up, pressing the end button longer than necessary, watching the phone dim then go black. Then I roll, coming off of the bed and yank open my right top drawer, pulling out black leather and silver studs. Today is definitely a dominatrix day.
CHAPTER 37: Carolyn Thompson
The utility bill was due. Actually, it was overdue—by two weeks now. They owed $124.55, and couldn’t get another extension. Carolyn Thompson walked down the narrow hall to Annie’s room, trying to think of a solution. She didn’t want to ask the church for more money and didn’t want to bother any more family. Henry’s disability check wouldn’t arrive for another two weeks, and it barely covered his medication, let alone the mountain of bills. She pushed on Annie’s door, the thin wood sliding open soundlessly. Annie’s bed was empty, the light from the window filling the room with bright sunshine.
“Annie,” she spoke quietly, not wanting to wake her husband, who slept in the next room. She walked forward, picking up a discarded sock and the remnants of a popped balloon off the floor, moving to the clothes hamper and then the trash. Always something. Never enough time or enough money. “Annie. I don’t have time for this; we’ve got to get you ready for school.” She moved to the bathroom, opening the door, looking behind the shower curtain. “Annie!” She gave up the attempt to be quiet, irritated and short on time. “Annie! Come out, I’ve got to get you dressed! I don’t have time to look for you!”
She heard a noise, from the back bedroom. Great. Her husband was awake. She moved down the hall, opening the door to their bedroom. “Honey, Annie is hiding. Let me find her and get her dressed, then I’ll come and help you.” He nodded from the bed, and she closed the door, moving past the wheelchair in the hall and headed for the living room, her voice now at maximum volume. “Annie Thompson! I am not playing with you! Get out here NOW!”
Annie was not in the trailer, a fact easily discovered in the five minutes her mother spent searching. It was one of the few benefits of three people living in eight hundred square feet. She moved outside, her stride purposeful, the utility bill forgotten. She was not yet worried.
Henry Thompson sat upright in bed, cursing his useless legs. He had heard Carolyn search the home, heard her calls to Annie, seen her come in the bedroom and search the small space, hoping that she hid under their bed, or in their closet. Now she was outside, her calls increasing in volume and frequency. Something was wrong. Carolyn might not yet realize it, but something was definitely wrong. Annie wouldn’t do this to them. She wouldn’t bring worry to Carolyn, a woman who already carried too much stress. He lifted his legs, sliding his body to the edge of the bed, and reached out for the nightstand with his hand.
Carolyn stood in Georgia dirt, cotton fields surrounding her—the plants small, in early stages of growth, too short and puny to hide a child. And she realized, as sun warmed her back, and gentle wind rustled empty fields, Annie was gone.
He felt her despair, felt the moment that she came to the same realization as him. He heard her inner wail before it left her lips. And in that moment, that breakage, when Carolyn sank to her knees in the Georgia clay, his hand slipped and his body tumbled to the ground, legs helpless to catch him.
Somewhere, in darkness, Annie began to cry.
CHAPTER 38: Annie