Chapter Seventeen: Freud's Field Day
I opened my eyes again just as I swerved a final time- toward a building. The window was open but small. As I approached the unlit opening I yelled and felt the force propelling me release. Now I was flying toward the window with nothing but pure inertia, and would soon fall. I shot my arms out and latched onto the sill. The rest of my body jolted forward- my head poked into the building while my legs slammed against it. When the numbness faded my right leg hurt so bad I almost let go of the window. After some frantic scrambling I managed to get the rest of my body inside.
I looked around and saw the living room of the apartment I used to share with Michael. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed our old building sooner, but when I looked back out the window I saw the single neon sign in the brewery window at the bottom of the hill shining. There was little light within, however, and flipping the switches didn't change that. I guessed the bulb hadn't been changed in years. I lit an old candle I had left on a stand ages ago. I hadn't been back here since long before I had actually terminated things with Michael. It had become too painful to go back to after Joyce's death. The couch still had the imprints of our butts on it. Michael's toned ass had worn into the sharp leather on the right, angled slightly toward the TV. My own butt print was angled towards his, as I always used to rest my legs on his lap. I put my ass there without thinking, pulling my throbbing leg up on the couch.
The television was still plugged in and I wondered if it might still work. I flipped on the screen to illuminate the apartment a bit and also figured I might as well check on Michael's viewing history. I was a little disturbed by the amount of porn featuring very young-looking Asian women, and worse yet my ex had watched eight seasons of The Big Bang Theory.
I got up to get a snack. My leg was throbbing a bit less, but I still had to limp to the kitchen counter. Everything in the fridge looked disgusting and the shelves all seemed empty. There was a big upside-down bowl on the counter blocking one shelf, though, so I picked it up. Under the bowl was Michael's disembodied head, cut off right where I had sliced his neck. I dropped the bowl and it shattered, somehow slicing open my palm. I didn't even realize where the blood was coming from. I just knew there was a lot of blood and the head of the man I had killed. I stepped back and hit my foot on the fridge. I looked down at my right foot for a second and when I looked back Michael's eyes were open. His mouth was open too.
"Why?" asked the head.
I stared in shock. Blood drained from my palm onto the floor while I stood perfectly still, praying this wasn't real. I felt my stomach gurgling but my throat was too tight to heave.
"Why did you kill me?" asked the head.
I ran out of the kitchen but Michael's head hopped to the edge of the counter and glared at me. I spotted a knife block across from the fridge and lunged at it, but Michael's head flew up into the air and over to the opposite cover, pushing the block into the sink. I ran back to the couch and picked up the remote, pitching it at the head. I missed and he flew back up, then rocketed into my chest, knocking the air out of me as I fell back onto the couch.
"Cut that shit out, Riese," said Michael's head, "Why won't you talk to me? I need you to talk to me already."
"Okay, okay- give me a second?" I pleaded.
The head of my ex lover nodded and flew back up off my chest, resting himself on the coffee table. He looked at my bleeding hand.
"You oughtta put a band-aid on that," he said.
I complied, covering my wound with an extra large Hello Kitty band-aid. Then I fetched myself some water while the head watched me intently, as if he was daring me to reach for the knife again.
"Man, you're fast," I blabbered, sipping my water, "That really hurt, when you slammed into my tits."
"Yeah," Michael's head said, "I've got pretty tight control of this stuff. Psychic powers and shit."
"Whoa, that's cool dude."
"Riese, why are you acting like you don't know me?"
"Do I know you?" I replied, sitting dramatically back down on the couch, "I'm pretty sure I dated a man named Michael, not just a head."
"Yeah, but c'mon. I always gave good head," said the head.
"Stop. No. Bad. You're a bad head."
"Okay. Fuck. Look, last thing I remembered we were in my office. I was training you for the new Permanent Solutions job. And then you go fucking Gustavo Fring on me. I wake up under that fucking bowl."
"No, no, you're not Michael. This isn't like what happened with Joyce. You're just a trick, a vision or whatever that guy, the big boss guy in black made. He's torturing me now! Jesus! I'm so totally over all this! I want it to be done!"
"Shit, Riese... if you're talking about the new boss, maybe you're right. He could end you in an instant, he could torture you forever. But I don't think this is one of those situations. All I know is I exist, right now, in this moment, when obviously I shouldn't. I think it's because I want it. I want the answer."
