Chains
It's the same old drill - no words necessary. Not that they ever were.
I begin to remove my shirt, button by button, methodically. A well rehearsed, stretched out formula.
I don't even need to be awake for this.
I wonder why I have to be.
Left sleeve, right sleeve. The shirt joins the jacket on the chair, folded with neat perfection, guaranteed to make any parent glow with pride.
Well, not him, of course.
But Hell would happily freeze over before I can make him proud.
Shoes, belt, pants, underwear – somebody ought to make a stupid children song out of this.
All done.
His gaze is sliding over me, invasive, performing the same old evaluation. Checking if my flesh is worthy of his time.
It never is.
But Alfred Woden is a man accustomed to making compromises.
Me, I prefer the win-it-all, lose-it-all scenario.
Which doesn't quite explain why I keep doing this.
Survival instinct still plays a strong game, even when consciously, you couldn't care less.
Or maybe I'm just a good little Pavlov's dog, always looking for that elusive treat.
Getting nothing but that unbearable, hollow ringing.
The grand inspection is complete. He nods with his usual hint of dissatisfaction, coated with minimal approval – this will do.
I'd feel cheap, only that would imply some sort of worth to the whole situation.
I keep my face blank. Once I'd feared that a show of emotion would prompt his disapproval, but now I simply have no emotion for display.
A perfect circle.
Another nod, in the bed's direction this time, is my cue to lie down.
I follow the unspoken instruction, placing my hands under my chest - a reversed coffin-like position I've adapted for this occasion. My lips find the familiar spot in the pillow. It's ridiculously soft, as usual. Still insisting on dancing to the tune of that stale irony.
I bury my head in it, and envision being swallowed by the silky material. A touch of Freddy Kruger never hurts. I wonder how my dear mentor would react to that.
I can feel a grin attempting to come to life against my will.
It's that irrational urge to laugh at excruciatingly inappropriate circumstances.
Like a wedding, or a funeral.
In a way, this is both. The twisted joining of dead bodies.
Our own special breed of honeymoon.
I don't think he would see the humor in it, so I keep the smirk in the pillow. Our little secret.
Naturally, I'm never allowed to watch him undress. That would be… undignified, I suppose.
Can't imagine I'm missing out much, really.
The familiar sounds scrape against my consciousness, a mild backstage distraction I've long since learned to ignore.
But the motion that brings him closer - slow but inescapable, like some slippery entity crawling in the back of your mind - it still brings that intrusive, inevitable chill.
It's that last strand of sanity struggling to be noticed, before becoming drowned in static noise with the rest of them.
It's no big deal. All it means is that I need to find a trail of thought to cling to, something to drift away with.
It's not what you could call the ideal thinking environment, but strangely, it works like a charm.
Nothing short of a mental Caribbean cruise.
I start with the schedule, another piece of inescapable routine. Map out the rest of the day, then the rest of the week. Leave some empty space for surprises, since we've always had a fondness for each other.
He's settling on top of me now. I keep perfectly still – the ever-obedient tin soldier.
I even keep my breathing to a minimum. It's bare instinct, and the irritatingly critical part of my mind reminds me who it truly belongs to – prey attempting futilely to go unnoticed by the predator.
A perverse instance in a neverending food chain.
It imprisons everyone, willing or not.
Escape is childish fever dream.
But I do know one person who managed to break it.
Max Payne.
That's the name I keep hovering in my head as the first thrust tears through me, coloring reality in a deep shade of red. The beginning is impossible to really prepare for. I keep my breath trapped, and it cooperates, just barely.
Once the pain dims somewhat, I let the air out, as quietly as I can. Status quo is slowly returning, riding a fundamentally fractured balance, a nauseating rhythm.
I wonder whether Max would mind me thinking about him, under the circumstances.
Maybe I should ask him next time.
I'm sure that would make for an interesting conversation.
The painfully ironic part about it is that he'll never realize just how extraordinary lucky he is.
Yes, he lost his wife, his baby, his life. He lost everything.
But he's free.
He's too busy wallowing in guilt and grief to understand it.
