Velvet Kiss

Prologue

Thunder rolled overhead as rain came down hard against the elegant stained glass windows, streaking the dirt encrusted bars that protected the old church from the outside world. An alarm sounded in a nearby parking lot, piercing the still silence of the cool evening. A soft pellicle of moisture covered the usually busy avenue, glistening under the full moon sky. 

The tall oak doors swung closed as the rich wine coloured velvet curtains dropped, obscuring the vision of outside spectators who are curious about the mysteries concealed within the ancient cathedral.  Having closed long ago, amidst (unconfirmed) rumours of scandalous activity on the part of Father Michael, the abandoned building was the centre of speculation by many. The private sale of the landmark building was upsetting to some. Others, the victims, had hoped it would be demolished, and the horrible memories with it. 

The chimes of the clock tower in the distant downtown square indicated that midnight had arrived. There was a loud crackle from the speakers in the church, and the music began. The windows rattled slightly from the bass, and the vibration could be felt through your body as you stood on the sidewalk, pausing for a moment to enjoy the sensation. Inside, a cool draft passed through the room, caressing the thighs and breasts of the women as it passed slowly by them, their bodies responding rhythmically to the gothic music. All is silent, save a few orgasmic cries that emerge from the distance. 

The strobe lights flash, also in tune to the music, causing reality to appear as a collage of photographs projected in flashing sequence: A junkie shooting up in the corner, unaware of the fatal overdose entering his vein; Men fucking on a pool table, unaware of the disease they both now carry; An neophyte to the club dancing erotically, unaware that her innocent sexuality would ultimately be the cause of her eventual demise; the glowing red eyes of a predator, ready to deliver the fatal blow to his chosen victim, unaware of the souls that are witness to his atrocities, and uncaring. 
 
 

Part I:  Katarina  I

Three a.m. The rain pelts softly against the glass panes of the windows. The smell of moisture is in the air. The soft sweet scent of wet grass and trees immerses the night. It has rained steadily for four days. Or is it five now? At times the rain is light and soft, like the  gentle mist from a waterfall. At others, it comes down in large drops so hard it stings the bare skin of your arms and face, leaving you drenched and helpless against it within seconds. With the rain comes the intermittent flash of lightning, and the roar of the thunder in the distance. 

I usually sleep well during thunderstorms. "Like the dead" my husband tells me. The sound of my alarm clock fades into the thunderous roar, and it takes him effort to wake me at my usual five a.m., just as the night sky is lightening, and turns to a gorgeous shade of indigo, then blue, and, on nicer days,  so light it appears white to the naked eye. But this storm has been different. The rain is unrelenting. Yet the heart of the storm is not close. The morning sky is a dark grey, barely distinguishable from night. Yet the night sky is clear, with wispy clouds that blend with the stars and the moon, reflecting their brilliance. 

I have not slept in over a week. I may have closed my eyes once or twice, but I have not had that peaceful sleep of the dead that refreshes the mind and body and prepares you for the onslaught of the next day. I have tried hard enough. Warm milk, a boring novel, then cough syrup and various cold medication which usually leaves me pleasantly sedate. It has had no effect. I lay in bed and count the seconds on the clock, losing track once or twice. I watch my husband, and listen to his rhythmic breathing, contemplating how child like he is while asleep, and fantasizing what it must have been like for his mother to lean over his crib and watch the fluttering of his eyes, the flaring nostrils, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Not so different I imagine. 

I remember reading somewhere that sleep balances the psyche. Without it, we would slowly go insane, experiencing hallucinations and paranoid delusions. As I count the hours, then the days, that I survive without sleep, I can't help but wonder when this will happen to me. Or maybe this is a dream, one that I cannot wake up from. 

The digital clock reads 4:59. I have to pause to wonder if it's a.m. or p.m., then remember that I have been working days this month. I reach over and press the button on the top to prevent waking my husband. I slowly climb from under the warm covers and into my robe, which hangs damp on the hook next to the bed. The effects of the previous evening's medications have worn off already. I have the usual intake of caffeine, dress, and leave, remembering to feed the cat before I go. While on the bus, I can't help but think that my problem is boredom. I have become so accustomed to my work and life that I could go through the motions without ever having to give it a thought. Perhaps I should change my routine. I consider moving, but do not want the hassle of packing. I consider renovating, but I hate the mess it leaves. I consider running away. Taking the bus straight to the airport and buying a ticket for whatever flight is leaving next. But I couldn't hurt the people I love. 
 
 

II

I prepare for another 12 hours of the same work. Same co-workers, same patients, same procedures. But, as I lock up my coat and purse and prepare to begin, I sense something different. A presence unfamiliar to me. I can't  explain it any better than to compare it to the sensation of being watched. Of being alone, or in a crowded street, and feeling the eyes follow every move. 

