Please Don't Go (25 page)

He looked around the room, wanting to associate something tangible with the voice in his head. His reality was falling apart at the seams.

She was ever present in his ear, inches away but omnipotent and all-encompassing at the same time; a sort of ventriloquist of another dimension. Her voice could be inside of his head in one instance, and the next a million miles away, but still very audible to Zephyr. It was this presence that put to bed his theory of an elaborate prank. He had been thrown beneath a bouncing fucking bus by Charles Rattup, cast into a pool of Hell like one would a worm on the end of a hook. He could not discern how much time had passed since his initial confinement, but it felt like more than a day, based upon the stubble on his chin.

Zephyr coughed a dry gust of oily air. He was happy to be free of the gag, but there remained remnants of fumes in his lungs.

If you don’t eat, I’ll make you eat. And you won’t like that one bit. Like in his silly little story. You remember that, don’t you? I won’t go to those extremes unless absolutely necessary. But I
will
if called upon. You eat now. I’ll allow you passage to the kitchen where I’ve made you a sandwich. We’ll discuss the terms of our agreement when you’ve arrived there.

She knew about the story, and had referred to it as “silly”.

“
What if I just stand up and walk out of here?” Zephyr threatened.

She laughed inside of his head, beside his head, and from the basement of his rumbling stomach.
Oh, I’d like to see that. You’ll get me all hot and bothered if you start testing my limits. Go ahead. Experiment. You won’t do so a second time- unless of course you’re a buffoon.

Zephyr decided that he had not the energy to attempt any kind of prison break, and so resigned himself to the kitchen for his sandwich as she had requested. Though he could not resist her overpowering direction, he found that walking to the kitchen area had been exponentially easier.
She
had freed up the path, trailblazing a tunnel through the heavy air (which still smelled of mixed garbage and peaches) for Zephyr to employ. There was still a subtle physical resistance, but it was only
tiring
to him instead of
utterly draining
. “I’ll eat your damn sandwich,” he mumbled, coughing that oily cough again. He only hoped that she had not prepared him a dead wharf rat as a side dish.

***

“
Have you seen Zephyr?” Jackie queried of their landlord, who stood before her in his doorway with a stained white tee-shirt and an equally stained set of chaotic teeth. He was picking at those teeth with the end of a steak knife, as thought he had just finished the consumption of something splendid and bloody. A steak, or maybe something simple, like a pork chop.

The landlord shook his head, unwilling to give it any deeper thought, as Jackie would have expected. “I bet he’s out fucking his boyfriend,” he barbed. He wanted to go back to his television. Watching television was infinitely easier than answering questions from snot-nosed overly-educated children who thought themselves to be the reason for the seasons. Her hippie optimism, in their brief and few interactions, had irritated the landlord to no end.

“
That’s comforting. You realize he’s been missing for more than a day now?” Jackie replied, casting a hidden aspersion at him. He was the definition of dirt-bag. Even if he had information on Zephyr’s whereabouts, he would not turn that over to Jackie, just to be an asshole.

“
While you’re here....You know your rent is late, right Pixie Stick?”

“
Aren’t you
refreshing
?”

***

The hummus and roasted pepper sandwich was well prepared, and actually quite delicious, though he would have never admitted that to his invisible captor for fear that she would take it as an olive branch. Their collective situation was one of total war, though he was sure that she had not convinced herself of that fact yet. He would eat her damn sandwich and play by her rules, but at his first opportunity he would be gone of her filthy hive. He was not the same sorry sap that Rattup had been, although in hindsight it seemed that Rattup concealed much of his true identity, in particular his ulterior motives, from Zephyr.

Did you enjoy your sandwich? Would you like another pickle?

He pictured her in his mind, making the sandwich and swirling around the kitchen, humming merrily as she did her work. Though he had not seen the actual construction of his lunch take place, this is how he imagined it and it may not have been too far from truth. She had displayed a domestic side and that only sickened Zephyr further. June Cleaver, from beyond the grave, unconvinced of her frigid husband’s love, trying to “make things work” for the sake of the children.

“
I’m fine. Now that I’ve eaten, maybe I can get some fresh air.”

That’s not possible.

“
You had that rag stuffed in my mouth for how long? My lungs don’t feel very rugged right now, and it’s not fair of you to deny me fresh fucking air. Just the greenhouse.” He hated the feeling of begging, and even more so to a person he could not see.

She pondered his request for a moment.

No. Now that you have some energy back, I have work for you. We have a laundry list of tasks to take care of first and foremost, mostly consisting of an understanding between you and I. No play before work, that’s one of the unwritten rules in this house. Would you like to know the rest of my rules?

“
Not really.” He didn’t plan to stick around long enough to follow the parameters of her poisonous roost. No swimming after hours. No running, no pushing, no diving. No loitering. No smoking. No children allowed, unless supervised by an adult nineteen years or older. “I’m not interested in your rules, but thanks for asking.”

She grasped his throat and he choked for air.

Rule one. You stay still. You don’t do anything without my permission. When you think it’s time to urinate, check with me first. When I’ve granted you that right, then you are free to go. Outside is off limits, but I will allow you free reign, to some extent, within the house itself. If I am suspicious of your motives, I’ll intercede. Don’t forget that I’ll always be near you. When I find a man that I adore, I take him in a full sense. I don’t jostle around with my emotions, so if you’re not sure whether you should be doing something or not, confer with me. When you eat a meal, confer with me. When you take a bath, be adequately convinced that I approve. When you address me, be sure that I am in a loquacious mood.

Rule two. Are you following?