I can't blame him. These emotions are vast, consuming. They leave room for little else.
That's why I'd kissed them goodbye long ago.
Bad terminology. It throws me back into the moment.
The contact is minimal, like always. It's that propriety business again.
After all, it's of the utmost importance to keep up appearances. Even when fucking your lackey raw.
But this isn't sex.
Just power.
Too bad it's nowhere near as clean and conceptual as it sounds.
I know all the tricks by now. How to move along with the tide, how to shift my body to avoid sensation as much as possible, how to engineer a numbness strong enough for it to feel like a ghostly dream.
Still, there are some things you can't avoid.
The sharp bones driven into me with each thrust. The cold, clammy skin creating a wet, repulsive touch.
Like being fucked by a decomposing corpse.
Not my idea of quality time.
His movements are slower, fainter than usual. Reeking of disease.
Interesting, how the cancer got to him. Almost a medical mystery. I'd always maintained the notion that his cells were initially cancerous, and that any disease foolish enough to wander anywhere near him would suffer a horrible death.
But like many fantasy-laden illusions, this one was shattered to tiny pieces, its jagged shards spreading with a destructive force.
Senator. Underworld king. A self proclaimed god.
All a mask. A bad joke.
He's nothing but a dying old man.
The cancer has eaten away at his creativity as well – his favorite toys aren't present. Except me, that is.
It's just the two of us.
How romantic.
His choppy grunts impolitely cut away at loose strands of thought.
He's out of breath already.
I wonder how absurdly appropriate it would be for him to suffer a heart attack now. Or choke on his own sickly, tainted breath.
Hilarious, really.
But maybe a bit on the awkward side, especially considering earlier corpse related thoughts.
I realize I'm thinking too close to the surface as the pain slips through.
I ignore it.
It's not like I have any intentions of simply letting him die, anyway. My esteemed mentor deserves better.
Much, much better.
You're a talented boy, Vladimir, but you should learn some obedience. I'm only trying to help you.
And I can never repay you enough for your help.
I can do my best, though. I'd be delighted to help you mount your deathbed. I could even tuck you in.
Before I can move any further to develop this happy notion, his bodyweight shifts in an unexpected way, and the next wave catches me by surprise.
I can't suppress my groan.
Grunt – that's a very courteous way of referring to it. People with less tact might've called it a whimper.
Fuck.
Twelve years, and I'm still stupid enough to show weakness.
It doesn't matter – I try to remind myself – not in the long run.
Soon none of this will matter.
So why does it still feel like a stinging burn trying to eat through my chest?
Must be a force of habit.
I'm not even sure whether he noticed, since nothing changes. Not even a slight pause in the contaminated routine.
But I know better. The old Cyclops sees everything.
It's paranoia, maybe, but it's justified paranoia.
The acknowledgement of pain seems to be the trigger for him to reach his climax.
The sound effects alone would make a healthy man lose his lunch.
It's a good thing my gag reflex had died out years ago.
One of the perks of serving under Alfred Woden.
But this is easy. There's little left of the elaborate, warped game of stick and carrot it used to be.
These days, the mantra is simple.
This isn't sex.
Just power.
And power -
You have to look at the big picture.
- is such a slippery thing.
He withdraws - his hand rests against my shoulder, and for a ridiculous split second, I mistake it for a demented display of affection.
My mind catches up instantly, though, and I almost choke on my own stupidity. Obviously, he only needs to steady himself.
That done with, he pushes away from me, slowly rising to his feet.
Finito la commedia.
Logically, there should be relief, but there's just emptiness.
Cool air encompasses my body, contrasting with the built-up sweat, serving as a momentary blanket.
But the emptiness isn't just external.
There's a hollowness that goes deeper. It's nothing of black hole proportions, unfortunately. It's more plastic in nature, really. Like one of those ever-fashionable inflatable sex dolls.
At least it's a fitting comparison.
I keep still – dolls are expected to, I believe.
He's getting dressed. It's taking longer than usual, and a tingling restlessness creeps in. The routine shouldn't stretch that far.
It's wrong.
It leaves too much space for unwanted things.