"To why I killed you?"
I sighed and picked a book up off the coffee table next to Michael's head: Fucking Trans Women Volume 5, by Guy Fieri. I flipped through it and saw a neat diagram of Guy wearing a strap-on, with a helpful arrow pointing out the brand of his sunglasses. The head glared at me and I put the book down. The glaring didn't stop and I squirmed nervously.
"Okay, fine," I said, "Why I killed you. I'll tell you. I wish I had known how many people were in danger back then. What your new boss was going to do. I don't even know if you knew. I wasn't thinking about other people. I mean, I thought about Joyce. She's back, by the way. But, yeah, I've thought about her every day. That wasn't your fault, though. I know that. And when I stopped seeing you after she died, that wasn't because I blamed you. I felt like it was my fault. Stanley's too, obviously, but- I just knew if I went and saw you I would feel better, and I didn't want to. Not with her gone. When you finally showed up at my place I got so excited. At first I thought we were gonna run away together, or you'd at least fuck me in a bush or something. And I was still smiling even when you brought me back to your office, because it had been so long. Or it felt like a long time, who knows. You left the room for a minute or two, though, to get coffee. And for a second it was like when you left me, and I felt naked and afraid. And I realized I would do whatever you wanted me to, because you were all I had left. But what you wanted from me felt so wrong. After Joyce. So I killed you because, I guess, I love you. Asshole."
"I don't hate you, Riese. And I never wanted anyone to get hurt."
"I know. It happens, right? Maybe it'd be different, if I didn't have this thing for you. But I do, and I'm glad you're dead."
The head frowned and nodded at me, tilting slightly midair as he rose off the table. Cracks were forming on his cheeks, each crack producing a disturbing fleshy crunch.
"I think I understand what you're saying. This... none of this was what I wanted," he said.
I nodded back, tears forming in my eyes. I reached my hand out weakly towards Michael's heads as more cracks formed across his face.
"One more thing-" he croaked quietly, "Be careful in the bathroom, okay?"
I opened my mouth to respond but the cracks had already met across the bridge of Michael's nose. His face fractured like a block of coal. The inside of his head was an empty blackness, and in mere seconds the remaining pieces disintegrated. I wept, effusively, for the first time in years.
I sat on the couch for a while, staring at the spot where the pieces of Michael's head had fallen, my focus drifting in and out. When the tears had stopped stinging and my face was dry I stood up to use the bathroom. I turned the knob slowly, leaning back cautiously. The knob stopped turning and I pulled, but the door wouldn't give. I let go and the knob rotated quickly the other way, they kept spinning. Then it flew out towards me. It shot over my shoulder, narrowly missing my head. Looking at the door, I saw some of the wood around the door had splintered off too. Through the crack I could see a quivering mound of flesh, tight and tense. The shape turned towards me and quickly filled the crack. As I stepped away from the door it flew off its hinges and revealed the horror behind.
There was Michael's body, naked and bare and sans head. The light brown skin of it bulged over the muscles as they flexed, prodigious as ever. Each surged and stretched in fearsome sequence as the entirety of Michael's corpse stumbled out through the bathroom door's empty frame. It was disturbingly hairless besides some strands below the knees. As I looked down I noticed its lack of a penis or testicles, with the anatomy of a swollen headless Ken doll.
I backed out into the living room, giving the ghoulishly smooth remnant a wide berth. It swung out ferociously but clumsily, stomping slowly in time with its swipes. When it stumbled into the living room its shoulder slammed into the television, knocking it forward. There was a shattering of glass and Michael's body jumped, almost falling over. The room was much darker with the TV screen shattered but luckily the large triple-wicked candle still burned brightly. Michael's body, however, couldn't see, and when it regained its footing it stopped swiping. It held its hands outstretched, carefully feeling the side of the wall.
All this I observed from the other side of the couch. I felt myself become actually annoyed by the cautiousness and clumsiness of the thing. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife from the sink. It was sharp and keen. Calmly and slowly, I walked back into the kitchen and within swiping distance of the body which was leaned over on the rug, its hands on the coffee table. It was trying to figure out how to get around, with one leg lifted as though it meant to step over it. One arm was feeling the corner of the table while the other was closed into a fist.
