Once Upon A Blu Moon Pt 3

 

 

Once Upon A Blu Moon

 

by

Macke Snow

 

 

2:46 a.m.

 

                “Are you sure this is where he lives?” I ask, looking up and down the street skeptically. We were on Laughlin Lane, one of the tamer streets in town. I found it very difficult to believe that a psychotic killer lived anywhere on this street. I didn’t want to believe it.

                “Positive,” Ron answers. “This way.” He points toward the end of the street and starts purposefully walking toward it. I reluctantly follow.

                “How far away is it?” I ask, peering down the long street.

                “Quite a ways,” Ron answers. “The address is 999. We are in the five hundreds now.”

                I sigh, anxious to bring my sister’s killer to justice, and hopefully introduce him to a nifty little jacket that would let him hug himself all day, in a padded white room.

                “So…” Ron says slowly. “What were you doing so far away from the party anyway?”

                I gape at him. “My sister was murdered!”

                “What was she doing so far away from the party?” Ron asks.

                “I don’t know! Zack, her twin brother, came complaining to me that she had snuck off to get more candy with some ‘big scary guy’. Naturally I went off to find her.” I say, kicking at some loose gravel in the street.

                “How did you know where they had gone?” Ron whispers, kicking the stone back to me.

                I kick the stone back to him and shrug. “Zack saw them head down Kreaky Ave. Everyplace but the graveyard was locked up tight.”

                “And when you got there?” Ron asks, kicking the stone back my way.

                “I was only able to find them because of Clair’s screaming,” I whisper, ignoring the stone and stopping as vivid memories begin to flash in front of my eyes.

                Ron stops short and turns to face me, a look of shock plain on his face. “Wait, you saw…” he trails off, unable to finish the question.

                I nod as a tear escapes the corner of my eye. I wipe it away furiously. I couldn’t cry. Clair’s killer wouldn’t be stopped by me crying.

                “Oh my god,” Ron whispers. He moves to stand beside me and hesitantly wraps me in a comforting hug. “I’m so sorry.”

                A sob escapes my throat and I wrap my arms around him, grateful for the support.

                Rom murmurs something into my hair.

                I sniffle and look up to find him staring down at me, gray eyes stormy.

                “What?” I ask.

                He shakes his head. “Nothing. Come on, let’s go.” He grabs my wrist and continues to walk to the mysterious 999 Laughlin Lane, pulling me alongside him.

                “So… What were you doing in the cemetery?” I ask, attempting to fill the awkward silence.

                Ron says nothing for a while, and we walk in silence before he finally answers. “I was visiting my mother’s grave.”

                “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I whisper.

                He shakes his head and chuckles. “You don’t know how tired I am of hearing that.”

                I say nothing, taken aback by his comment.

                “This is the night she died you know,” Ron says, glancing up at the moon. “There was a blue moon then too.”

                “Really?” I ask, glancing up at the moon. “How long ago was that? If you don’t mind my asking.”

                “Ten years ago. I was only eleven,” he sighs.

                “What happened?” I whisper, walking closer to him.

                “She was murdered,” Ron peers down at me. The smudged paint on his face gives him a ghostly pallor. “Much in the same way as your sister actually.”

                “Wait… The same guy that killed your mom killed Clair? Why hasn’t he been arrested yet?” I cry.

                “Who knows?” Ron murmurs. We turn a corner as Ron not-so-subtly changes the subject. “So what kind of boyfriend lets their girlfriend run around in cemeteries on Halloween night?”

                I chuckle at his bluntness. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore. He was too pushy, too……flat.” I sigh, disappointed by failure to explain why I had broken up with my ex.

                “Flat?” Ron asks, peering at me curiously.

                I shrug. “He didn’t have any character. What you saw was what you got. He was an all-star baseball player, full of himself, and always trying to get me in bed. He didn’t have any emotion, any depth.”

                “Depth.” Ron says.

                I nod.

                “And your looking for someone with a lot of depth for a boyfriend?”

                I shrug. “It would be nice. Someone with depth can do things that are unexpected. They can come up with surprises. With Jake it was always the same old thing. Take me to the movies, try to make out in the back row, then go out to eat. If he really wanted to get laid, he would buy me some flowers and take me to a fancy restaurant.”

                “You don’t like flowers?”

                I shrug. “Every girl likes to get roses from her significant other. But when you get them every Saturday night, they kind of lose their meaning.”

                “You’re very strange, you know that?”