It brings back the past.
My first visit here.
My heart speeds up in a muted instant, thundering in my temples. Everything becomes an excerpt from an old nightmare, its edges torn. Lightheadedness is the next stop. It's only a step away from limb shaking.
I squeeze my fists tight, inflicting enough sudden pain to terminate the dangerous mental course.
This thought, this temporary reality – it has to die.
I can't have it bother me.
Not here.
Not ever.
His voice makes a convenient arrival.
"Clean yourself up, Lem."
Same old, same old.
He doesn't even bother to change his lines.
The beauty of routine.
He begins to walk away. I glance backwards just in time to catch a near-stumble in the corner of my eyes.
They say predators can smell weakness on their enemies. In this case, however, even a petrified, drugged up bunny would be able to sense the aroma of decay spread around him.
I smirk at the retreating outline of a dead man walking.
There's no need to over-think matters, to worry about these things.
I'll bury the past along with him.
Sensation returns gradually, brushing over my body at a leisurely pace. The soreness finds its usual place. It'll linger awhile, but it's not acute enough to center much attention on. Neither is the newfound sting in my palms – apparently my fingernails have left bloody marks on their surface. It's a pity none of these are particularly prominent, since it forces me to notice the dampness formed on the pillow.
I tear away from it, hastily turning it over. If you can't see it, then it doesn't really exist. Baby logic.
Whatever works.
I get up, make my ritual route to the bathroom.
The illuminated marble expensively paving its interior shines into my eyes with a violent edge, attempting temporary blinding.
Having to face the wonder Max calls a shirt on a regular basis, this can hardly count an ocular hazard.
I scramble into the shower, turning the hot water on and letting it build up to the highest possible degree.
I remember wishing for it to burn my skin off at some point. Boil the flesh. Leave nothing but bare, orphaned bones.
Now it's just a shower.
Fairly relaxing, even.
The human body is remarkably adaptable.
I open my hands and turn them upwards, towards the scorching, cleansing stream. The burn from the contact causes me to shut my eyes, turning the pose into a mockery of a prayer.
It's funny. I've never prayed to anything or anyone. Maybe now would be a good time to start.
But prayer requires belief.
And I can no longer find anything to believe in.
Blood mixes with water.
And everything washes away.
When I'm sufficiently numb from the heat, I turn it off and get out.
I stand in front of the mirror. Set my hair straight.
Smile.
And the world smiles with you.
Well, at least my reflection follows through.
Good as new.
Then something shifts.
The expression becomes warped, monstrous. A nightmare-born creature custom made especially for me.
I get the irresistible, senseless urge to smash my fist through the mirror.
The big picture wouldn't approve of that, though.
And, contrary to my dear mentor's opinion, I do see the big picture. All too clearly. It's strange, though - my picture, big as it is, has no place for him whatsoever.
Not to worry, though. There is more than enough room for his maggot infested corpse. I can see it vividly now, the crows gathering around, cackling in their native tongue.
It's beautiful.
Well worth painting.
I make my way back to the bedroom, forsaking the destructive urge for the time being.
I put my clothes on, one by one, methodically. A well rehearsed, stretched out formula.
I finally reach my gun. The most undignified item, I suppose.
The touch of the familiar metal reminds me of who I am.
Who I'm supposed to be.
I've been stuck in this chain long enough.
If you can't break it, you blow it apart.
I grin as I place the gun in my jacket.
It's a good thing I've always had a talent for blowing things apart.
I head for the door. Opening it, I come face to face with a mural depicting a scene from the Bible. One of many that had come to infest the manor along with its owner's disease.
This one is from the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve.
A couple of useless, gullible airheads, if you ask me.
The snake obviously had more sense than the two of them combined.
He likes them, though.
Then again, he likes to play God.
But I have a part to play in this little marionette play, too.
And we'll see how much he enjoys that part.
I, for one, am going to revel in it.
The door shuts mutedly behind me.
One of these days, my exit will be louder than that.
It'll be glorious.
Legendary.
Beautiful.
And coated with flames.
After all, it is better to reign in Hell-
than to serve in Heaven.