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The bartender knew me and knew what I liked, so I found a whiskey straight sitting in front of me. I threw the shot back and slammed it down on the counter. The barkeep filled it again. I knew I’d be happiest if he just kept them coming.
“God, you are such an asshole!” she said, and then she flounced off, her ass swaying delectably as she retreated. That’s when I had the fantasy I always have. I’d chase her, grab her and slam her against the wall, and just fucking take her. Forget all this social bullshit. And it is bullshit when you can’t participate.
Then I saw her, Emily. She came up to the bar. “Sam, can I get a martini?”
The bartender smiled and made her drink. She put a stack of brochures next to her, and when she looked away for a moment, I took one and slipped it into my jacket. The brochure contained her tour schedule. She drank her martini and never spoke to me.
I didn’t know if I was glad about that or not. I’m not sure why she should have spoken to me. I could have been some stalker fan, and it was obvious she just needed space.
For the next twenty minutes, I listened to her lyrical voice as she flirted with the bartender, and he bantered back. It was a sexual dance that was socially acceptable to perform out in the open, the modern repressed equivalent of a Roman orgy.
When she left, I studied the brochure. I think I just snapped, but I’ve decided to take her. I’m so fucking tired of being alone, of paying whores or seeking out women who know sign language. In the end, they all feel sorry for me, even the whores. I’ve got all this money, and it doesn’t mean a goddamned thing because I can’t carry on a relationship with anyone without them treating me like I’m slow because of my inability to speak.
I’d rather have fear than pity.
I felt numb.I could vaguely remember that bar and the bartender. Ihadthought the man beside me might be a stalker fan, or more likely someone whose wife had left him and for whatever reason he blamed me for it.
Sometimes women in less than stellar relationships were moved by something in one of my books, developed self-esteem, and left their boyfriends or husbands or whatever. Often I got blamed for it.
I looked at him, wanting to say something. Maybe he didn’t know as much about me as he thought, because surely he would have communicated with me if he did. I knew sign language because of my sister.
Of course, I could understand why he might not know that. When Katie died, mom and dad were so upset that after a few months they just erased her. Like she didn’t exist. It was too hard on them.
I thought it was cruel at the time, but thinking about her just hurt too much. I considered telling him, but he was pointing at the book and the pages he’d dog-eared. The ones that held all the explanations I’d waited months for and finally had stopped believing I would get.
I wasn’t sure sign language would help me now anyway because Ididfeel sorry for him. Maybe it would get me killed. He’d been in charge for so long, and now that he was showing vulnerability, surely his self-control wouldn’t hold out. The edges of it seemed frayed already. Things were unraveling. So instead I went back to the journal and flipped to the next dog-eared page.
January 30th:
I knowI’m fucking crazy. I’ve left Walter to run things for awhile. I’m never home. I’ve been following her tour schedule.
I understand there’s something wrong with this. And I know what’s wrong with it isn’t so much that I’m doing it, as that I don’t care it’s wrong.
When you’re a part of society there are certain behaviors that aren’t okay. If you do these behaviors and then feel nothing, that’s worse. But I’ve been trying to determine when I’ve ever been a part of society.
Even before I had a house built on what feels like the edge of the known universe, even when I mingled, I wasn’t a part. I was always on the outside looking in. There was one small group of people who I could speak with through sign language, rather than just looking at them dumbly.
And now I’m fucking feeling sorry for myself. Or maybe I’m justifying. No, because I intellectually know it’s wrong. I’m not an idiot. I had the best schooling that could be bought. I just don’t care. And I know I’ll get away with it.
During my time at home, I’ve converted some rooms for use when I get her. I’ve sound-proofed them because I’m not sure how much she’ll scream. The servants are rarely there anyway, but just to be on the safe side. I set the rooms up to look like labs, except the room with the monitors. That seems normal. And I’ve got the doors labeled as such.
The staff knows I used to work on product research, and they’ll think it’s a good sign I’m starting it again. I hear them talk amongst themselves. Sometimes I catch snippets about how I don’t go out much anymore and don’t do anything. Well, what the fuck is there to do?
As soon as the electrical people get the security system in place for the rooms, I can start getting rid of all the lab stuff and moving in what needs to go in. Except one room I’ll keep bare.
That’s probably the best way. I thought about using drugs to make her comply, but that leaves more of a potential paper trail. And something could go wrong, some unforeseen side effect or allergic reaction, and then I’m left with either letting her die or risk getting caught. Plus having a druggie on my hands isn’t overly appealing.
Although I have no moral problem with the course I’ve chosen, I don’t believe I would be so cavalier about taking a life. I’m just not an overly violent person, except for the occasional sexual fantasy. I don’t want to physically harm her; I just want her.
I suppose I could always do one of those pathetic attempts at a relationship again. But then we’re back to me being pitied. For once I want a goddamned woman to know I’m not helpless just because I can’t talk to her. I really don’t think I’ll have to hurt her, though. I know her weakness.
I’ve never seen anyone drink up social interaction in quite the starved way she does. If I deprive her of everything, she’ll comply.
I watch her at these conferences she does, careful to keep to the shadows so she doesn’t notice me and realize that one face is always there amidst the ever-changing sea of them. She flits around, and one can see where the term social butterfly comes from. She has the most musical laugh, and once or twice I almost felt guilty.
But then I close my eyes, and I see her naked beneath me, knowing that for once in my fucking life, I have absolute power with a woman. Someone who can’t reject me and wouldn’t know how to pity me, and the twinge is gone again.
I couldn’t stopthe tears tracking down my face at how casual he was about the whole thing. How he talked about breaking me like one might mention what they were having for dinner. The extreme arrogance, the lack of remorse.