I got so close I could have licked the dead man's spine. I slowly raised my hand and quickly slapped its ass. The thing tried to stand back up and turn around at the same time. I backed up before it could get to me and pulled on the rug with my foot. Michael's body fell forward into the coffee table, cracking it and sending shards of glass into its chest. It flailed on the collapsed table but could make no scream of pain. I brought my knife down into its back, sending gleaming crimson everywhere. The first few stabs didn't even register. The corpse was still jolting around with its considerable strength, trying to slam back against me. I kept darting back after each attack, until it no longer jolted, only shook as I painted its back red. But I kept stabbing, and tears began to flood my eyes.
I started screaming and stabbing faster and faster. I actually brought myself down upon the red corpse of my former boyfriend, my mind blank with pain and rage. I couldn't understand why, but it was like I needed to do this to him again. This time it was bloody and direct. I couldn't run from what I had done, only stare into the gory red mass as I made my twisted love incarnate in flesh. I kept screaming and crying until my wrist was too sore and I dropped the knife. I wept softly into the blood, making little red bubbles in my ex lover's warm thick heart juice.
I laid there and slept. It felt like a full and restful sleep but when I awoke the only lights outside were still the moon's and bar sign's. I wiped my crusty eyes, spreading blood across my face. Michael's corpse was gone, there was only a dark red spot on the rug where it had laid. I was covered in blood and smelled horribly. Slowly and shakily, I stood up and staggered to the bathroom. There, I turned on the faucet and let the warm water cleanse me. As it often did in the shower, my brain became clear and empty. The disturbing act I had just committed was nothing more than a trial at best, torture at worst. The man in black had confronted me with my own worst act, or my straightest and most failed relationship, perhaps to assuage some of his own guilt. Or was that even possible? But if that was the case, then why was I still here? Why couldn't I be brought home?
I decided to go lay in bed. I doubted that I'd be able to return to sleep after the stresses of my precarious situation had come rushing back to mind while I toweled off, but my body could still use some rest. First I looked in the shelf which Michael's upturned bowl hat had blocked earlier and found some old popcorn. I stuck it in the microwave, which was luckily still connected to our old street's generator, and nuked the bag for two minutes. I grabbed the hot and fattened bag and headed for the bedroom, cramming handfuls of buttery popcorn as I walked.
When I entered the bedroom the blinds were drawn. There was no light entering whatsoever and I had to feel around to even find the edge of the bed. From there I remembered the lamp on the side table and felt around for the switch. The lamp flicked on and I thanked God, but in a rote sort of way. When I turned to look at the bed, I was not prepared for the curious sight I beheld.
There upon the outer sheet, right in the middle, was what looked like a thick brown dildo. Only it must have been a packer, I supposed- who would buy a dildo that looked like it was flaccid? Only, why would there be a packer at the late Michael's apartment? I couldn't see him needing one, his pants had always bulged plenty. Had he desultorily decided to fuck a trans guy the day before he died, one absentminded enough to leave his big brown packer on the damn bed?
Before my anger at this final posthumous outrage could flare up, I realized what the thing was. Michael's shambling horror of a body had been missing more than just one head. Here on his bed was the final bit of him which remained.
I felt that hot juicy vom rise up in my throat but swallowed it, covering my mouth just in case. After a minute sitting on the ground I managed to look back at the dick. There wasn't any blood on it or anything, just a dick and a couple balls. There wasn't even an exposed vein or muscle to indicate it had ever been attached to a man, much less the man who had defined years of my life.
As I drew closer to inspect the disembodied cock I actually saw it stiffen a bit. I could tell my warm breath was hitting it, and apparently it could too as it actually shifted towards me. There was no way it could sense me, I imagined, except by temperature and touch. No eyes to actually know who I even was. And yet I couldn't help feeling that if it were Michael's, somehow he would be able to tell. Right? Well, maybe as the saying went one truly did have to jerk off their ex-lover's zombie cock before they could truly move on.
