ENTRY #1
Have Your Cake, Gobble it Down, Then Choke.On the outside of the window, icicles hung, prismatic and smooth, drooling big, clear, shiny drops of waters. On the inside, a white mug of coffee, steaming, pale with milk and sugar. "#1 MOM."
The white covers of the quilt were striped with lavender, decorated with delicate green floral patterns. Vines and lilacs. The sheets on the far side were pulled aside, wrinkled and catching morning shadows in their little creases.
Cara craned her neck, her shoulderblades reaching for one another, palms splaying wide, fingers blossoming out with a soft yawn. Ankles bowing, toes curling past the bottom of sheets pulled loose at some point in the night. Her dream faded into the scent of coffee, the sound of birds, the creaking of the floorboards downstairs. Daniel making breakfast. Sophia up early, playing with that new dollhouse.
Daniel's birthday.
She was glad to have remembered so quickly. She'd nearly forgotten last year. She'd slept in and he'd gone to work already, and sometime before lunch the bottom corner of her computer screen had caught her eye. She'd taken her lunch break to go buy him that game he'd been talking about. She'd driven across town to nestle it on the seat of his car as a post-work surprise.
This year was different, though. The big 4-0. She'd been planning it for weeks.
Her cellphone buzzed on the bedside table.
Leaning over, she saw the screen bloom to life with a text. It was only two words, from Alyssa, but it was enough to conjure a smile on her face. ‘It’s here!’
Perfect.
Daniel’s present. Shipped from sun-soaked California at the nick of time. The last few days had been as tense as any Hitchcock thriller; a constant refreshing of the Amazon shipment page, only to be met with repeated volleys of product shortages and shipping delays.
But they had come through in the end, allowing her a massive mental exhale. Cara had asked Alyssa to have it delivered to her house, just in case Daniel had been home when the delivery arrived.
Birthdays, after all, hinged on surprises.
Sliding on a wool sweater, she waltzed through her home, finding herself unable to stand still. Every part of her body felt electrified, hyper alert.
Gliding down the stairs, she entered the kitchen and there was Daniel. Her Daniel. Already dressed, already well into his day. Even though it was the big 4-0, to her he didn’t look a day past thirty. Perhaps a few traces of white in that coarse charcoal hair of his, but, hey, he still had hair. Perhaps a slightly expanded waistline, but it was a far cry from being type-casted as a beer belly.
For her, he was perfect.
She slid up behind, wrapping her arms around him. It still made her giddy, seeing how perfectly they molded together physically. ‘Lego soulmates’ as Daniel would often joke.
‘Click,’ as Clara would often reply, and she said it now, pushing herself against his back.
She didn’t so much as hear her husband’s laugh but rather felt it. A near guttural chortle that rumbled throughout his back. “Morning, gorgeous.”
“And a Happy Birthday to you!” She clutched him tighter, before peering around him at the stovetop. “Is this cooking I see?”
“Of course it is, just like usual.”
“I hardly think that’s appropriate on your birthday, darling.” Cara could picture Daniel smiling, even as he shoveled his eggs off of the frying pan.
“It is, if we want to avoid burning down the house down.”
For that, she gave him a playful punch on the back.
“Hey!” Daniel’s face twisted into mock sympathy. “No mulligans for a man about to plunge into his midlife crisis?”
“Not this time, buster. But perhaps for the half-decade mark.”
“Harsh.” He finally spun around, facing her. He leaned down to give her a kiss, but Cara planted one of her fingers right under his chain, stopping him as she smirked.
“But trust me, I’ve got a couple things in store for today.” She said, her heart hop-scotching as his hands slid behind her, interlocking in place at the small of her back. Another Lego moment.
“Ah, and when’s the big reveal?”
“As soon as you’re finished that damned job of yours,” Cara pressed her head to his chest, and she felt his lips brush against the top of her head. “You really couldn’t get it off?”
“Dentistry never sleeps, unfortunately.”
“Perhaps it would if patients ever followed your advice.”
“I think we both know the truth of that.” Another kiss on the top of her head, and now he shifted away, moving to the kitchen island to eat.
Behind him, two other plates had popped into view. Perfectly arranged sunny-side-up eggs with their dandelion yokes still sizzling, alongside glistening bacon and a mountain of strawberries. Daniel was always one to produce a flawless breakfast, permanently an advocate of making ‘the most important meal of the day’ done right. Cara called Sophia down, knowing full-well it would take at least two more shouts to tear her away from that new mansion of a dollhouse. She was becoming more like her father every day – just as Daniel fixated on that game, she immersed herself into the soap-opera antics of Barbie. Cara had never been one for dollhouses, and video games were a complete left-field for her. She was too grounded. For her, it was reality or bust.
By the time she and Sophia joined Daniel at the island, he was nearly done. Twenty minutes of preparation consumed in the span of two.
“Easy there, Speed Racer,” Cara said, wiping yolk from her chin. “Hoping to squeeze in another dragon slaying?”
Daniel plucked at his remaining strawberry, his own face smeared with scarlet pulp. “Nah, more like squeeze in another root canal, which is much worse. But the sooner that’s done, the sooner I get to indulge my own sweet tooth.”
“You’re right about that. Leave your plate then, hun. Sophia and I will clean up.”
They both exchanged smiles and another kiss as their daughter chirped out a protest. “Sophia,” Cara said, her lips still tingling. “Did you even remember what day it is today?”
“Oh…” Sophia stopped eating, eggs half out of her mouth. She may have inherited her father’s indulgence for fantasies, but it had come as a packaged bundle with Cara’s own slippery memory. “Oh! Happy Birthday, Daddy!”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Daniel moved over, giving her a playful tickle, before looking between the two. “I’ll be back faster than you can make that cake.”
Sophia practically leapt off of her seat. “You’re baking a cake?”