                “Said the grim reaper to Mary.”

                “Touché,” Ron laughs.

               

3:03 a.m.

 

We stop in front of a normal, suburban home. I glance at the address and groan. Ron confirms what I had already discovered.

                “We’re here.”

                “Yeah,” I sigh.

                “So short of just charging in there, what’s your plan?” Ron asks.

                “Uhmmm….”

                “You didn’t have a plan?”

                “It’s three in the morning! I am still suffering from post-traumatic stress! Give me a break!”

                “Okay, okay,” Ron holds his hands up defensively. “How about you sneak in, and apprehend him, then find your evidence, proof that he is a psychopathic killer, then call the police and have him arrested. They will arrest him, and send him to Astonn.”

                “Ashtonn?” I ask.

                “The mental asylum in town.”
                “How do you know that?”

                Ron shrugs and starts up the stairs. “So are you coming or not?”

                “Wait!” I cry, running up the stairs after him. “Why do we have to find evidence? Can’t they just do a blood test?”               

                “I’ve been thinking about that, and I realized that that wouldn’t work. He drank the blood, he didn’t inject it into himself, so it would never have entered the bloodstream.”

                “Then pump his stomach!”

                “That wouldn’t work either. While police are allowed to take your blood forcibly, they are not allowed to pump your stomach. Besides, his stomach acid would have killed any blood cells.”

                “Then what? What can we possibly do to prove that he is a psycho?”

                “Proving he is a psycho would be easy,” Ron says. “You want to prove he’s a killer.”

                “Okay then, what about trophies?” I ask, pondering. “Don’t most killers keep trophies from their victims?”

                “Not if they’re smart.” Ron mutters.

                “Even the smartest people slip up. You said he killed your mother?”

                “I said she was killed in the same way. Doesn’t mean it was the same person.”

                “It’s a very… unique method of killing. It’s probably the same guy. So he’s probably been doing this for a long time. So he’s bound to have gotten sloppy.”

                Ron shrugs. “If you say so.”

                “I’m positive of it. If anything we may get lucky and he could still have that cup or the knife.” Ron opens his mouth to object, but I hold my hand up, stopping him. “I know, I know, he’s probably cleaned it with bleach or something, or disposed of it.”

                Ron smirks. “You know me so well already.”

                I grin, and playfully punch him in the arm. “Oh shut up.”

                “Ready to go in?” Ron asks, gesturing to the front door.

                “Let’s go bust a killer.” I say, climbing the rest of the stairs after Ron.

                Ron opens the door and steps in, gesturing for me to follow.

                I take a deep breath and follow him into the house. I step further into the living room, for that was where we had entered, and look around. The house looked normal. Perhaps a bit cleaner that the average home, but if the killer had evidence, he would do his best to hide it, and keep anything from falling in a corner to be found later. Ron pulls the door shut and I hear the latch click.

                “So where do you think he would be?” I whisper. “In his bedroom?”

                Ron shakes his head. “I would suggest we look in the basement first, perhaps find his trophies?”

                I nod, “Good idea, now we just have to find the basement.” I glance around the living room, but see no stairs. Glancing back at the door I realize that Ron was gone.

                “In here,” he calls. “I found the stairs.

                I follow his voice to the kitchen and see him standing at the top of a staircase.

                “You ready?” he asks. I swallow the lump forming in my throat and nod. This was for Clair.

                We descend the stairs, Ron leading, me following.

 

4:12 a.m.

 

                “There’s nothing down here,” I groan. We had looked everywhere, in every nook and cranny, and had yet to find any morbid trophies, or a secret room.

                “We just haven’t looked hard enough,” Ron says, he leans against a table, and brushes his hand back. His hand knocks against a silver candle stick, and the wall groans.

                “Ron you found it!” I cry, rushing over to the wall. A small doorway had opened, that led into a small room. The room was lit dimly with a lamp in the corner, and a form was huddled over something on the desk.

                The form straightens and fury flares in my chest. It was the killer, no doubt about it.

                “Ron, my boy, come help me with this,” the man growls.

                My jaw drops and I turn to stare at Ron, who was slowly ushering me into the small room.

                “Of course Father.”

Rage Against the Dark

How far can Siam push herself, driven by sheer terror?  Will her greatest fears come to pass?  Can her friends bring her back from the darkness she has surrounded herself with?

