Cellar Door (2 page)

Chapter One

Liam

I am a broken man, although at a glance you would never know it. If not broken, then certainly empty, certainly flawed. I appear to have all the usual pieces and parts that one would expect of a grown man. The void that plagues me isn’t visible to the naked eye, but I feel it, nonetheless, day in and day out; an emptiness that I could swear is in the vicinity of my heart.

If I were to seek medical advice for this…anomaly, the physician’s attention would be focused on my thoracic cavity. The
cavitas thoracis
, if you want to get technical about it and impress your friends. It houses the heart, the esophagus, the trachea, and other essentials. Now, if I were to consult a shaman instead, I would no doubt be told, quite reverently I’m sure, that it is the place where my soul should reside – emphasis on
should
.

How ironic that I have devoted my life to piecing people back together, only to find myself profoundly and irretrievably broken. I could find a way to endure the emptiness if it weren’t for the inky, black despair that threatens to consume me. Inch by inch, it is seeping into the bottomless chasm where my soul yearns to be. The remedies I usually employ to fend off the abyss that threatens my sanity no longer seem to work. I fear the darkness is winning.

Now, being a successful surgeon gives me easy access to a variety of beautiful women, any size, any shape, pretty much whenever and however I want. But I’ve never been tempted to have a true relationship with any of them. I use them for sex, pure and simple. I’m always honest about that with anyone I fuck.

Many of the women believe they can change my playboy ways, but that will never happen because I’m wired differently than other men. I have specific sexual needs, unique enough that they are rarely indulged and never truly satisfied. To put it simply, I get off on fantasies about kidnapping women and putting them through their paces on my own terms – a fetish, if you will.

Up until now, my fetish has been limited to staged scenes and carefully orchestrated role playing with women who share my sexual proclivities. In fact, it’s been nearly three years since I’ve indulged those baser needs. I haven’t trusted myself to attempt another scene after one particularly intense roleplay got out of hand. My playmate at the time – Claudia -- and I took things too far. The line between reality and fantasy began to blur and Stockholm syndrome became, not just a carefully scripted performance tool, but a very real and unwelcome dynamic in our arrangement.

Claudia is like me in that she becomes completely absorbed in a fetish scene, and completely aroused. She seemed like an ideal partner because she was hooked on the high she achieved through absolute surrender. We were a good fit; neither of us harbored expectations for a relationship beyond the requirements of the scene, and we were experienced enough to know what we were getting into. Or so we thought.

The final scene we created together was beyond anything either of us had tried before: the setting was authentic, with Claudia shackled in my basement for weeks after the initial kidnapping; the prolonged length of the scene was intended to enable her to become completely immersed in her role and, therefore, more fully explore the dynamics of submission. But things got out of hand.

My behavior took on a dark, sadistic quality. Claudia developed an authentic case of Stockholm syndrome, to the point that we cut the scene short and, more importantly, agreed it would be best to cease all contact from that point forward. Despite the trauma to Claudia’s psyche, there were no hard feelings or resentment afterward – in fact, there was no emotional investment at all, only an intense dynamic of dominance and surrender that had no place in the real world.

Needless to say, I was duly chastened by the experience and have yet to attempt another kidnapping scene. I miss it. I miss the anticipation, the risk of discovery, the progressively intense dynamics between the captor and the captive. I continue to hope that, somewhere out there, a woman exists who is given to the same depravity that resonates so deeply within me. A woman who can surrender her entire self and yet hold her own with a man intent on utter domination. Only time will tell. So I’m biding my time.

My coffee mug leaves a steamy circle on the tiny bistro table as I raise the mug to my lips for a long draw of joltingly strong brew. After carefully setting the mug down in its exact, dewy spot on the table, I lean back in my chair to take in the view from the window of the coffee shop. With my arms crossed over my chest and my legs stretched out in front of me, I tilt my head back and cross my ankles in the universal posture of leisurely indolence.

To the casual observer, I appear to be lifting my face toward the sun, much like a cat that’s found the perfect sunny spot for a nap. But, despite all appearances, I’m actually quite the busy boy.

There she sits, her delicate profile visible in the window of her third floor efficiency apartment in the Kentucky Towers building. Hour upon hour every evening, she sits at her desk. At first glance she appears to be motionless, but I know better. Her every move fascinates me as she types a few words here and there, pausing occasionally to scowl at the computer screen before resuming her endless typing. Rinse and repeat.

The soft curve of her arm reminds me of a ballerina as she gathers her brunette tresses to one side, letting them fan over her shoulder as they flow from her hand. As her fingers resume their staccato rhythm across the keyboard, I wonder which part of her soul bleeds out in the words pouring from her. And does it help? Is she plagued by her own encroaching darkness?

I became aware of her existence a year ago during a visit with my brother, Lance, at Our Lady of Tranquility. He was boasting about the beauty that had been his next intended murder victim. After several failed attempts he had simply run out of time. Fate seemed to intervene every time he planned her kidnapping, with his arrest putting his plans pretty much on permanent hold. May she never know how close she came to suffering a grisly death at his hands.