“Nonsense.” Cara waved her hand dismissively, but her eyes told Daniel a different story as he winked in reply before heading to the front door.
Her daughter paused, waiting for the door to shut before whispering. “You are baking a cake, aren’t you, Mommy?” A grin sparkled across her face.
Cara put a finger to her lips. “Of course I am.”
“Can I help? Please?”
“I don’t think your teacher would be too fond of you playing hooky.”
“Well, aren’t you playing hooky from work, Mommy?”
“Grown-ups get to do that sometimes,” Cara gave a glance to the clock. “And looking at that time, I believe someone ought to be catching the bus soon!”
Sophia glanced at the clock herself, eyes widening before suddenly bolting upstairs, leaving Cara to chuckle to herself. Sophia might feel tempted to flirt with the ‘hooky card’ every so often, but she knew well enough that her mother would make missing the bus an incredibly embarrassing endeavor.
Cara set about cleaning the kitchen while simultaneously extracting the necessary ingredients for Daniel’s cake. One mess to be substituted for another. But if the internet buzz was worth half its salt, this would end up being the Mona Lisa of desserts. Red velvet, cinnamon-swirl infused icing, and encrusted with cherries. A trifecta of ingredients, all embodying Daniel’s favorite color. Better yet, she had stumbled upon it on a vegan website, so worrying about dairy-free substitutions was already a non-issue.
Down the hall, Sophia shouted her good-byes before rocketing out the door, barely giving a chance for Cara to return the sentiment.
She had only just returned to her work, when the itch struck again.
Cara paused, fingers biting into the granite, leaning against the counter, closing her eyes. There was a pack upstairs, hidden at the back of a drawer. Marlboros. Daniel and Sophia weren’t here, it would be easy. One, outside. The snow erasing any waft of the stench. A harmless crime. But…
But.
She had made a promise. One that was already two weeks strong. To break it now – to spoil it on her husband’s birthday – would be a slap in the face to him. A mark against their whole marriage.
She breathed deeply, making a beeline for the fridge. Cigarettes may have been off-limits, but a little hard lemonade, especially in times of need, could be warranted. Yet as she moved, something else caught her eye, glinting sharply from the dining room table.
Daniel’s laptop.
It was open and the screensaver had activated, showing the brilliant virescent cataracts of an aurora. Moving over, Cara tapped the touchpad once, melting away the polar lights and replacing it with ‘Defenders of Illyria’.
She sighed, shaking her head. How could it have been anything else? Any minute Daniel was away from work and his family, you could guarantee it was swashbuckling through the exotic flora of this game world. It had been his present last year, one that he had offered not-so-subtle hints to her about. Apparently it had blitzed every game awards show, scorched the entire playing field.
Best Graphics. Best Community. Best MMORPG.
Daniel even had the nerve to call himself a ‘casual player’. Cara took that remark with a whole tablespoon of salt. His primary gift for this birthday, safely in the hands of Alyssa, was a replica sword from the game. “Cirelia’s Wrath”, as he had recited to her near constantly. Cara had to stop herself from laughing every time she pictured the inevitable gift opening, followed by him swinging it wildly around the living room. She shook her head – heaven have mercy on anyone who married a person considered ‘hardcore’.
Yet it was odd for him to stay logged on. Dangerous even. She had extracted enough from Daniel’s bedside ramblings to know that the game was always on, no pause button. A hyper-realistic fantasy simulator, wherein any bathroom break away from the laptop could spell peril for your avatar.
Daniel’s character, Sphireaux, looked like he had washed up on the pearlescent shores of the Caribbean. Long aquamarine jacket, braided goatee, sapphire laced cutlass, and a vest encrusted with flintlocks. He had even, despite Cara’s voracious protests, added a gold tooth, one that glinted sickly in the tropical setting (the game had won best lighting effects, as well, and his pro-tooth case had hinged upon this fact).
Her husband’s pirate was currently relaxed on a beach, and she was about to log off for him, to save him an unflattering death from some sort of land shark – Daniel often went to bed cursing their existence – when another character approached.
An elf.
Cara was educated enough in fantasy-101 to know an elf when she saw one. Androgynous features, razor-sharp ears, an obsession with archery, and a musky aura of pretentiousness. While the onscreen character lacked some of those features, the username – hovering like a halo above her head – was a giveaway.
Viola_elf104.
Talk about breaking immersion. Cara eased up slightly. Whatever this character was, it hardly constituted a threat to Daniel’s. The elf was trussed up in one of the ridiculously hyper-sexualized versions of female armor, which apparently sculpted to every curve of the body. Why even attempt to protect the breasts at all, if you’re just leaving the top half uncovered? Again, Cara made the motion to log off, when Viola prompted to start up a text chat.
Which could only occur if both character’s had previously approved.
The message wasn’t a sentence. It wasn’t even a word. Just merely a symbol. But to Cara, it was enough.
‘<3’
Her eyes blinked. Her own organic way of refreshing the screen. Yet the heart remained.
What?
The symbol opened up an entire textbox, one bloated with history. History that spanned from last night to around five months ago. Cara felt it in her gut, a lurching sensation. One that she could sincerely say she had never felt during the course of their marriage.
Don’t read it.
But she already was. Her eyes soaking in the information automatically, her mind fracturing and dividing into factions as the words hit her.
That’s not him. That’s not my Daniel.
You were always so naïve. So many late nights.
It’s only online. It’s not the truth. It’s not real.
We’re real. We’re together.
There’s no one else. There can’t be anyone else.
There isn’t…
A new notification popped up. It was the gift icon. Before Cara could even respond, the bubble expanded, the game text explaining proudly, ‘You have been gifted a new item! Congratulations, ‘Razneers’s Talon’ is now yours!’
The gift icon followed with another message, straight from viola_elf104’s character.