He could not speak, for her treacherous grip, but he managed a strained nodding gesture.

Rule two. No contact with the outside world. That won’t be too much of a problem as you’ll soon discover. You’ll not speak to the mailman, unless you want that sorry soul to be punished as well, so don’t put that upon your conscience. If somebody comes to the door, let me handle it. If you try to step in, I’ll bring down my fury upon your head. Do you understand what fury I speak of, or are you at least just beginning to see it?

Another attempt at nodding. Zephyr felt his inner being drifting above him, the oxygen evacuated from his lungs, his face filling with a purple tint. If she did not release him soon, he would pass out again. Or maybe that was her intention.

Rule three. Submission is simple. The quicker you give in to my every whim, the quicker you can find normalcy in what I allow for the remainder of your life. This isn’t an optional love that you’ll find for me, but a necessity. If I don’t feel that love reciprocated, then I’ll take it by force. Do you understand?

She released his throat and Zephyr sucked in deep grateful gusts of air as quickly as he could. “Yes,” he forced out from between his teeth, giving in just enough to keep her satiated while he determined ways in which he could escape her grip. “Yes.”

Good. Now tell me you love me.

Zephyr gripped the counter top, looking to the bread crumbs on his plate to avoid her immediate attention. He was an expert at playing the
I can’t hear you
game, something he had utilized against Jackie in a more jocular manner in his previous life, that which had existed only two days earlier. He felt a cool breeze against his back. She touched his waist and he shivered. A part of him wanted to lash out, to throw a stiff elbow into her, but knew that she was untouchable in her current vaporous state.

Tell me you love me.
Zephyr looked around blankly while she ran her finger nails along the side of his stomach, reaching around to his front side.
Say it.

She gripped at the loose skin of Zephyr’s stomach, pinching it between her razor sharp talons. In his mind, he pictured them with flaming red glistening nail polish. Her nails were long, as Rattup had previously stated (when he still thought Rattup to be a madman), and punishing. They burrowed deep into his flesh and he could do nothing but yelp in reaction, squirming his body as though he was in the midst of a hurtful bowel movement. He lunged forward with his entire body, splaying his arms over the counter top and groaning as a rape victim would. The jagged nails dug deeper and Zephyr was sure that he was actively bleeding. He would not say what she wanted to hear of his trembling lips, to become a wooden puppet upon her lap. He would not bend to her will. The whore would have to rip his insides out if acquiescence was her ultimate goal.

Say it!

Zephyr’s mind, in an act of outward projection (what Jackie might have called “going to your Happy Place”), pictured his cousin Mark pulling his ear when they played in the backyard together as children. The five year old bully would tug upon Zephyr’s ear, insisting that he say “uncle,” that he would only be freed of the torment if he fell to his cousin’s feet and worshiped his post-toddler omnipotence.

Say it, you son of a bitch. I’ll set you on fire while you’re sleeping. I’ll rip away the flesh of your dick with my teeth. Don’t resist me. Say it.

At that, she released the nails from his flesh for a moment, causing a gratifying sigh from Zephyr. But that give-back had only been a precursor to an even stronger domination upon his screaming abdomen. He howled in pain, squeezing his eyes while little droplets of wetness beaded without any warning. “Please, no,” he said in low pained whispers, repeating his plea over and over as he physically projected himself elsewhere.

I’ll kill everybody you love. Mark my words.

“
I love you!” Zephyr shouted between strained belches of pain, turning over at her words, his face falling flat at fathoming that she could do harm to people he loved. Surely, she was bluffing. Releasing him from her claws, he could practically smell her smile in the air. “I love you,” he repeated, deflated but happy that she had ended her punishment. The lie felt so alien on his tongue, like he was eating a piece of meat again for the first time since his vegetarian experiment, chewing and gnawing and pretending to enjoy himself as his stomach formally rejected the greasy matter.

Oh, I see. I see everything so clearly now.
She tickled his ear with her tongue.
I love you, too.

Zephyr lost consciousness.

2.

When he awoke, Zephyr felt fat beads of perspiration covering his face and a sweat ring encircling the neck of his musty shirt. His hooded sweatshirt had been stripped away from his body while he was unconscious. Zephyr turned his swelling head up to see that he was once again stationed at the couch, deep in its fluffy nest. He looked to the digital clock on the DVD player, but found that it flashed 12:00 over and over again, which he now regretted. If he had set the proper time when he had installed the player, then he would have gained some semblance of his relative position in the space-time continuum. He reached next into the pocket of his jeans, fishing for his cell phone until he accepted that it was nowhere to be found. She had removed it from his person at some point, certainly during one of his knock-outs. Though he was now free to move his arms and legs (or so it seemed from the first inklings of sensitivity in those regions), he had no way of contacting Jackie. There was a phone somewhere in the house—there simply had to be—but he had never seen it with his eyes. Rattup would have used it to call in for his groceries, but perhaps he and
she
were smart enough to think ahead in this hostage situation, removing it from Zephyr’s immediate grasp.

He told himself to forget the phone. Forget the time. Forget anything but running.

My keys
, thought Zephyr, troubled that she may be near him, and that she could read his thoughts. Presumably, she could not, given that he and Rattup had spoken to each other on paper. If you cannot read words placed upon paper, then you cannot read thoughts, for a man’s thoughts are precursors to written words. With one, you get the other. Of course,
that
assumption was based on the naive perception of the world that existed before he had discovered the ghost and the man to be in conspiratorial cahoots.
If I can find my keys, I’ll never look back. The first thing I’ll do... I’ll ask Jackie to marry me. I swear.