C H A P T E R 27
C H A P T E R 27
MY WORK OF ART
Puppeteer
Play - ‘Unfair - The Neighbourhood’
T he fridge opening breaks the silence of the eerily quiet night, a bottle of corona tinkers against the plastic as I pull it out, only to realise it's the last one. I've gone through an entire crate of six in less than an hour hoping for that familiar buzz that sometimes helps me close my eyes for a while. Shep peers at me from the couch waiting for me to plant my ass back down but I close the fridge door and find my bearings for a moment, pulling out a freshly made cigarette before sliding it between my lips waiting for those endorphins to riddle my core. My backsides wedged into the island as I lean back, blowing my ghost into the still air as it lingers like a premonition while I close my eyes and focus on anything but the things that won't stop smothering my every thought. The living room is pitch black at night, not even the nearest streetlamp can reach the windows and it's where I feel most alive. Most at peace. In darkness where I belong. Where I can imagine death for a while and pretend I'm no longer here.
The bedroom door clicks, causing me to open my eyes, peering up at the pitch-black void that is my kitchen ceiling and momentarily roll my eyes at my disturbance. I hear the chains on Sheps collar clank and a floorboard creek between her tiny feet before I'm met with more silence.
She stands there for a while. Maybe a little too long and I wonder if she knows I can see her through the back of my head with her bourbon eyes burrowing into this glass like she's trying to fill me up with answers to questions I know are sat on the end of her tongue.
“If you stare any longer you may bore a hole into my head.” I can almost feel the fright oozing from her chest as she breathes slightly heavier.
“Sorry- I-” Her voice is timid. Quiet. Defeated, as I pull another drag and blow it into the tense atmosphere. By the nervousness in her voice, she wants to tire her tiny mind with chit chat. She's never ventured out of her room at this time.
“Couldn't sleep?” My voice feels far louder when the world is quiet and my smokers rasp bounces back off the open space. She's probably wondering why she didn't wake up with me next to her. Routine and all. But like many other nights where she's deep in sleep, I usually don't stick around for long, only until I know she's finally peaceful. I wanted to drown my incessant thoughts of her out with booze but it appears I can't even do that because she's like my little shadow.
“Yeah…” She admits, like it's a bad thing. I don't move, but I can feel her moving closer to me as the air shifts.
“Isn't it bliss.” I'm now surrounded by a cloudy haze as we sit in one another's silence for a couple of minutes, paying no mind to her glaring at me like I'll somehow shatter. Her anticipation is practically screaming into the room, I can hear the little slaps of her lips as she continues to open and close them, hanging on faint inhales waiting for her to spit out whatever is clearly weighing heavily on her mind.
...
“How do you do it?” She finally questions, as I rub the back of my neck.
“Do what.” Another pause is met, so whatever she's about to ask isn't how I style my hair or deal with the little tornado on my couch.
...
“Hurt people.” Now I'm the one hesitating as I ponder on an answer that no matter how I deliver will never sound sane or rational, but I'm sure she knows I'm neither of those things. That's exactly why she's asking.
“I turn it all off.” There are many ways she can interpret that. But it’s pretty simple. If I don’t turn it off, it swallows me like sand beneath the waves. A prisoner to its inevitable crash as it lashes against me, starving me of numbness as I’m forced to fight against the way my lungs are burning.
“Don't you feel anything?” I sit on her question a little while, trying to figure out a way to answer that. I could lie and simply tell her No . But we both know that is a lie. She just wants to hear me admit that I’m not as horrible as I think I am, but who’s to say I don’t enjoy the feeling, I’m a sadist, I feed off people’s fear, the way I do hers.
“More than you know.” I say barely above a whisper but clearly not quietly enough.
“So why? It clearly keeps you up at night.” I rub the corners of my mouth down to my chin as I stretch out my hanging jaw, tilting my head to the right slightly to almost meet her gaze as I attempt to find her over my shoulder.
“Taking a life isn't what keeps me up Innocence . Constance is.” The finished cigarette meets it’s end between my clammy palms.
“Constance?”
“I'm a constant reminder of everything I swore I'd never be, but now it's too late to change it.” I sigh.