‘Happy Birthday, Gorgeous!!!!!1! <3
’
Cara, at Daniel’s insistence, had tested out the game enough to know the simplest of actions. That’s why her next motion came instinctual, automatic. A Rube Goldberg machine unleashed.
She equipped Razneer’s Talon, a sword bigger than Daniels character, one that shivered with obsidian flame, and proceeded to slice it straight through that damned elf. It was a one-hit K.O., and viola_elf104 fissured in two, intestines flaying outwards like party streamers, ridiculous bikini armor shredding apart like aluminum foil. The game had also won an award for most realistic gore FX.
Cara collapsed into the dining room chair, her eyes already boiling with unshed tears, her mind swimming with unanswered questions. Behind the avatar, there was a person. Not pixels, but flesh. Some cowardly bitch sweating over a laptop. Someone who had dared to impede in their marriage.
Cara rose from the table, slamming the laptop shut and moving straight through the kitchen.
The cake would have to wait, priorities had rearranged themselves. First, above all else, she would rip through half of those Marlboros.
~ ~ ~
On the outside of the window a neon sign hung, sizzling and scorching away a vibrant azure, words looping and curling together to say ‘For Rent’. On the inside, a half-empty bottle of tequila, a golden liquid glowing dimly in what light the blinds permitted.
Rosaline’s eyelids shuddered open. Her body creaked to life, ankles finding purchase in the unwashed sheets, elbows unhinging. Her hangover rushed back to her like a full tide, riding in on the scent of alcohol and vomit.
Dan’s Birthday.
She patted herself on the back for remembering, after having almost been on the verge of blacking out the night before. Dan had promised to visit around midnight, sneaking over to her motel in the dead of night for the birthday celebrations.
One last-minute text later, and she found herself having been stood up. It hadn’t been the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Playing the role of a Mistress in an affair was always a gamble, one where the house odds got increasingly better with each year. More paranoia, rumors of the surveillance state.
That Ashley Madison scandal hadn’t done them any favors.
Yet, still, Dan had been promising for weeks. Plans had been made. Calculated. And for some last-minute bullshit to just prop up out of nowhere? It was too much.
Rosaline forced herself out of bed, exchanging one tanktop for another. She wished Dan would just blow the whole thing wide open. She was half tempted to. Discard that wretched wife of his. God knew he wanted it, what with the stories he’d tell. Hell, if she had to endure biweekly bouts of pure Missionary position for the last seven years, she’d have slit her wrist by now.
But that’s what she liked about Dan. He was strong. He persevered. The grand reveal would come, but he was the better judge of that. She had an undergrad to worry about, after all.
Moving over to the coffee table, she picked up her phone. Its cracked screen bristled to life, showing her the last thing Dan had sent the night before. She smirked again. He had a habit of making a photoshoot out of his dick-pics, a sickly obsession with getting the lighting and filters just right.
Her Dan. The perfectionist.
Her own shots had less of an auteur’s edge to them, but it was no matter. She knew she had the body to make any shot impeccable. Dan didn’t even ask for them that often. Instead, he usually sent out a request for a shot of her face, ears included. She had never admired her own auditory appendages that much, finding them far too sharp up top. But it was nice for once to be with a guy who found beauty in the modest pictures.
While no new texts had been delivered this morning, Rosaline knew the drill. They would meet at his cottage, as they always did. It certainly made for a better venue than this rats’ nest of a motel.
Her hangover dissipated the more she thought about it. The idyllic wintry forest setting, the roaring fire, smoldering hot chocolate. Her and Dan.
There was her motivation.
A brief check in the bathroom mirror and Rosaline determined her makeup still held up. Dan always liked it a bit smeared anyways, frayed around the edges. She quickly collected her bag and phone, clattering out of the room in her heels. The door was nearly shut before she quickly stiffened, u-turning and diving back into the room. Dan’s present, almost forgotten, lay on the bed. A replica sword, from his favorite game. ‘Conquerors of Illyria’ or whatever the hell it was called. Grabbing it by the hilt, she rushed to her car.
First, into town, then out to meet her Dan. She had pre-ordered a cake from the local Dairy Queen. Dan and her rarely ate together, usually just cutting to the chase. If it was up to Dan today, it would probably end up just like that. The usual.
But the idea, of having dessert for breakfast, was just too adorable for her to pass up.
~
The urban sprawl of the city quickly eroded into farmland. Rosaline, having grown up in the blistering heart of Arizona, was more than accustomed to the rural side of things. She always appreciated an uncluttered horizon, one that demanded attention.
What she was unused to, however, was the snow.
It flattened out everything. Textureless, featureless, and whiter than white. So brilliantly fluorescent it hurt her eyes. So pure that it made her own jacket’s ‘white’ seem like a grotesque doppelganger. There was something unsettling to her, about Mother Nature’s subzero antics.
But no matter, Dan’s cottage was directly ahead.
Hidden away in a knot of forest, its backyard retreating to a small lake, it was a setting ripped straight from a movie. Rosaline was so anxious that she almost missed the turn, a narrow scar of gravel road that snaked its way into the evergreens. Yet her car’s brakes persevered and she fishtailed back on course. She was nearly there now, mere feet from wonderland.
The road s-turned once, twice, and then the cabin sprung into view, and sure enough, Dan’s car was already present. She barely took the effort to park, leaping out of the car and crossing towards the porch steps in three bounding leaps.
She didn’t bother to knock. She had – as Dan had eloquently put it the last time – tenure here. What was his was hers in this neck of the woods. Instead, she vaulted in, nearly face-planting into his back.
He was there, right at the entrance. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.
“Dan-Dan!” She erased any gap between them, detonating a kiss square onto his open lips.
