Plush (25 page)

“You fucking killed your brother and for this you cry!”

kwa-peesh
– cutting into me,
freeing me from me
. I can feel blood start to drip down. I want to be yours. I want to be yours always and forever.

KQWA-PEEESH!
I have never wanted anything as much as this. He has some kind of fucked-up darkness, and it’s everything I need.

His voice is soft – it’s just me and him in our world. I hear it pull back, slicing the air –
KQWAAA-PEEEESH!
The whip sears into me again. “I will cure you of your guilt. I will whip you ‘til you repent.”

Again and again, flesh is breaking up. I am a caged body soul breaking open, and with each flailing I cry. My guilt starts to fly from me. “You fucking whore; you killed your brother because you’re so selfish…” He goes harder and harder with the whip until I feel so raw and out of the abyss.

Leather, six, heel, crumpled paper marionettes, empires falling, rubble memories, stains, tears, bricks crumbling into the sea, into the sea of dying, kingdoms being reborn in us, in this lost truth of one, somewhere in a universe, unloved we have found each other
.

He grabs me from behind, nails digging in my ass so deep, so deep, and his sweaty hand wicked-covers my eyes.
Darkness, black, pain, death
. I’m freeing myself from the death of Jack. I’m freeing myself from my personal hell.
Free garter-choke hate be gone
. And I’m freeing myself from the way my parents never loved me, or how nobody every loved or understood me the way I want. And I cry, and I’m free, and I’m flying, and he’s eight inches hard, slamming into me, slamming me free from all my suffering.

My chest hits the wall as he pulls in and out. Splinters go into my nipples,
and I’m screaming at the world for this person I’ve become,
and I’ve never been so turned on. Enzo, I love you. I love you. I’m yours forever.

And I feel him cum right as I cum; we are – as I realize now – forever united as one; we’re as we are supposed to be. And I think he’s my soul mate, my one, my all, my everything.

I feel ropes fall away as he unties me, turns me around, and lifts me against the wall. Why do I love your wicked heart so much? He rips the tape and panties from my mouth. His tongue is in me so deep. Sweat. Night speed. He drops me to the floor and falls inside me again and pushes so deep. I’m so small in his arms. Velvet pain. The seductress night-sings. I’m lost in him, and he’s lost in me. I can’t help it. Enzo. Enzo. Enzo. He makes me cum again with him. “You’re the devil Enzo.” Nobody has ever fucked me like this: fucked so I stay fucked.

The weight of me killing Jack is
gone.

I get up, straighten myself out, and get dressed. I kiss him and kiss him again. Then I pull at the pouch – his necklace. My rage-wild-bull returns for what he said to my kid, and I slap him bullet-train-hard. He lifts me up and kisses me again. And I forgive him forever.

I check in the mirror. Welts and blood are on my back and legs. Fuck. I walk out, dying inside. I left the flashlight in the studio… How do I fix this so Carter won’t say anything? I fall in the ditch near the drainage pump and land on my ass. New skin is made raw and new blood pours all over my shorts. At least I won’t be fully lying to Carter when I have to explain myself.

57

I drop my purse in the bedroom. Carter is watching one of his gruesome crime shows. He’s obsessed with understanding the minds of criminals and perverts, but he doesn’t understand my perversions. I don’t think he ever will. Sometimes I can listen to what he’s up to, but most times I can’t. It’s too much. I must cover for this now before he says anything:

“Look, Carter. Look at what that ditch did? I slipped again and I’m covered in welts and blood. You have to get it fixed.”

He barely looks up from his show. “OK, sorry. Will do.”

I grab a towel and robe.

I knew he already took a shower, so I can cover: “You wanna take a shower with me?”

“Honey, I gotta watch this.” Yup. He’s too busy staring and scrutinizing someone else’s blood and death on the screen to notice mine.

Water. It’s washing away the pain, the sin. It’s drowning out my guilt in all the places Enzo still lives on me. His tongue, his whip, his cock. I pour a whole bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the bath to heal the wounds, but it won’t cure me. My body turns white in blistering screams of pain, and I take it all in without a peep. My whole body still feels like it’s with him. Steam is everywhere. Hayley. You don’t want it to be true, but it is. You love him. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything. And you can’t.