“A murderer?” She whispers through uncertainty, trying to come to terms with the fact that she’s stood in the same room as the person who took her loved ones. But I hate the term murderer. It states that my actions are of a mad man, that the crimes I commit are unlawful when I’m anything but. I’m the conscious evil that they should fear. Murder is a word created to label the ill nature of cleansing their kind because they can’t admit that they too, are murderers. I will not associate myself with scum.She’s right, I am-
“A Monster.” I correct her.
“Insomnia equates to a guilty conscience you know. It shows that you do feel. Somewhere, in that desolate heart of yours.” A part of me fights back amusement as I grin into the abyss.
“Maybe. Or maybe. I'm just too broken to find peace with rest. It's punishment for all I've done and will continue to do until hell decides it's my time.” Another empty silence fills the room besides the gentle huffs from the couch potato as he sleeps. But I know she didn’t come out to talk about my inhumane tendencies.
…
“What are you thinking about?” I whisper, wondering through the dark towards the couch where I plant my ass, resting my feet up on the coffee table.
“What do you mean?” I love picking at her brain.
“What's keeping you awake?” I can feel my head spinning as I lean my head back into the cushion.
“Oh- I. I'm not sure. I just don't think I could get comfy.” Does she think I haven’t been reading her like a map? I know that her insulin knocks her out and she was fast asleep thirty minutes ago.
“You and I both know that's a lie. What did I tell you about lying Puppet?” I can almost hear her swallow her deception from behind me. “That question didn't come out of nowhere. What are you thinking about?” I demand gently.
“I guess I am just trying to figure out what I'm feeling...” I don’t have to look at her to know she is caving in on herself.
“And what might that be?”
“If I'm a bad person.” My brows knit. Bad person? She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body and I’m starting to wonder if that's the reason I’m so perplexed by her.
“And why on earth would you think that?” There are still thousands of questions sitting in the air and she’s lucky I’m feeling a sliver of sentiment tonight as I wallow in my temporary peace.
“Doesn't matter…” She sighs, and I remain silent. If I know anything about this peculiar doe, she is almost never afraid to ask questions. So I wait.
…
“When you stopped me that day-” She finally blurts out. “From killing you, you said something. You said to be better than it . Better than you . And at the time, I didn't quite understand the full extent of it. But now I'm wondering why. Why did you fight for me to concur my own downfall when you can't even concur your own?” She needs to stop thinking so much. Her ability to break me down without even trying is something I need to try and stop letting affect me. I don’t know if it’s because the booze is finally kicking in or I actually have a heartbeat, but her words rip me in ways I didn’t think possible and it isn't the first time.
“Because some are stronger than others.” I run my inky fingers through Sheps soft coat, reminding me that strength is something only certain people have the ability to obtain and I’m slowly realising that I am not one of them.
“You told me murder is power.” She bites and it’s a statement more than a question.
“I never said power was good. Power is its own catalyst. Power is someone's greatest foe. It destroys you until you are the very shell of your own.” I retort, rubbing my temples, getting more agitated at myself for caving to her ungodly amount of questions.
“Are you saying you want to destroy yourself?” She already knows I didn’t plan on being here much longer. Is that really so hard to believe?
“Haven't my actions already answered that.” My voice is hoarse and weary.
“Why did you give me the journal?” She snaps back, as if her statement is trying to prove something.
“Because you like to write.”
“The truth.” She sounds upset. Laced with inner turmoil like she’s trying to make me confess something but my wall is transparent right now, feeling what I dred will make me regret my next words.
...
“Because I could see you slipping.” I confess. Trying to understand my own jumbled up head. She needed an outlet and I gave it to her.
“Why would you help me?”
“I wouldn't call it that.”
“Oh yes, you were being considerate. I got it. Definitely hasn't got anything to do with you actually caring a little?” If I wasn’t so drowsy right now I’d have her over my knee for her sarcastic mouth, but instead I grin at the life inside of her.
“Your heart is way too big for your chest Little Dreamer . You know that?”
“You can have some if you want?” I can hear her cheeks crinkle as she smiles.
“I'm good. Thanks though.” I remark, stretching into a comfier position.
“One day, one day you'll accept that you're not entirely bad.” I wish she was right. As much as I wish she wouldn’t see that in me considering the pain I’ve caused her.
“I hope I'm dead by then. Because heaven would laugh at the impossible and hell would shriek with disgust.”