Rage Against the Dark

 

by

 

Ben Hannigan

Dear Diary,

 Even though Laura and all of the rest of the guys at HDI supported me and attempted to both comfort and protect me, I was scared.  My father was never found in the state though the papers were served at his home, to someone at least.  I was scared of what a confrontation could mean.

It was not a question of whether she was capable of shooting, but more the questions I was asking myself about what that action would bring in its wake.  “Am I good enough, worth her taking a life?” would the image that haunted my dreams come to pass? If she killed for me would she hate me? Would that act be what she saw each day, in my touch, my kiss, my taste?  Or would she feel bound to me and obligated to stay?

Since the hearing I had become focused and withdrawn.  If I wasn’t working, I was practicing.  If not training, I was sleeping or crying in Laura’s arms because I was weak, too weak. I became focused on never feeling trapped again.  Firearms, blades, hand to hand, I devoted my life outside of work into getting better, faster, fitter and stronger. As much as my partner enjoyed the changed me, the extreme changes in my temperament worried her.

I was focused, aggressive, and would only let myself be touched when I was too weak to move.  I barely slept , barely ate, all I could focus on was the fact I couldn’t let myself be trapped again. Laura talked to me and begged me to slow down.  She feared I would burn out, crash and fall or hurt myself as my sessions got more and more violent, going through each member of the team’s styles and skills  at a crushing, unrelenting pace.  I pushed her and her fears away as I focused more and more on my training and still she stayed. I only allowed her to help when I was exhausted, hurt and broken, yet still she stayed. Through each self-destructive day she stayed.

My work was influenced by this change.  I was more focused and spent more time on my designs. However, they moved away from the area I had been working on for the six months before the incident. The designs were much less cute college girl that carries for protection and much more militaristic in their designs;  less focused on defence,  more offensive in nature,  Rather than pepper spray containers in modified Coach or Versace purses, it was hidden blades in boots and pendants, the big elaborate butterfly hairclips hiding a set of punch daggers and hidden ceramic blades behind belt buckles. All best sellers, all evil. Everything from handcuff key bracelets to spiked kubaton ear gauges.  My look was that of a long haired militant, black combats, light Addidas sparring pumps.  I was even weaving spiked hooks into my plait to prevent my “daddy” from doing his favourite hair dragging trick. I had ceased to be a woman, but a rather a weapon first. In the year since the attack, I had stopped writing to you, too scared, too exhausted, I don’t know.  Yet, still she loved me and still she stayed.

The others knew why she stayed, but I was horrible to them, I know this now. The day that I realised the damage I was doing to her and to myself was the day that I had sent Laura crying away from me, because she attempted to stop me from training in some of the more dangerous ways I had resorted to.  Determined to find something ,anything to protect me from those men who outweighed me, outgunned me and  could throw me across a room with barely any effort.  The men who would have no qualms dragging me home to my father’s domain and having me sectioned until I did as he desired. Lucy had attempted to talk to me as I worked the speed bag, ignoring her. Sophie stepped in as my regular sparring partner, All the while we traded blows asking me to talk to Laura, to slow down to stop pushing. They didn’t know that if I stopped pushing, I would fall apart.

We were in the gym/dojo at the office.  The facility we used for testing security of retention of holsters and other equipment and also for honing the techniques we taught in our video’s, a new portion of the business that my extreme pushing had brought us into.  The idea was showing different styles and how to choose a style of training based on form, build, and gender.

It had been a bad day.  I was this avenging figure, this “angel of death” as some of the viewers of our training films had nicknamed me.  I was terrified, based on a sighting of a man I swore was my attempted rapist.  My sparring had crossed the line between sparring and fighting long before this day but it was harder and nastier due to the recent sighting of the man who tried to rape me in the city by the police enforcing the restraining order. I was therefore fighting harder than ever and my sparring changed because of it.  Not even making a pretence of pulling blows anymore, I was fighting purely and simply fighting to hurt my opponent. Sophie hit by me first in the throat and I snapped.  The fight wasn’t about practice now, it was me in fear for my life. I kicked her hard across the temple forcing her to stagger back and then with a beautifully executed palm-heel strike attempting to drive her nose through the back of her skull. As she hit the padded wall, her blood soaking the wraps I wore.  Everyone else in the room stepped back, watching in what I assume now was fear as I removed the two punch daggers from the butterfly hairpiece. What I didn’t know was that Ben had witnessed this session from the start and he knew then as did Laura that I had gone, lost myself in the terror of being trapped again.

