March Vignette

[DarkDelights]

Her simple black flats splashed in the puddles on the sidewalk. The rain was cool and familiar as it pattered on her bare shoulders. Red and blue neon lights danced and shimmered on her soaking wet raven hair and she paused in front of a glass store-front window, in which a sign read:

Dr. Stienmann, PsyD

GROUP CURRENTLY IN SESSION

Newcomers welcome!

***

She wrung out her hair in the lobby, and a torrent of water pooled at her feet on the bare concrete. A pair of black stockings rose from her plain shoes, up her shapely legs, and ended in lace on her pale thighs, just below the hem of her form-fitting black dress that left her collarbones, shoulders, and neck uncovered. Her arms were pale like her thighs, and a simple black bracelet adorned her left wrist. Her fingernails were the color of the sky at midnight, as were her full lips. Much of her face was hidden behind a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses, which did nothing at such a late hour except hide her eyes.

The short hallway ended at a pair of gymnasium doors, held open wide with rubber stoppers. Within, silver folding chairs were arranged in a circle, almost every one filled by a body, intently listening to a single person who spoke in a low, shamed voice. She did not make her way to an empty chair immediately. Just inside the door was a plywood card table, supporting a jug of cheap coffee, neatly laid rows of Styrofoam cups, and a sheet of adhesive stickers and a couple of well used Sharpie markers. She picked one up and tapped it against her chin as she chose a name. Writing it down with the marker, she then removed the sticker and applied it to the stretchy black fabric of her dress that covered her left breast. The coffee pot glugged as a stream of the dark liquid filled the white cup and steamed. She added no cream or sugar, and only after a noisy pull, did she make her way to an empty seat, her hips swaying voluptuously and her flat-soled feet slapping noisily on the wooden gymnasium floor.

The speaker paused a moment as steel chair screeched into position beside her. The disruptive newcomer said nothing, and the speaker cleared her throat, perturbed, before she deigned to continue. She was in her early thirties, and was heavy set, clad in blue denim overalls with a red flannel shirt. On the lapel of her overalls, a sticker read “Hi, I'm MAGGIE.” Maggie was written in simple, neat, box letters. She had full cheeks, freckles, and hair the color of straw.

“I guess what really drew me to Duke was that he was always happy to see me. He never sighed, all annoyed when I told him about my day. He never judged me if I made a mistake... He...” tears began to well up in her pale blue eyes. A thin hand, marked with age spots, but with smooth skin and well manicured nails, reached out from the circle and came to rest on Maggie's own meaty hand.

“Now Maggie,” a calm, even-tempered voice spoke. The voice belonged to a woman who could have just as easily been forty as sixty. She had dark hair seasoned with patches of white, dissecting brown eyes beneath a pair of red, horn-rimmed glasses, and a simple but elegant strand of pearls around her neck. A stark white coat covered her tasteful ensemble, and on the lapel of her coat, a label read “Hi, I'm Dr. Steinmann.” Steinmann was written in flowing cursive. The older woman's scalpel gaze fell upon Maggie, and her voice was firm, but passed no judgement. “We've talked about this. Duke didn't listen to you talk about your day because he was interested, he listened because all pets grow accustomed to their owner's voices, and even to love them. But not in the same way you or I felt love, Maggie. Duke was a great dane. A dog. Dog's are empathetic creatures, but the way they process emotions is very different from how you and I do.”

“I understand that now Doctor, really I do,” Maggie said, ashamed. She hung her head and looked at her shoes. There was a sharp click, and a grating sound. The woman in black sparked up a gold zippo lighter and applied the flame to a long, slender cigarette. Dr. Stienmann said nothing, keeping her gaze on Maggie.

“Remember why you're here Maggie. Because your battle against the Zoophilia you suffer from will be lifelong, not something that goes away overnight. It's an addiction. You're in recovery, and you always will be, so we have group to come to when the urges feel strong, or even when they don't. We're here for you Maggie.”

