Now, she could only try to recreate the event in her mind. Deep in her skull, she formed his eyes, their intensity, and the sensual curve of his mouth, his dimples, and the genuine-looking mask he wore for the world. She found it fascinating, mysterious. How did he do it?
Her hand wandered down, gently pressed against the material of her panties. How was he able to look so normal, yet get away with something so abnormal?
Usually, it did not take her long to reach an orgasm if she was thinking about a particular fixation. She moved her fingers deftly, her clit already engorged.
She pressed harder with her index and middle finger, thinking of him easily overpowering the girl, the quick glimpse of his cock, how he had to pump a couple of times to fill her up all the way. Perhaps for a whore, she was tight. Sophia pushed her panties to one side and continued to stroke as she thought. Soon, she could almost feel him inside of her, and it didn’t take her long to soak her own fingers.
At some point during her daydream, the power had gone out. The low electrical hum of the apartment was dead. Argie was somewhere in the bedroom, fast asleep. Sophia could hear the hustle and bustle out on the street. People were freaking out, honking and yelling at each other. But she had been through this many times before. She sighed and lay back on the loveseat, wrapping the quilt back around her. She remembered being without power in the past: cold rooms, slick city streets, the chill so harsh it seeped in right through your bones.
Something tapped at the door and Sophia jumped. It could have come from the rooftop. She glanced over at the window to see threatening tree limb fingers tapping on the glass.
There it was again, this time, louder, more urgent. She could not feel a presence there. Just her own pulsating fear. She heard a horn honking, then a loud thud. A wreck. Happened all the time on this street. It was the hill.
But the noise at the door, was it a knock? No one ever visited. Her mind flashed over to the glove digging in the dumpster. She decided to swallow her anxiety and check the door. Could be a neighbor checking in about the power. The Koreans who lived next door were polite but never asked questions. That was exactly the reason why she chose this place.
She crept over to the door, cursing herself as each footfall created a very audible squeaking noise from the aging floorboards. She peered through the peephole.
Well, it was someone. Or at least the outline of someone.
“Who’s there?” The words sounded strange coming from her mouth.
“A neighbor.”
“A neighbor who?” She certainly didn’t recognize the voice.
“A neighbor who wants to ask you if you have power,” came the reply. The voice was low and sensual, charming.
“I don’t,” she called out, still too reluctant to answer the door, yet amused by their little exchange.
“Well, I do, and just wanted to let you know that it’ll be another four hours before they fix this side of the street. If you need anything, I’m in twelve…across the way.”
“Thanks.”
The man hesitated before moving on. He finally did, but certainly took his time. She watched him walk away, then descend down the stairs.
She sensed he was gone. I’ll just have a peek, she told herself. She slowly cracked the door open and looked over the edge.
Paul was stopped mid-way on the stairs, looking straight up at her as if he was expecting her. An abrupt feeling of guilt overcame her, but she tried to keep it contained.
“You do not live across the street.” She kept her tone of voice flat and not too assuming.
“And how do you know that?” Rhetorical question. A devious grin spread across his face. It wouldn’t work on her. She’d fight it off.
“How do you think I know?” He wasn’t fooling her.
“Because you followed me.”
“Like you’re also doing to me?”
“I guess you know how it feels now.”
She couldn’t deny that. She and Paul weren’t too different after all.
“Come up here,” she muttered. She didn’t want the possibility of her neighbors hearing any more of their exchange. Paul mounted the stairs two at a time, moving too fast for her mind to comprehend at the moment. He quickly appeared before her, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He had caught her off guard. He had caught her at a vulnerable moment, and he knew it. He smiled wickedly.
“So,” he breathed, “maybe we’ve been following each other.”
“So that was you who was snooping around here.”
“A bit. The same could be said about you.”
She scoffed. “I never dug around in your trash or broke into your place.”
“You can’t blame everything on me,” he said, the faint smile still there. Now he was backing her up against the door, so close to her now she could smell his sweat. She wanted to pull him inside. The hunger inside her was pounding, aching to tear out of her skin. At the same time, she was frustrated because she felt so defeated.
“You want me. I can smell you,” he whispered. His breath danced on her collarbone, but she managed to break away from him.
“I don’t appreciate you going through my trash. That’s low.”
“You’re so tidy.”
“Shhhh!”
“How do you do it? Let me in. We’ll exchange art forms.”
“No. Besides, you’ve seen the inside of my place,” she said, trying to be as snarky as possible.
“Have I?”
She didn’t like his lying and his attempts to be sly.
He sighed. “You’ll warm up to me. If you want to see me again, you’ll know where to find me.”
With that, he turned and disappeared down the stairs, leaving her with just the smell of rain.
CHAPTER TEN
Ti: Find the Girl If You Can
Ti had to do it. Tamara hadn’t been to work in two days. She wasn’t answering her phone, and that never, ever happened. Tamara would jump awake and answer calls at three in the morning, and if they were the wrong number, she’d still strike up a conversation anyway. This wasn’t like her. Ti put a ‘closed’ sign on the shop’s window, locked up and headed down the street.