Ben, as well as our government licensed firearms dealer and gunsmith, was one of the best instructors we had.  Gentle and protective, none of us expected what happened.  He nodded to Laura as she stood impassively watching what was happening and said one phrase “It’s time.”  She clapped her hands once as a signal and everyone left bar Ben and me.

They were watching, I found out later, but for that moment I was completely alone with him. From what I was told later, Laura knelt and prayed to any god that would listen. She prayed out loud, prayed for me as a lover, for me as a person in my own right who deserves to live, not be trapped inside my fears.  She prayed that Ben could drive me out of this bleak cold outer shell, this mental and emotional amour, that he could force me to confront my anger and my fear.  But not only that, she prayed that we would both survive the attempt. She knew he was better as a fighter, but she also knew the danger posed by a cornered mouse. More worryingly, she thought as she prayed for my safety and my return to her, she knew that I at that point was prepared to die.  As long as I wasn’t captured by my father, forced into a life of beatings and mental abuse designed to break me as he had my mother and mold me into a life of slavery, bound to an owner, his manager’s son.  That animal, the “man”, he had chosen for me to become the toy used to sate his desire, to clean for, to cook for and be fucked by. She prayed for this mad plan that was the final resort, that this would work; that it would  break the personality I was using as a shield before it killed me.

I stood impassive, dripping sweat and blood from my lip and watched him, armed with a pair of daggers I held pointed at him warily backing away in terror at this man who could easily undo all my hard work.  He looked at me with a disappointed look. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry this has to happen, but this needs to end.   I have to break this rage to get you to speak to us and since I am the only one who can do it, it’s my job. For this moment we are alone, all weapons we have trained with are useable.  We are using semi sharp blades and full contact. I need you angry.  Not cold, but angry.”

I spat at him “Tough, we don’t get what we want. I want my old life with Laura. I want to feel safe.”

He didn’t speak then in response to my comment, he just hit me exactly as I had hit his partner. I staggered back, tasting blood before I returned the blow.  I hit low as he turned away, feeling his jaw crunch with the impact.  He kicked my knee from under me and I dodge-rolled before launching a leg sweep, giving me time to get to the table .  Grabbing a single commando fighting dagger whilst he took a bowie.  It was nothing but clashes of steel and trading punches.  Neither of us getting anywhere; he had power, I had speed and a total lack of care about being hurt. It was nasty blows connecting, leaving us seeing stars yet it didn’t stop. He kicked the blade from my grasp after a knee to the gut winded me.  He threw his down and away before striking me with an Escrima stick.  I whimpered in pain, feeling the bamboo possibly shatter the bone.  I stood and hit him with a staff aiming blows for the knee and calf.

 He proceeded to prove exactly why he was the head instructor.  He began to toy with me, taking my defences apart blow by blow.  Not saying a word, just striking and waiting. I was broken, sweating, bleeding and all I could see Diary, was him not smiling, not gloating, just doing what he had to do to stop me.

 Finally, I as almost spent, blood covered and hurting, weak and useless,  was curled on the floor and could barely move. But, clawing my way across the mat, I dragged myself to my feet and threw myself at him.  I over balanced him through more surprise than skill, and I wasn’t fighting anymore.  This was more animal than artist.  I clawed, bit, kicked, and scratched.  I found myself gripping him by the head in order to pound his head into the ground.  I stopped because something in the room had changed.

I heard the door open and it was Laura. She had come running after hearing me whimpering like a wounded pet, and had come to stop this.  She was shaking and crying, begging Ben to stop that this price was too high to pay, that she couldn’t watch him systematically take me apart.  I stopped even trying to hold him down and saw myself in the mirror.  I was nearly naked, torn clothes and hurt. Blood and sweat everywhere.  Ben was bruised and scratched.   I let go of his head and collapsed into myself and howled.

 I was barely human I think, howling with rage, pain, grief, and loss. I had let them win and lost myself. I buried myself into the shirt in front of me, sobbing huge cries that wracked my body.  I was surprised when two arms wrapped around me.  The man I had been intent on murdering by tearing his throat out, was holding me.   My lover, the woman I wanted to marry for lack of a better word, stood holding me from behind as I shook. I heard footsteps slapping across the floor as Lucy and Sophie came and joined the group.   As they held me, I cried myself into exhaustion;  cried for the time I had lost, for the things I had, said just mumbling apologies over and over, calling myself worthless ,and that I should leave and never ruin their lives any more.