Then I hear it. The sirens of the ambulance approach quickly, drowning out a barely audible scream from inside. As I rush to the doors, I see a young woman on the stretcher. She's barely 18, if that. Her round face is pale and sunken, shrouded in strands of jet black hair. Her eyes are bright as sapphires, staring straight at the ceiling, surrounded by black streaks of makeup. Her full pouty lips are parted slightly. She seems to be smiling. Blood covers her chest and throat, coating the large red amulet on a thick silver chain around her neck, and forms a pool on the floor. I imagine myself on that stretcher for a moment. 

"What do we have?" I manage to say and the flurry of excitement awakens me from my daydream. A warm shudder escapes me as I touch her cold hand. The reply comes from the cold, calculating paramedic who fancies himself the next Brad Pitt. 

"Unidentified  female, late teens maybe. Pulse is weak and thready, respirations shallow, B/P is 90/50. Pupils are fixed.  She's got 2 lines in. Massive blood loss at the scene, and on the way here, but no apparent trauma. We don't know where it's coming from. A shopkeeper found her in an alley in the fashion district this morning. The police are behind us to try and get an ID." He pauses for a breath, and prepares for his usual interjection of personal opinion - "Until then she's just another Jane Doe who got herself all pumped up on tequila and designer drugs and let the wrong guy take her home. Such a shame too, I bet she's really…" His chauvinistic sarcasm is cut short by a sharp nudge from his partner. Ramona doesn't tolerate that kind of behavior,  unlike his previous partners, though she's not afraid to make her own insulting observations about everyone else. 

The happy couple depart after we transfer her to a gurney. In a few hours, they will have seen more of the underbelly of this city than most of imagine, and won't even remember her.  The usual work up is done. She has a low hemoglobin, and has lost a lot of blood. In short, she's a goner. She may have been lying in that alley for hours like this. But she hangs on, somehow. It seems like hours later when I hear the police in the hallway as I am trying to clean her up. 

The tall burly detective is quietly questioning those of us who first treated her. I can hear his hushed raspy voice as he asks the usual police questions, all of which are replied with an uncertainty. He drones on, providing very little information of use to us, and I know that I am the next to be questioned. He finishes with the doctor just as another trauma is being wheeled through the doors. The realization that the doctor won't be present during the police interrogation of me is both frightening and a relief. He enters the small exam room, pushing various carts of equipment out of his way as he approaches. He addresses me in the usually short, precise manner, and I continue working while I listen. I glance up once to see his face. He's not as tall as he at first seemed. His hair is slightly greying, and he has a weathered, tan complexion. Like he's spent too much time in the sun. I picture him as a patient  in the near future, with melanoma on his face, and emphysema brought on by the amount of smoke one must inhale to achieve the coarseness in his voice, the constant clearing of his throat, and occasional congested cough. His eyes are brown, pupils are pinpoint, and they seem off-centered, separated to widely by his nose that is wide at the bridge, and narrows to an almost perfect point. Like an egyptian pyramid in the centre of his face. His hairline is receding somewhat, which makes his face and full cheeks look like a perfect moon. When he smirks, there is a small dimple that forms in his chin. He doesn't miss a beat between his greeting and the first of many questions. "Those her things?" he inquires as he gestures to a small pile of blood soaked clothing on the floor. I say nothing, and nod once. He pokes at them with a pen, and I am tempted to remind him of the various blood borne diseases he could contract if he touches the clothes, or the pen. "What else did she have on her? Any drugs or  paraphernalia? Weapons?" I shake my head no. He begins to examine her as I continue to clean her neck and face, assessing for any signs of a beating as I do so. He clears his voice and continues "What can you tell me about her injuries? The doctor didn't give me any useful information." He pauses long enough to allow me to sigh. Just as he takes a breath and prepares to rattle off specific questions, I decide to speak up. 

"What I can tell you is that she appears to be dying, very slowly. She has no signs of trauma, no known injuries, all x-rays and tests have come back normal. Except for her blood tests, which show she has lost a massive amount of blood. But we don't know from where. She has taken no drugs, had a blood alcohol level comparable to someone who nursed one drink all night, and has no signs of poisoning. She came in here covered in blood, and was losing so much that it was forming a swimming pool around our feet. And then it stopped. There are no signs of rape or sexual activity. In short, there is nothing apparently wrong with her, except that she is unresponsive, hasn't spoken or made a sound, hasn't moved or even flinched when we perform painful procedures. She seems to be in a coma, but her brain activity is normal. The only problem is that her body is slowly shutting down from the blood loss, even though we have transfused nearly seven units since she got here." 

I let out another sigh, and paused to observe the stunned look on his face. The badge around his neck reads Brown. He looks like a Brown, or a Smith, I think to myself. I decide to continue, though I doubt he's interested in what else I have to say. "She's very young, probably not even 18, " I blurt out. "She's wearing black from head to toe, has a small red tear drop tattoo on her right shoulder blade, and a rose on her left ankle. Her jewelry is sterling silver, the usual teenage goth - crosses and pentagrams - and her nail polish is freshly applied, I'd say by a manicurist. What does this tell you, detective?" I try to give him the impression that I am becoming inpatient. He looks across the gurney at me in bewilderment. 

