Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (30 page)

“Your sweat tastes good,” she said. “And your scent… It’s a saccharine scent.”

Mark didn’t want to ask but knew he had to: “When is your mom getting back?”

“I don’t want to think about that,” she teased.

“I don’t want her to catch us and to hate me.”

“She won’t,” Cara promised. “She won’t be back for another hour.”

They lied there quiet, holding one another, and he began to get hard again. She kissed his forehead. “I can feel something poking into me.”

“Want to do it again?” Mark asked without shame.

“No,” Cara said.

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Mark’s eyes fell, dejected.

“I want to do something else,” she said, and she pulled away, leaving him lying on the bed. She crawled on top of him, straddled her legs around his thigh. Her breasts hung magnificently in the shadows, and her eyes glowed. With one hand she opened up her vagina, and with the other, she guided his hard penis into the warmth and wetness. He went straight into her.

“Oh God,” she groaned. “God. You’re so large you just hit my G-spot.”

That brought a smile to Mark’s face. “I’m not a virgin anymore, am I?”

Cara leaned down upon him, her breasts against his chest, arms around his head. She stroked his cheek and whispered in his ear, “No, Sweetie, you’re not.”

They kissed a few more times, not even moving, just enjoying the feeling of being connected. She then raised herself up and began moving in a rhythmic grind, reaching behind her back with one hand, stroking his balls, the other hand upon his chest. Her breasts jingled like bells, the rock-hard nipples sharp as knives, and she crooned her neck to the side and closed her eyes, enjoying. Mark put one hand upon her right knee and the other upon her slender waist. She continued moving, and he took one hand and wrapped it around her right breast and felt the erect nipple against his thumb. He began thrusting deeper into her, and he could feel himself hitting her G-Spot: each time, she let out a curdled shriek of wonder. She leaned back more, and Mark continued thrusting. She began moving her hips up and down, and with his thrusts, they were moving together so that he nearly pulled out before slamming deep inside her, creating a slurping-wet sound with each tune of their dance. She suddenly pitched forward and covered him, her body close against him, and his penis withdrew as she came all over his groin.

Sweat dripped off her body, and their heartbeats worked in rhythm. “God, you feel so good inside me,” she said, running a hand through her bangs matted against her sweaty forehead. Her mouth contorted, and he felt more juices tickle through his pubic hair and trickle down his swollen balls. She went still, breathing hard, and he wrapped his arms around her back. He traced his finger along her spine.

“Oh my God…” she said after a moment, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m still contracting.”

He smiled, turned his head, kissed her neck: the salt in her sweat tasted like harmony. She moved off from him and laid down close to the wall. “You didn’t go, did you?”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay. I want you to fuck me, on top of me.”

“Okay,” he said, maneuvering himself around so that he was looking down at her bare shoulders and breasts. “Guide me in,” he said.

She did so, and he began moving inside her. He kept his eyes locked with hers, until the pleasure became too much for her, and her eyes closed behind fluttering eyelids. Her back arched into the air, and Mark pulled himself straight. She reached with her hands and grabbed the insides of her legs and pulled them up close to her side so that he could get in deeper. He began moving quicker and quicker, and she let out several shouts. “Oh, yes, fuck me
hard
…” she spat, and he obliged, bringing about another scream as she went once more. Her warm vagina felt so good against his swollen penis, but he knew he wouldn’t last long as he gazed upon her naked body, the breasts shuddering with each thrust, the sweat sparkling in the first peals of moonlight coming through the window.

Cara began fingering her clit as he continued to pound her. She began thrusting herself into him, and her legs came down, and she pressed her bare feet against the bed-sheets to gain more momentum. He couldn’t last any longer, but he didn’t want to stop, and he let out a strangled shout Anthony Barnhart

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as he slammed himself deep into her and felt himself ejaculate deep into her. He lost all energy, and he sagged down, holding himself up with his arms, his cheek resting against her throbbing breasts as she continued to thrust until she went once more.

He rolled off of her and laid upon the bed. They wrapped themselves in each other’s steaming body.

“Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head as she sought to catch a breath. “It’s never felt…

Never felt that good.”

