I came here as a remembrance of Crystal, not to masturbate to pictures of a girl who used me in her little games, told her sick old man how big my dick was, how I performed, how I licked her cunt until she gushed all over my face, her soft cries a siren song to my ears.
I turn on the car and wrench the wheel around, heading back through the colorless, waterlogged evening. Just when I thought I couldn’t sink any lower, I find new ways to surprise myself. Like a fucking serial killer, I just jerked off while looking at pictures of the girl I murdered.
eight
Harper Apple
We’re sitting at the island one night when the Phantom reaches for the white wine, pouring himself a second glass. He never does that. It’s strange how much I know about him without even trying, without realizing I was learning.
“I need you to go home tomorrow,” he says.
“Okay.”
“My girlfriend’s coming home for the Fourth.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll take you home in the morning.”
“Okay.”
He watches me take a bite. I don’t taste anything. I’m never hungry. I remember when I would have killed to be so well fed, but I don’t remember why.
“After she goes home, you’ll come over every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.”
“Okay.”
Talking about going home starts to awaken a tiny part of my brain from its stupor. Though I’ve lived here for months, I haven’t looked around with any curiosity. I’ve been in his bedroom, in his shower, his closets, his roof. I know every inch of his house, but I’ve never noticed it. He knows every inch of my body, but I’ve never seen his face. I’ve been a snail hiding inside my shell for months. I haven’t gone anywhere since the trip to the clinic in April.
Is it really July already?
“I’ll pick you up from your house at four,” he says. “I won’t come in or meet your mother. You’ll tell her you’re with a friend if she asks.”
“She won’t.”
“You won’t tell her anything about me,” he says. “You’ll stay the night here twice a week. I like you being here when I wake up.”
“Okay.”
“Finish your wine,” he says. “I’m going to shower.”
“Okay.”
He rests his tattooed hand on top of mine. “Good girl.”
I finish my food and wine. He showers, and while he cleans up in the kitchen, I clean myself for him, the way he likes. Shower, shave, brush my teeth. I go to the bed where he’s lying waiting, reading a book, his mask still in place.
“Do you ever take that off?” I ask.
“No,” he says, laying the book down. “Hands and knees.”
I get on all fours, and he stands behind me, taking pictures.
“Good girl,” he says at last, setting his phone down before he fucks me. Afterwards, he shuts off the light and holds me while he falls asleep. For the first time in months, I have enough presence of mind to wonder what he looks like and who he is.
He takes me home the next day. I’ve texted Mom once a week, at his direction, letting her know that I’m fine and that I’ve moved in with a friend. As soon as I step through the door, she starts grilling me, and I’m surprised at the longing for the familiar, safe white walls of the Phantom’s loft apartment. I turn and walk down the hall to my room.
I couldn’t answer Mom’s questions if I tried. So, I don’t try. After screeching at me from the door for a while and getting no response, she goes off in a fury and doesn’t come home. The house is small and stinks of stale cigarettes and booze. It’s both foreign and familiar at once. Everything looks the same, but it feels as if I’m a stranger.