Light flickers on from a small white candle, illuminating a room with an empty blue bed. A blonde stands in view, shielding the candle, staring at the bed. A voice drifts in: “Andrea, you’re on.”
The blonde nods. “If you’re younger than eighteen,” she says, “Or are easily offended by graphic sexual descriptions, please do not read further.”
Her free hand slips under her loosely buttoned blouse. Her eyelids flutter, and her head dips, as if in prayer. Then she goes on, her voice a little softer. “Any resemblance in this story to real people or real situations is just a coincidence.”
Then silence falls, and she blows the candle out.
The Prodigal Bride
Arclight
1.
The only thing Abe could find was an umbrella.
He felt more than a little silly as he adjusted his grip on its handle. It was Julie’s: a pink, plastic assembly from his daughter’s Powerpuff Girl collection. And if he couldn’t beat the burglar with it, he’d at least get the guy laughing to death.
Broad daylight, for chrissakes. Some guy was sifting through his kitchen, and he’d gotten home just in time. He took another breath, tensed his hands around the umbrella, and crept to the kitchen.
It was a woman. In faded jeans and a familiar rose cardigan, with a small purse slung over her shoulder. Fixing the dishes and singing to herself. An old song, by Sarah McLachlan.
Her voice, her favorite song.
Sandi?
She turned. The saucer she was holding crashed to the floor, and her voice stopped in mid-song. Her face hadn’t changed at all: the brown eyes and high cheekbones, the small mole on her left cheek, the dark hair she pushed behind her ears whenever she giggled.
She stared back at him, and cleared her throat.
“Abe?”
Now what? He’d dreamed about her coming back. This was the part where he’d step forward and hug her, and kiss her, and everything would be alright—
He swallowed. “Get out,” he said. He hefted his improvised weapon, trying to keep it steady in his sweaty hands. “You left us, now get out.”
She stepped closer. “Abe. That’s... an umbrella.”
“I know it’s an umbrella.” He felt the anger rise. Good; anger was good. “Now go away. You left us, you’re trespassing. Get out of my kitchen, get out of my house, and you leave my umbrella out of this.” He waved it threateningly at her.
“Please. I just...I just want to...”
“Get out, or I’m calling the police.” He strode to the kitchen counter, picked up the phone, started to dial—
“NO!”
A short, sharp scream. He turned, startled. Sandi was on her knees, one hand stretched out to him.
“Don’t. They’ll find me. They found me before.”
His fingers felt numb around the telephone. He stared at her, kneeling on the kitchen floor. Her eyes looked...pained?
“Please, Abe. I don’t remember much, but I, but I...”
And with a soft noise, she sank to the floor.
“Sandi!”
He caught her as she fell. Her body was as light as he remembered. For a moment, he just stood there, holding her.
Then he sighed and carried her up the stairs, cradled in his arms like a child.
2.
Their bed was covered with the blue linens Sandi chose the day they bought the house. Abe propped her up and mopped her head with a warm, wet towel, not really sure if it was helping—for all the special care Julie needed, she rarely got sick, thank god; he wouldn’t have known what to do.
It was something he’d always worried about since Sandi left. Not that he ever blamed her for leaving, except for Julie’s sake.
A fairy tale. He’d thought of it that way, sometimes. There she was, a hotshot MBA, banging some guy who worked at the corner bookstore. He never knew what she saw in him; whenever he asked, she just rolled her eyes and giggled as if he’d said something funny.
They settled down and had Julie. She quit her job to take care of Julie’s disorder. The police told him that might have been what got to her, eventually.
Two days short of Julie’s tenth birthday, Sandi left home and never came back.
Now she was lying in their bed, wearing the same clothes she wore when she disappeared. “I remember...shopping,” she said, her voice distant. “For Julie’s party. And there was this woman, talking to me. I thought she was friendly at first, then she started to ask more questions, and—”
She paused, and her eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t remember. It’s like something’s stopping me, and it hurts when I try. All I remember is...her.”
“Who?”
“The woman.” Her shoulders shivered lightly. “There were men with her, but she’s the one I remember. Tall and blonde, always wearing black, a voice like...” Her forehead scrunched up.
“Shhh. Don’t try too hard.”
She nodded, and sipped at the glass of orange juice he brought her. “I’ve been here the whole day, I think. It’s still a little fuzzy. I was at the train station. Didn’t have any luggage or anything. Everything looked so familiar. Then I was in a cab, and he was asking for my address. Then I was...here. My house keys still worked. I sat on the sofa for a while. After that, I went to Julie’s room. Then to ours. The house felt so empty, and I felt so...sad.”
She looked up at him. “Where’s Julie? Can I see her?”
