Succubi Part 3

But it was none of them that stood before him now. This was no midnight grove on the holy solstice-this was a psych ward toilet stall. There was none of that; the heralds were gone.

It was Duke who stood before him now. Grinning. Fat. The rasp of the zipper, however familiar, made Erik wince.

"Do it good, fairy, or else it's no more phone calls..."

Later, Erik sat in his dorm. They were really cells, but they called them dorms. They called the ward a "unit," and they called drugs "meds." They called escape "elopement." They had names for everything. Manacles were "restraints." Jerking off was "autoerotic manipulation," and shooting the bull was "vocalization."

The steel mesh over his window was a "safety barrier." In the window he could see the moon, and the moon was pink.

The ruckus of PingPong could be heard from the dayroom. Someone was playing piano. The television blared inanities.

Erik doodled in his pad. They didn't call it doodling, of course. They called it "occupational therapy." He drew fairly well, he was lefthanded. He'd read that lefthanded people were three times more likely to be creative. They were also three times more likely to be mentally ill. Something about inverted brain hemispheres, and a bigger corpus callosum, whatever that was. He drew the moon, and figures looking up to it. He drew their bodies to scrupulous detail. What he could never bring himself to sketch, though, were their faces.

It wasn't that he didn't didn't remember their faces, it was that he remember their faces, it was that he did. did.

Around the sketch he scribed the glyph. The night mirror, The night mirror, he thought. How many times had he looked into it and seen the most unspeakable things? he thought. How many times had he looked into it and seen the most unspeakable things?

My G.o.d, he thought, but behind the thought he was sure he heard their warm, viscid laughter, like beating wings, like screams in a canyon. he thought, but behind the thought he was sure he heard their warm, viscid laughter, like beating wings, like screams in a canyon.

He looked at the moon. The moon was pink.

Beneath the sketches, and with no conscious thought at all, he scribbled one word: liloc

Chapter 3.

The dream was vivid, hot-it always was.

"Dooer, dooer."

It was always the same: the back arching up and waves of moans. The tense legs spread ever-wide, the swollen belly stretched pinp.r.i.c.k tight and pus.h.i.+ng...pus.h.i.+ng...pus.h.i.+ng forth...

Then the image of the cup, like a chalice, and the emblem on its bowl like a squashed double circle.

She sensed flame behind her, a fireplace perhaps. She sensed warmth. Firelight flickered on the pocked brick walls as shadows hovered. A larger version of the emblem seemed suspended in the background, much larger. And again she heard the bizarre words: "Dooer, dooer."

She was dreaming of her daughter's birth, she knew. Birth was painful, yet she felt no pain. All she felt was the wonder of creation, for it was a wonder, wasn't it? Her own warm belly displacing life into the world? It was a joyous thing.

Joyous, yes. So why did the dream always transform to nightmare?

The figures surrounded her; they seemed cloaked or enshadowed. Soft hands stroked the tense sweating skin. For a time they were all her eyes could focus on. The hands. They caressed her not just in comfort but also-somehow-in adoration. Here was where the dream lost its wonder. Soon the hands grew too ardent. They were fondling fondling her. They stroked the enflamed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the quivering belly. They ran up and down the parted, s.h.i.+ning thighs. The belly continued to quiver and push. No faces could be seen, only the hands, but soon heads lowered. Tongues began to lap up the hot sweat which ran in rivulets. Soft lips kissed her eyes, her forehead, her throat. Tongues churned over her c.l.i.toris. Voracious mouths sucked milk from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. her. They stroked the enflamed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the quivering belly. They ran up and down the parted, s.h.i.+ning thighs. The belly continued to quiver and push. No faces could be seen, only the hands, but soon heads lowered. Tongues began to lap up the hot sweat which ran in rivulets. Soft lips kissed her eyes, her forehead, her throat. Tongues churned over her c.l.i.toris. Voracious mouths sucked milk from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The images wrenched her; they were revolting, obscene. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! she commanded herself. She could not move. She could not speak. she commanded herself. She could not move. She could not speak.

Her o.r.g.a.s.m was obvious, a lewd and clenching irony in time with the very contractions of birth. Behind her she sensed frenzied motion. She heard grunts, moans- -then screams.

Screams?

But they weren't her screams, were they?

She glimpsed dim figures tossing bundles onto a crackling fire. Still more figures seemed to wield knives or hatchets. The figures seemed palsied, numb. She heard chopping sounds.

The dream's eye rose to a high vantage point; the circle moved away. Naked backs cl.u.s.tered about the childbirth table. Now only a lone, hooded shape stood between the spread legs. It looked down, as if in reverence, at the wet, bloated belly. The belly was pink.

Moans rose up, and excited squeals. The firelight danced. The chopping sounds thunked on and on, on and on...

"Dooer, dooer," spake the hooded shape.

The belly s.h.i.+vered, collapsing.

A baby began to cry.

Ann awoke suddenly, lost of breath. The dream, The dream, she thought. she thought. The nightmare. The nightmare. She reached blindly for Martin, but he wasn't there. The digital clock read 4:12 a.m. She reached blindly for Martin, but he wasn't there. The digital clock read 4:12 a.m.