“Rose–” He was cut off for a second, as the kiss smothered his sentence. She let out a muffled giggle, giving him a slight tease of tongue, before letting him come up for air. “R-rose…what are you doing here?”
Her face flickered into bemusement. It was her Dan, alright, always dumbfounded at the most opportune times. The only difference was he had been attempting facial hair since last time, a thin goatee and a sliver of a moustache. Her fingers reached up, pretending to strum against its bristles. “This is cute! But I’m here for your birthday, love. How could I miss it? And look what I got you–“ This time she cut off her own sentence. Her present, the replica sword, was still grasped firmly in her hands, all the excitement giving her temporary amnesia.
Dan’s own eyes widened. “I-I mean, Rose, thanks. But…But–“
“You’re welcome!” She gave him a sugar-sweet smile, leaning in to go for another kiss. “There’s also a cake in my bag. Don’t worry, I took precautions not to smash it up.”
“That’s cute Rose, and all, but I think–“
“So shall we do it here, or up in the bedroom? I mean sorry for cutting to the chase, Dan, but you kind of did leave me hanging last night, which means it all just happens to build–“
Dan’s face absorbed all of her energy, sucked it all in, and reflected nothing in return. “Rose, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay right now.”
It took a moment for the words to bite, to fully reel her in. She was still enchanted with her own sentence, itself the beginning of a luxurious free-fall that climaxed with her, well, literally climaxing,
“What, Dan?”
Dan caught her expression, his own voice lowering, his face going red. “Listen, it’s not good at the moment. “I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry, Rose. I tried everything I could, but my wife’s coming!”
“What?” It was like her mind went on autopilot, defaulting to the easiest course of extracting answers.
“I tried, I really did, Rose! But she was persistent. Persistent in coming here!” Dan reached forward, trying to scoop her up in another embrace, but she darted backward.
“Y-you promised.”
“I know…I know…”
“Moreso, you promised that you’d tell her by now. Break it up! You promised me that we’d be together by now! No more secrets! No more of this spy shit!”
Dan raised his hands, his own voice spiraling into a crescendo, getting louder with each word.” You’re right! You’re right! You’re always right, Rose. And I will. I promise. I swear on my own mother, I will! But it can’t be now.”
“Why not? It’s your birthday, Dan! It’s about you. Fuck her! Fuck that. Unless you want to tell me for the umpteenth time how there was no reciprocating!”
“Rose, please. It’s going to happen, but she’s coming right now. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for it at all. She’s coming and I need–” He cut himself off, voice extinguishing like a dud fuse.
Out in the driveway was the distinct crunch of tires pulling up to the cottage.
Rosaline felt her lips stretch out into a grin.
Finally. Her.
Face to face. No more guerilla tactics, but rather straight-up warfare.
A very different attitude exhumed from Dan, and a flurry of curse-words spooled out from under his breath. She couldn’t blame him, the initial sparking of confrontation was always the worse.
But it would all be worth it in the end. Rosaline cracked her knuckles. It was time to punt this Cara into the dumpster like she belonged.
Then it would be her and Dan. Together.
Forever.
~~~
On the outside of the window two crows perched, noir feathers bristling and beaks chipping away at the icicles. On the inside, smooth jazz and the strong scent of cinnamon.
Regan woke with barely a yawn, but rather with immediate purpose. Cropped hair already pulled back, she thrust herself out of bed. Toes kissed warm hardwood floor and hands flexed, preparing for the application of gritty PVC gloves.
A client’s birthday.
Her phone had popped up a reminder. An early appointment. Unorthodox for a dominatrix like her, but dentists always enjoyed flaunting their big pockets. What was to say that Regan’s usual late-night hobby couldn’t evolve into a fun little 9-5 endeavor?
The client’s request had fallen into her usual spectrum of requests, save for one tiny detail. Elf ears. Prosthetic additions to be worn at all times during their session. For that he offered to pay a large bonus, practically another session’s worth.
Amazing how a fetish could consume a person. And it was hardly her weirdest request. Hell, it was tame compared to last week’s inflatable T-Rex man. Elf ears were manageable – if someone wanted to get pegged by Legolas while biting down on Lembas bread, who was she to say no? – the rest of it was business as usual.
Her bag of fun was lying at the foot of the bed. Already packed, its opening gleamed with a serpent’s nest of chains and leather. She tossed the elf ears amidst the rabble before zipping it shut.
Moving to her mirror, Regan found her favorite face smirking back at her. Cerulean eyes, a crescent of a septum piercing, cheekbones higher than her stilettos. The face of someone who had withstood years of slander from her parents, who had given the middle finger to the very idea of having a regular job and settling down. Someone who had carved and slotted well into their own niche. Someone who could confidently boast that they were in a career they did not just like, but love.
Taking out her mascara, she found herself, amusingly, humming the theme from ‘Lord of the Rings’.
It only felt appropriate.
~
The client’s location, a remote cottage amidst an ocean of evergreens, was easy enough to find. Regan pulled her car up into the driveway, eyebrows furrowing for a moment.
Two cars. One of them parked quite sloppily, engulfing a third of the driveway in an obnoxious diagonal, wheels still jutting out in mid-turn.
Regan bit her lip, a habit that always betrayed her annoyance. Multiple people had to be notified in advance, in proportion to the amount of others. Threesomes were three days. Foursomes were four. Fivesomes were five, plus a hefty amount of paperwork due to a notorious state bylaw.
Perhaps it was a fluke, someone exchanging one automobile for another.
Heading for the front door, sounds wafted out to greet her. Two voices. One that she recognized as the dentist, the other a woman, far younger. She would have guessed too young to be the wife, but it was hard to tell in this decade.
She hesitated, standing on the front porch, one gloved hand frozen in a fist inches from the door.