"You seem to be the expert here, you tell me what this is leading to?" His tone is sharp, as though he is a cornered animal ready to bite. 

I sigh again and take a deep breath. "It tells us, Mr. Brown, that she has money. Or her parents do. Destitute teenagers cannot afford professional manicures and hair styles. Nor can they afford the designer clothing we cut off her. She is no street kid. She has parents, probably goes to high school, and most likely frequents the trendy clothing stores in the area she was found. Which means that someone would recognize her, someone knows who she is, and someone is looking for her right now. So I would consider it a personal favour if you find her parents, and bring them here before she dies, so we'll at least have a name to put on her chart, and she won't die as Jane Doe number three this week." I turn back to the basin of water at my side, and continue washing the blood from her forehead and her hair for several more moments. I know I have other patients to attend to, but I am unable to pry myself from her with so many questions left unanswered. The doctor enters the room with the results of her latest blood tests, breaking the uncomfortable silence that is hovering above detective brown and I. As the detective returns to questioning the doctor, my eyes fixate on my patients body. 

She's short, maybe five foot four, with a slightly chubby body, and hips too wide for her frame. I scan the silhouette of her feminine form, outlined by the thin, starched hospital sheet. I feel myself drawn to her. Her hand lays helplessly at her side, cold and pale. Her fingers are curled around a strand of her black hair, that would normally hang below her waist. Most of the blood is cleaned away, and her bangs have a natural curl downwards. My eyes lower again to her neck, long and slender, with a pronounced collar bone. I try to refrain from admiring the figure beneath the freshly laundered sheet. I remind myself that she is a patient like any other, and that there is nothing which differentiates her from the rest of my patients. But what I feel as I look at her, her cold lifeless frame, is not loss, or pity, or desire. It is envy. I want to be her, to have her beauty, her fate. 

I awaken from my daydream with a start. I cannot feel this way, it is absurd. I prepare to leave the room. I am in desperate need of a break and more coffee. But my eyes are drawn to her breast. Not out of instinct, instead something catches my attention. I stare at the protruding nipple of her left breast. A single red dot appears on the otherwise pure white sheet. I try to speak, but my voice catches. As I step back from the stretcher, I knock over the basin of water which goes crashing to the floor, attracting the attention of the doctor and Detective Brown. They both stare at me, then at the girl. A horrified expression crosses their faces as they watch the sheet covering her become drenched in blood within second. It begins dripping to the floor, then running like a leaky faucet. 

The doctor, a first year resident named Andrews or Andreas, or something like that, looks mortified. He is frozen to his place in the room. The detective leans into the sink near the door and vomits. The flow turns to a drip again, and stops. Her eyes were the cold sapphire stones they were that morning. Nothing had changed about her. I remove the sheet, and am able to see only her left nipple. With one glistening drop forming still, and trickling down the side of her breast. 

Time of death is recorded as fifteen thirty hours. 
 
 

III

The last few hours of the shift are a blur. The body of Jane Doe is cleaned again, and sent to the morgue, where she will remain until her family is found. The coroner's office will try to determine a cause of death. If there is one. I am of the belief that some things just happen, and not all mysteries are meant to be solved. The detective completes his questioning, closes his notebook, and follows his partner out the large sliding doorways in front of the desk. The media have started calling, asking questions about the victim. Rumors of a serial killer are circulating. Someone claims a young woman was found dead in California last week. No apparent cause, it just happened. 

I consider going to a bar with a few friends on the way home. I have completed a stretch of 4 days, and finally have a whole week off to myself. The rain has let up finally, and it is going to be a beautiful night. The storms have left a chill to the air. And the damp musty smell is thick in the air. No longer sweet, but stifling. I reconsider, and head home instead. If I am lucky, Julian has had his dinner already, and I will be able to forgo yet another meal. I have no appetite. I do not feel ill, I simply do not feel like eating, or drinking, and have to remind myself that I need occasional nourishment and fluid. 

I reach the bus stop to discover that I missed the number nine. I could take a taxi, or wait twenty minutes for the next one, but I instead decide to walk. I had never noticed the buildings in this area were so old, yet well restored. I observe and admire every arch shaped window and doorway, the weathering of the brick surfaces, the wrought iron handles and accents. The sun is just going down by the time I look ahead to realize that I have wandered in the wrong direction, and am standing in Chinatown. I reorient myself and continue to walk. I'm not too far away, only a few blocks from the main downtown streets. I window shop at all the closed trinket shops, admiring the bamboo furniture in some. I round the corner and find myself staring in a bookstore. I see a favorite of mine. A vampire novel. 