“We're here for you Maggie,” the circle droned in unison. All except the woman in black. Dr. Steinmann looked at her next.

“It looks like we have a newcomer. Why don't you tell us why you're here. Everyone, say hello to Veronika.”

“Hello Veronika,” the group droned.

The woman in black smirked, and looked at the person sitting beside her, opposite Maggie. "I'd rather hear his story." The man, too old to be a teenager, but too young to have seen his twenty-fifty birthday, had a long brown ponytail, heavy black eye make-up, and a black t-shirt read “SLAYER” in red letters. On his shirt, plastered above a red pentacle, was a sticker that read “Mark” in squiggly letters, as if written by the non-dominant hand. He had only one arm. Assuming it was his turn to speak, he began in a rehearsed voice.

“Hi, I'm Mark, and I'm recovering from my addiction to auto-erotic cannibalization.”

“Hello Mark,” the group droned. Dr. Steinmann interrupted, her stare still on the woman in black.

“Please, hold on for a moment Mark. Miss, everyone present, perhaps even myself included, all suffer from a form of sexual self-expression that has placed them in conflict, either with the law, with their loved ones, or with themselves. This is a safe place, and whatever you have to say will not pass outside these walls.

“I don't really want to,” the woman in black stated flatly, taking a long, wet drag off her cigarette.

“Veronika, the relationship that this group has is built on a foundation of trust. One of us shares, the rest listen, and we all find a sense of belonging in this unaccepting world by telling our stories, and seeing for ourselves that we're not alone. Please, tell us why you're here.

The woman in black took another drag off her smoke, held it a breath, then exhaled harshly from her nose.

“Fine.”

***

The streets were ablaze. A woman shrieked in the distance. Then a child cried out. A man gasped out his death's rattle.

There was the sound of glass shattering, followed by more screaming, and low, gurgling moans which grew steadily louder.

The shuffle of uneven but heavy steps. More gurgling moans.

A slight figure, a black silhouette in the orange light cast by a nearby dumpster fire, slipped into an alleyway off the main street. The shadow picked its steps in the rubble-strewn alleyway. The light footfalls were echoed by heavier, booted feet coming the opposite direction. A drawn out moan accompanied them. The two figures collided in the center of the alley.

She had fallen backwards on her behind, propped up on her scraped hands. The other was up faster, but she did not scramble away. The smaller figure got her hands under her, and rose to her feet slowly as the large figure, what had once been a man, lunged at her. His grey hand grabbed a fist full of her black hair and attempted to force her back into a seated position. Near the mouth of the alley, a fleeing man was tackled by a blur of shadows, and a horrible, ripping and slurping noise filled the air, accompanied by screams of the utmost agony. The woman in the alleyway ripped herself out of the shambling creature's grasp with some effort, pushing it back slightly with a shove from her open palm. It lurched forward once again, still clutching a clump of black hair in its muscular hand. She clutched her bleeding scalp, and narrowed her eyes seriously. It lunged, but she was faster, and no longer caught by surprise. She grabbed the outstretched arm and spun, pinning it against the wall of the narrow alley. She dug the point of her elbow in the undead thing's throat, and it gurgled, snapping its jaws mindlessly, its blood-shot yellow eyes glowering with hate and hunger.

It pushed away from the wall, but she planted both feet and put all her weight into the elbow and maintained the pin. She stared back at the yellow eyes, and dared to lean in closer. Its breath smelled like fresh blood. It was not far into decomposition, and its grey skin showed only slight pock marks from where the bot fly larva had chewed out tiny circles in the cheeks. In life, he may have been a handsome man. It continued snapping at her, and grey spittle flew in her dirty, pretty face. With a sudden surge of energy, it lurched again, never tiring. She adjusted her weight, and let her forearm take her elbow's place on the monster's windpipe.

