Raw in the Night

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 23, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 23, 2012



I was in love once. My son knocked her over; I wanted to knock her up. Twelve, maybe eleven, she was skinny, like the wind would bruise her. Her legs were twiggy, her arms were noodles, and everything about her seemed breakable, seemed delicate. With eyes a bright, leafy-emerald green, she melted me when she smiled, but her moaning, her screaming, and her tears burned my bones. After my son, angered by her telling him to clean up a mess, punched her, she started wailing. She fell to the ground, had a purple bruise on her left jaw that had me hot and horny for weeks. I couldn’t blame my son; nobody, especially some preteen whore, tells him how to behave.
Lindsay was her name. I met her a week ago after first moving into the rusty, creaky white house. The paint is peeling madly off it; the windows seriously need replaced. For the price, though, it wasn’t a bad purchase. My wife, the fat, blubbery bitch, thought a fixer upper was charming. It had enough room for our two sons, eight and ten, and the rent was really cheap. There wasn’t anything nice about this house until I saw the neighbor girl, though. August held a lot of heat, but I didn’t know anything about heat until I looked at her.
Her mother was watering the flowers outside. She was thirty-something, like me, but she was a wilted wildflower. I mean her tanned complexion was ruined by wrinkles. Her bulging sapphire eyes sagged; dark circles were forever etched underneath her eyes. The woman was all ready wearing them mother jeans that buttoned to the stomach. With her full, perky breasts, her dimply smile, and faded, bleach blond hair, she was too woman for me. She was generic.
Sweating, I ran my hand through my hair after sitting a box down. The woman next door was shutting off her hose when she noticed me. Smiling, she waved, I waved back, and then she came over to introduce herself. Hands on her hips, she said, “Oh, hi, you must be the new neighbors. Nice to meet you. Need a hand?”
I smiled back at her, real polite, and shook her hand gently, “I got this-thanks for offering, though. Name’s Paul, Paul Stanly. And who is the lovely, young woman I am speaking to?”
“Kasey Moore,” the woman responded. She had a high-pitched, sweet voice, the kind of voice that goes with a hospitable, kind woman. She was easily a charmer; the type of lady that liked entertaining guests. It showed in her smile, in the way she walked, and how she introduced herself. Turning to her daughter, she said, “Lindsay, come over here and say hello to our nice new neighbors.”
Lindsay, with a shy smile, slowly came forward. My groins were steel staring at her. The girl was wearing a denim miniskirt that showcased her soft, baby legs. Her cheeks were fuming; her skin was lightly sun-kissed. I craved to stroke her glowing, golden hair, to caress her cheeks with my fingertips, and to feel the outline of her budding breasts underneath that tight purple shirt. I know, wholeheartedly, she wanted me to by the way she came prancing over. Her eyes were practically winking at me as she handed me a small, silky hand, saying, “I’m Lindsay! Nice to meet you. Do you have a daughter?”
“No, unfortunately, the house would be much cleaner! I have two sons, and they’re very nice,” I responded, hoping it was enough an invitation she’d come over. She chewed the thought over a second before breaking into a radiant smile. Acceptance.
“What did you say their names were?” Kasey Moore asked, beginning the usual onslaught of questions neighbors ask.
“Danny and Owen,” I said back as I stared Mrs. Moore into her eyes. “You should play with them sometime, Lindsay.” Or play with me.
“What do you think Linday? Should we invite them over?” Kasey Moore continued, her voice warm and rich with approval. I had them in the palm of my hands.
Lindsay replied, “As long as they keep their cooties away.”
We all laughed as the sun’s blazing rays had us soaking in sweat. Lindsay’s forehead was damp with the body water. I imagined me, the big, brilliant sun, sinking into her scrawny self as she lay flat underneath me. Sweat would lick her entire tanned body, and I would burn her, hot, into something she wasn’t. Sun would collide warm with moon and moon would be bursting with colors she didn’t know. All while she moaned and screamed, a sweet, shrilling sound that awakened my soul. Soon, Mr. Moore came out, and we were all in conversation. I learned little Lindsay was a babysitter, and that her parents liked evenings out on Fridays. That was the night I intended to have her.