Did she always have the dream at the same time, or did she imagine that? Months now, and nearly every night. Beneath her felt sodden, and her mind swam. The dream sickened her, not just the glaring, p.o.r.nographic imagery, but what it must say about some part of her subconscious. She didn't like to think like that-she was a lawyer. She didn't like to contemplate a part of herself that she couldn't break down, a.s.similate, and recognize structurally.

She knew the dream was about Melanie's birth. The abstractions-the bizarre words, the emblem on the chalice and the wall, the firelight, etc.-were what Dr. Harold termed "subconscious detritus." "Dreams are always outwardly symbolic, Ms. Slavik, subjectivities surrounding a concrete point. The birth of your daughter, in other words, surrounded by encryptions. You're here to find a means to expose those encryptions, and to identify them, after which we can determine how they relate to the central central notion of the dream." notion of the dream."

Ann couldn't imagine such a notion, but she suspected, quite grimly, that much of this "detritus" was s.e.xual. She'd told Dr. Harold everything about herself that he asked, except one detail. She was having o.r.g.a.s.ms in her sleep. The wetness, as well as the acute v.a.g.i.n.al sensitivity upon waking, left no doubt. Worse was that these "dream o.r.g.a.s.ms" had proved her only o.r.g.a.s.mic release for some time. Martin was by far the best lover of her life, yet she hadn't had an o.r.g.a.s.m with him for as long as she'd been having the nightmare. This worried her very much.

Everything did.

Yuck, she thought, and got up in the darkness. Her nightgown stuck to her, she felt doused in slime, and the coldness of her sweat shriveled her nipples. she thought, and got up in the darkness. Her nightgown stuck to her, she felt doused in slime, and the coldness of her sweat shriveled her nipples.

She padded down the hall and peeked into her daughter's room. Melanie lay asleep amid a turmoil of sheets. The sheets were black and so were the walls. "Killing Joke," one big poster read. Her favorite group. Martin had taken her to see them last year. Ann vowed one day to go to one of these wild concerts with her, but the more she determined to get involved with her daughter's joys, the more impossible it seemed to achieve. Not trying hard enough, Not trying hard enough, she lamented. She knew this neglect was part of Melanie's seclusion. Growing up without a father was tough for a kid, and with a mother submerged at work six, sometimes seven days a she lamented. She knew this neglect was part of Melanie's seclusion. Growing up without a father was tough for a kid, and with a mother submerged at work six, sometimes seven days a week week made it even tougher. Dr. Harold informed her that Melanie's "alternative" tastes reflected a "selfdeveloped" ident.i.ty. Most seventeenyearolds read made it even tougher. Dr. Harold informed her that Melanie's "alternative" tastes reflected a "selfdeveloped" ident.i.ty. Most seventeenyearolds read Tiger Beat Tiger Beat and watched sitcoms. Melanie read Poe and watched Polanski. and watched sitcoms. Melanie read Poe and watched Polanski.

Sleepy eyes fluttered open. "Mom?"

"Hi, honey."

"Is something wrong?"

"Shh. Go back to sleep."

Melanie s.h.i.+fted under the covers. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too. Go back to sleep."

Ann closed the door.

She worried too much, she knew that. Melanie was coming of age, and Ann often had a hard time reckoning that. It had caused some awful arguments in the past-Melanie had run away several times, all of which were Ann's own doing. She lost herself too often. The last time, it had taken Martin two days to find her, while Ann had been in the office working on counterlitigation for Air National. Ann's success as an attorney haunted her with her failure as a mother.

Tonight she'd promised things would change, but would this prove another failure? To think so would crush her. The trip to Paris would bring them together; it would start the relations.h.i.+p that should've started properly seventeen years ago. Too late's better than nothing, Too late's better than nothing, she considered. she considered.

Through the living room now, and soft darkness. She stepped into Martin's moonlit den. The drapes billowed around the open French doors. Indeed, Martin stood on the terrace. Often she'd find him here, in wee hours when he couldn't sleep, looking down into the city, the water, the docks. Always looking for something. Tonight, though, he stood straight in his robe, staring up at the sky.

"Martin?"

No reply. Staring. He looked sad or confused.

He turned, startled. His cigarette fell. "What's wrong?"

"I-" she said.

He hugged her at once. "I know. The dream again. You were-"

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"You didn't," he lied. "I just couldn't sleep. Too much caffeine."

Suddenly, she was crying. She hated that. His arms encircled her more tightly then. "You can cry," he whispered. "It's all right."

Oh, G.o.d, I can't stand this. She felt out of control, which was her greatest fear. "What's wrong with me?" She felt out of control, which was her greatest fear. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing. You'll feel better tomorrow."

He closed the door, sealing out the night, then led her back to the bedroom. Martin hugged her once more at the foot of the bed, and then she was hugging him back, clinging to him as if to a ledge. He He was a ledge. He was the only thing that kept her from dropping into blackness. was a ledge. He was the only thing that kept her from dropping into blackness.

"I love you," he said. "Everything will be all right."

My whole life is falling apart, she thought. she thought.

