With that, Dragon Lady stepped forward with a lazy, hip-rolling stroll that would have enticed any other man. Patrick felt the heat of her body closing in on him. He attempted to step backward, but soon her arms were around him. Gazing (well, glaring really) into his eyes, she began stroking the back of his head, moving as close as his clothing would allow the two.
Her body felt warm, and soft—the way any other woman’s did—but he was revolted by her touch. By instinct, he became aware of how much of her skin was rubbing off onto his. He imagined a layer of individual skin cells as if they were living sacs, gleefully burrowing into him like tics. Skin, moist like lotion, moistened his own in a chemical swapping of ownership. It was as if her body was permeating right through his clothing, soaking her essence into his in a way that even scrubbing with lye wouldn’t fix. He could smell her—an overpowering scent far too sweet and foreign for his liking. She was becoming a part of him now. Soon, his clothes would be off and she would be sweating with effort. At that point, a shower would be useless to ward off anything she did to him. Her skin would be against his, rubbing and pressing her liquids into him, forcing her woman essence onto his own body. He was losing control.
“Please… d-don’t,” he started, trying to resist the urgency building between their bodies.
“I’m going to,” she said, as her lips brushed his across his jaw and neck, “and you aren’t going to stop me.”
“P-please…” he said breathlessly, “I don’t…”
“How many of your female informants have you tried to cure yourself with?” she asked in a low voice as her tongue traveled along the sensitive skin of his ear, “How many have you had success with? Do you ever finish?”
“F-fuck you…” he stuttered, closing his eyes to try and make her go away. He could feel more and more of her on him every second, and it made him want to retch.
“You’ll finish with me, pussycat. I’m going to make damn sure you do, and we’re going to be here all night until you do. Because from now on, every time you try to cure yourself and be ‘normal’, I want you to remember my flesh against yours, and I want you to remember that it was me you finished inside of.”
“W-why can’t you j-just leave me alone?!” Patrick cried openly now as his body betrayed him.
“Cry for me, little pussycat,” she said triumphantly. “Or don’t. This is the real world. No one here cares what’s happening to you.”
Wilderness of Mirrors
Lena turned on the light in her apartment. She took a moment to take it all in: the kitchen, the living room, the couches, and the scent of it all. It had only been a few days since last she was here; yet it felt less and less like home every time she returned. Sure, she slept here. But it was more a place to rest her head than the home it used to be. She rarely spent any time here past sleeping, and more often than not, she was out doing other things during the days and nights. It may have been working for Patrick, or hanging out at Little John, sure; but really, she just didn’t want to be here.
“I like it,” Vivika said honestly. “It’s a great place.”
“It’s nothing special,” Lena rolled her eyes.
“No really, I mean it. It looks like a family lives here… my place just looks empty.”
It was true, after all. Vivika lived alone, if not occasionally with her current man-friend. Her apartment was filled with piles of clothing, random instruments, a few sparsely-populated bookshelves and nothing else. And yet, Lena actually would have preferred it that way. Vivika’s apartment was hers and hers alone. Here, in Lena’s apartment, everything seemed like it was waiting for someone else… guests, perhaps. Lena didn’t like guests before her life had been turned upside down. Now the thought of guests actually scared her—excluding Vivika, of course. Yet, despite the fact that Vivika was more-or-less now welcome here, there were still aspects of the apartment that Lena wasn’t all that jazzed about her discovering.
“Young Lena?!” a weak voice called from the other room, “Young Lena, is that you?”
“Yes Mother, it’s me!”
“Oh, I’m so happy you are home! Come here and tell me about your trip!”
This was one change that Lena found hard to believe. When Lena had been in the Stasi prison, she had worried about her mother, wondering if she was well and if someone was taking care of her. Goodness, what her poor mother must have thought when the Stasi came charging in to bug the place… Lena tried not to think about it. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that her mother had merely dropped dead of a heart attack, assuming that the Stasi officers were Soviet soldiers charging in to accost her.
The reality was quite the opposite, however. Lena had arrived to find that her mother seemed altogether cured of her many mental afflictions, as if nothing had ever been wrong. No more night terrors, no more delusions, no more mistaking Lena for Soviet rapists, and no more taking swings at her. She seemed cheerful now. In actuality, she seemed extremely cheerful. She was still weak, and required care, yet she could walk about the house unaided now, could make her own food from time to time, could use the bathroom herself, and seemed to get on just fine with regular check-ins and grocery deliveries. Perhaps best of all, she no longer wet the bed.
Lena had arrived home after prison to find everything quite in order. Neighbors checked in on her regularly, delivered her food, and helped with the laundry. Occasionally, they would dust the place, or help clean the dishes. But for the most part, Lena’s mother was left to her own devices, “Oh, I’m just fine, dear!” she would say with a slightly manic smile, “Don’t you worry about me!!! I’m doing just fine here!! How was prison?!”
It was this that worried Lena most about Vivika meeting her. Before, she need only explain her mother off as a habitual invalid—a liberal conglomerate of every affliction she could possibly coax out of the moment. But now, she was cheerful. Very, very cheerful. Sickeningly cheerful, in fact. The kind of cheerful that a hostage held at hidden gunpoint manifests when he or she really wants you to leave, or else. There wasn’t an ‘or else’, of course; yet something had clearly rattled Lena’s mother beyond belief.
Lena had nightmares about Red-hat or Dragon Lady rifling through her mother’s things as she wet herself in fear. Maybe they were making fun of her, or simply egging her on as she soiled herself in a wordless plea for mercy. Dragon Lady was certainly capable of it… hell, Lena wouldn’t have put it past either of them to dress like Soviet soldiers just to see if they could truly terrify her. As much of an inconvenience as Lena was to them, her mother was a grave inconvenience to everyone. The implications of this spelled out various possibilities, of which none were good, to say the least. Still (and this thought was something Lena felt very bad about thinking), whatever they had done had worked—her Mother was more manageable now.
“Fair warning…” Lena muttered quietly at Vivika, “My mother is crazy.”
Oh, I’m sure she’s just a dear!” Vivika gushed back with that look all young people give each other when discussing parents. Lena knew what that meant, and there was nothing she could expect otherwise.
The two walked into her mother’s bedroom to find her sitting up in bed, nervously knitting a small kerchief. Her fingers were wrapped in bandages from numerous pokes and prods, and the yarn was kinked and coiled from numerous windings and un-windings. Lena had asked her mother once before if she would like some more yarn from the store, but she would have nothing of it as she sat knitting and un-knitting the same kerchief over and over and over.