I WAIT AT the door until I hear the elevator open, Jeremy step on, and the car’s movement downward. Then I open the door and grab the large cardboard box marked FRAGILE. Lightbulbs for my cam spotlights. I carry the box in; swinging the door shut with my foot, I look down at the top of it, at the foreign object stuffed halfway into the pocket of the label.
It is a card, the envelope pink and the words on the front painstakingly neat: “To the Girl Who Lives in Apt. 6E.” I smile at the title, understanding the meaning behind it, its reference to my many aliases. I open the unsealed flap and slide out the plain white card. Inside, the message is short, block writing in blue ink:
I don’t know what’s going on with you, with your whole “I don’t talk to people, I kill them” act. But I know what’s going on with me, and that’s that I can’t get you out of my mind. Please let me in.
Sincerely,
Jeremy
I read it twice before setting it on the desk in front of me. I sit and stare at it, thinking. Then I pick up the phone and call Derek.
He answers on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I can’t call a friend to chat?”
“We’re not friends, and we don’t have an appointment. You never call without an appointment.”
“Are you busy?” I feel a flash of jealousy, quick and green, but then it’s gone.
“No. What’s up?” I hear a creak and envision him leaning back in his chair, relaxing.
“Nothing. I mean, something happened, and I need advice.”
“Another episode?”
“No—nothing about that. It’s Jeremy…you know, the guy who—”
“You’ve had one human interaction in three years, I know who you’re talking about. What happened?”
“He left me a note. Outside. With my package.” I read him the note, trying not to add inflections that probably don’t exist. When I finish, there is silence—silence that stretches out so long, I find myself fidgeting.
“What do you want from me, Deanna?”
“I want you to tell me what to do! I don’t know how to handle this shit.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I—I don’t know what I want. I just need you to tell me what to do.”
“What was it like when you were with him?”
I stand, pacing the expanse between my two bedrooms. Crossing and recrossing the division of space feels like moving between my two selves—sex kitten to lonely woman. JessReilly19 to scheming murderess. I pushed against his hard chest, and then he was there, in my mouth, his tongue pressed gently against mine, and my own traitorous mouth responded, my heart rate increased, my hands moved of their own accord to his strong arms. Shoving the blade of the box cutters deep into his skin, the blood bursting from the movement, spraying gently upon my hand. I tasted him, greedy for everything; my hands roamed everywhere, grabbed at his shirt, hastily undoing the buttons. If he came back, if he came inside, I could be more prepared, could succeed in my quest for death.
“Deanna?”
I halt, trying to focus. “I’m sorry—what was the question?”
“What was it like when you were with him? How did you feel?”
“I wanted him.” On me, in me, dead beneath me.
“In what way?” Derek’s voice is so sensual, so soothing, so male. I make a decision, moving to my pink bed, and lie back on the sheets that smell of lube and latex.
“Every way. I wanted him to continue, to touch me, to run his hands up and down my body. I wanted to feel the warmth of him against my skin. I wanted his cock, hard and firm, fucking me in and out—” I stop, my fingers inside of me, my pussy soaking wet, my back arched—posing for the camera that isn’t on me. I have done it. I have slipped into the Jessica role, into my habit of graphically describing sex, the habit that my clients love, the habit that makes them hard and causes them to come. With Derek. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is any part of me left? Or have my two egos claimed it all?
There is silence on his end. Silence and breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, sitting up and trying to resume some semblance of a professional tone. “I wanted him to fuck me, but I also wanted to kill him. It was exhausting—an inner battle that, at one moment, would have the sexual side dominating, winning the war—but then I would lose control and want only to hurt him. I don’t want to go through that again.”
“Then you have your decision.”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
I glance at the clock, waiting, willing the numbers to change. They behave, dutifully changing as my eyes watched. “It’s been thirty minutes. I’ll talk to you on Monday.”
“Deanna, we need to finish this—”
I hang up, pressing the “end” button longer than necessary, watching the phone dim and then go black. Then I roll, coming off the bed, and yank open my right top drawer, pulling out black leather and silver studs. Today is definitely a dominatrix day.