Tamara hadn’t said anything about leaving, being in trouble, or feeling ill. Ti headed up one of the city’s gruesome hills as quick as she could, her old Converse sliding a little on the slippery pavement. Damn rainy season, Ti thought.
She dug into her jeans pocket reassuringly. Yes, she still had Tamara’s keys to the gate and apartment. She rounded the corner and unlocked the gate. It screeched like nails on a chalkboard when she pulled it open. She headed up the plant-lined staircase to 7. It was so dense with plants (Tamara loved them) that the tendrils tickled Ti’s hair. She could feel icy droplets already creeping down her neck. She arrived on the doormat that read: ‘Hi. I’m Mat.’ She banged on the door.
“Her music been playin’ loud for two days!” exclaimed Ms. Mona, Tamara’s bespectacled, green housedress and hair roller-clad neighbor who had appeared from next door. The lady had rows of wrinkles on her forehead and a generally discontented look.
“She hasn’t been to work,” Ti said absently. She unlocked the door again.
“I’ll call the police,” Ms. Mona said, suddenly more forgiving.
“Wait…you hang out here, Ms. Mona, okay? If you hear me scream, call the police.”
Ms. Mona nodded, the wrinkles on her forehead deepening.
Ti entered to the thumping beat of A Forest by The Cure. Somewhere off in the distance, Jo, Tamara’s cat, yowled in greeting. Ti continued down the hall. She’s dead, she’s killed herself, and she’ll be in the last place I look.
Robert Smith’s voice lured her to the bedroom as Ti’s stomach dropped and a slow frost crept through her veins.
And sure enough, there was a large dried puddle on the carpet, now a crusty, darkened spot.
“Call the police, Ms. Mona!” she said without turning around. She didn’t want to give the old woman a
heart attack by the look on her face. She was sure it was a mixture of horror, desperation (where oh where the fuck is the body?), and sadness.
She heard shuffling behind her. Damn you, you stubborn old bitch! Ti thought as the shuffling got louder.
A quick shadow zipped past her and her heart slammed in her chest-but a fluffed, ‘fuck-off’ looking tail told her it was Jo. The cat ran into the bathroom.
That was it. Tamara was in the bathroom-the one place Ti hadn’t looked. Dead. Razor blade bubble baths, the brains left over from Mom--she wasn’t sure what to expect.
But there wasn’t anything. No Tamara. Only a hungry cat and Robert Smith’s voice.
It didn’t make any sense. Not with Tamara being so happy-go-lucky all of the time.
Yet the cops showed up, and some guy named Black had many questions.
* * * *
The concrete below made the soles of Ti’s Converse feel incredibly worn and thin. She shifted from one foot to another, unsure of whether or not she should even knock. She had no idea if Sophia was even home. Ti had only seen her out and about in the late afternoons.
As for Ti, she hadn’t slept in what felt like eons—Detective Black’s questions were still swirling in her head, and there had been no news about Tamara. Caffeine soared through her system, the extra-large latte with mounds of sugar still coursed through her veins.
She’d been hanging around the apartment for a while now, pacing up and down the hill until her feet ached. She’d passed Sophia’s place a few times, each time slowing to peer inside the courtyard. It told her nothing.
What am I doing here? Ti was not sure. She needed some kind of comfort. She didn’t know where else to go. She’d been dreaming about Sophia for a long time now, waking up longing for her smooth, cold hands, her lanky frame wrapped around her own body, that lush hair tickling her flesh. She yearned for some kind of connection with her. What is it about her? Why am I here? Death’s a catalyst for everything in my life.
She wanted to feel the heat of someone alive. They didn’t even have to talk that much. The events of the past few days finally caved in on her. She was beyond tears. Who would want to hurt Tamara?
Ti looked up at the overcast sky and choked back more tears. A thin drape of mist and rain fell down to the ground, coating everything in slickness. She closed her eyes and felt tiny icicles of raindrops gathering in her lashes.
Limerence. The term was now very familiar to Ti. She even read and re-read the definition a thousand times: “an involuntary state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated.” She always fell head over heels for these people who didn’t give a flying fuck about her. Sophia was her new limerent object, and while it was helping her finally get over Danny, it was still just another obsessive infatuation.
Sophia was all Ti could think about. All the signs for a destructive, forthcoming event were in place. Ti’s thoughts about the woman were intrusive, coming whenever they wanted, like unwelcome visitors with muddy shoes. Ti found herself analyzing every one of the woman’s actions from their few interactions, desperately digging for an interpretation in her odd behavior. Ti also felt shy and awkward in Sophia’s presence. That was the part she hated the most.
There were other warning signs, too. Ti wasn’t really enjoying her other hobbies. Ti abandoned photography, an old friend, so she could focus her thoughts on Sophia. The worst part of it all: Ti could find absolutely nothing wrong with Sophia.
She knocked again, longing for just anyone, especially Sophia, to hold her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sophia and the Divine Council
From Sophia’s Journal
I can’t lie. Claude and I had a connection on some level. He sated this deep need within me to be a deviant. It could have been because he was ten times the devil I was. He was spontaneous and a great lover. But like all intensely wonderful lovers, there was something inherently wrong with him.