I felt us moving and somewhere during my begging to be allowed to leave, I felt water raining down.  Bleary eyed, I realised we were in the shower.  It was just us, the core group of HDI and we were together.  I felt a pair of lips catch mine.  I was kissed, bathed, a tongue exploring me and holding me. Then it changed.  Three new tastes and feels, Laura holding me stroking me, bathing me, as the others kissed me.

“We are not letting you go Siam, we all love you.  Maybe not like Laura loves you.” The lilting tones of Lucy our New Yorker who came to Chicago with her parents who followed me south to be my support spoke softly.  At that moment, Laura bit my earlobe playfully and I shook with desire.

“It may not be full on spend the rest of our lives’ together love,” added Ben in his smooth Irish influenced drawl as I gasped  feeling a new, unfamiliar hardness pressed against my tummy insistently.

At my gasp, Laura nudged my legs apart gently and whispered, “Just enjoy this, think of it as a welcome home party.”

Here her southern drawl got louder for the others to hear. “Love is many things my darling, and we all love you.  These two monsters have wanted you since high school, something about the way you wore a white dress in the summer.” I blushed and moaned at the feeling of being filled and kissed by the three.

Sophie, the final member of the trio and the last to speak in her curious blend of British English and Chicago suburbs added, “We want you home Siam.  We have missed you.  We know why you retreated into this form, but we want you home with us, not hiding behind a butch bitch.  Who is sexy as hell, but fucking scary.”

I apologised to them all many times as I floated higher and higher as they touched me, Being filled by finger, cock, and toy, surrounded by not just my lover, but my friends. It was love that filled me, not just being physically filled.  I kissed the scratches and bites on Ben’s body and apologised for the tears and the pain, especially to Sophie for breaking her nose and to my Laura, my darling Laura for leaving by running into this hiding place.  As I lost myself in this endless outpouring of love, I was filled by Ben with a gasp and a kiss before being brought down by the group as I collapsed into their arms. They took me home to Laura’s the place I saw as home and just held me through the night.

The next morning Diary, I talked with the three.  I apologised properly, rationally, now I had  two decent meals and proper rest.   They understood,  supported me and just let me talk; about my fears, my dreams, about the fact I hadn’t really allowed myself to grieve for what was in my eyes the death of my family, and the worry that I was a bad girl for shattering my family in that way. They supported me and loved me, just protecting me.

At the end of the conversation I asked if they would still have taken me in the shower the day before this all hadn’t happened.  Lucy, Sophie and Ben all blushed whilst Laura roared with laughter, trying to explain between choking giggles that they were all planning to do it for my birthday and they were handing me an offer to join them in bed occasionally, with Laura admitting she had considered it occasionally, but was waiting for my view. I kissed Ben slowly and asked him to be gentle with us, both acting the sweet coquettish innocent southern belle.

He just smirked and replied “Yes Ms Monroe.” And so, my mature reasoned response was to throw a bread roll at him. Before it degenerated any further, we headed to work where I had something important to do. I took a deep breath and entered the packed office where everybody  on the staff bar the three accompanying me were waiting.  Laura held my hand encouragingly as I began to speak.

“Hi everybody.  Firstly, all I can say is Oh god’s I am so sorry. ” I let a tear run down my cheek still unused to letting emotion show again and I took a deep breath before continuing. “I got scared and ran, ran away, pushed myself into an image I could hide behind. I was self-destructive, spiteful and horrible to all of you.  Scaring you, being aggressive, arrogant and a danger to both me and all of us, in all honesty because I pushed too hard through fear. I don’t deserve to still be here, being loved by the family that we have here at HDI.  I screwed up guys, big time and I need to say I’m sorry. I don’t want you to forgive me if you don’t feel I deserve it.  But if you hate me after this,  just know I love you all and I never meant for this to happen.  I wish I could change it, wish I had been stronger, more able to ask for help.”

I broke down and cried in the office, sobbing, slumped in my partners arms as I apologised. The crew and the whole family of HDI saw the terrified little girl that I was underneath the mask they had seen for the previous year. They came to me in ones and twos, careful not to overwhelm me with comforting words of support.  Everyone accepted me Diary, and they wanted me here.   I am home here Diary and I am staying here as the me that this place brought out; confident playful, confident sexually, artsy and just well, one hundred percent me!  I swear I am not going to let my father or my blood relations damage me or my friends any more. I will write to you again and I will live my life, not in fear but for me and my true family.

 

XSiamX