To hell with it, she sighed finally, rapping her fist against the surface. The deposit wasn’t enough to cover rent, and it had taken her the better half of an hour to get those ridiculous vined fishnets on (unless it was Christmas season, elves and forests were considered soul mates)
Both voices didn’t melt away instantly, but instead increased in volume, the female’s seemed to rise in excitement.
Finally, movement. Footsteps towards the door. Regan straightened her posture as it opened, coming face to face with the dentist. He looked the same as his pictures suggested, save for one ridiculous goatee and mustache, both obnoxiously fake. You practically hear the pleas of dying horses from the amount of glue he had used to stick it on.
Still, there had been far more unattractive men.
“Mr. Claudiro,” she said, extending her hand. She oiled her words with her most convincing British accent. It was an economical decision, one that allowed her to hike prices up by at least ten percent.
He took it, going beyond the intended gesture of a handshake and instead opting to plant a kiss on her knuckle. “My dear, please come in.”
It took Regan three steps into the foyer to determine that that was a grave mistake.
“Who the fuck is this?”
Ah, the femme fatale.
Or, not quite that, as stepping out into the foyer was a girl who couldn’t have been a day past twenty.
It would seem, at least from Regan’s perspective, that her presence had not been expected by all parties. She saw her client close his eyes, hands kneading his forehead. “Rose, I can expl–“
“This isn’t your fucking wife! Unless she suddenly converted to Satanism or Luciferism or Mormonism or whatever the fuck the Goths follow these days – there’s no way that’s your fucking wife!”
“Rose, please!“
“I can understand you changing, Dan! Growing that ridiculous goatee and moustache! Trying to emulate that ridiculous pirate avatar of yours, but–“
“I’m a Buccaneer, Rose! The class is clearly Buc-can-eer!”
“Well, I’m chipper, Dan! Just fucking chipper that you found someone else to endure your ridiculous pirate slang.” The girl, presumably Rose, now turned to Regan. “Take a shot, dear, every time he says ‘You’ll be walking more than my plank’ and you’ll be blacked out before your bra’s undone.”
Regan nodded, making a mental note. Due to colonial sensitivities, anything pirate themed added a ten percent auxiliary fee. It was only for the best intentions.
Unfortunately, by the looks of it, she would be collecting nothing. “Perhaps it is best if we schedule this for another time, Mr. Claudiro.”
He shook his head. “No, nonsense. We’ll be proceeding today and Rosaline will be leaving in a moment. There’s a bathroom just to the left, you can get ready in there if you like. ” Leaning forward, his voice dropped to a whisper, in a pathetic attempt at appearing sultry. “You did bring the ears, correct?”
Regan nodded, about to speak, before Rose who–
“Ears? Oh, I knew it, Dan. I always fucking knew it,” the girl was swaying in her heels, someone apparently having delivered a sucker-punch straight to her uterus. An instant K.O. of some ludicrous future she thought had been possible.
“Rose, you need to leave.”
She nodded, her face as crimson as a Cherry Blaster, before slinking down the hallway, not towards the door.
“For fuck’s sake,” Regan saw Dan mutter under his breath, before he started to follow after her. “I said you that need to leave, Rose! It’s over! It’s done! IT’S–“
Rose returned, bag on shoulder, cake in hand. Her cheeks shimmered with tears. Oiled up with mascara, they left paintbrush marks of glittering charcoal on her dark skin. The cake, one of those Frankenstein ‘icecreamfudgeOreo’ monstrosities from Dairy Queen, was beginning to melt as well, the carmine words ‘Happy Birthday Dan-Dan’ oozing like freshly spilt blood.
“Well, Dan,” she lurched forward slowly, ankles wobbling. “Happy Birthday…Happy Fucking Birthday. You can have your cake…and you can fucking eat it!” Her arm snapped upward, as if pulling on a yo-yo, and catapulted the cake straight into Mr. Claudiro’s open-mouthed face.
Regan rolled her eyes. Now the scent of fudge would permeate through the bedroom. Sweets were such a turn off for her.
Mr. Claudiro took the hit like it was a sixty-ton barbell, lurching backwards and smashing against the wall. Ice cream gushed from his face, about a gallon of it streaming down his throat. A frenzy of staccato choking noises, along with Oreo shrapnel, began to froth from his mouth.
Regan exchanged a look with the girl, a pause of hesitation, a sense that she should perhaps intervene. But in a moment, an audible swallowing noise dampening the tension, and Dan stood upright again, gasping for air.
Rose let out a small cough, stepping forward, seemingly to offer an olive branch. “Dan…”
Only for Mr. Claudiro suddenly deliver a fresh volley of choking noises. His face to swiftly bruise into a scabrous maroon. Fat fingers, wedding band still shining off of one, came to his own throat and he clutched down, apparently trying to dislodge his own Adam’s apple. His knees gave in like matchsticks, and now he was on the floor writhing and squirming, fighting against his own body, which began to spasm.
Regan, who had until now confidently assumed nothing could get worse than ‘that night’ in the Philippines, was beginning to clinically reassess that sentiment.
Rose was on her knees now, her arms flailing like a brain damaged pigeon, shrieking over Mr. Claudiro’s shuddering body. “Dan? Dan! Talk to me! What’s wrong? What should I do, Dan? Please!”
Mr. Claudiro, now engaged in a full exorcist pantomime, replied with a series of strangled consonants and gurgling vowels, strung together haphazardly.
“What? Dan! Talk to me!”
A dolphin yelp, and something suspiciously similar to a cackle.
Regan found her fingers starting to reach for her car keys.
“Dan? Dan!”
Nothing.
Mr. Claudiro’s fingers loosened on his own throat, his eyes going loose, vacant. Every part of his body unraveling, going limp on the floor. It resembled one of those chalk drawings you often saw in murders films.
It was very shortly going to be, Regan realized, one of those goddamn chalk drawings you saw in murder films.