I recall how I used to love reading those gothic horror/romance novels. As I scan the next few shops, my eyes are drawn to the black and red velvet fabrics in the fashion district. I recall also how I loved the gothic underground lifestyle. I remember my favorite pair of boots, spanish leather, with gold threads and velvet trim. My favorite dress was a long black crushed velvet gown. It had an empire bodice, and black metal buttons down the front. As I reminisce, I gaze at my reflection in a colorful stained glass window. Short brown hair, with a few grey ones scattered, much different than the long red curls I used to have. Tall and voluptuous, though somewhat frumpy in my uniform and lab coat. Deep blue eyes that shine when I'm happy, or darken to grey with discontent. I transform this image of my current self to one of ten years ago.  It dawns on me that I could have been Jane Doe, dead at fifteen thirty hours. I lived that lifestyle, if only for a short time. I shudder at the thought, no longer envious of her, and turn away from the window in disgust with myself. I notice the bus stop across the street, and decide to ride to the subway that will take me home. As I step up to the bus, I notice the window I was standing in front of. I think it odd that an old run down church would have need of iron bars on the windows. 

IV

I arrive home at almost ten o'clock. Julian is furious. He says he has been worried sick about me. He called the hospital to find out where I was an they told him when I left. He wants to know where I have been, and don't I know that the police called here looking for me. And don't I know that I was on the six o'clock news, in the background, while the police were issuing a statement about a rumored serial killer. And don't I know that there have been similar deaths in the past 6 months in 5 other cities. I tell him that he's paranoid. That the whole city is paranoid. That people haven't had any juicy gossip or anyone in this city to really fear since that child molester was killed in prison, after maintaining his innocence for two years amidst the dozens of new allegations each month. That I am in a greater danger from some senile old man strangling me with his catheter tubing than I am walking downtown after dark. I tell him I went to the mall to look for a dress for his cousin's wedding, and that calms him down. 

He joins me on the couch, bringing a glass of wine with him. "I thought you might need this," he says "to help you sleep tonight." He gets up to bring me some dinner, and I try to stop him, but the phone rings beside me. I consider ignoring it, and spending some much needed quiet time with Julian, but I pick it up on the third ring. Out of curiosity I guess. 

I immediately recognize the raspy voice on the other line. Detective Brown clears his throat and begins "I just wanted to thank you for your insight today. Turns out you were right. She was seventeen, and a senior in high school. Her parents are divorced, and her mom came in tonight to identify her. Her name was Camilla Ross. We are questioning her boyfriend right now. " He pauses to allow me to speak, but I can barely find words. Camilla. I think of her perfect full lips, like petals of a flower. Camilla. I must be mumbling some of this out loud, because the next thing I hear is "Pardon Me?" followed by a long silence. Followed by "Well, thought you'd want to know. Thanks again, and we'll be in touch if we need your help on this again." There is an audible click and the other end of the line is silent. I suddenly feel very dizzy, and I watch the blood spilling from my hand, and pooling on the floor at my feet. 

Julian awakens me moments later. I fainted. I fainted and I spilled my wine, though he's not sure which came first. I was mumbling something about a flower. He asks me who called, and I cry. I start to cry and I can't stop. The emotions surge over me like a waterfall, throwing me off balance and tumbling into the river below. I sob uninterrupted for a whole twenty minutes, and Julian holds me, rocking gently and brushing my hair with his hand, the other arm wrapped around me. My sobs break, turning into dry heaves. I do not notice the small cut on my left hand, or the shard of glass inside it. I look into his warm green eyes, and I tell him everything. About wanting to run away. About not sleeping. About myself at age sixteen. About Camilla. Everything. 

And then I fall asleep in his arms. 

V

The room is large and hollow. A mere whisper turns into a booming echo. I feel a cold breeze brush past my thighs. Erotic, in a sense. There are chains on the walls, and large oil paintings depicting contorted faces of children and women. Laughing. Or maybe screaming. It's hard to tell. The only light is coming from large silver candelabra in each corner of the room, and one hanging from the large arched ceiling at the exact centre of the room. The light flickers against the black walls, and sparkles on the chains, creating an illusion of movement throughout. 

I turn and look to the other end of the room. A large arched doorway with tall wooden doors stands at the centre of the far wall. Oak maybe, a strong wood, but weathered and rotted in places. The wine velvet drapes cover what is presumed to be windows. I walk over to them, though I feel  more like I am floating. I draw one back, and it emits a thick cloud of dust into the air. The room fills with color, and I stare at the streams of colored light casting the window's pattern on the painted black floor. A whisper emerges from the opposite corner of the massive room, followed by another cold breeze. I gasp and turn and… 

I'm in the same room. The curtains are closed and the doors are bolted shut. A clock chimes in the distance. Midnight. There is a loud crackle followed by the blare of music. I am surrounded by people. Mostly women. In revealing black dresses, with bright red lips and nails. They are young, some have tattoos and others wear chains around their necks and waists. Everyone is dancing. I am being pulled into the mass of people, and can feel their hands caressing me, some forcefully. I begin to dance to the music. I look down at the floor and see a polished black surface that looks almost like glass. I can see a reflection of myself. Though not in my clothing. The train of the long black velvet dress wraps around my ankles. The top of my breasts are pale white, and are spilling over top my corset. I notice the difficulty breathing, and the pain in my lower back and chest. It radiates down my legs and leaves them feeling light and numb. As I move through the dance floor I feel as though I am floating. A hand reaches out and takes my arm, guiding me to the middle of the room. I look above and see the chandelier. It is dizzying, and I feel myself slipping away. 

