Hot Revenge Box Set 4

It’s hard to tell, but it feels longer before she comes back. As the time stretches…

And stretches…

Has she given up on me?

Abandoned me to the dark?

My nerves stretch too…

Still, I try to move around, as best I can; try to keep muscles limber and joints supple.

I’m going to need them.

And at last, the light clicks on. A minute or so later, she teeters in, in her unsuitable shoes, the heels click-clicking on the concrete.

Jenny would have come down here in those steel-toed boots she has. Mitch would have worn sneakers. I think even the Haswell woman would have come in something flat-soled.

But Juliana, true to form, wears the four-inch spikes she thinks are glamorous, this time as part of silver vinyl knee-high boots. The rest of the outfit involves an electric blue skirt and blouse, a 70s Sci-Fi silver-blonde wig and green-glitter nail varnish.

I drag myself to my feet, making a show of slow, unsteady movement, keeping well to my side of the now much-broken white line. “Good morning Juliana. I think it’s morning? Yes?”

She scowls. “How many times do I have to tell you? My name's not Juliana.”

“Ah, yes. So you keep saying.” I stand against my wall, well away from the painted line. And I keep my voice soft. “It’s Sola, isn't it. Or Solana. But you were Juliana before that. You’ve had me thinking about that. What it means. And I've had quite a lot of time to think.”

She sniffs. “I’ve no idea what you mean. Now…” She pulls her chair a little closer to the line, makes as though to sit… “… are we going to talk about something sensible? You were rude to me last time and I haven’t decided yet if I’ve forgiven you.”

“What’s to forgive, Juliana? Or if there were something to forgive, what’s the point?” I take a step toward her. Uncertain for a moment, she takes a step back, glancing down at the line, but she’s where I want her, closer to the back wall.

“What’s got into you?” She jerks her chin at me. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“No, not nonsense. But I have had plenty of time, as I said, to think about what it’s all about. What’s the key to all this.”

She folds her arms, sucking in her cheeks. She drums fingers against an arm, then looks to her side. She aims a finger. “This key you mean?”

And just like that, the Juliana smile is back. “You do mean this key.” Unhooking it, she dangles it between thumb and forefinger. “You’d love to have it, wouldn’t you, Larry. You never will.” She turns back, to replace it on its hook.

Carpe diem...

I speak quickly, interrupting her movement. “A question for you, Juliana.”

She turns back, head inclining. “Oh? What?”

“What do you look like?”

She swings her head, frowning. “You know what I look like. You're looking at me now.”

“No, I'm looking at wigs, and costume and makeup. What do you look like when you get out of bed in the morning? What do your lovers see when they wake up with you?”

Her lip curls. “They never wake up with me. My bed is my own.”

“Really? That’s interesting. Alright, I’ll ask instead, how long do you take getting ready before you leave the house?”

The folded arms are back, but she’s still standing, and the key is still in her hand. That chin jerk again. “What’s it to you?”

“Just curious? You see, I remember you from when we first met… My little Potato Face…” Her lips flatten… “I’m wondering how much you have really changed?”

Her pupils are pin-pricking. Her chest rising and falling more quickly…

“Then too…” I continue, “I’m wondering too about the whole Sola business…”

Her lips part, her breathing growing quicker…

“Sola? An interesting choice. Meaning All alone? Well, you're bound to be alone, aren't you. When you slaughter every living soul that touches you…”

Her lips are beginning to peel back, her knuckles whitening…

“… But somehow, that didn't feel right. Who names themselves for being an outcast? Even when the casting-out is self-imposed…”

I wait, to give her chance to reply…

…

…

“I see I'm right. It’s not Sola-The-Girl-Who-Walked-By-Herself…

“So, then I thought about Solana... Sun girl? Sunflower? Sunshine?” I fake a laugh. “I don't see you facing the sun anytime. I get it. I used to be like that myself. But of course, you and I met when you were very young. And you already know that about me. From the days when I called you Po-ta-to Face.” I lean on the words, smacking each syllable from my lips.

She could be carved from stone, save for the pulsing of the vein at her neck.

“So, what else?” I pace a little, the four or five steps the chain will allow me, one way, then the other. I wag a forefinger at her. “I went through your stuff you know, in your apartment, before you went on the murder-go-round with your friends there. It threw me, seeing what was in there. Your cosmetics. Your clothes. Shoes. Wigs. Beads and bangles. All your stuff. But where were you? Where was Juliana?”

Another pause, to see if she will respond. I continue my pacing, my small circle of movement, warming muscles, loosening stiff limbs.

Juliana could be struck dumb.

“You know, I find I keep comparing you with my Jenny. She had a bad start too. All my fault I know. But she turned herself around. Became her own person.

“I couldn't understand why you hated her so much, especially after I told you she'd been one of you, at Blessingmoors. You should have sympathised with her. But then, Jenny’s beautiful, isn’t she. Even after you imprisoned her, degraded her, left her to lie in her own shit for a week, she still looked beautiful.

“It's no credit to her, of course. She's just lucky that way. Jenny wakes up, no make-up, hair like a bird’s nest. But she looks in the mirror and what looks out is beautiful... What do you see Solana? Without all the fakery?”

She breathes in short shallow snatches…

Almost there...