Her client was dead, and it wasn’t even eleven AM. She frowned, also noticing that one of her nails had cracked on the drive over.
She was at least three coffees short for this kind of shit.
“He’s dead,” she found herself saying. Whether it was a confirmation to herself, or to the college student, still pathetically leaning over Mr. Claudiro’s corpse, she wasn’t exactly sure.
“W-what? No. No…” Rose’s hands darted into her pockets, trembling and pulling out a phone. She started to dial, before pausing, resetting the number, and beginning to dial again.
“He’s dead,” Regan repeated, a trademark sigh trailing the remark.
“No! This isn’t happening…this isn’t real. I’m calling 9-1-1.”
In an insult to her own professional demeanor, she let out a small chuckle. The sheer naivety of it all! “Enjoy the manslaughter charges then, missy.”
“Pardon?” Rose’s phone slipped through her fingers, producing a fresh spider-web of cracks as it crashed to the floor.
Regan’s own mind almost blustered out ‘are you kidding’ for her, but she paused at the last moment, catching the phrase on the tip of her tongue. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to see the whole picture. “The way I see it, kiddo, it looks like he’s had himself a bit of a reaction. Looks like he and dairy don’t see eye to eye, if you catch my drift. And given that you were the one to smash the cake in his face…” Regan trailed off, hoping that post-secondary education would be enough to let her fill in the gaps.
Rose did well enough, her own mouth frozen in a look of abject horror. “I had no idea…not a clue that he was lactose intolerant!”
Was this it? Was this the state of Mistresses in this day and age? “Lactose intolerant? Dear, that cake went Hiroshima on his ass. This isn’t some normal dairy allergy. I reckon if he snorted so much as a cheese curd his brain would fucking vaporize.” Speaking of which, Mr. Claudiro had promised some cocaine before the play session had begun proper. Regan considered searching the body for a moment, but promptly decided against it, figuring her fingerprints stunk up the crime scene enough.
The girl, on the other hand, probably could have done with a couple of lines. “I can’t be a criminal! I’m only halfway through college! No! It can’t be my fault…”
Then, unlike most others in such a dilemma, Rose became a girl of action. Regan, about to offer another line of clinical philosophy, felt her eyebrows rocket upwards as Rose began to drag the body in an astonishing bout of strength, heading towards the front door, leaving a smear of Dairy Queen Sof’ Serve in its wake.
“I have to bury the body! Hide all traces! It was a well-managed affair – the wife never suspected a thing. Neither will the police. I’ll go back to college, find Jesus, never have sex until I’m married, and die a grandmother!
“That’s hardly the recommended course, dear.” Regan followed her out the door, walking carefully so her stilettos avoided the sludge of ice cream.
“Well, what the fuck do you recommend? It’s not like you have personal experience with the matter!”
. “Not quite, but at the same time–“
A new sound. The crackle of tires against snow. Through the trees came another vehicle, at the wheel the face of an older woman, her expression wavering through a full spectrum of emotions.
Ah, fuck.
Regan’s own fingers reached into her bag, tightening on a riding crop in a comforting notion of self-defense.
The wife was here.
Her car braked behind Regan’s, coming obnoxiously close to her rear bumper and also cutting off her immediate opportunity to flee. She considered a strategic retreat back into the cottage, but Rose beat her to the punch. The younger girl dropped Mr. Claudiro’s body on the ground, the recently deceased’s body now pole-vaulting past the point of no return as the fall caused his head to do a near complete one-eighty.
What a lovely way to reunite with one’s husband.
A stamping on the porch and Regan turned to see Rose re-emerge, a sword clutched in her hand, all but entirely shattering any lingering retort that this day couldn’t possibly get any weirder than the Philippines. Looking back towards the driveway, Regan immediately saw the nexus to Rose’s actions.
The wife, standing beside her open car door, had her own fucking sword in a white-knuckle grip. Her eyes were glued towards her husband’s corpse, her face more a mask, showcasing electric shock.
“Daniel…” Her voice pierced the damp air, reverberating throughout the forest. She started to move, wading through the snow, sword in hand like some guiding beacon. Her eyes scanned on to the porch, sweeping over both Regan and Rose.
Regan dropped the riding crop back into her bag, figuring it was moot considering the other two just happened to possess mother fucking swords. It was a simple gesture of surrender, but one that had the gracious effect of having Mrs. Claudiro’s eyes completely gloss over her, returning back to Rose.
“What in God’s name did you two do?”
The younger girl didn’t reply at first, her mind apparently still processing the entirety of the situation. Regan figured it would be perfectly reasonable, given the circumstances, for a lady to assist another lady out.
She extended her index finger, pointed it in Rose’s direction, and mouthed, ‘Her’.
The younger girl probably would’ve been better laying down the sword down and impaling herself, if Mrs. Claudiro’s ensuing expression was anything to go by. The wife raised her own blade, pointing it shakily at Rose. “What the fuck did you do?”
“Listen, I–“
“You’re the elf slut, aren’t you, bitch?”
“Elf slut? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Fucking Violin, or Viola, or whatever the hell your character’s name is. I don’t give a shit…” Regan, who had been inching along the porch back towards the door, froze as Mrs. Claudiro suddenly swiveled to her.” And you! What the hell are you doing?”
She shrugged, figuring honesty was the dictating policy at the moment. “People just pay me money to spank them.”
“You’re no elf slut?”
“I can solemnly swear that I am not an elf slut. Merely an honest Dominatrix.”
Mrs. Claudiro, in a move that sent a chill down Regan’s spine, actually laughed at the remark. “You know, sugar, I can actually believe you, given your lack of a sword. This bitch, on the other hand…this bitch screams Elf Slut.”