The police know nothing about my angel. He never told anyone but me her name. I was curious so I sought her out – discreetly, of course. It wasn’t difficult to find out where she lived and learn her routine. Even from a distance, I found her soft features and willowy curves enthralling. I told myself I would only check on her occasionally, but it quickly became my mission to watch over her. She belongs to me so I’ll be here, day after day, keeping silent vigil so my angel can write in peace.

My mind drifts back to the day I finally met her face to face. Well, I didn’t exactly meet her. I, quite literally, ran into her. Meeting her had not been in my immediate plans, and I didn’t know she had started volunteering at U of L Hospital, the hospital where I work. Perhaps it was fate intervening once again in the young woman’s life.

I was in a hurry that day as usual, as was she. We collided, the impact knocking her to ground. Her armload of books scattered. My first reaction was impatience with yet another distracted person who was probably texting and not paying attention to where they were going. I reached down to help her pick up the books, keeping my thoughts to myself. But when I grasped her elbow to steady her as she rose to her feet, I looked into those cobalt blue eyes and felt the pang of recognition sweep through me. My spine tingled as if a lightning bolt had struck deep inside me. A surge of heat flooded my chest, the warmth of her skin stole my breath. Though I’d been watching her from a distance for some time, being in her presence was profoundly moving.

“What on earth are you doing with all these books?” Shock at her burden caused my voice to sound harsh. She flinched at my stern tone before pursing her lips and scowling indignantly. My cock surged to rock-hard life as she glared up at me.
Such a spunky little thing.

“It’s Tuesday. I’m reading to patients. I come here and read to patients on Tuesdays.” She repeated herself, as if doing so would summon the bravado she needed to stand up to the pompous, confrontational man who had so unceremoniously knocked her books – and her – to the floor.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just roll them around on one of the hospital carts the gift shop provides? Or to perhaps just use a tote of some kind, rather than carry them?” I arched a brow derisively as I continued, “Especially since you obviously pay no attention to where you’re going.”

Her indignant gasp was even more adorable when she narrowed her eyes at me. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to watch where
you’re
going?” she replied haughtily.

The brief conversation was enough to make that hollow place inside me stir, to fan the flicker of heat to a full flame. I knew in that moment that it was because of her. If I thought I desired her before, seeing her face to face like this and experiencing such a visceral reaction only solidified my fascination.

I knew, in that singular moment, that I would have her. Something passed between us that day, something very much beyond my control. Before that moment, I had merely been watching her from a distance, my initial curiosity having blossomed into a mild fascination because of Lance’s avowed interest in her. No more – from that moment on, I became driven by a force I immediately recognized as obsession – and it had nothing to do with anyone but the two of us.

With her books safely tucked back into her arms, she huffed away, clearly irritated with the unpleasant, abrasive man she had encountered in the stark white hallway of the hospital. My attention was captured by her dark ponytail as it bounced in time with her hurried, agitated steps. I leaned my shoulder against the wall, smiling while I shamelessly savored the staccato swing of her delectable backside as she scurried away.

When she rounded the corner and I could no longer see her, I picked up the check-out card from the local library, which had fallen onto the floor. The name scribbled at the bottom of the card rolled off of my tongue as naturally as my own, the name that would forever change my destiny: Madonna Marie Mathews.

Perhaps this innocent bookworm -- my dark angel, my Madonna – would prove to be the kindred spirit upon whom I could unleash all my darkest fantasies.

Madonna

I hurry down the hospital corridor with happy anticipation. What I’m about to do may seem unimportant when compared to the life and death concerns of so many of the patients here—but, to me, it is anything but.

“Mr. Williams, good to see you,” I say in a cheery voice as I set my books on a table by the door. I give him my best smile and cross the room to open the blinds and let some light in.

“I thought you weren’t going to make it, sweetheart. So tell me, did you find it?” he asks expectantly, unable to hide his pleasure at the prospect of me reading his favorite poetry to him today.

The power of words is truly humbling, how they can even soothe a soul that is facing death. Mr. Williams shares my love of literature. The time we’ve spent reading and discussing books has bonded us as friends. We’ve established our own private book club of sorts. The dimming of his eyesight has made it impossible for him to read on his own. He says he enjoys the more personal experience of being read to now far more than listening to audio books. It’s the least I can do to make his last days enjoyable.

Without preamble, I pull up a chair and begin reading ‘Stopping by woods on a snowy evening’, by Robert Frost.

He speaks when I’m finished. “I do so love that last passage. You know, he wrote that after he’d been up all night writing ‘New Hampshire’. It’s amazing, the unexpected ways inspiration can strike, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is. I wonder if he had any idea that the world would still treasure his words so many years later.”

“Miss Mathews, don’t give up on your dream of publishing that book of poetry. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know your words were being read by the next generation long after you’re gone?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid poetry doesn’t captivate readers the way it did years ago…”

“If the melody and the meaning are in the words, it will find its audience. Your purpose is to unleash the part of your soul that’s trapped with no other means of escape -- not to get rich, famous, or even popular, for that matter. Yes, your writing is the thing that will surely keep you sane.”

He turns his head toward the window and the view of the manicured grounds. His eyes become unfocused, his thoughts drifting far away. “You see, if you don’t let the words out, release the characters and thoughts that ramble around inside your head, you will surely court insanity.”