Note:

Unfortunately, due to editting and a new book project, I have abandoned "An Alabama Summer". If I do pick up again, it will be completely revised. For now, please enjoy this little one-shot. Thanks and please review ;)

A.W

The Rabid Call

He could recall a moment in time when she was pure. His definition of purity was a clean soul, a budding flower. A virgin swathed within God’s prestigious grace. However, he practiced, neither, Christianity or Paganism. He never believed in the Buddhists’ ideals of nirvana, the Hindu cleansing before prayer, or the confessions. She confessed daily. She represented the icon of religion, and it bothered him to the core. After the incident, she took to her Mother’s cross. Caressing it alike to a lover, him. It should be his lips she’d kiss instead of that ruddy-bronze cross which she embraced with fervor. And he accepted the blame. He couldn’t outright lie or reject that. He felt fate brought her to him, her hand twirling the linen then later clawing at his flesh- not in lust, but desperation. Her desperation is what the cross and he shared. It lingered throughout the parlor and within the sodden walls of the lodge as well. Her fear bottled and caged like his pet tiger he shot for game. Both similar, except he couldn’t kill her, no, he adored her somewhat and the notion of sending her away disturbed his nightly rituals. He needed her for she motivated him to deny the favored child-lovers. When he caught her eye, he remembered. Somehow, though, he wasn’t apologetic or sympathizing.

She did not understand why she stayed. The humiliation throttled her again and again. His silent call drove her nearly mad. He hurt her terribly. She was only girl and he a man, her elder. Since then she yearned for his rabid call, his feral eye. It baffled her; she couldn’t quite comprehend his insistence to keep her either. Almost a decade and she still paced the gardens, rattled the copper pans, and laundered diligently. He assigned her to head of the household not seven years ago. She over-saw everything, even his little lovers, yet he took no person to his bed, but one night (following a night terror and fits). She awoke to foot steps in the hall. Tentative, for she distrusted the dark, she cautiously peeked into the shadowed corridor and caught sight of a bare foot, which vanished around the corner. Her seasoned ears perked to the owner as they crept on the frayed floors, giving them away with each squeak and groan. She did not realize she entered the Bell Wing until a door closed hastily. His room. Her cheeks flushed and her brow furrowed increasingly, not from arousal, as bed noises met her eardrum. The entreaty! How vulgar, cruel, and crude of him! Why did she stay? What reward given? Her private Hell consisted of the lodge upon a craggy bluff and she cherished it like her Mother’s cross. God, her shepherd, led her here and she stayed for all the madness and torment it caused her. By the cockcrow, she felt immobile, awake, brooding within a dusty enclave she dared not to clean. His door swiftly opened and a boy, no more than one decade, swept past her. How puzzling: she was becoming one with this Hell.

He refused lovers for a decade before he decided to indulge once more. Her touch is failing, he observed, when he spent one cheerful afternoon in his chamber dreaming of a dark-eyed boy, his dusky tongue sweeping heavenly. Within a day, he conversed with a keeper and paid for a boy similar for a fifth day’s night. Midnight, he ordered, for she would be locked in the west wing and the servants hushed and drowsy from a hard day’s labor. The boy arrived at the chime. He just finished his evening nightcap as a soft patter resounded from the hall. Oh, what an exquisite gift, he thought initially, his ginger eyes carefully gliding over the boy’s half-clothed form. The boy looked like a pallid petal upon the Oleander, his lips rosy and the pupils obscured with lust or dejection? Although the boy appeared too muscular for his liking, he couldn’t seem to object, especially when the boy advanced with such a predatory yet innocent glint in his eyes. Then the flashbacks came. He felt her supple breast; the mingling sweat became pearly drops of red velvet and the semi-pubertal penis forgotten. He envisioned the tapered chocolate curls morphing into flowing blonde locks, which scattered around a heart-shaped face alike to a halo. Her breath shuttered and the moans escaping her throat struck him as charming and meek. He whispered her name quite tenderly, as a Father would, into the peach-shelled ear. She shivered. She begged. She loved him. He felt her tiny legs tighten about his masculine ones as she came. The rush of endorphins welcomed him, so pleasant, consuming. It took great effort to lie beside her and press placid kisses within her diminutive hands. Suddenly, the sapphire-blue pupils taking in his became lowered obsidian ones. He believed his disgust showed for he roughly shoved the boy from him, his nose crinkling at the feel of the boy’s mess. The sticky goop skulked steadily from the boy’s ass and onto his carpet. A rap to the head started the boy, alerting him of the situation. The boy went to his pack where he cleaned himself and him. He instructed the boy to sleep by the door, because the presence of that imbecile could only harness more anger and vexation. When he awoke, he felt pleased, the boy- no, whore, departed. However commotion below stirred him. The clock showed scarcely mid-morn and the servants’ bustling echoed along with loud voices. He straightened himself, the bed sheets, and went to freshen.