“Why must you be so complacent?” I can hear her step closer, her presence invading my already tiny bubble.
“And why must you be so invasive?” I keep my eyes sealed shut, as if her lingering isn’t bothering me enough already.
“That's rich coming from you.” Her arms are definitely folded, and she is pulling the most adorable face right now, I just know it.
“Your sweet tongue will get you nowhere and neither will your sharp teeth.” I exhale through a sigh of boredom.“Go to bed Alora.”
“You want invasive? Fine.” Her feet make light work of my wooden floorboards as she storms round the sofa in the dark, I almost put my foot out to trip her but I refrain, feeling her brush past me to the other side of the sofa, planting her ass down leaving Shep as a divider between us before huffing in annoyance.
“I hope you enjoy silence.” I continue to remain unbothered, glaring at the back of my eyelids as I rest my neck in the palm of my hands trying my best to remain composed, but I can feel a smile betraying me as the corner of my lip cracks.
“It’s bliss compared to your self-pity. You can't talk about invasiveness when you've invaded every part of my life. Including this stupid thing in my chest.” She’s not wrong. In fact, that's the smartest thing she’s said all night.
“As I said. Your heart's too big for your chest Innocence. It'll get you hurt.”
“I'd rather feel something than feel nothing.” She slumps back into the sofa as we both glare up at my ceiling like it will help us to understand one another better, but all it’s ever done is show me the very cell I’m trapped in.
“One day. You will realise just how wrong you are.”
??
Play - 'Wash - Bon Iver'
S he's had her head stuck in that thing since I gave it to her and it's kind of nice to see her do something other than stare at my ceiling or pester me. She must have written a whole novel by now with the amount she's writing, I'm gonna have to buy more pens if she keeps this up. I've been tempted a few times to snoop, she's not exactly being discreet with hiding it either, and since our little heart to heart the other night, it’s obvious she’s been venting through the pages. I don’t know how she hasn’t torn it apart but at least she eventually fell asleep, even if it did mean I was yet again cast out from my own sleeping arrangement. Her and Shep are growing fonder of that sofa by the day and I’m left on guard duty.
I am absolutely smothered in paint and it's going to be a bitch to wash out. She pulls her head from her pages to raise a brow, trying desperately to hold back a laugh, cuddled in with Shep who has taken more interest in her these days.
“Did you miss your face?” If she's not careful I'll smother her pretty little ass in it.
“ Very funny.”
“I'm hilarious ”
“What are you writing in that thing anyway? How has your wrist not fallen off.” She's been writing every day and we're nearing the end of January. She wasn't even bothered by Christmas, which was nice for me. It's kept her quiet, maybe a little too quiet. I'm finding myself in the house more and more when I should be keeping my distance rather than making small talk.
“Do you paint?” I have an entire trailer to paint and I could do with a helping hand. I'm sure she will enjoy the distraction.
“Errm- if painting my bedroom at ten years old counts then I guess so?” Yeah, that will do.
“Fabulous.” I lug in four large panels from the garage and dump them on the coffee table.
“So you murder people for a living with a side of painting?” Precisely .
“It's a project.” I haul two large tubs of cream paint in from outside and I know this will end up going everywhere but I'm past the point of caring. The house needs it anyway. I throw her a brush and I'm surprised to see she actually caught it.
“Is this why you're outside all the time?” I like to keep my mind occupied, otherwise I have a tendency to let my anger get the best of me.
“I told you. It's to get away from you.” The sarcasm rolls off my tongue, dampening my insult as a grin betrays me.
“That's why you're asking me to help?” I don't actually know why I'm asking her to help. I'm quite capable of painting it by myself. It's purely to speed up the process.
“I can take it back outside and you can wallow in your journal again if you want?” I tug the end of the wooden panel, threatening to remove it.
“No no! I'll do it.” She practically jumps on it, keeping it bound to the table and immediately dunks her brush, beginning the painful process and she's clearly not lying. I've never seen a more painful paint job in my life. You'd think I handed a four-year-old a paint brush. I scold her with judgement.
…
“What?” She frowns at my displeasure. Am I really about to give her a lesson on painting? I thought she was meant to be creative?