Rose, still in the corner of the Dominatrix’s eye, adapted some hybrid sort of Samurai and Templar stance, sword at the ready. “This bitch right here loved your husband, more than you ever could! Come on in for the tour, Cara, I’ll show you every damn place we did it. The counter. The fireplace. Right on this porch…”
“You killed him!”
“You don’t get to pin that on me! I came here with the best intentions, only to find that this…‘Domino’…had other plans, arriving with gifts of whips and chains!” The two moved forward, blades raised.
Regan decided that she suddenly had another client’s appointment to attend to.
Somewhere.
Anywhere but here.
“Begging your pardon ladies and… ladies. But my business here was just that – business. And now my client-base takes me elsewhere. I do wish you luck in settling your personal quarrels.” She straightened her overcoat collar, marching off the porch. The two other woman may have been armed, but it was all peacocking. They wouldn’t be half as irrational to start to flail at each other where they stood.
Still, Rose called out to her. “You can’t fucking leave! No way you’re fucking leaving.” There was a sound off the porch, heels leaving hardwood floor and plunging into snow.
The reply was instant. Mrs. Claudiro saving the day. “Don’t you move another inch, you goddamn elf slut!”
“I AM NOT AN ELF SLUT AND THAT DOMINATRIX SURE AS SHIT AIN’T GETTING AWAY SCOT FREE!”
“Stay back, stay the fuck back, and put that damned sword down!”
“OH, I’M SORRY, WOULD IT MAKE YOU MORE COMFORTABLE IF I MOVED THE–what the hell is the name of this thing–PLATINUMINA OPUS AWAY FROM YOUR STUPID FUCKING FACE?”
“Yes, it would make me in fact quite dapper if you would move The Platinum Opus away from my stupid fucking face. Now, please, under no circumstances should we–“
That was all Regan heard as she slammed the car door. She cemented her keys into the ignition and Shania Twain blazed to life, melting away any more concern for pesky affair troubles. Sure, Regan was usually the initiator of these little incidents, but it was hardly her role to deal with the aftershocks.
Mrs. Claudiro’s car was unceremoniously right up to her bumper, but it was nothing a little maneuvering couldn’t handle. Humming along to the perks of ‘being a woman’, her head was turned to the rear window, deftly conquering her seven point turn, when something slammed on to the hood of her car.
“Come on,” she muttered, turning back to see the culprit. It was Rose. Of course it was Rose. But even that would have been fine – a simple matter of speed and inertia to fix the problem…
…Save for the slight wrinkle of the sword impaled directly through the young girl’s chest.
~
“You want me to burn my husband’s body?”
Regan sighed. Could she not connote anything? “No, no, what I’m saying is that we tie your husband to the bed, set the cottage on fire, thus inevitably having that burn his body.”
Mrs. Claudiro, an anthill of cigarettes already piled at her feet, tossed her latest butts onto its summit. The two replica swords flanked on either side of her, one still gleaming in the open sunlight, the other dulled with drying blood. “It’s Daniel, though. It’s my Daniel.”
“Who happened to be a two timing, cheating piece of shit.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Listen, hun. I just offer a service. This was his choice. All on his plate. Well, maybe a scrap or two on hers…” Regan flicked a riding crop towards Rose, whose body was stuck in a half-made snow angel, unseeing eyes drinking in the sky above her.
“Fuck, one second she’s halfway across the porch. The next she’s charging like a bull, and…” Mrs. Claudiro paused, her fingers trailing down the blade of one of the swords. “I didn’t even think these things could pierce flesh. Is that even safe? Is that even legal?”
“I’ll testify on your behalf if you give me a quarter of the settlement.” Regan’s offer was met with a mute face. “An eighth, perhaps?”
“You know what, though? You’re right. Fuck Daniel. Fuck her. Fuck this whole goddamn situation.” Mrs. Claudiro pulled her last cigarette from the pack, twirling it between her fingers. “So, what next?”
“I’ll help you cover your tracks. Make this whole thing look like an overblown accident.”
“Is there, uh, a charge for this type of service?”
Regan waved her hand dismissively. “On the house, darling.” She could express goodwill, once and a while. “Although, one thing,” she reached into her overcoat, pulling out a coin, one that shimmered more brightly than either of the swords. “Heads or tails?”
“Pardon?”
The Dominatrix shut her eyes. Word games weren’t going to get them out of this mess. “I’ll make it easy. Heads you get to tie your husband to the bed. Tails you get to shove the banana down the late Rose’s throat.”
~~~
Cara, her hand now halfway down the late Rose’s throat, found herself wishing that the coin had come up heads. Still the banana stuck, its tip just poking out of the esophagus like a phallic periscope. “This is disgusting,” she muttered.
“Either thrust the ball-gag in your own mouth, or shut up and pass it to me,” Regan snapped her fingers pointing to the pile of chains and leather in knots on the floor. Cara reached over, the toy in question more resembling a Christmas ornament than any type of kink device. “Covering your tracks is a shit job. But unless you want to be getting personal with some butch chick named ‘Tammy Tongue Thruster’ in prison, you’ll do exactly what I say.”
They had moved the evidence into the upstairs loft. Regan had placed Dan’s corpse on the bed and was now applying a variety of restraints that looked as though they were ripped straight from Guantanamo bay.
Cara sighed. The banana had been planted, but that had only been phase one in Regan’s plan, now referred to as ‘Operation Kinky Hippo’. Whether hippo referred to Rosaline or Daniel, she hadn’t bothered to ask. “Do I really have to truss her up? Corset and all?”
“It has to match the story, love. If I may recite it again, our two forbidden lovers were engaged in some exotic kink trials. Mr. Claudiro was strapped to the bed, while darling Rose was showing off her skills with the first subject: our friend, and infinite ally, the banana. The magic show went wrong, choking Rose and leaving Dan strapped to the bed. At the same time, subject two, the beef roast in the gas stove was left on unattended, while subject three, the lit birthday cake, was left on the counter. Subject two and subject three fused to create a disastrous chain reaction, causing a roaring fire and leaving your shit adulterous husband to burn where he lay. Near perfect, if you ask me.”