She was leaving, that is what she told Ms. Fairchild, her second head. She swelled with pride at her employees’ reactions. The cooks managed the usual breakfast; the maids went to dust, and Ms. Fairchild headed them all accordingly. While the second household buzzed, she went to her chamber, throwing open the drapes with a blossoming smile. Yes, yes, freedom. Her closet emptied and the minute belongings tucked neatly into her bag and luggage by sunup. She did not even bother to proper her room for it was neither her responsibility nor her room anymore. Ms. Fairchild greeted her as she descended to the foyer; her valises and parcels stacked and handed to Mr. Benning who relieved her of its hefty weight. The car revved in the drive, its black top reflecting the morning sun fiercely and she brimmed with happiness never experienced before. Ms. Fairchild took notice, but did not comment on her former employer’s abrupt change. She went to load the luggage with the butler and then led her former head to the kitchens for a departing breakfast.

He held his chin high as the entrance hall came into view. Strange, Rufus was carrying parcels outside to the vehicle purring in the drive and the servants seemed attentive. If that did not peak his curiosity then the vacant veranda did. He always specified an English breakfast at quarter to nine in the veranda; it was five past nine and the glossy table bore no meal. His anger grew, particularly when Delilah curtailed into the servants’ quarters with a bundled figure in tow. His thought it was a guest, yet he did not know of any. Without hesitation, he went into the bowels of the lodge. The cramped staircase gave him a tickle of claustrophobia and the shallow hallway became a nuisance along with his employees’ expressions when they saw him. One maid dashed to the kitchens, most likely to inform the chefs of his unexplained arrival or meal. He stopped short. Through the dining room windows he saw her. She was a dying beauty, he sorrowfully acknowledged. Her flaxen tresses bunched and splayed from lack of treatment and care. Her once porcelain skin lined with wrinkles, which he mused were cracks. The eyes, oh dear god, appeared dim and that hurt him. They were dim whenever directed at him, but even with Ms. Fairchild’s presence they were dim. All because of that blasted night. That blasted creature within him, he could not withhold or control. He blamed her innocence, the white gown she wore which fitted her like a glove. He met her murky pupils once more. Ms. Fairchild surprised him as she sidled by, giving him a wary glance. He went to her, hardly noting he entered the dining room, sitting by her side. She did not say a word.

She felt frightened. His mere presence astounded her. It pecked at her nerves like dust and muddy footprints did. She could not stand his heat, his large hand enclosing her small ones, which, in response, she nervously placed on her lap. He spoke first, the deep bass vibrating within her chest. He questioned her. Why she wore fur and layers of wool. Why Mr. Benning packed the lodge car. Why she flinched. Why she couldn’t stare him in the eye and respond to him. She gave him a slight shrug. Her hands fluttering like a hummingbird in her lap, the heart beat in her breast dragging and the blood churning, morphing into his beloved lead. Her breath caught within her throat, fluttering as a moth. It fought and lost. She came to by the scent of salts; her sight blurred then clearing to Ms. Fairchild’s worried face. Ms. Fairchild claimed she fainted. He stood there beside a tiny buffet of food and a crystal bottle of scotch, which he handed her. Her vision swamped. He maneuvered her onto a wooden chair, his muscular arm fast against her slouching shoulders. Ms. Fairchild placed the salts by her and looked uncertain when he asked her to leave. She watched dully as Ms. Fairchild exited and went to the kitchens. He did not waste time. She listlessly observed him take the serving spoon and fill her plate with English breakfast delights. It wafted towards her, causing her stomach to flop. She pushed the plate from her. His eyes bled into hers. Was that concern laced with sternness and lust? Was it regret and worry? Fury? He shook his graying head and began to consume his breakfast. She amazed herself when she spoke; she amazed him as well, his head snapped up and his hand released the silver utensil, clattering against the blue china patterned plate.