The soft kisses on my hand bring me back, and the walls turn to swirling red kaleidoscopes. "Katarina" the soft voice whispers. I look down in response and see the lips like petals kissing my naked wrist and hand, suckling. I focus my attention on this stranger who knows me and see the glowing red staring back at me. 

"Katarina…"  VI

"Katarina!" Julian's cries wake me with a start, and I push myself away from him instinctively. He is holding me by both shoulders. "Wake up goddamit! Wake up!" 

"What is your problem!" I screech to him as I sit up in bed. "There had better be an emergency." I close my eyes and try to adjust to the light. I rub them with my hands, and feel the dampness against my skin. I look down at the bed, and myself, naked, covered only in a sheet. I see the red blood on our sheets, right above my left breast, and start screaming, 

Julian grabs me and calms me down. He brings a cool facecloth for me, and sits behind me in bed until I stop crying. "You were having a nightmare…" he began softly. "I tried to wake you, but you wouldn't respond. I noticed the blood and panicked." He takes my hand and turns it over. He shows me the puncture wound from the glass. "I put a bandage on it last night while you were sleeping, but I guess it must have fell off. There's drops of blood all through the sheets. " He pauses and gazes down at me, kissing my forehead. "What were you dreaming about anyway?" 

I turn and nuzzle into his shoulder. The clock says 3:00 P.M. I was asleep, truly asleep, for over 14 hours. Everything is jumbled. I can't recall any of the dream, only images left over. 

"I don't remember…" 
 
 

Part II:  Camilla  I

Camilla hadn't expected to die. Not just yet anyway. Sure, she had wanted to at times. Like the late night phone calls to her father, when her mother began screaming into the phone like a banshee, barely coherent, about what an awful husband he was, and a horrible father. It was usually the nights Camilla came home from a weekend visit wearing makeup, or new shoes that had a slight heel on them. Or the times when mother came to her school and conducted a locker search to look for drugs, or clothes that she shouldn't be wearing, while her friends and classmates looked on. And they always looked. If they were in class, their faces would appear through the glass windows on the doors. If they saw her magenta Ford Taurus pull into the parking lot, they excused themselves from class one by one to get front row positions in the hallway so they might witness the spectacle rumoured to be the most hilarious event in a senior student's life in the history of the school. Always there were jokes and sneers, and  whispers of awful it must be to have her as a mother, and sighs of relief at the disinterest their parents took in their lives. 

And it was awful. Having to endure the constant scrutiny of her mother, the teasing from her peers, and most of all the sympathy. Gossip abounded of her mother's not so perfect past. And most adults in the community who knew anything about it, were sure Camilla would turn out the same. And maybe she would, though not because it was destined. But because she was driven to it by the very person who feared it happening the most. 

Yes, Camilla wanted to die. At time, anyway. She envisioned her death a tragic one, sudden and unexpected. A car accident maybe. Or better yet, suicide.  She imagined her distraught mother showing remorse at her gravesite, knowing that her beloved daughter's death was her fault. It was her that drove her to it. It was her pills that Camilla swallowed whole bottles of. The years of valium, and zoloft, and pain killers that had accumulated in her medicine cabinet. The last few pills in each of the dozens of bottles that she had saved for a rainy day. Camilla imagined her grief stricken father travelling a great distance from some important meeting to be at her grave. Foregoing a million dollar investment deal just to gaze in to his daughter's dead ice, cold as winter ice, and cry mournfully while grasping her pale lifeless hand. She imagined the dress she would die in, hoping they would bury her in the same. And the black mahogany coffin, lined in lush red velvet. Only the best for their little girl. 

But reality kept Camilla from considering ending her own life. The reality that her mother, in her drugged, drunk, semi conscious state, would adore the pity and attention lavished on her, and would drain every last bit of sympathy and kindness from those who offered it. Her dramatic portrayal of the grieving mother would achieve the largest collection to date of sympathy cards and frozen casseroles. Her father, if he was even notified, would send a sympathy card from Cairo or Hong Kong, to mourn the loss of a daughter he could barely recognize in the crowed airport on the few occasions he actually showed up the collect her. 

When a child is born to its mother, it comes into this world with a promise of love and nurturing. It leaves the only home it has ever known, surrounded by warm encompassing fluid, accompanied by the constant, gentle rocking motion of its mother's respirations. Food and warmth and all the necessities of life are provided for with no effort and nothing expected in return. It emerges into the cold, loud environment it has been protected from, and must begin to breath, for the first time, the chilled air. It must learn to communicate, and to obtain substance, and to trust, and to grow. For some, the nurturing continues. Camilla considers them the lucky ones. 

