Succubus

SUCCUBUS

Tess had a crooked finger from where her father had broken it once, accidentally. She’d woken to the sound of laughter, and staggered out into the hall.
‘Dad?’
She froze as she reached the living room, as did the occupants of the room. Her father sat up slowly, revealing a bottle redhead frozen beneath him.
‘What are you doing?’ Tess said, hating herself for the obviousness of the answer.
‘Go back to bed, Tess.’
‘Mum could be home at any minute!’
The redhead’s face paled and she stood. ‘You didn’t tell me you were married.’
Tess’s father smiled. ‘Hey, it doesn’t matter-‘
‘Yes it does!’ Tess shouted. The woman stepped past her and hurried to the front door, leaving Tess’s father glaring at her.
‘Your mother isn’t coming back till tomorrow,’ he said, voice low.
‘So? That doesn’t give you the right to cheat on her!’
‘Maybe if your mother wasn’t such a frigid bitch, I wouldn’t have to.’
‘You arseho-‘ His hand cracked across her face. She grabbed her cheek and willed herself not to cry, shock pounding through her system.
‘Anger is not attractive in a young lady,’ her father said quietly, his face red. ‘And while you have my name, I expect you to act like a young lady.’
He grabbed her arm and took her to her room. He pushed her inside, and she grabbed the doorframe to stop herself falling over. Her father slammed the door shut on her fingers.

She hummed along with her music as she packed up her room. Finally, she could leave. She was stuffing clothes in her bag she heard her mother walk in, surveying the mess.
‘You want help?’ her mother asked.
‘No.’
Her mother picked her way through the piles and sat on Tess’s bed. Tess glanced up from her bag. Her mother was still in her gym clothes; sweat marked her face and underarms, and dribbled through her makeup, revealing more of her lined face. Tess turned back to packing.
‘I can’t believe you’re already off to uni. The world is your oyster now.’ Her mother smiled, like the pathetic speech was helpful.  Tess was about to reply when her mother added, ‘Maybe you’ll finally make some friends,’ shattering any chance of “warm fuzzy feelings” developing.
Tess rubbed her crooked pinkie. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she said, watching her mother’s face fall with a certain amount of satisfaction.
‘He… went to work. He wished you a safe trip.’
‘Mhmm. New girl at the office?’
‘Tess,’ her mother snapped.
‘You know I’m right. You should leave him.’
‘Tess!’ Her mother left. Tess rolled her eyes.

The place she was renting was small, and the bathroom mirror had a crack in it, but at least she was away from her parents. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, inspected herself, and let the wild mass drop again. She smeared an extra tint of makeup on her cheekbones, before she slid the sunglasses over her face. And there she wasn’t. She could safely be anyone but herself behind the powder and the glasses that hid half her face. She ignored her pinkie as she pushed the glasses further up her nose.

After her lecture, she gravitated towards her acquaintances in the plaza – she didn’t have friends, she was frigid, unlovable –  and sat next to Amy Marie Turner. Next to Amy sat Morgan Brodie, no middle name. She wished she was one of those girls. She concentrated on being as unnoticeable as possible, rubbing at her crooked finger.
‘Hope my hair is better on Friday,’ Amy said, tugging at her perfect locks. ‘I’m thinking of going blonde again – brown is fugly.’
‘Oh shut up. At least yours isn’t all frizzy. I hate this weather!’ Tara Jean Parson groaned.
Tess ran a hand through her own hair, feeling its frizzy, dirty brown quality. She needed a hat to hide it.
Amy turned to her. ‘Coming Tess?’
‘Er,’ she said, brain stalling. To what?
Amy flicked her hair back, face hard. ‘Are you coming to the party on Friday?’ Each word was said slowly, as though she were chewing them
‘Oh. Yeah,’ Tess mumbled. She sounded stupid; she knew they were all thinking it.
‘Awesome. You can bring the Vodka.’ With that, Amy turned her back.
Tess smoothed out the frown before it appeared on her face. Because anger is not attractive in a young lady. And while she had his name, she wasn’t allowed to be unattractive.

