Chapter Three
Sissy
Her face burned itself into my mind’s eye, leaving behind a vivid image of the unique stranger that stared at me with disgusted contempt. Although I’m usually terrified of new people and the bits of the world they drag into my private reality, I’m completely intrigued by this one.
She reminds me of Lydia from Beetlejuice.
“Well, if Lydia was blonde … bleached blonde. No way is her hair naturally that color.” My thoughts wonder to what her pubes look like. “No. Her brows are far too dark.”
I sit against the wall taking comfort in the sounds of furniture and boxes being moved around next door. Normally, by now, I would’ve scrambled for my prescription pill bottle that I rely on to help me make it from wakefulness to sleep every damn day of my life—especially since I moved here.
Ever since the break-in two years ago, I haven’t been able to face many people or leave. It doesn’t make much sense to me either, that the one place I should want to run from is the one place I want to hide in. My prison of fear has become my prison of safety. And somewhere in the mess I call my mind, I tossed the key to my shackles and haven’t been able to find it. I haven’t really tried searching for it either. It takes more courage to begin a journey than it does to complete one. So, fuck it. That’s what meds are for.[TD1]
I don’t know how long I sit there before I realize the noise has died on the other side of the wall. The moment I notice it, though, my heart decides to skillfully tap dance in my chest like Fred Astaire. I gasp for air and start going through my mental checklist.
“Focus, Sissy.”
I need to get a grip before it turns into a full-blown panic attack like earlier. I focus on all my senses, attempting to pull myself back into the moment. As my mind trips over itself, sounds begin filtering through the wall again. I turn to face it, putting my hands and ear against the aged, peeling paper.
The pipes are rattling. That only means one thing.
“Mark.”
I didn’t know whether to be terrified or attracted to that man. There were times when I first moved in years ago that I would find him in my apartment without warning “fixing” things and “accidently” touching me. Now if something breaks, I YouTube it. If I have to call Mark, I hide in my bathroom and stare at him through a small hole in the door.
I think one time he knew I was using my vibrator while he was on the other side talking to me. There was this deviant glint in his eyes and a certain hardness to his smirk that made me silently come while I dead stared him. No way could I be free enough to let him touch me. And no way in hell would I ever give him the satisfaction of knowing I got off on him fixing my garbage disposal. I don’t trust him.
But he sure is nice to look at.
I can’t risk him coming up here. What if he touches her? She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would like that. I don’t even think she likes when people look at her.
No. Mark is not allowed.
The pipes make a loud growling, grinding noise that fades into a silent omen of sorts.
I don’t know why I have the urge to fix her pipes for her, putting my safety at risk to possibly save hers, but I suddenly feel empowered to put one foot in front of the other.
The next thing I know, I’m standing in the middle of Lydia’s apartment. It looks similar to mine, maybe a bit more taken care of over the years. Boxes are sparsely placed through the tiny apartment with letters written on them indicating which room they should be in. Not that it would matter—the epicenter of the apartment is pretty much like the Four Corners. You could stand there and be in every room at the same time.
There is one thing I notice as I look around. The contemptress is nowhere to be found. If I hurry, maybe she’ll never realize I was ever here, and Mark could go away.
I rush over to her sink and fling open the doors. Climbing halfway inside the cabinet, I shut the water off to the sink and pull my wrench out of the waistband of my jeans to check out the pipes. They are old, and sometimes it’s just shit trapped in the lines that causes them to get backed up. These old pipes are not meant to flush solid disposal waste through them, but that bastard would let this place flood first when the pipes explode rather than replace the damn things.
It’s been a year, that I know of, since anyone has lived here. The valve is probably rusted shut and they didn’t think to check it before she moved in.
“Now that’s the kind of position a man could get used to being greeted in.”
Mark.
I freeze in terror. This can’t be happening.
“Why don’t you come out from under there. I can fix your pipes after I fix your pipes.” He chuckles sickeningly. His sexually charged, porn star innuendo makes the vomit rise in my throat and twists something in my stomach at the same time.
Treating this like a bad dream, I slide out from under the sink thinking I can just be on my way quickly and leave him to it. But I know that as soon I stand and face him, I won’t be going anywhere.
His eyes nearly pop out of his head and his mouth half smiles, half drops open in his shock. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He points his finger at me as his eyes trail down my body. “All this time I thought you were a freak. You just don’t like dick, do you?”
His words confuse me before their meaning registers. My breaths become faster and faster as I try to understand what he is saying and where this is going, all while I’m screaming at myself for leaving my damn apartment and to run at the same time. I don’t know which voices to listen to, and it is about to push me over an edge I’ve never gotten close to or have ever seen.