For Camilla, life was downhill from the time of her birth. For the first few years, her mother paid her no attention. When she was hungry, she was fed. When she was wet, she was changed. When she cried for no apparent reason, she was left to cry herself to sleep. Her father was not there. He was, she would later learn, "putting food on the table". Her earliest memory of him was when she was about five years old. It was summertime, and she was wearing pink sundress with grape juice spilled on the front. It had a bib with pink stripes and little yellow flowers on it. She was hot, and was bored of playing alone with her dolls. She put the doll down, and walked from the nook in the kitchen where she had been sitting on the cool linoleum floor to the family room. She remembers looking across the room, at the large black recliner which was always empty, but where she was never allowed to sit, and seeing a man whom she did not know. She remembers asking her mother who the man was. The response was the first fight she remembers seeing her parents have.  And she knew they were fighting about her. 

The fights became a frequent occurrence the more she saw this strange man. And she heard her mother yell about her. Not saying her name, of course, but yelling and pointing over her shoulder at Camilla. Then one day, the fighting stopped. And there was silence. For weeks they would sit silently, not speaking a work to each other, or to anyone else. Then one day, everything changed. 

Mother went away for a while, on a trip somewhere. At least, that's what Camilla was told, though no details as to where. Camilla was in the first grade, and it was late in the fall. She came home from school on day, and there was a strange woman in the kitchen. Not her grandmother, or the neighbour who sometimes was there to greet her, but a complete stranger. And this woman smiled, and gave Camilla milk and a cupcake, covered in purple frosting and little gold balls. 

Mary-Jane was 24 years old, and was hired by Camilla's father to care for her. She lived with them in the spare bedroom. She cleaned the house and cooked meals, and took Camilla for walks, and read her bedtime stories. She taught Camilla about books, and about her dolls, and gave them all names. She treated Camilla like she was real person. And sometimes, when Mary-Jane's friends came over, they would play with Camilla and her dolls too. And father was home more when Mary-Jane was there. And he would talk to her. And to Camilla. And they would eat dinner together. 

And one day, in March, just as the birds were returning from their winter home, and trees started growing small green leaves, mother came home. And there was a fight. And Mary-Jane left. And Camilla, to this day, still hates her mother for making Mary-Jane  leave, crying so hard she didn't even say goodbye to her favorite little flower, with the chubby cheeks like roses, and the leaves like little petals. 

II

Camilla would discover later in life, from overhearing the mother of her best friend on the phone one day, that her mother was committed to s psychiatric hospital for treatment once when Camilla was 6 years old for trying to drown her in a bathtub, though Camilla has no memory of this. Camilla also overheard that her father wasted no time in moving his young girlfriend in and living as one big happy family for a time. And that the girlfriend left in disgrace, pregnant and in fear for her life, when mother came home one day. Camilla would also learn, later in life, of a stillborn baby her mother had after being impregnated by another patient at the hospital, a crazy man who ate dead mice and murdered his wife for refusing to cook one for him in her good porcelain pot. So he ate her instead. 

Camilla would discover all these things after her parents divorced, at the age of eleven. Her father moved across the country, and her mother lived off his alimony payments. She moved to a new town, and tried to start a new life. But the alcohol, and the drugs, played with her mind, and she often went in to screaming fits in the grocery store, accusing the cashier of sleeping with her husband. She would leave the store after several minutes that seemed like an eternity to Camilla, and Camilla would pay for the groceries from her mother's purse, and find her lying seductively on the hood of their car, offering to perform various sex acts to the young men carrying groceries to the cars of elderly patrons, "For a small fee, of course". 

And each time the gossip started, each time she was escorted by police to the hospital for another night, they moved again. Until one day, when Camilla was fourteen, her mother found God. At least, the god of a smooth televangelist, who convinced mother to send him over forty thousand dollars in just under two months. Father was quite upset at this, and began paying the alimony directly into an account of an attorney, so that an allowance could be set up and monitored. Camilla had no need of it though. Her father had been paying in to an account opened just for her use for a couple of years. Long distance allowance, she called it. All she had to do was ask, and it was there. 

Mother kept up with the religion though, frequenting the local Pentecostal church, and making friends with the parishioners. She began baking for their auxiliary, and going to meetings about how to prevent your children from having sex, or how to tell if they are taking drugs. To the church, she was the model mother. To Camilla, she was becoming overbearing and controlling. And she was still drinking, and taking various pills. But she had the perfect cover. When you act crazy on the street, or in a grocery store, they lock you up and charge you with disturbing the peace. But when you act crazy in church, they commend your devotion.  By the time Camilla was in high school, her mother was convinced she was strung out on drugs, and sleeping with all the older boys. 