Wash. Water off. I turn on the hair dryer so he’ll ask me to shut the door, and he does. I shut it. Privacy at last. I search for that spot of missing hair like fevers for blood, like cockroaches for food. It’s a bleach-white mess upon mess. Tangles. Feuds. What the fuck was Enzo thinking leaving all these marks? He knew I would forever see him on my body in scars and stars: the painful poetry of what we are becoming. He’s going to get me caught. He’s trying to get me caught. There it is: the missing hair. I get out my razor cutter. A long, sharp blade – everything now reminds me of him… I cut some more hair to make it less noticeable, scoop it, and throw it in the toilet. Blonde hair in a spiral – me in a spiral – spiraling down, down, down. I can’t tell which way is up anymore, or who I am, or where I’m supposed to go.

I put some gauze around my back and medical tape it down. Then more, and more. I hear Carter walking towards the door – shit. The hair. I throw some paper in the toilet to cover it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t do this. Which way is up? Am I drowning in mistakes, or is Enzo the path I take? No. Carter is goodness, and too much perversity makes you dull to reality… I don’t know. I don’t know.

Carter goes pee. He doesn’t say a thing about my hair. He flushes away the lies and deceit. I don’t know who I am anymore. I hate myself, and all I want is what’s wrong. As he leaves, he kisses me sweet, so sweet, right on the gauze. “Baby, love… come to bed with me.”

I follow him out of the bathroom and stop to check the security monitors. Enzo is moving around in the studio, but I can’t see what he’s doing. He better not be fucking with my Jack shrine! That guy doesn’t understand the meaning of boundaries. But look who’s talking.

I lay in the bed looking up. I can’t sleep even though all I want to do is sleep. Things are just too weird, and I don’t know what to do. I feel like a caged tiger caught stealing - which I did. I stole hearts. I broke hearts; they just don’t know it yet.

Carter is breathing hard, so he must be asleep. I turn and -
ah!
His eyes are open, staring right at me, hungry and savage. “Shit! You scared me…” Carter laughs so crazy. He reaches under my night gown and pinches my nipple. This is not what I fucking want right now. “Ouch, Carter! That hurts!” He doesn’t stop. Why the fuck don’t men understand ‘NO’? Jack, ‘NO’ to the heroin. Dad, ‘NO’ to the women, and ‘NO’ to Ms. Fajita. Enzo, ‘NO’ to coming to my house. Crazy fan, ‘NO’ to the stalking!

“SERIOUSLY CARTER! THAT HURTS! I am seriously fucking injured.” He turns away mad: “Fine, grumpy pants!”

When there are no more welts on my ass, maybe I should let him fuck me from behind. If I don’t have to look at him, he won’t notice I’m thinking about someone else. If that was Enzo I wouldn’t have said, ‘No.’ What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m just not attracted to Carter anymore. But I still love him. Maybe he feels more like a friend or a dad or something else. He doesn’t make me scream or make me beg for more and more. I’m such a terrible wife and mother, so fucking selfish. I need a get-out-of-jail card for my life.

58

Ugh. Mornings. My head is full of avalanching rocks of bad-choice memories. What time is it even? Fuck. What year? What day? What life? Hayley is not OK. I put my moon kimono robe on and go downstairs. I need water and a cure. On the downstairs table there are remnants of breakfast on several plates and a note:
“thanks everybody! XoXo uncle Enzo”

What the fuck?! He ate breakfast with
my
family?!

Tornados of guilt and confusion spin through me. That’s it. I have to deal with this. I slam five guarana pills, throw on a tank and ripped shorts, mess the shredded escapades of my hair, and walk out the door.

Outside, Carter the Saint is filling the slip-n-slide and the boys are running around like crazy. Hot sun. Hot Malibu sun. This is a perfect life, some may say. I kiss them goodbye and they splash around – how swell.

I jump in my yellow Mini and head to Silverlake.
Speed, fast, sun, sorrow
. On the PCH, the water is bright, shining on everything.
Faster, faster
. 10 freeway.
Faster, faster
. I can see my car below zooming through the cars. I can see my hair flying out the window. I’m micro machine small. I’m chewing on my lips; I feel like twitching in the pain of the life I’m living, but then again, I prefer everything dramatic. Blasting through the speakers is the Naked and Famous’ “Punching in a Dream.” And I sing along to Alissa:
“Life tearing at the seams…”
110. 101. I go up Silverlake Blvd.
Drive, drive
. This is Hipster-land where poor immigrants are shoved out by the richening actors and musicians and elaborate coffee lounges. I turn up a small, tree-lined side street where all the sidewalks are broken. There’s Enzo’s building. I’ve never been. I check the perimeter and don’t see anyone suspicious. Out of the car, I walk up the stones. Where’s his name? I scroll down.
Buzz
. “Enzo I’m coming up.”