Mark kissed her quivering lips. “This is better than looking at a scrapbook, huh?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “As much as I love that scrapbook…”

“You know what I wish?” Mark asked.

“What’s that?” She began running her finger along his chest.

“I wish I could lay here forever. And never let go of you.”

She pulled him tight against her. “Then don’t,” she whispered in his ear. A sudden flash of light entered the room from the window. Cara’s eyes went wide and her body went rigid. A grinding noise came from downstairs.

“What is that?” Mark asked, his heart beginning to sprint in terror.

“Oh,
shit
, that’s the garage. Hurry. Get dressed! She’ll be in any minute!”

Mark threw himself over her and fell onto the floor, banging his knee. Fear rippled so tensely through Cara that she didn’t even laugh. She threw on her panties and bra, and Mark stumbled around as if he were in a slow-moving dream, searching for his clothes amidst the mess on her floor. A feminine voice came from downstairs: “Cara? I’m home!”

Cara’s face went ashen. “Oh
shit
,” she muttered. “Where’s my shirt?”

“Just get one from the closet!” Mark hissed, pulling up his pants. She did, and before long they were dressed and sitting on the bed together, holding the scrapbook.

Cara’s mom appeared in the doorway, eyed them.

Cara, still out of breath, asked, “How was the meeting?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “It was good.” She looked over at the boy. “Hi, Mark.”

“Hi, Ms. Mavis.”

The woman smiles, then leaves, shaking her head.

Mark and Cara don’t say anything for a moment.

She wrinkles her nose. “It stinks of sex in here.”

∑Ω∑

He stands before the sofa in the living room. She lies there. He can’t look upon her, and he can’t look away. His eyes feel held open by clamps, his pupils riveted as if fastened in their gaze by electricity. He remembers her as the dazzling beauty, too beautiful to behold, a creature who stole his breath away. He remembers the feeling of her hand in his, her bare breasts against his chest, her hair dangling in front of those enormous and engulfing eyes. He remembers the way she laughed when he tickled her, and the way she yelled when she got upset. He remembers holding her close as she wept over the death of her aunt, how her body shook in his arms and then went still, and she slept in peace upon his shoulder. His heart weeps, but his tears are dried up. The well has been exhausted by the countless memories and reminisces. She looks nothing as she did in his memories: there is no flesh, no sinews, nothing to suggest life. No heartbeat, no brain with chemicals that soared in his presence. There is nothing but a skeleton of disassembled bones and dirty blood-stains soaking the Anthony Barnhart

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sofa’s cushions. He kneels down beside her, and he looks at her skull: the rosy cheeks are now replaced with knobby cheek-bones. He looks at the teeth grinning at him, and he remembers how their lips met and they breathed as one. Her eyes, so precious and tempting, now lost, gaping holes, empty sockets. A shaking hand goes out, rests upon the cranium. He feels the smoothness and the bumps of her bone, and he leans forward. He presses quivering lips upon her skull, and with a great exhalation, followed by a torrent of brand-new tears, kisses.

The man leaps up from the table as the front door opens. He rushes into the parlor as Mark steps inside. “Where the hell have you been?!” he demands.

Mark shakes his head. “Nowhere.”

The man cannot tear his eyes from the pallor etched over Mark’s face. “You look sick.”

“I went to bury her,” Mark says, leaning against the wall.

“Who? The girl?”

“Cara.”

The man is quiet. “Oh.”

“I couldn’t… She was…”

“Do you want some coffee?” the man asks, trying to help.

Mark doesn’t answer for a moment. “No.”

The night begins to dawn. The man takes it upon himself to fix dinner.

“Are brussell sprouts all right?” he asks, looking through their scarce cans.

“They’re fine.” The boy sits at the table, staring at the polished wood.

“If you don’t like them, we can fix something else.”

“They’re fine,” Mark repeats, not averting his gaze.

“Okay,” the man says.

A few moments pass.