“And this must involve dressing Rose up like Edward Scissorhands’ sister?”
“I cannot stress its importance enough.”
Cara said nothing, giving a bemused expression. She’d have rather spit on the corpse and thrown it into the wood chipper than dress it up in any way.
Regan, apparently an ace at reading minds, threw her hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright. I can get the mistress ready for her close up. You go prepare the oven and the second cake. We’ll be out of here in less than ten.”
Cara nodded, her body easing up for this first time since breakfast. The day had numbed to her, coagulating into a sickly mass of jumbled memories. It was too much to comprehend at the moment, and her mind had defaulted to autopilot. “I suppose that I can’t thank you enough.”
Regan shrugged, now beginning to lather up the butt-plug. “Least I can do, I suppose. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I can say I had a slight share in the responsibility today.”
“You’re more than forgiven. As you said, business is business.”
“If it helps, your husband was one of the more normal ones. A rather vanilla session. No weird kinks.”
Cara mirrored Regan’s shrug. Daniel had never told her much of what he wanted in the bedroom. If anything, that had been when the autopilot truly occurred. Usually he had been downstairs, playing that damned game.
She cursed silently. The signs, in hindsight, had been crystal clear.
She headed towards the stairs, when Regan shouted one more thing to her. “Also, could you go to my bag on the foyer table and get the nipple clamps? The barbed ones, not the tame rubber-tipped shit.”
Cara nodded, taking the steps two at a time. A brief glance at her wrist and her watch face met her eye. Almost one. More than enough time to get home and prepare an ample enough lie for Sophia.
She moved into the kitchen first, slotting the various accessories into position. Roast on the oven, vegetables on the stove. Gas unleashed at full volume. Birthday cake candles sparked to life.
A lingering portion of her would miss this cottage. But that was near instantly washed away with Rose’s words slithering again into her mind, detailing every location her and Dan had…
No. Good riddance.
Regan’s bag was indeed in the foyer. Cara shoved her hand in, her eyes averting as she did. The toys made her nauseous. The thought of them on Daniel near unbearable.
Her eyes felt the cool embrace of metal, the lingering slick of latex. But among those, was something else. Something organic.
Cara’s hands reached out, prize trapped between her fingers. Her eyes swiveled to look.
There, nestled in her palms, were two elf ears.
~~~
For Regan, the decision to kill Mrs. Claudiro came out of a purely utilitarian calculus.
The plan wasn’t going to work. It was never going to work. The Crime Shows on T.V. proved it enough. The connections were explicit.
The wife would be arrested within a day, if that.
And then, from her, an easy breadcrumb trail back to Regan’s innocent self. It was a simple matter of the greater good for her. Mrs. Claudiro was doomed. She was doomed the moment she found out about the affair. Why did she, a ‘pure of heart’ entrepreneur, have to go down with the ship?
It would be easy. Efficient. Humane. A simple handcuffing while Mrs. Claudiro wasn’t looking, followed by a pillow to the face. Perhaps, if time permitted, a brief prayer to the Powers that Be.
The plan was so easy. So clear and crystalline in Regan’s head, that she barely even noticed Mrs. Claudiro approach from behind, one end of the handcuffs already snapped shut around the front bannister of the bed.
Another snap, and Regan felt the icy embrace of steel.
“What the fuck?”
Her wrist tugged, only to be pulled taut, met with resistance. A bed that sure as fuck wasn’t going anywhere. She glanced upward, only to meet Mrs. Claudiro’s expressionless face.
“What the fucking hell is this?”
The wife’s response was to let her palm open, dropping twin objects into Regan’s lap. The elf ears. Her husband’s sick fetish requirement.
She exited without another word, Regan’s screams, insults, and curses chasing her down the stairs.
“Are you serious? What the fuck is with you people and Elf Sluts? You can’t be serious! After all I’ve done. After every fucking thing I’ve done!” Regan continued to struggle, arm yanking like a ripcord. Skin on her wrist went raw, then broke, then bled freely.
All the while, the scent of gas would start to linger into the room, slowly curdling around her in an intoxicating embrace.
There had been a client’s request like this once. One that she had turned down, all those years ago.
Regan sighed. The fucking Philippines, they had followed her to the very end.
“These shit eating Elf Sluts.”
~~~
On the outside of the window, the Russian skyline smoldered, smog and exhaust thick and oily in the frosted air. On the inside, an ecosystem of computer cords, desktops and power bars.
The grey covers of the blanket were littered with a gauze-like layer of chip crumbs. Underneath, a presence stirred.
Yuri cracked his neck, eyes shuttering open. He rolled out of bed, the contrails of his nap still lingering with him as he tried to right himself.
Sphireaux’s birthday.
How could he forget? Suddenly, his body lurched into overdrive, adrenaline kicking in. His main desktop was already logged into the ‘Defenders of Illyria’, as it was twenty-four-seven. One click, and he was back into his character. Viola_elf104. A perfectly ripened fruit of male fantasy.
Ah, the perks of a she-elf. The gifts he received. Sphireaux himself had gotten him his current armor for Yuri’s birthday. The Russian was only happy enough to return the favor.
He found his favorite Buccaneer on the beach, just as he always was. They often watched the virtual sunset together. The blooming effects looking absolutely astounding on his 4K display. Before gifting the present, he typed out his favorite greeting, one that was trademark of Viola_elf104.
‘<3’
A simple message, no doubt. But Yuri knew that even a single symbol could always convey so much.
His fingers pried open a can of soda, and he waited eagerly for his lover’s reply.
’