At night, when my wife, the fat, blubbery bitch, was working, I’d steal hours away looking through the window. Oh, she glowed, like a firefly. Everything about her was light and sweet sound. I loved her blossoming body; her developing curves showed through her tight, thin shirts and short skirts so well. I only had a year before she’d rapidly mature into a woman. Her small, pointy breasts were unprotected by any bra. Lindsay’s eyes weren’t ruined by makeup. Everything about her was raw, was natural. Still, at thirteen, she had a child’s innocent laughter and boundless energy. Luckily, it her complexion was still untainted by pimples. She’d run through her backyard doing cartwheels, singing loudly, swinging, and playing tag with her friends.
I imagined pressing my coarse, hairy body against her insides. I could hear the moaning. I could feel my tongue stroking her skin in spots she couldn’t reach. Pale, as she would be from this experience, her skin would be like a canvas. And I would paint her with a rainbow of bruises with my brush. I saw her fingernails sharply scratching the floor as her face was frozen with shock and pain. I saw her shaking, her eyes alit with emotions she never knew, and I saw myself, handsomely smiling, as blood connected us two together. She’d always carry a part of me with her, and she would forever be a part my world.
I didn’t always satisfy cravings with imagination. No, my father showed me how me how to master lust long ago. He would always generally pat his victims on the shoulders. He’d wrap his arms around their waists. He’d impress them with motorcycles. He was the reason I bought my Harley. Lindsay had yet to meet it; there was a lot I wanted to introduce to her. Anyway, these small, affectionate touches slowly brought her closer to me. She was comfortable enough to run up and greet me. She’d banter about her stupid middle school days. Silly girl.
My father, with the looks of a young adult, baited young girls all the time. From thirty until death, there was a new one every Friday. He was good.

Finally, Friday night came. After a week’s work of peeping, of imaginings, I was ready. The razor I’d gently trace her throat with was ready. There were handcuffs on the table. My sons were spending time with their grandmother. I had the shades closed. Lindsay just told the neighborhood via Facebook that she was alone so hit her up. And hitting her up was just what I was doing.
I closed the back door behind me slowly as I crept out into the night. I heard a few cars down the road. People returning home from work. Lindsay’s parents’ car wasn’t in the driveway. Looking around, there wasn’t anybody within a five mile radius that’d interfere with tonight. In the country, surrounded by farmers and old people who retired early, this night was mine. My blood was rushing through my body. My heart was pounding, especially when anticipating hearing hers doing the same. Right before it stopped beating. Smiling, I was all adrenaline.
I would go over. Innocently, wearing my best mask of concern, I’d tell Lindsay that my cat was missing. An animal lover, she’d be just as distressed as me. Her hands would go over her mouth. She’d stand in the doorway; her tiny, pink lips would be in a frown. She’d blink her eyes, her beautiful eyes with the thick eyelashes, at me and she’d cry, “Oh, Mr. Stanly, I am so sorry! I will help you look!”
While eyeing her figure, I’ll beckon her to my shed. Once she’s in the corner, the corner where McKenzie and Paige were months ago, I’ll lock the doors. I’ll pretend I just heard the cat. When she’s nervous I’m up to something bad, I’ll reassure her by saying that I don’t want the door open. I don’t want poor Mr. Kitty escaping. Naively, she’ll go along, still looking for my nonexistent cat. I’ll be all smiles at this point. As I near her, while she’s bent over looking underneath things, I’ll savagely mash her bones against the cement with my body. Struggling, whining, and probably crying, she’ll be kicking me off her. I’ll handcuff her then, and soon after comes duct tape treatment. Exhausted, she’ll stop eventually, and that’s when I softly peel off her t-shirt. I’ll see her pale skin in the moonlight; her breasts flat and nipples erect from the cold. After rubbing my hands over her, off comes her pants. Off her underwear. And in goes the fun.
My mind’s on fire from these images, and I’m practically running over to Lindsay’s house. I jog up the steps, wipe my face off of any happiness, and start banging heavily on the door. I hear Lindsay’s footsteps behind it, but they’re very, very heavy. I can’t think. I’m trying to remember my lines. I bet she’s wearing her sexy boots, which is fine, because it adds spice.
I cry out, “Lindsay, it’s me! You must help me find my cat.”
As the door opens, I see a tall, shadowy man pointing a gun at me. With spiked, brown hair, dark eyes, and a full, muscular body, he says, “Kenny Wagner, you’re under arrest.”

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