It had taken her ages to get ready for the party, and now she was here, all she wanted to do was leave. She watched the crowd talking, fascinated with their gentle smiles and giggles, the brushing of hands against thighs. How did they do it? She leaned up against the back wall, a drink in hand; her second. The first had tried to chase away the shyness, the second was going to beat it away. But she’d need a third to choke it; she knew how the game was played.
She was painfully aware of her body. Her arms were pointless; she didn’t know how to arrange them. Fold them, hang them, swing them? Her tongue was swollen; it felt like a sponge, soaking up her spit and pressing against her teeth.
She sculled the rest of her drink, doing her best not to wince.
She watched as lips and bodies moved, generally in time with the music. Tapping her foot seemed an inadequate way to join in, to interact.
She made her way to the fridge for another drink.
She knocked back a shot, welcoming the sting in her throat…
The fridge was almost empty now…
Music, pumping in the air…
The couch, comfortable and empty, tucked in a dark corner, the roughness of its fabric against her cheek...
Bodies slick with sweat, rubbing up and down…
He smelt of warmth and Jack Daniels…
She could taste the drink and feel a can in her hands…
His fingers ran up her thigh. She wasn’t frigid, unlovable, when she had a different name she’d keep him…
‘What’s your name?’
A thrill of touch and words...
It became clearer when the music had faded and the world was darker.
‘God, yes.’ A man’s face swam above her, melting in and out of the black backdrop. ‘This is good.’
Her head lolled up and down in a mockery of agreement, body numb. She realized slowly she was naked, slower that she was having sex. She definitely hadn’t had enough to drink.
He groaned. ‘So sexy.’
There was a brief moment of happiness tucked in his words, even as her brain struggled to keep up with her body. She brought her hands up to touch his shoulders, scrabbling against his shoulder blades for something to keep her arms up. His body moved against hers, chest hair tickling her breasts, his movements becoming jerky and unsophisticated.
‘You’re gorgeous.’ He sounded in pain.
He shuddered and rolled off her, leaving her exposed to the ceiling. The air tickled her bare skin, laughing at her ugliness.  Pink scratches on her legs turned purple with the cold.
‘So sexy,’ he repeated, his hand dropping to stroke her stomach. She tensed, on guard for a laugh, something to suggest he was lying. Yet he seemed content enough, curling closer to her, his breath warming her neck as he continued to touch her body.
‘I want your number,’ he said softly, and her heart almost stopped. It was so simple.
She blushed. ‘I want your name.’
He grinned. ‘Warren, don’t you remember?’
‘Yes, I mean... your full name.’
‘Er, Warren Anderson.’
‘Don’t you have a middle name?’
He laughed. ‘James. You really are drunk aren’t you?’
She nodded, uncertain.

The next day, she hunted her face for any sign she’d changed.
She wondered if she was different, if she’d become loveable and beautiful and accepted overnight. She frowned at herself.
‘Fuck,’ she breathed, rubbing her face. ‘You idiot.’ Still, she was living up to expectations.

The light was red, coloured by her eyelids as she felt her way through and around Anthony Paul Wilson. His hands were pressed into her thighs and her spine scraped the wall. Their breathing was harsh and fast, frantic and drunk, louder than the sounds of his party outside.
He threw her down on the bed, the mattress yielding unlike the brick of the wall. She tasted his sour breath as his teeth scraped hers, his tongue pressing against hers. She rolled him over, her nails digging into his chest. His skin scraped away like wallpaper beneath her fingers. His movements jarred with her rhythm, rougher yet more controlled.

‘Are you close?’
No. It doesn’t work like that. She nodded, moving her hips into a more comfortable position. Nicholas Joe Martin smelt sweet, like flowers.
He probably had a girlfriend; a girlfriend who was a good faker. Maybe he’d marry said girlfriend, his name owning her while he fucked other girls with his wedding ring in his pocket. His daughter would –
She arched her back, crushing her torso against his, sucking the scent up her nose and cataloguing it. She’d have to buy that perfume.

Her period was late.

Jeremy Abott took off her clothes, unbuttoning her jeans and sliding them down her legs. She could tell he was excited. It wasn’t hard to see, or to feel, as he pressed down on top of her. Her hands moved to his pants, fingers hooking in his waistband; he helped her pull them off. His tongue probed her mouth, thrusting deep. She hated the force of it all, yet her efforts to check his tongue were ignored. She kissed his neck to keep him away from her mouth. His Adams apple bobbed up and down; she was fascinated by its protruding, the shadow it cast on his neck.