Mark stares numbly into the table. “Every time I think of her… I don’t see her face… I see her lying on that sofa, nothing but a skeleton. When she died… After we left… I know it’s true, don’t tell me I’m wrong… Flies ate her. Fucking
flies
. They fucking
ate
her. She was just a piece of food to them. My girlfriend. The girl I loved. Nothing more than nutrients in an abandoned house… And now nothing more than a skeleton. When I die, no one will know her name. No one will think about her. And no one will give a damn.”

The man is silent for some time. “Mark?”

“What?”

He stirs the sprouts. “You’re not going to try and kill yourself again, are you?”

Mark manages a chuckle. “No.”

“Good. Cause I don’t know what the hell I would do without you.”

II

Mark’s eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, widening and engulfing his cold and sterile surroundings. The room is small, constructed of hewn stone molded together with tar. The roof is low, and if he stands, his head scrapes against the rough and jagged rock. For a moment he wonders if he is in a cave, and as he sits upon the cot, legs draped over the edge, hairs standing on edge in the frigid air, he glances to the far side of the room. Seeming to slide through the darkness, like a sponge thrust Anthony Barnhart

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through a patchwork, bars emerge. Heavy iron bars, running from ceiling-to-floor, spaced along the entire wall with only a meager few inches between each. He stares at the bars, but he cannot remember how he has found this place. He coughs in his hands, lungs searing, and blood seems to glow phosphorous in the twilight. Footsteps caress his ears, and he pulls his eyes towards the bars. A figure emerges. A girl. She stands about his height, with a slender body, piercing eyes, chocolate hair yearning to be felt. Her cheek-bones are pulled taught, yet elegantly, and she stands before the bars, smiling. Hope lurches within the boy’s soul, and he yanks himself from the cot and rushes to the bars. How long he stands there he cannot remember; their eyes lock, and he is lost in the warmth of her gaze; the ice that holds so tight upon his ribs melts, and his heart begins to pump vibrant blood through his veins.

His mouth moves, searching for words: “I’m sorry…”

She shakes her head. “No, Baby. Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m so sorry…” Tears are crawling down his cheeks.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I loved you.
Fuck
I loved you. I could never tell you. You were afraid of being loved. You were afraid of holding someone close and feeling that intimate connection. That other boy, he hurt you. He treated you like shit, he took your heart in his hands, he took it and he ripped it apart and then left you in the street, bleeding and alone. I hate him. I fucking
hate
him. I see him all the time, and all I want to do is take a bottle and smash it across his face. I want the glass to cut him deep, to cover his face in blood; I want his face to be scarred, so that when people look at him, they’ll see what he is under the makeup of feigned politeness and corrupt compassion: he is a
monster
. Baby.” He hangs his head low, the tears sliding down his cheeks. “I loved you so much.
So fucking much
.”

She doesn’t say anything.

He looks up into her eyes. “Why couldn’t I tell you that I loved you?”

“You didn’t have to,” she says. “You showed it to me every day.”

“I should have came for you earlier… I shouldn’t have waited so long…”

“Nothing can change what happened.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry… I’m so fucking sorry…”

She reaches through the bars, holds his chin up with one finger. “Look at me.”

Her face is blurred through the tears obscuring his vision, but he looks, fiercely.

“You’re my Googlie Bear. No one else. Only you. You’re my only Googlie Bear.”

He reaches through the bars to stroke her cheek.

Now tears emerge in her eyes. “I’m sorry, too,” she says.

He runs a finger across her cheeks, can feel the warm blood pulsing within.

“I’m not who you thought I was.”

“You were an angel.”

“I
was
an angel,” she says. And then, grimly, “Once.”

The boy wakes with a shout, his voice carrying throughout the cold and cryptic house. He lies sprawled upon the mattress in the hallway, and the wind shakes the walls. He had scattered his blankets with his jerk to reality, and now he pulls them over his body before the cold can set in. He lays his head back down upon the table and stares up into the darkness. Outside the house comes the howling of the wind, carrying with it snow that seeps through every crack and freezes every exposed piece of earth. The boy lies on the floor and gazes at the ceiling, stroking his arm, feeling the flesh, still intact. He tells himself that it was nothing but a dream, and he closes his eyes to go back to sleep, but he sees her, so clear and lucid, reaching for him, her lips curled back, revealing dagger-like teeth Anthony Barnhart