Someone always walks out the door right as someone buzzes you in. It’s a guy with a guitar. Enzo must live in a musician-madman’s building. I start up the stairs to the third floor. The creaky, dark brown, wooden stairs have latex gloves thrown around some hipster trash. I can hear a couple fighting and throwing things.
Knock knock
. No one answers, but the knob is loose. I push it open and peek in. Enzo’s on the floor tinkering with an old piano, bright blue with rainbow-painted notes; it sits on a black tarp with the strings out around it. He’s a mad scientist building away. All around are vintage mics, old synths, moogs galore, guitars, and Plush posters – Jack and I are all over the walls. How weird. But I’m weird.

Me: “Hey.”

He looks up, filled with love and enthusiasm. He’s restringing the piano with something red and slimy. “Real cow guts! I’m gonna layer this into the track. It’s gonna take it to outer space!” He points to the ceiling. That is beyond gross. I mean, where did he get that shit, and shouldn’t it be dried and all? But then again, that Scott Walker documentary showed him recording sounds of him pounding dead animal flesh. And Dali put four cats in a piano and played the keys so they would screech. He’s a mad genius, so I’m sure it’ll be just what the tracks need. Oh, wait. Remember why you came here. Boundaries. Set boundaries. Stick to them. I hide the mouse and make my voice stern:

“Enzo. I need to ask you to do something. Please, please, please. No more husband or kid hang time. You
can’t
come to the ranch. You can come to the studio WHEN, and ONLY when, the rest of the band’s there.” Enzo nods in agreement and I continue, “It’s my house; you have to respect
my
rules.”

That sounded good. I was strong, even though inside he makes me weak. “You’re so tough, Hayley. You should feel proud of yourself for that one.”

Fuck. That’s what happens when you have this insane connection. He knows what I’m thinking. I’m so fucking transparent, and I’m so fucking embarrassed. I showed him everything. I wanted to give him all of me, and I did. Where does this leave me but open for the ravaging.

I turn away. Wait. This place is all brick walls and concrete. “Hey man, what about that garden you said you had with your tomatoes?…”
Ha!
I got him on this one…

Enzo: “Well, I go to the Sunset Junction famers market. That’s my garden. Not all of us have ranches…”

OK. I guess. Something feels off about his answer. He picks up an old-fashioned camera that probably uses real film, and he walks right up to me, trailing his long finger on my moon-colored cheek. I breathe deep and melt into his touch. He puts the camera up to my eyes, and I can hear it
clickity-clack-clack-krrrrr
. filming.

“This is the only thing my dad ever gave me besides the scars.”

He films my face, then the clicks stop, and he breathes on my neck. Already my resolutions of strength start to dawn-star fade. He clicks open a video on his computer. “I’ve already shown this to Annie and the band, and they were really into it.” Why am I the last to see it? Aren’t I his ‘other half’ according to him? And wait! Now he’s a video director? Is there anything he doesn’t do? Every time I try to break away he does something to make me want him more and to make me weak when I’m about to be strong. The movie is loaded and about to start.

He opens some fancy, old-fashioned bottle of clear liquid with red seal on it and says something about it being a boutique, homemade brew. He pours me a glass of the clear liquid, and his hand lingers on mine as he passes it over. It smells super strong. I down it in a couple of sips, burning my throat. “Wow, this is really good… You made this too?” He slow-nods ‘yes.’ Fucking renaissance man, I hate it when he looks at me like this. My heart concrete-drops into my feet, and I can’t think straight. I drop to the couch and he drops right next to me. Just being so close to his body I get wet and stupid and forget all my common sense or what little is left of it.

The film is black and white and beautiful and poetic. A scene of a girl with long, long, blonde hair walking through an empty, fallen-hearts house flashes between images of a young boy trapped in a closet. At this moment I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone. His pure art soul is more than I can handle. He’s so good. He’s too good. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted to be, and he knows how to express it. We watch it again. I need to understand. I need to know him. The cruel, wild-eyed, feathered bird-man who throws him in the closet must be his father. Enzo is the boy trapped for hours listening to a bee buzzing; he’s tapping on the walls all around him to create sonic soundscapes to escape the reality that the world has thrust upon him. Music is the only way out. The girl who is his sister in the film scuttles away and doesn’t do a damn thing to save him when he cries out to the world for someone, anyone, to come and open the cage-closet. The sounds are sad and desperate and angry and strong. His mother steals the key and lets him out. The sister just eats her silver-spoon pudding.