No Longer Will I Follow (324 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryLabels: bestofdonovanmd
Rating: 2 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by DonovanMD <Dmacd58.at.telus.net> (View user info) at 2005-07-23 22:51:08 EDT
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"....and no longer shall I follow the cold hearts of men; the lies of those who seek to control me; the lead of someone who cares only for himself. No longer shall I follow."
The crowd clapped politely as the brown haired girl finished her shitty poem and made her way off stage. I stood in the back of the coffee house and watched her sit down on a couch along one wall, holding the paper tightly in her lap and sipping a latte. Some other shitty wanna-be Shakespeare took to the stage and began reading off his poem; about love and how it blows like a wind through an orchard on a warm summers day. Actually, I think it just blows period. These fucking poets, they all think what they spit out is so meaningful, so deep. In reality their poems are like their lives: fucking dull and boring.
I only come here to pick up women. And for the frappachinos. Those things rock. But mostly the women.
They're easy pickings here. Quiet, polite, shy, low self esteem. It only takes a little interest in their crappy lives and a well timed and subtle compliment or two and I'm in. And they're none the wiser. It's the same with women at book stores and church bake sales and kids soccer games. Hell it's the same with women anywhere, but places like this are my favorite. Places they don't come expecting to meet men.
I decide the brown haired girl will be the one tonight and I walk over and politely ask if anyone is sitting next to her.
No, she tells me. Perfect.
"I really enjoyed your poem," I gush, without going over the top. "I could really feel the emotion you were expressing in it. It was very powerful."
She blushes and looks away, a shy little tart this one. She tells me about how she just broke up with her boyfriend when she wrote it, about a month ago. She says he was very controlling and abusive.
"That's terrible," I offer, "I hate other men sometimes. Its guys like that who put guys like me in a bad light. We all get painted with the same brush."
She nods and agrees. She tells me she didn't mean to imply that. That I don't seem like most guys.
Ha. You don't know the half of it.
She brushes some loose hair from her face and looks up at me, and asks my name.
Gabe, I tell her. I know she'll like that. Gabes a really faggoty name. The kind of name a poet, or a painter, or a starving artist would have. That's me after all, Mr. Arts and Culture.
I play the part of the well mannered young scholar. I listen to her babble on about herself; she's digging it I can tell. Nobody listens to her like this I bet. We discuss poetry and relationships and her insecurities. She's falling for me and doesn't even know it. It's really that easy.
We continue talking and listening to shitty little people read their crappy little poems, me trying not to gag. I see her looking at her watch out of the corner of her eye. It's after 11 and little Miss Insecurity probably has to be in bed soon, class in the morning after all.
I mention that I really need to be going soon, as I volunteer with disabled kids Thursday mornings and have to be up early tomorrow. I hope that wasn't to over the top, I think to myself. She says it's probably time for her to go as well.
We step outside and onto the street. She turns left and I right. We pause and I tell her my apartment is only a few blocks east. She says her place is just off campus, about ten blocks west.
I put on my most concerned face and tell her, "I'll walk you home. A young woman shouldn't be out alone after dark and all. Especially these days."
"Oh no, no," she says, "I'll be just fine."
"But I insist. It would be my pleasure." I reply back with a crooked half smile women tell me is cute.
She looks at me with a raised eyebrow and a half smile of her own. "Alright. Thank you Gabe."
"Anytime," I reply.
**
The route she takes home takes us along the river. She tells me she has a great view of the campus from her living room window. I ask her if maybe I'd get a chance to see it sometime. She pauses and replies back with, "Uh, yeah maybe. You never know."
We walk a few minutes in silence and I comment about how beautiful the river looks tonight with a full moon lighting it up.
"Take a look at this," I say, stopping and looking down the riverbank.
She just sort of pauses and mentions something about needing to get home.
This is where I always fuck things up. It's where things get uncomfortable and I never know what to say.
I take her arm and point across the river, commenting on the fireflies. She tenses up at my touch and pulls her arm away from me.
"What's the matter?" I ask.
"I really have to go," she says anxiously, "My uh, my roommate is expecting me home already."
Bullshit, I think. Women, so fucking predictable. Like I haven't had this one pulled on me before.
"Just stay for a second," I say, pulling her in closer to me. She doesn't like it though. She try's not to let our bodies touch.
I slide my arm around her waist and with the other hand brush away that pesky strand of hair from her face. I love little things like this about women. The way they smell, they way they feel and taste. The way they try and hide their insecurities; like wearing their hair long to cover their face. I love those things.
"Stop." She says. "Let me go. I have to go home."