She stood in a field. The dead grass scratched at her bare legs, and the sun crisped her skin. She set off purposely through the grass, head tilted towards the perfect blue sky. The perfect day, and she was humming her favourite song.
The smell of bacon was everywhere, growing stronger. Grease slicked her palms. She heard sizzling, and she dropped her head to see a pile of them.
Dead babies. Glassy eyes and slack chubby faces, severed limbs and heads thrown onto a pile. And in her hands was a baby, greasy and smelling of bacon.
She woke as she hit the floor, and emptied her guts onto the carpet, vomiting again as she realised she expected to see a baby swimming between the chunks of tomato.

She lay on her bed in a sleep-deprived haze and let her phone ring through; she didn’t want to talk to her mother. She stared at it long after it finished vibrating, before finally listening to the message.
‘Hi honey, er, it’s me. I just wondered how you were doing? Your Dad…' Tess sighed as her mother stifled a sob. ‘Well he’s go…gone, so I guess, you were right about him, and I, we’re… divorcing... I’d love to hear from you, just give me a call, yeah?’ The message clicked off and Tess rubbed at her dry eyes, frustrated. Of course she was fucking right.
She decided to go out.

She shook the boy awake; he blinked up at her. She’d slept with this one before – Jack Brian Weeks – and surely fucking someone twice made you friends.
‘Do you know anything about me?’ she said. It felt as though the world was slipping under her feet as the realization hit her. She was a body, nothing else.
‘Of course I do, Tess, babe,’ he said, voice slipping out around lazy lips. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘What’s my last name?’
He paused. ‘Names don’t matter. I know real stuff.’
‘Like what? What do you know about me?’ Her breathing was coming up short. She stood up, letting the sheets fall. She was naked, and felt distant, removed.
He didn’t look at her face. ‘You like it when I-‘
‘No, I don’t!’
Confusion dug into the grooves on his forehead as his eyes travelled up to meet her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
She sighed. ‘Would you date me?’ His eyes widened, and she continued. ‘Come on. Ask me out. You’ve fucked me, surely you’d date me.’ She watched as the blush spread across his face.
‘Well, you’re nice and all,’ he said, ‘but…’
‘But.’ The word was a full stop.
‘Yeah.’
She grinned, feeling sick. ‘At least you weren’t one of the ones to say you loved me.’ She wiped at her eyes, sitting, and he moved closer, like his body heat could stop her crying. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Nothing.’
She laughed, and started to dress. Fucking someone twice, it turned out, just meant that you fucked them twice.

Her period came while she was with James ‘Jimmy’ Summerfield. He’d been disgusted and kicked her out of the car, the only available space at that particular party. On the walk home, she mused. What would she have called it? Wilson? Martin? Weeks? Maybe one of the others would get the all-important last name. As a last resort, there was her name, her fathers name… It was depressing to realise that her children wouldn’t belong to her, before she realised children didn’t, in fact, belong to anyone, despite the expectations of her dad. Last names weren’t defining at all, and her mother was about to get rid of the one she’d had for twenty-three years.
She got home, shaking, anger wedged in her chest, beating its fists and polluting her body. She needed to crawl out of her skin; it itched and she hated it all. Anger is not attractive in a young lady.  The world was her oyster, which meant it tasted like shit and looked like snot. At least her mother had tried to be nice about it.
The plate shattered on the ground, followed by a glass, another plate, the cups and the biscuits. She ripped out the contents of the fridge, stomping the vegetables and pasta into the lino. Anger is not attractive. Whipping around, she saw the perfect, unbroken window.
She lashed her fist through it. The glass buckled and cracked, stabbing at her hand in self-defence. The glass cut deeper as she ripped her hand back, and she screamed as the pain hit. Her hand poured blood from its cracks, and she cradled it to her chest, breathing shallow, watching her crooked pinkie drip blood, just as it had after its first injury. Not attractive.
She sat down heavily, vision swimming, the world smeared into blobs of colour.

Her hand was bandaged, and she hung around by the door, wondering what to say. Whether to knock or not. But she had to do this, to prove she was a better person than her father, that she could still care.
She rang the doorbell, and waited, jiggling her body. It wouldn’t solve anything, she thought. Nothing. It’d be the same because they both still belonged to her father. But when the door opened to a squeal of delight, she knew she’d made the right choice.
‘Hi Mum,’ she said.


***

Not the final draft of this piece I fear, but thanks for reading!