I lightly grazed the shaft with my fingers. I could feel the skin shift under them as the cock stiffened again. It was now at half-mast, or half-cocked as Michael used to say. I rubbed the underside of it lovingly and brought in my other hand, with which I cupped those disembodied testicles. I actually felt Michael's dick warm in my hand, growing hard and almost hot. Feeling the weight of it in my hand actually got me a bit excited, which I tried to ignore. This wasn't even the man I had loved, it was his cock. Just his cock. Why, then, was this hotter than sex with that man had ever been? Why was it sexier, even without the emotional weight of connection? And why, pray tell, was I asking myself so many god damn questions to which there were no definite answers? Seriously, that shit was annoying.
I reassigned my ball-cupping hand to shaft duty, working Michael's big lonely ghoul dick just like a Mennonite churning butter. I continued doing this for a while, even throwing in a nifty corkscrew motion I had picked up from a sex worker in Chicago. After that I grew a bit more desperate, spitting on the reanimated member and jerking as fast as I could. My hands quickly tired of that.
"Come on!" I yelled frustratedly at no one. The dick certainly didn't react to my outburst. Then my frustration made me realize that this could well be my final test. If the man in black was indeed trying to make me confront aspects of the man I had murdered, then this could be the last piece of the puzzle! I had dealt with both the mental and physical realities of my dearly beloved buff boy, all that was left was the sexual. And since this test of my will itself had been designed by a man, I supposed I would have to make the zombie cock come.
I tightened my lips in determination, then puffed them out like that sexy fish from Pinnochio. I slid Michael's dick between them, feeling the firmness of his big dick in my mouth, before pulling it back out and swirling my tongue around the head. This I repeated a few times until I could feel it harden even a little more. I knew this to be a sign and so redoubled my effort, pushing my head up and down, filling my cheeks with dick and spit and reaching as near the balls as I could with my lips and tongue. I stroked with my hand as I did and finally I felt the cock twitch and swell as it came in my mouth. Huge waves of the sticky stuff shot in my mouth and filled my cheeks, one after the other. This went on for almost half a minute. At the fifteen second mark I had to swallow, which I barely managed before more seed spilled into my face hole. At this excessiveness I rolled my eyes wryly at the ceiling before more cum flowed and made me tear up. The mascara I had put on at Ashe's was fully ruined. Finally, Michael's dick stopped coming and I released stood up, and looked up at the ceiling. I pointed at my mouth with both hands, as though telling the man in black, 'Watch! Look, I'm gonna do it!' and swallowed the remaining cum.
I stood there, still staring at the ceiling, waiting to be whisked away. Nothing. I waited more. Nothing. I grew angry again.
"What?!" I yelled upwards, "That wasn't enough for you? What kind of shit is this, anyway, making me suck my dead ex's dick? That's fucked up, man! Just send me home! What? What else do you want me to do?"
I frowned and crossed my arms, still staring at the ceiling. I sighed and looked back down, then at the bed. To my great shock Michael's dick was hard again.
"Fuck," I said.
I reached for the knob on the side table and pulled open the drawer. I pulled out an big ancient sticky bottle and squirted its contents out on the dick. I needed it drenched, and though it twitched a bit it didn't seem to mind. I discretely filled myself with lubricant as well and positioned myself squatting low over the still-erect phallus. I lowered myself down upon its considerable girth and let it enter me, inch by inch. Once it was fully inside I played with my tits in an effort to relax my asshole. It wasn't something I would have done with Michael or anyone, as I always feared it would come off as fake or desperate to impress. But as I pulled on my pink and puffy nipples and rubbed my breasts in a circular motion my butt did indeed loosen. I was able to pull myself slowly up and off the cock and then release, driving it powerfully back into me. It hit my prostate somewhere in its thrust and I moaned pleasurably.
I worked steadily on Michael's dick, building in tempo and energy. I switched from a squat to a backwards lean with my limbs splayed. From here I would bring my ass down and forward, a motion which seemed to bring the dick in to touch my insides in all the right ways. Soon I was practically shaking, bringing my ass down fervently again and again, slapping it against my dead lover's sizable balls. Soon I felt the cock twitch and I brought my ass down one final time before it spurted inside me. I moaned loudly as cum leaked from my ass. Then, exhausted, I pulled myself off the dick and collapsed next to it on my belly. I peeked back at my butt to see the mess and observed that I would need to go fart cum in the toilet and take a shower soon. Before I did I turned back the other way to look at Michael's dick one last time, but it was gone.
"Oh, shit," I said, "Wait, not-"
And I was gone.