He could not believe his ears or her boldness, the accusations that flew from her twisted mouth, clashing with the ominous tension. Her eyes shifted, forming into a malice glare. A more focused air surrounded her and she set herself upright, finally facing him head on. His breath fled. The wild woman aroused him yet brought dread. He chuckled and dabbed his moustache politely. Her eyes narrowed. She was not fool for his bluff. What more could he say? What could he say? Tell her of those nights he spent alone, pretending she lay by his side? That he loved her ever since she came to him? He did not mean to hurt her, that was certain, but not to her. She began to yell, not quite screaming. He glanced anxiously at the windows, relieved that no servants were there. Could he speak freely with her? Could he attempt an apology? He stood as she grasped the ham knife, her fingers becoming a shocking white pallor from the vigor of her grasp. His wavering voice troubled him and prompted a smug look to her menacing face. She gestured with the knife and brought it to his neck. He could feel his blood drum in his veins; he felt petrified. He did not want to die in the servants’ quarters over breakfast by a disenchanted lover. By his victim, he corrected himself. He could feel spittle dribble from his lips. His words started to tangle, fervently spoken, a frantic prayer. She still held the knife to his neck, thrusting it forward unexpectedly and causing him to falter mid-plea. Her lips seemed to darken, he imagined blood-drenched, when she spoke lowly. Her eyes became shadowed and cloudy with reminiscence when she spoke of her pregnancy, her child that he sent to the city and, soon after, boarding school. The child, she passionately spat, born a bastard, her love, her life. She went on, speaking of her hate for him, her incessant fear and recounted the nights she spent cowering within mangled, wet bed sheets, afraid of bombardment. The knife pressed harshly to his throat again as she mentioned his recent sexual encounter. She spied on him and understood she needed to leave, that her child felt indifferent to her and there was nothing left for her. Why leave? Her voice rang and the steel gray pupil became wilder and more untamed. She would finish it. She would end it. He quivered and felt a faint warmth rinse over his legs.

She was close. The maddening gleam of the knife filled her and coaxed her. Yet as she provided more pressure she felt something give, something tugged at her flax heartstrings and she recognized, with a flare of horror, love. She loved him. Then she fell backwards, his hand snatched her wrists as they collided once more, but upon the floor and the lack of arousal and sexual tension apparent. He shook her violently. She barely heard the clank of the knife as it flew under the table and she did not mind. His thick fingers caught her throat. The call, she reflected, the rabid call which undid her and set him on her. She couldn’t bear to see his contorted face or him in general so she squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind droned with a prayer to her lord who neglected her. Who left her nude and mute in Hell; who did not protect or oversee her child. A dizzy spell sped within her and she gave in instantly. Something graced her forearm. It felt warm and inquisitive. She opened her eyes, suspicion brewing. There, bare and set before her, was he. His ginger pupils dilated and tinged with a crimson pigment. He’s mad, she realized. The kerosene light dampened. His chest heaved; hair honey-brown and full. He could smell her and she felt something throb as it slid upwards deviously, slipping between her thighs. No, she did not want this. No, no, no. Her lips parted, forming protests while he stole closer. The red sunk in, his features foreboding. He towered above her. Her bosom bore no cross and the night held fast to its spell. The summer heat flooding every crevasse and the bugs’ symphony carried on in the brush and wood.