She may not have kept the exterior of the house up, but Enid is all about self-maintenance. She has had work done, eyes and boobs and lip plumping. The long nails are her own, immaculately manicured and bright magenta. She’s tan without any lines. Her hair, a chestnut cloud with copper highlights. Rail thin and wearing white. She’s still beautiful–not genuine, not natural–but certainly a gorgeous, well-preserved shell without a single drop of love in her. Hollow as a cheap chocolate bunny.
Ignatio Ormonza, a grimy, rabid wolf, in his soiled flamingo underwear, black dress socks, and patent leather shoes, wispy hair drawn wild by static, eyes black and shining, raised his cattle prod above his head and grinned.
I suddenly felt dizzy, like my head was full of sawdust. The lights in my room grew dim and flickered. My eyes were locked with the reddish black eyes of the speaking mummy. He was glaring at my forehead, raking a trowel through my memory. IT felt like all the blood in my body was being pulled through my skin. Felix Arjona was an ancient dark vortex, sucking the life out of the room, out of the gendarmes, out of me.
I should have heard Enid’s voice coming down the hallway, but I was still in my cloud of bliss. My head felt full of cotton, my limbs heavy with spent desire. If I moved, the moment would change, the warmth would be gone. Louis might disappear.
I opened my eyes, wondering at a star shaped mole on his nape. I was unable to gauge time or logic because it did not exist for me outside this bed.
So, we lay together, pushing back the horror and dread. I felt gutted, tired and incredibly wakeful. My deus ex machina, the divine creature who carried me from the torture chamber, was right here. Naked, touching, unquestioning. And there were no answers, but connection.
It was also padlocked, but I was already up for ripping the lid off. I grabbed a broken hammer from the pile on the bed and swung until the lock lay on the floor in pieces. As the sliding door gave in, other things hit the floor too.
I crept down the hall to the living room to see Ignatio in a pair of worn, saggy briefs printed with flamingos and black dress socks. He was not wearing anything else. There was certainly nowhere to hide his shame or any defensive weapon. He was bobbing about with his eyes closed, arms in partner dance position. I just watched him. This was the premier villain of my childhood, this animated bag of skin in his skivvies, still bragging to the world how his only useful skill was to satisfy the ladies.