Claude was a manipulative fucker. And he had little regard for other people. He was mean. Abusive. But just like anything bad, he was irresistible to anyone with a lack of self-esteem or self-control. That included me.
I remember venturing down to New Orleans many, many times, even when we didn’t live there. Our old stomping grounds. Claude’s idea, of course. He said I needed to go back to my childhood days, to remember, to reflect. I remember drinking loads of neon green absinthe and smoking grass that was a close palette match to the drink, then consuming a few caps of mushrooms. Somewhere along the way, we picked up a pretty brunette who was dressed in a bright pink, filmy sheath. Claude whispered in my ear, his breath hot with drink and drugs, that he couldn’t wait to see what was underneath that dress.
Our feet pounded on the old brick walkways of New Orleans for quite some time. I don’t remember how we got there, but the towering peaks of graves and the curly tendrils of Spanish moss were soon all around us. Names from tombstones swirled in my head.
I climbed up as high as I could, which wasn’t very high. I perched on top of a bone-white grave and watched, bored, as Claude dry-humped the girl in pink. I was soon enchanted with the snake-like tufts of moss growing in the crevices of the tombs, and wandered off to get a closer look.
Bugs busily whizzed in and out of the grass while the girl groaned and grunted behind me. A furtive glance over my shoulder told me Claude had finally removed the pink dress and was having a go at her. Her dress lay in a small heap on the blinding whiteness of the tomb, and it struck me there how much it looked like a rose.
As I roamed the old cemetery, I was pensive. Here, the water levels were so high, they stacked people on top of one another. City of the dead. They only opened tombs once a year to make room for new coffins. They bagged the old bodies and pushed them to the back like forgotten leftovers, ready to make room for the new arrivals.
The girl was squealing and struggling now. I looked back and noticed I had roamed away quite a bit. I could only see a peek of the girl now, the slabs of grey and white tombs obstructing my vision. I saw her nipple, as bright pink as her dress, and her nearly concave stomach. I could tell Claude was pinning her down now in an attempt to kill her. I sat and watched the end, passive and stoned.
She was stronger than she looked, not as bird-thin as I had originally thought, either. Maybe it was the cocktail of drugs that was holding Claude back, but the girl managed to fight him off and get away.
I glimpsed portions of her body though the tombs again as she screamed: a thin leg, her dark whip of hair trailing behind her, the nearly indistinguishable trickle of blood running down her neck and clavicle.
“Oh Sophia!” she cried, as if I was her savior. I almost laughed. I felt pity for her. I remember thinking right then: At least I can still feel something.
When I held my hand out and forced a smile, I could feel the last little bit of that feeling, that empathy trickling away, as faint as the crimson rivulet of blood on the pale girl’s skin.
Claude soon joined us, and as much as I struggled to resist, I could not. It had been days, and being in the cemetery reminded me that the dead just keep stacking up anyway. It doesn’t matter if you contribute to it or not. Humans ultimately kill themselves in some way or another.
Before we left, I made a pit stop. On a worn grave, marked three X’s, bowed my head, and tossed a rain of copper pennies onto the crowded concrete below. I hunched my shoulders and followed Claude, hoping my wish to become more human would come true.
It hasn’t yet.
* * * *
Sophia dropped her pen when she heard the incessant rapping on the door. Fuck, she thought, who could this be? Every time there had been a noise or the old apartment settled, Sophia nearly jumped out of her skin. She even started at Argie’s questioning meows.
I won’t answer it, she thought. I’ll just look through the peephole and then go back to what I was doing. She crept carefu
lly over to the door and looked out. The shaggy hair and sad looking eyes told her it was the photographer girl. She swore and thought twice before opening the door. She nudged it open just enough to peep out and ask what she wanted. Not responding might look suspicious.
“Please,” Ti pleaded. Sophia stared at the girl for a long time before she spoke.
“What’s the matter with you?” The question came out dry and crackled.
“Something terrible happened. My friend is missing, probably dead. I…”
“You what?” Sophia was getting annoyed.
“I thought maybe we could talk for a while. I don’t really know anyone else here.”
Sophia glanced back over her shoulder. “Come back this evening.”
“You must have company. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone,” Ti said as she dropped her head and spun on her Converse.
“No! I…want to see you and discuss the photographs. Tell you more about what I want. Just come back this evening, okay?” This time, Sophia caught her own tone—it was dripping sweet with honey. Ti just furrowed her brow, nodded and slowly headed back down the hill.
Sophia filled the afternoon with frantic scrubbing. Ti’s assumption had been right. Sophia did have a guest, but most of the body was still in the bathtub, seeping fluids and reeking like necropolis. Sophia drained and retracted what fat and useful bits she could, so the corpse was now a dried up looking hull, gray and sickly with only a mop of blond hair. Sophia stared longingly at it for a moment before whisking her way to the kitchen for cleaning supplies.
She spread out the San Francisco Chronicle all over the bathroom floor as Argie watched, his eyes large and green with curiosity. He would occasionally rev up his purrs or rub his face harshly against the doorway. As long as he stayed out of the way, he could watch.