The fact was, Camilla was a straight A student. She was, at seventeen, still a virgin, though not completely inexperienced. She learned to be careful, and to hide her true self from her mother. (She had learned to do so after particularly incriminating discovery in her junior year by her vice principal, a member of mother's church, that she was performing fellatio on the entire football team, in numerical order, over the course of a couple of months. The upsetting part was that she was discovered on the second to last one by the vice principal himself, and that, the next semester, a sophomore took the record from her, completing the football, basketball, and track teams before she was discovered.) The alimony payments from her father paid the rent on a very large suburban home, with 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and a deck entrance on each bedroom. It was not a challenge for Camilla to sneak from her room at night, obtain the clothes bought on her latest trip to New York to see her father from the locker at the Greyhound station, change, and go to various parties and raves throughout the city. Without fail, she was always home by morning, having showered, removed makeup, and dressed in her most modest flannel nightgown with the tiny blue flowers before her alarm clock rang at 7:45 a.m. 

In fact, deceiving her mother wasn't difficult at all. Not now that she herself was assisting the Pastor in devising his sermons for the next week, or exchanging recipes with the rest of the auxiliary until nearly ten at night. By that time, the sedatives and alcohol had transformed her to a pleasantly euphoric state, sounding similar to the munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. She would barely make it to her own bedroom before she would be unconscious, snoring so loud she disturbed the noisy dog next door. And she knew when the random locker checks would occur, having recorded all the previous night's conversations through a nifty device she obtained in pawn shop in New York. 

Her father was the complete opposite. He paid alimony and child support in order to prevent another embarrassing court battle. He even set up a trust fund for university for Camilla, insisting that she attend a prestigious school. But he never showed the least bit of interest in her. On her monthly trips to New York, or Los Angeles, wherever he was at the time, she would be picked up at the airport by a chauffeur, driven to his penthouse, then to a hotel, since he had "limited space" in his quarter million dollar residence. She would have dinner with him on Saturday night, usually in the hotel, and would spend the rest of the time shopping or going to night clubs. Once, she actually arrived in L.A., only to discover he was in New York that weekend, and got the dates mixed up. To make amends, he came to the airport himself the next time, a very rare occurrence. (The only other time was when he happened to remember her birthday.) She got two tattoos on separate occasions, a small red teardrop on her right shoulder blade, and a rose on her left ankle. Thanks to her mother's new rules of modesty around the house, these were never noticed. The day she dyed her hair from her normally demure chestnut brown to a dark cherry black was noticed. After a long confrontation with her mother, there was no clear winner, and she agreed to see a stylist and have it changed - to a plain black. 

On a night like any other night, with a full moon in the sky, obscured only partly by the thin wisps of clouds, she made her way out the back door, and to end of the street where she had parked her car. She arrived at the bus terminal at approximately ten thirty, where she parked her car, putting money in the meter to ensure she wouldn't get any incriminating parking tickets, and retrieved her supplies from locker number nine.  She made her way to the quiet washroom in the basement, where she changed her clothes. The baggy, white sweater was exchanged for a tight black Christian Dior brocade corset, which displayed her plump bosom. The cotton ribbed stirrup pants were replaced with a Versace black silk skirt, which barely covered her round buttocks. The red fishnet stockings were Frederick's of Hollywood. And the Knee length black lace up boots were vintage. She applied her Elizabeth Arden makeup - light liquid foundation, dusted with white powder, black eyeliner, mascara, and shadow, and Vixen red lipstick at $59.00 a tube. Sterling silver crosses hung from her pierced earlobes, a pewter coffin was strung around her neck on a silver herringbone chain, and a small pentagram poison ring adorned her left ring finger. She paused briefly to gaze at herself in the waist length mirrors, draped her floor length Armani leather trench coat (which she stole from her father's latest girlfriend at a cocktail party - the only one she ever crashed while on her visit. He didn't even know it was her in the red velvet gown that his boss was flirting with entire night.) and walked out the double glass doors to the streetcar. 

III

The destination was another Rave. Or so she assumed. A small black card embossed with gold writing provided only an address and password. She located the building easy enough - an old church in the fashion district. She walked around a couple of times, trying to see through the stained glass windows and ultimately gazing at the reflection of her lips in the veil of the virgin Mary. She followed another couple inside, admiring the architecture of the doorways as she was led in to coat room. While waiting in line, she paused to read the inscriptions below the old photographs on the wall. There was one of the Pope, and an archbishop, and of the church in it's early days. The next photo was dark, with only a man in black standing in front of a pew. The inscription read "Father Michael O'Toole: He touched so many lives. May he rest in peace." The last photo was odd, of another man standing in front of the same pew. The inscription read simply "Roman". She glanced back at the Priest, and remembered some scandal in past years, but not the details. As she handed over her coat, she glanced over her naked shoulder at Roman, and continued on to the room ahead of her. 