His robe fell to the floor. He crawled into bed with her and covered her up, then draped an arm about her. That vital contact, his warm body against hers, was all that made her feel safe from herself.

"I love you," he said.

But the safety was false. In a moment she fell back to sleep, and back into the bowels of the dream.

"I was sick. The doctor said I almost died."

"Interesting," Dr. Harold observed. He chuckled. "I mean, it's not interesting that you almost died. The parallel, I mean."

"Parallel?" Ann asked.

Dr. Herman Harold's office looked more like a rich man's study. It was darkly appointed in fine paneling, oak and cherry furniture, plush dark carpet. High bookcases consumed one entire wall, their shelves curiously lacking psychiatric texts. Instead, tomes of cla.s.sic literature filled the cases. Only a single copy of The American Journal of Psychiatry The American Journal of Psychiatry gave any clue that this was a headshrinker's office. No proverbial couch could be found. gave any clue that this was a headshrinker's office. No proverbial couch could be found.

"I've told you, dreams mix symbols with our outward, objective concerns. Here, the symbol is obvious."

Was it? "I'm a lawyer," Ann stated. "Lawyers think concretely."

Dr. Harold's eyes always appeared bemused. He had a pleasant face with snowwhite hair, and big bushy white eyebrows and a bus.h.i.+er white mustache. He spoke slowly, contemplatively, placing words like bricks in a wall. "The symbolic duality," he said. "Life and death. The notion that you almost died while creating life. The proximity of utter extremes."

Life and death, she thought. "It was borderline pneumonia or something like that. Thank G.o.d Melanie was okay. I was barely conscious for about two weeks after the birth." she thought. "It was borderline pneumonia or something like that. Thank G.o.d Melanie was okay. I was barely conscious for about two weeks after the birth."

"What do you remember of the birth?"

"Nothing."

"It's pretty clear, then, that the dream is dredging up aspects aspects of Melanie's birth that were infused into your of Melanie's birth that were infused into your subconscious subconscious mind. Think of it as a spillover, from the subconscious into the conscious. We call it 'composite imagery.' Your mind is trying to form a real picture of Melanie's birth with unacknowledged memory fragments." mind. Think of it as a spillover, from the subconscious into the conscious. We call it 'composite imagery.' Your mind is trying to form a real picture of Melanie's birth with unacknowledged memory fragments."

"Why?" Ann asked.

"Why isn't nearly as important as why now. now. Why is this occurring at this precise point in your life? Let me ask you, was Melanie a planned pregnancy?" Why is this occurring at this precise point in your life? Let me ask you, was Melanie a planned pregnancy?"

"Yes and no. We wanted a child, that is."

"You had no reservations, in other words?"

"No, I didn't. I think my husband did. He didn't think we could afford to have a child, and I'll admit, things were pretty tight. He never made much money, I was young, nineteen, I was pregnant in my first year of college, and I was determined to go to law school afterward. I think maybe one reason I wanted a child was because I thought it would make our marriage stronger."

"You considered your marriage weak?"

"Yeah. I honestly wanted it to work, but now that I think of it, I guess I wanted it to work for the wrong reasons."

Dr. Harold raised a bushy white brow.

"I don't like failure," Ann said. "Mark and I probably never should have gotten married. My parents couldn't stand him, they were convinced the marriage would fail, and I suppose that fueled my own determination to see that it didn't. They were also convinced that I'd never make it through law school. Their discouragement was probably my greatest motivating factor. I graduated third in my cla.s.s. I waited tables at night, went to school during the day. I missed a semester of college to have Melanie, but I made up for it and then some by taking a heavier credit load afterward. In fact, I graduated a year early even with the missed semester."

"Impressive," Dr. Harold remarked. "But I'm more interested in your parents. You've never mentioned them before."

"They're a bit of a sore subject," Ann admitted. "They're very oldfas.h.i.+oned. They wanted me to a.s.sume a traditional female role in life, clean the house, raise the kids, cook, while hubby brought home the bacon. That's not for me. They never supported my desires and my views, and that hurt a lot."

"Do you see them often?"

"Once every couple of years. I take Melanie up, they love Melanie. She's really the only bond at all that exists between me and my parents."

"Are you on good terms with them now?"

"Not good, not bad. Things are much better between me and Dad than me and Mom. She's a very overbearing woman. I think a lot of the time, Dad was all for my endeavors but he was afraid to express that because of her."

Dr. Harold leaned back behind the plush veneered desk. "Another parallel, a parental parental one." one."

Ann didn't see what he meant.

"There's a lot of guilt in you, Ann. You feel guilty that you've put your job before your daughter because you feel that in doing the opposite, you'd satisfy your parents' convictions of occupational failure. More important, you feel guilty about neglecting to support Melanie's social views. Your own mother neglected to support your your social views. You're afraid of becoming your mother." social views. You're afraid of becoming your mother."

Ann wasn't sure if she could buy that. Nevertheless, she felt stupid for not considering the possibility.

"Since the day you left home, you've been torn between opposites. You want to be right in the traditional sense, and you want to be right for yourself. You want both ends of the spectrum."

Was that it?

"You're very unhappy," Dr. Harold said.