4. What’s Wrong with Gideon Bell? #3
It’s Audrey, the reason why I can’t return to Swindon, Michigan.
Why I gave my word to my father ten years ago that I would never step foot in that town again.
That I would never go near her again… my perfect girl that’s haunted me since the day I met her, the day I led her into the woods, and she followed like an attention-starved puppy.
So sweet, with her round, trusting eyes glued to me like I was the answer to everything.
Whimpers against my palm force my eyes open, and when I turn toward the woman, my hand clasped over her mouth, it only serves as another bitter reminder of why these women, why my puppets, could never compare to the original.
I grimace as I glare down at her, blood leaking from the bone pins I drilled into her wrists, stringing her up so pretty.
Except she’s not pretty, only my craftsmanship is.
Everything about her makes me want to vomit.
It’s the pretty, wide hazel eyes of the girl in my dreams that keep my chest heaving.
The muse of my depravity. The bane of my existence.
“Your lipstick is smeared. It’s unfortunate I won’t be able to work with you further. I find no joy in being wasteful.”
She whimpers, her freshly bleached blonde hair an off-putting tone of yellow. I hadn’t quite made it around to toning it yet.
“Your line, say it.”
I give her a moment, watching her squirm and blubber, snot and tremble, exhaustion, and no doubt a fair amount of agony, making her muscles quiver as they’re wrenched up at odd angles. I don’t bother repositioning the strings to fix her position. The illusion is already broken.
“Now,” I command.
The woman jerks despite me not raising my voice.
Her arms hanging limp like a puppet begging to be directed by me.
Her salmon-colored, smeared lips cracked and far from the soft ones they should be.
There's no real time to fix that now. I just stare at her, waiting. I’m not too man enough to admit my head has only been half in the game this time.
“Gideon, do you love me?” she whimpers.
“No crying, you’re ruining it,” I seethe, before taking a deep breath.
It’s not her fault she can’t compare; neither could the others.
It’d been over a year since I’d taken a woman.
A year I’d resisted the fucking urge to dive headfirst into the pits of my insanity…
until the first letter came , this one from Jackson himself.
He knew he was sick. He’d asked me to go back, to help him take the load off so he could get well again.
It was a reasonable request, but what it was really demanding was that I be in her presence again.
The very thing I dream about every night, the only thing I’ve ever dreamed about. The only thing I can’t—couldn’t do.
Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey. Audrey.
She hiccups, taking a deep breath to mirror mine, the colored contacts making the whites of her eyes tinge pink. If I were keeping her, I’d add drops to soothe the redness, but there’s no time. I need this, maybe worse than I have since those first years without her. “Gideon, do you… love me?”
I need it because if I can have this, I can keep my promise, at least half of it. If I can just get this part right, I can leave Audrey in that fucking town. I can burn ties with Bell Funeral Home and purge this putrid obsession.
My dad knew I couldn’t stay, but I can’t imagine even he knew how bad things would get after he forced me to leave.
Hell, I didn’t even know. The first was…
an unpleasant surprise for us both. I’d nearly stumbled when I walked into the parlor of the funeral home my father had gotten us jobs at.
There she sat, so much like my Audrey. Messy blonde hair, teary hazel eyes.
The first of a long list of disappointments.
Mine and my father’s. He didn’t cry when he saw what I’d done to her.
He didn’t ask why; he knew. If I live another fifty years, I’ll never forget the look of blank resignation in his eyes as he pulled on his gloves and told me to get in the shower.
I clench my jaw, taking another calming breath. “Make your voice softer, like you’re scared to ask.”
She repeats the line, still far enough off base to agitate me, but it’s close enough.
Some things can’t be helped. I adjust the glasses on my face, my response already held on the tip of my tongue, aimed straight for the wrong person.
It’s not the response I gave that day, so I give it now.
Like if I’m suffering enough, desperate enough, time will turn back just for me. For us.
“Of course I love you.”
My hand drifts over to the cart, clasping a scalpel; the metal is cool in my hand like any other day.
Be it client or puppet. I lift the tool, making an incision from the bottom of her breastbone down her belly.
Despite the way they make it look in movies, it takes three passes to get through the dermis, meaty tissue, until she fully opens there.
She thrashes, screaming and blubbering, like they all do.
I just stare at her, rigged up in the perverse contraption, wondering if I’d find any degree of satisfaction from shoving my cock in the opening I just made. I wouldn’t. Not even a little.
I let her see it as she bleeds out how disgusted I am by her failed portrayal of my Audrey before I turn and stalk away, readying the clean-up.