Julie. He thought about the first year after Sandi left, the nights Julie woke up crying for mommy. How he held her and told her no, it wasn’t her fault, mommy didn’t leave because Julie was a bad girl. How she didn’t believe him, no matter how often he told her.
He blinked, then reached to stroke Sandi’s hair. “She’s done well,” he said. “They think she can transfer to a normal school, soon. And she’s taller now, too. She’s at her friend’s house. We’ll pick her up tomorrow.”
“Taller? How...long was I gone?”
Didn’t she know?
“Two years,” he said, still stroking her hair.
She nodded and stared at her orange juice. “I think I got away from them once, last winter,” she said. “It was snowing. I remember a police station, people asking me questions. But then she came to take me back. And I left with her. Just like that.”
3.
Their refrigerator was sadly understocked, but Abe found enough meat to make her sandwiches. He piled on some lettuce, studied his handiwork, then added more ketchup. Sandi could eat anything, if it had enough ketchup.
For a second, he stared at the phone on the kitchen counter. Then he gathered the sandwiches and carried them upstairs.
“They...did things to me,” she said, after she finished eating. She sat up on the bed and hugged her knees. “Made me do things, to them. For them. I remember...liking it, I think. After a while.”
“Drugs?”
“I remember music. Lights. It hurt at first, and then it got better. Then it got so good that I didn’t want them to stop.”
Her eyes looked past him, unfocused. Small beads of sweat formed on her upper lip. “They trained me. Like an animal. When I fought, it hurt. And when I did good, it was like—oh god—”
Her voice trailed off. Her hands were on her thighs, kneading them softly. “So wet,” she said, “Fingering me. Not stopping, never stopping. Rubbing my clit, my asshole...”
He swallowed. “Sandi?”
She was moaning openly now, staring into space.
“Sandi!”
She looked back to him, and blinked. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “But I fought them, Abe,” she said. “Fought them so hard, even after I stopped wanting to. Then I had to promise them I wouldn’t fight anymore. Because they, they said...”
“Shhh.”
Then she pressed her face against his chest, and began to cry.
4.
They lay on the bed saying nothing, just clutching each other. After a while, Sandi looked up at him, her eyes shining.
“May I?”
Those were the same words he’d used on her, that first time they slept together. They were snuggling on her couch, listening to music, and he’d looked down at her nestled in his lap, and asked the same question she was asking him now.
“May I?” she said again, more softly.
Their kiss was light at first. Tentative, like teenagers on a first date. Then hungrier. Her tongue touched his, then probed into his mouth. His fingers moved to the buttons of her cardigan. But her hands caught them and pushed them back.
“Please don’t look,” she said. “Don’t look, you’ll see.”
Then she sniffled and unbuttoned her top. The cardigan fell away, then the blouse. Her small, high breasts sprang out, unfettered by a bra. She looked down, her arms at her sides, avoiding his eyes.
Tattoos. In stylized gothic print. ‘Slut’ over her left breast, ‘whore’ over her right. And low on her belly, just above her pubis, ‘bride’.
“I remember them doing it,” she said, still not looking up at him. “It hurt. But she was touching me while they did it. Touching me, and laughing.”
He pulled her closer. Bent down, and kissed each breast. Brushed his lips against the tattooed words. Then he moved lower to suckle her nipples, bathing each one with wide, slow strokes of his tongue. She inhaled sharply.
“Please,” she said. “Let me do this.”
She pushed him back and straddled him. Unbuttoned his pants, pushed them down with her feet. He felt himself entering her; but it was tight, too tight. He looked and saw her trembling, staring down, her asshole poised over his penis.
“I have to do it like this. I can’t start without, without—”
With a scream, she shoved her ass all the way down. Flexed her sphincter around his cock. Her head fell back, her eyes closed.
“They...make me keep myself lubed. So if someone wants my ass, I’m ready.”
She lifted herself off him, her breathing labored. Then she screwed herself down again. He felt her buttocks grind against his pelvis. “Oh god,” she said. “I want it, I need it so bad.” Her words came faster, a litany interspersed with grunts and squeals. “Do it, stick your cock up my dirty little ass, watch me play with my horny cunt, oh yes, fuck my ass, do it now.”
With each breath, she humped herself on his cock, pulling her nipples, fingering her sex, chanting and cursing aloud with words he didn’t know she knew. He felt his erection throb in her tightness.
Her cursing grew louder, faster. Then suddenly, she twisted her nipples a final time. Her dark eyes stared into his; her mouth opened as if to say something, but all that came out was a strangled groan.
Then she fell down on top him, covered her face, and sobbed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I feel so dirty, but I have to—I have to—and they made me like it, and...”
He hushed her, and turned her over. Pulled out and entered her sex. Touched a finger to her mouth, and waited until she stopped sobbing.
Then slowly, gently, they made love.
5.