“You'll never stop, will you? Your desire is too strong. You're hungry. Hungry like me. You won't rest until you get a taste,” she taunted, daring to bring her face even closer now that she had a stronger position. She brought her nose close, and drew breath through it deeply. It snapped at her, almost skimming the slightly upturned tip of her cute nose.

It came on again, and the creature which boasted a weight advantage of nearly thirty pounds, almost over powered her that time, but the woman drove her elbow like a stake into the undead's throat once more and re-established dominance. She smiled luridly, and mashed her other forearm into the side of the monster's head, pressing the side of its face into the brick wall.

She nibbled its earlobe as it gnashed its broken teeth. Its eyes darted wildly. She whispered softly to it.

“Do you want to taste me? Tell me just how badly you crave my sweet flesh.”

The monster howled but could not break free, having long ago been robbed of its ability to think, or reason, or plan. She bit her lip, and breathed huskily onto the zombie's neck. Her free hand slid down the monster's muscular abdomen, over its heavy metal belt buckle, and settled on the bulge of its denim pants. What she felt there was firm, and cold.

***

Her black fingernails traced a line over her hips. They drew faint red lines in the untanned skin of her legs, and the tips of her index fingers hooked the lace of her stockings. She drew breath richly, and chewed her lower lip. “Mmm...”

“Dr. Stienmann!”

The psychologist removed her red glasses, folded them, then placed them in the breast pocket of her overcoat, and raised a finger to the group without looking. “Wait your turn Janice. Tell me Veronika, what did you feel?”

Slowly, unsteadily, the left hand of the woman in black found its way back to her dress. It crept up the hem, over the hip, pressed hard into her tight stomach. “I felt...” and her hand dragged higher, faltering, finding its way to the nametag she wore. She clutched there, hand cupping. “I felt...” She opened her eyes behind the tint of her sunglasses. “I guess... That's when I knew. Like, really knew.”

“Knew what Veronika?”

“That I...”

“Say it.”

“That I...”

“Go on, please, remember, this is a safe place.”

The woman in black balled her fists and folded them in her lap and she regulated her breathing with a soft exhale. Her cigarette was now a length of ash, and she abandoned it, letting it fall to the polished wooden floor without a sound. She took another deep breath, this time one of preparation.

“Hello, I'm Veronika, and I'm a necrophilliac.”

“Hello Veronika,” the circle droned.

Dr. Steinman also let out a steadying exhale of breath, then replaced her horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. “Veronika, you are not a necrophilliac,” she said, staring hard at the newcomer, pressing her index fingers together and bringing them under her chin where the skin sagged only slightly. The woman in black said nothing, but crooked her neck to the side ever so slightly, waiting for the doctor to continue.

“Or, that is to say, you are not just a necrophilliac. The situation you described to us just now, has many more factors at work than the simple attraction to cold, dead bodies.” Steinmann held up an open hand, and with the other hand she subtracted fingers as she counted off conditions. “Teratophilia, an arousal at the sight of monsters. Anthropophagy, arousal through the consumption of human flesh. Piquerism, the piercing of flesh. And more recently coined, but still unaccredited, Necroanimatophilia... put simply, a sexual attraction to the undead.”

The silence in the room over the next minute was palpable. The uncomfortable shuffling of feet and hoarse, stifled coughs where like thunderous booms. Then, Dr. Stienman reached into the pocket of her sensible slacks, producing a small white rectangle of cardboard.

“Here is my card,” she said, holding it out to the woman in black, who accepted it hesitantly, scanning it with her eyes while mouthing the word “Teratophilia.”

“I want you to come see me in my office at noon this Friday. We've only scratched the surface here today, and I think that we have a lot of work to do before you're ready to enter the recovery stage."

“...Thank you, doctor,” the woman in black said softly, tucking the business card into her cleavage. She rose from the folding chair and smoothed the hem of her dress. Without another word, she accidently kicked over the full cup of coffee she had poured herself and left at her feet, and the wave of still-steaming liquid washed away the small pile of ash, and she left.