She try's to pull away and I grab her by the arms and pull her towards me. I lean my lips in to hers and she turns away. She yells for me to stop. This is when I have to be careful; we're still in a fairly public place. This isolated bike path isn't really that isolated. It's only a few blocks from the campus. But it's the struggle I like. It's the fear and smell of it in their sweat that I get off on.
I push the brown haired girl down hard onto her back alongside the bike path and straddle her, pinning her legs. I hold both of her arms in my left hand and use my right to cover her mouth. She's no more than 5'5 and less than 125 pounds. No match for my 6'2, 200 pound frame. I don't pick the fat ones.
She tries to scream and I punch her across the face. I remove my hand and she looks up at me, tears flowing openly and tries to scream again. I punch her again, hard, breaking her nose. I lean in and tell her in a whisper, "Every time you scream, you get one step closer to your death. Shut the fuck up."
She whimpers but doesn't scream. I run my right hand up her inner thigh and under her skirt, feeling my way around with excited fingers. She moans something that sounds like "please no" and continues crying. The bitch isn't wearing any panties; I laugh and slide a finger into her. She squirms under my touch, like my fingers are made of ice. I hike up her skirt with my free hand and pull out my dick. I let go of her arms for only a moment and she tries to hit me, I punch her again and grab an arm in each hand as I penetrate her. The blood is freely flowing across her face now, but I kiss her anyway. She doesn't even turn away this time, just lies there begging to whatever God she prays to for this to be over quickly. At least that's what I always imagine they do.
I'm in her, the warmth fully enveloping my midsection. I have that familiar feeling of excitement in my stomach. Butterflies I guess. She whimpers and there's a faint noise behind me. I turn and see nothing. She whimpers again and I pull out and grab her by the throat.
That's definitely a noise, and it's coming this way.
I pull her by the neck, still covering her mouth, into the bushes along the path. A moment later a boy on a skateboard goes by, the wheels scraping the concrete. I wait until he's passed and all is quiet again before continuing.
**
She's quiet now and has stopped moving. I remove my hands from her throat and sigh. The buzz is still there, it will be for a long time. I often think of the good ones months and years later and still can get off to them.
I straiten her long brown hair with my hand and use her shirt to wipe away the blood from her face. She has a narrow, pointed jaw and a slender nose. She really is a cute girl.
I sit next to her for a while, waiting for the adrenaline to die down a bit. I take the time to look through her bag. She has a wallet with a school ID, a couple dollars and some scraps of paper. Her name is Chantelle apparently. I pick up the bag she had with her, a simple hand sewn green shoulder bag. A few books spill out. English 101 and some science texts among them. Folded up neatly between two books is a piece of loose leaf paper. I unfold it. Its her poem, the one she read earlier tonight; 'No Longer Will I Follow'.
I look at it a moment and slip it into my pocket. I put the rest of the books back into the bag and lay it next to her. I stand up and adjust myself, fixing my pants and listen for anyone coming down the path. No one is. I step back out onto the pavement and continue walking; heading up the hill to the street and back tracking to the coffee shop where my car is still parked around back, next to the bar where there should still be plenty of cars at this hour. I always cover my bases.
I'd better hurry though; her roommate might be coming this way. She's expecting her home after all.
I laugh loudly to myself and get a strange look from a kid walking passing by.
Fucking predictable women.
**
I'm home now. I've changed my clothes and showered and am heading off to bed. I have the clothes in a garbage bag at the front door. They'll be incinerated tomorrow when I go to work. I embalm stiffs at the morgue. It never ceases to amuse me when I see one of my own come across my table too. I might even see Chantelle this week. She lives in this neighborhood after all. Well, lived, I suppose. Ha. That's almost as good as reading about it in the newspaper and watching the reports on TV. They've even given me a name; The Westside Strangler. Not bad I guess, could have been better though. Seems a little to cliché to me.
I open my closet and pull a shoebox out from underneath a pile of old clothes. I sit on the edge of my bed and open it. Inside are a bunch of knickknacks and items from all of my previous girls. Random items I take; mementos. A silver chain with a teddy bear locket on it. A green pin that says 'Kiss Me-I'm Irish'. A ticket stub to a showing of The H.M.C.S Pinafore. A locke of blonde hair. Things like that. It's my thing I guess. I'm not going to leave a calling card or something ridicules. These are for me, my little collection of memories. Sort of a way to remember them all, you know?
I toss the folded piece of paper with Chantelles poem on it into the box and close the lid, and slide it back under the clothes where I got it. I climb into bed and switch off the light. The clock reads 2:45 am. Fuck. I have to be at work in a few hours.
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Submitted by slapsticky (user info) at 2006-09-07 15:33:09 EDT (#)
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Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-02-17 18:42:23 EST (#)
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good one
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