In the afterglow they huddled together for long, long minutes, their bodies spooned. It was what they always did before; his big, pale body covering Sandi’s small form, her black hair smelling like clean water against his face.
“It really is you, isn’t it?” she said.
She tugged his arm and wrapped it more tightly around her. “Those first times,” she said. “When they...raped me, and I couldn’t stop them anymore, I’d close my eyes and pretend it was you.”
Then she turned over and looked at him with the same glow she had when they first had Julie, so many years ago.
“When they gave me to other women, I pretended it was you. When I woke up with strange men riding me, ordering me to like it, I pretended they were you.” She touched his cheek. “And when I fell asleep with someone beside me, it was always you, only you.”
“Sandi, I—”
Before he could finish, she whimpered and crawled down to his cock. She took him in her mouth and began to suck him, her tongue swirling with the skill of a whore, her black hair hooding her face. He felt himself swell and harden; his fingers tensed and dug into the blue bedspread.
Then both her hands gripped his shaft softly, and she looked up, a line of drool and pre-cum stretching from her lips like something out of a porn movie.
“It’s really you this time, isn’t it?” she said, her voice filled with wonder, her hands squeezing him with practiced care, making him groan. “You’re not just another game she’s playing with me? I’m not pretending anymore? Please Abe, tell me I’m not pretending anymore. I’ve waited for so long.”
He tried to answer, but then she bent back down with a strange, ravenous noise, and all he could do was moan.
6.
They slept, satiated.
He dreamed they were in Halifax again, on their honeymoon. They were older, but the streaks of grey that colored Sandi’s black hair did nothing to dull her smile; and Julie was with them, all grown up, and she was smart and normal and so beautiful, like her mother.
They saw the sun dip under the Nova Scotia coastline, and watched the sky start to turn from blue to purple to black. Then Sandi took his hand and told him there was something else; something she couldn’t remember.
But she told him it was okay, that everything would be alright, and she kissed him and made love to him again under the dying blue sky.
7.
Abe woke up to moonlight filtering in through the thin, white curtains.
She was sitting at the dresser, her dresser, the one he hadn’t touched since she left, still filled with all the little things he’d stared at every night for a year. Her hand traced over them, touching each one: their framed picture from the Canadian coast, her collection of small, porcelain animals, the crumpled origami flower Julie made in second grade. Her fingers lingered, as if trying to press the memory into her mind.
“I remember now,” she said.
She crawled over to him on the bed. Her lips pressed against his, the kiss harsh and strong, her tongue probing his mouth with sudden hunger. Her hands gripped his wrists and pinned them against the backboard. Then she fumbled for her purse, and—
—a prick of pain. In his left arm. He jerked back. Clutched at the numbness spreading just below his shoulder. Looked up at her.
“A day,” she said. Her head was hanging down, and her black hair covered her eyes. In her right hand was the plastic syringe she’d pushed into him. “I remember now. We made a deal, so I’d promise to stop fighting. Just one day, midnight to midnight, like in the fairy tale.”
No. Not now...
He reached for her, tried to touch her face. But his hand was too heavy. And his body was sinking into the bed, and then she was looking back at him with sad, sad eyes.
Her tongue wetted her parted lips. “It’s happening,” she said. “They’re calling me back.” Her breathing quickened. Then she moaned and her body jerked; once, twice.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not fair. Just a little more time.”
The room faded around him. His head fell back, his cheek pressed against the cotton pillowcase. His mouth hung open, trying to form words. He saw Sandi’s right hand trace a line down her belly, to her cunt, now swollen and wet. Her other hand played up and down her undulating body.
“Can you hear her? She’s calling me. Mistress wants her bride back. And she knows I’ll come, knows that I—ohhh—won’t stay away.”
She froze, and her eyes snapped open.
“Because if I don’t come back, she’ll take Julie in my place.”
Her fingers stroked on between her spasming thighs. “J-Julie,” she said, her voice hoarse and hungry. “Mistress will take my Julie. Take her and train her. Make her fuck the way I fuck. Make her do the things I did. Make her like it, just like me.”
She threw her head back, both hands now working furiously at her slit. Her voice was different now, high and girlish. “N-no, Mistress,” she whined. “Sandi just wanted more time, that’s all. Sandi won’t fight anymore. Mistress doesn’t need to take Sandi’s baby girl. Please don’t take—”
She stiffened, making the soft squeals she always made at the peak of their lovemaking. Moonlight lit her face, painting it a pure white, stark against the shadows on her breasts where he couldn’t see the tattooed words.
Her eyes opened: bright and clear. She crouched and touched her lips to his forehead. And as her face lifted away, he thought he saw tears glinting on Sandi’s cheeks.
“You were my fairy tale,” she said. “Tell my Julie.”
Then the room was empty, and he saw nothing at all.