… Time to move in for the kill…

“And another thing… If I were in a room and Jenny had spent any amount of time there, I'd know it on the spot. Her trademarks. Her signatures. Books. Knick-knacks. Souvenirs. All things that say something about her. Things that tell a story…

“But then, I was looking at the crap you fill your life with. Nothing in that bedroom was you. Everything I saw there was something to cover over you... Insofar as there is a You, Juliana…

“In fact, the only object I found in that room that seemed even remotely personal was a book…” I stoop to pick up the tattered and mouldy copy of ‘Poisonous and Psychoactive Plants: A Handbook’.

“At the time, I didn’t think much about it. Then later, well… you do murder for fun, so fair enough. But why not, a guide to hand-weapons, or history’s most famous serial killers…?”

She’s poised, trembling… A push and…

and yes, she’s

read it again because I wondered what you’d dosed your friends with…” Holding the pages open, I read aloud… “Belladonna… meaning ‘beautiful woman’… Symptoms of poisoning… dilated pupils, rash or flushed skin on the face, neck and upper body, accelerated heartbeat, epileptic spasms, vomiting… Yes, that pretty much

page, I look up under hooded lids. Juliana’s face

A family of plants including Belladonna and the other nightshades plus various plants of agricultural

book closed, taking a step closer to the half-visible line. Then

I grin. “Here we are. All those years. All that pretence. All the covering up and pretending to be the exotic Belladonna. You touch people and

sneer into my words… “… you’re still

launching herself toward me, arms outstretched, hands opening to claws, coming for my eyes. I step back, drawing her in, and at the last moment, her gaze drops to the ground, to

instants, her eyes widen and her face goes slack

I grin

She jerks backwards…

But I’m already

feet skid out from under her. Arms flailing, she starts to fall,

wrist in a grip I’m not about to break. In her screwed-up fist, she clutches the key. My free hand flailing, I’m grabbing for the closed fist,

my hold, she doesn’t fall all the way, but hangs poised, scraping those pointed heels over the concrete, trying to

to be had and the heels scrape uselessly at the concrete. She cries out, face contorting as she tries to twist free of my grasp. Shrieking like a banshee, screeching like a fishwife... “Fuck

forward, and head down, drops to my hand, sinking

my arm and involuntarily, briefly, my fingers slacken. And in the instant before I regain my

slips loose of my grip, she drops, landing with a bump on her ass, scrambling backwards, shoving herself along

her before she retreats beyond my range. She kicks at me, the steel-tipped heels stabbing toward me like chisels. One jabs into my bitten hand. There must be pain, but I don’t feel it as my other hand brushes her ankles, then tightens around into a firm

this side of what’s left of the painted

effort, I draw her close, then roll on top of her, using my weight to pin her. On

rising to my groin and reflexively, I jerk away, my grip on her wrists loosening. She’s still under me, but her face twists into a twisted smile, a rictus of a grin, and

… Or tries to…

and as she lets fly, the key

screeching and snatching. Her long fake nails scrape down my face and with a jerk, she kicks for the key. I'm ahead of her, snagging my foot around hers to prevent the movement. But I can't shake her. She’s like a fucking rat, or some

me, clawing and clutching. And this time, I slap her across the face, hard enough to knock her sidelong, to addle

and in the instant that buys me, shoving

my fingers close around

rising with me, hands outstretched, hurling herself bodily. The impact knocks me back and her own momentum carries her with me, but

impeding the other. She slams down on my hand with her fist, smashing my hand on the unyielding surface.

other hand, I lash out, back-handing her. Catching the side of her head, it knocks her weight from

blow, but only briefly, and as once more I

but in the same moment, toppling, she kicks

head striking the wall with

for

eyes roll

the concrete to

She drops…

It drops…

plinks down into the oily water. It gleams, then sinks out of

my freedom sink into

How deep is it?

the slightest urge to get closer than I needed

Don’t panic…

It’s a drainage channel

deep can it

Movement behind me…

… and I whirl…

knees, crawling away from me. Her movements are

“Juliana?”

Her eyes are dull but they fix on me. Her words are breathy, barely audible.

Fuck that…

think so, Juliana. It won’t be pleasant, but I’ve enough reach to fish the key out. It might take

“You think?” She still stares at me, but the light in her eyes is

edge, I look down into

The key…

I should be able to reach it. I’ll be at full stretch on my

Surely…

the

garbage bob sluggishly. Yellow-tinged foam and threads of scum dot

about as much as going

hand, staying here with only rats and

change of clothes was not among the amenities offered by my hostess and my shirt is hardly fresh. Still, I strip it

Clean clothes…

Crisp linen, freshly laundered…

…

New underwear…

my tattered and

full-length on the ground, pulling a loop of my chain close by to give myself

only a

… I can reach…

fingers dip below the

all.

my wrist, then

shoulder, I encounter resistance, my

it

gloopy, syrupy almost, as my hand descends into this surface-under-a-surface. And it’s

Something rotting?

coils uneasily, but I try

my hand is

How deep is it?

edge, and still, I’m not

… I feel it…

Something hard…

of

Thank Christ for that…

I shuffle to almost overhang the edge, now clinging to my chain with one hand to keep myself from falling in. Slime kisses my cheek. My face almost skims the surface, but no matter how I reach, I’m only just touching the bottom. More to the point, I’m not touching the key

rolling away

up at

going

Oh, God…

going to have to go in for

of wading through

…

Freedom…

eye the foul