The walls were black, and the candlelight flickered gently upon them. The stained glass windows were more vibrant from inside, without the iron bars obscuring her view. She heard the clock tower downtown signaling the approach of midnight. Only fifteen minutes to go. She walked slowly towards the window and felt the luxurious texture of the old wine colored velvet. It was thick, like a down filled blanket, and hung stiffly alongside the window, but it was soft and worn. She admired the great architecture from the inside now, gazing up at the high ceiling and the chandelier hung from it, which held at least a hundred candles, all in black. The room was crowded, so she made her way along the brick walls to what appeared to be a bar, and obtained a complementary glass of blood red wine, failing to notice the residue of white powder on the surface of the glass. 

She found herself standing against a wall, directly below what appeared to be manacles chained to the wall. She leaned back and reached above her head to feel the cold metal against the pale flesh of her forearm. She was feeling a little dizzy from the fluid appearance of the walls, and, as the music began to play and the doors shut with an audible thumping noise, she moved towards the centre of the room. She spun around, staring at the velvet curtains as they dropped from their position beside the windows and completely obscured the swirling colours of the stained glass. People were staring at her, gently pushing and guiding her to the foot of a large platform. The inside of the church looks much larger from the centre of the room, and she can not determine which side she entered from as she continues to turn. 

The music inspires her to dance, and she sets her empty glass on the platform and begins moving seductively through the room. She sees people dancing and kissing and smiling and laughing on the surface. As she turns in small circles in place, she sees men playing pool in a corner. A man sitting on a black plush sofa and staring at the ceiling in another. The candlelight flickers in a cool breeze that Camilla can feel on her breasts, resembling a strobe light. She continues to spin The men playing pool begin to kiss. The man on the sofa retrieves a sharp needle from the platter beside him. The men kissing begin to undress. The man with the needle pulls a chain around his arm. The naked men begin to fuck. The man in chains puts the needle in his arms. For an instant, she sees all three men, sees their faces. They look the same. White faces with huge black eyes. There is music, stronger and louder than ever. No words, just music. But she can see no stereo. Nor can she hear where it is coming from, it is all around her. She feels very dizzy now, and forgets for a moment why she came here. Then she remembers the card. The red embossed letters written in an ancient cursive style. She remembers the plaque beneath the photo, in the same writing. As she falls to the floor, she feels herself being picked up and carried to another room, unable to see past the dark shroud of hair obscuring her eyes. She feels the strong arms of the man carrying her and buries her head in his chest. She hears the music playing above her now, not surrounding her anymore. She feels a velvet kiss on her cheek, and gazes into the dark black crystal eyes of the creature holding her. He speaks to her, and tells her he loves her, that she is his flower, but that he cannot have her, because she belongs to Roman. She lifts her head higher, and reaches for his velvet lips, and sees the glowing red eyes behind him.  And she sleeps. 

IV

When she awakens, Camilla finds that she is in a small room equipped with a long metal table, upon which she is lying. She is covered with a thin purple veil, and is still clothed. There is a small pillow beneath her head. She is weak, and can barely stand. She dangles her feet off the edge of the table and realizes that they are numb. She can move them, but has no sensation. She looks around the room and sees only the brick walls and the cold metal bars in front of her. She realizes that she is in a room in the basement, where the police found young children that Father Michael kept hidden. Where he brought them food and water and taught them how to serve God, and him. She looks at the small engravings in the brick, like a child's chalk drawings on the sidewalk, flickering in the light of the dying candle. And she screams. 

Finding strength she doesn't know she has, she leaps from the bed and to the barred doors. As she reaches through the bars, she sees the pale skin on her hands. Not just pale, but white. There are no blue lines where the veins run through them. No colour beneath her fingernails. She falls against the bars and the door opens. Freeing her from her cell. She crawls to the end of the narrow passageway. Hearing the music above her again, she climbs the narrow stairs at the end of the passage and in to small office where Father Michael once counted the donations of the generous people of his church. Seeing a doorway at the far end, she exits the church and finds herself in an alley behind the building. She manages to walk or crawl about 4 blocks, breathing heavily and stopping to vomit every few feet, before she notices the large circle of blood flowing through the bodice of her corset. She collapses. She cannot move, or scream for help. She lies in the pool of her own blood forming about her and waits to die. 

But she doesn't die. Not then. Not in that alley. She lays in the blood and feels the agonizing pain as her veins collapse as her blood flows out. She stares, with her sapphire eyes wide, at the approaching daylight. She hears cars in the street not fifty feet from where she is, but she cannot summon them. She looks up and sees the face of a stranger, and then two more. She is placed in the back of an ambulance. They say she is dead already, that she won't make it to the hospital. But she makes it. She screams as they pull up to the ambulance bay, but no one hears her. She listens and watches as they try to save her. But no one can. She screams again when they give her blood. But no one hears her tell them how much it hurts. How the new blood is burning her from inside. She gazes into the light blue eyes of a woman. Herself, only older, perhaps. And she screams at long last for her mysterious Roman, as the new blood begins to flow from her left nipple. 

She is Camilla. With cheeks like roses and lips like petals. Dead at fifteen-thirty hours. 
 

To be Continued...