“Look…” I approach with caution, giving her more than enough warning as I grab the wrist holding the brush, her hip buried into the side of my upper thigh as I lean in calmly, guiding her hand as I move from one side of the panel to the other in rhythmic fashion and her depraved little body is calmly heaving at the bit. This physical touch drives her mad and I love watching her internal struggle.
“What's this for?” She hums softly, her focus glued to the strokes of the brush.
“I'm rebuilding a trailer.” My mom was so adamant to get this thing on the road for us but it was a heap of junk for years, even more so when I came back. He wouldn't help. He didn't want us going anywhere so our hope of freedom became a gravestone in the front yard.
Play - ‘When You’re Around - Jutes’
“Never saw you to be the travelling type.” I'm not.
“And I thought you could paint, so I guess we're both disappointed.” She clearly didn't like my come back, ready to throw hands, wielding her brush as a weapon.
“Hey-!” she dunks the bristles again and I know exactly what she's thinking, her narrow eyes and mischievous grin are going to get her bent over my knee.
“Don't you da-” ~Splat~
“Right. You asked for it.” My hand finds the bucket, drowning it in paint and she jumps away like a frightened cat.
“OMG-! HAYS!” She runs faster than the day I let her out, towards the other side of the bucket moving as quickly as her tiny feet will let her.“I'll tip it, I swear to God!” I know I said the house needed it. But not the bloody carpet.
“And I'll have you over my knee, Puppet .” If she dares, I will smother her from head to toe and make her eat it.
“You'll have to catch me first.” She smiles so hard it looks like it hurts and her dimples only make me grin back. She doesn't learn, does she? I never make an empty threat, no matter how adorably cute she is.
“I'd like nothing more...” She doesn't even get out of the living room before I scoop her up with one arm, throwing her feet off the floor, marking her skin with me wishing it was something else and Shep immediately joins in on the commotion, trying to play as his tail wags at an abnormal rate, pawing at my denim jeans.
“No, no, NO, N-o! Eewwwwwwww ew ew ewww!!” I smother her in it as she fights against my grip. Giggling like a child. She's definitely ticklish and that sound never gets old. I suck it out of her, pinching gently under her arms and she sounds disgustingly adorable, collapsing to the floor getting paint on my carpet anyway. She’s fighting my grip trying to escape me but secretly she loves this. She's getting a taste of vulnerability. Letting her hair down. Having fun . And it looks good on her. In this moment. She actually looks,
Happy .
“You're gonna pay for that.” She bites playfully, tugging her brows into her forehead as she glares at me, and by pay for that she means give me exactly what I want. She just doesn't know it yet.
My knee rests between her legs, inching its way up her thigh and her flushed cheeks scream at me through her porcelain complexion. She's so frail and delicate. A China doll I want to smash into tiny little pieces.
“I need a showerrrrrrrr-” she wriggles beneath me, showing visible discomfort as she catches me wrong, pushing her groin into the ball of my knee, hiccupping with surprise.
“Soooooo you, didn't? Want to be smothered in paint? Because if I remember rightlyyyyy. I could have sworn you started it?” She smears the excess paint against my inky skin, gripping at my forearm like a vice and she's lucky I like her because I’d of shoved her fingers in her own mouth.
“Technicallyyyyy you started it when you insulted me?” She's not wrong. But that's what we do. She bites and she will learn that I bite harder. I will leave a permanent indent on her ass if need be. Which reminds me .
“How's that delightful little bite mark by the way?” I speak at a volume only she can hear as my voice vibrates against her ear drum. Her head tilts, rolling her balls of honey at me and she knows exactly what I'm referring to. I wasn't gentle. And she attempts to shove me off her in embarrassment. “What did you say again? It's sat on the tip of my tongue… Oh yes. My Little Bitch…” She loathes how much I'm subconsciously right but I can almost hear her heart beating out of her chest.
“Your ego is so unattractive.” I'd half believe that if she wasn't tucking back a smile with her tongue.
“Showerrrrrr…I'm going now.” She's trying so desperately to avoid how she's feeling right now and all I want to do is fuel it, feed it. I want her to indulge in those cravings niggling beneath her skin.
I let her run, following her towards the bathroom. She knows the drill and each time it tethers my control, because I don’t know how long I can keep my hands off her perfect little body before I stain her with my lustful need to rip it all away.