An old attraction

I did not pay much attention to the "conversation" between Jeff and myself - as soon as I stirred awake, I shrugged it away. Having nightmares or threatening images was not rare in my case. Perhaps because I have read too much of horror books. According to a psychiatrist it was because I dreaded the future and the outer world.

This time there was something else in the cards.
I decided to meet Golner Sári at last.
Perhaps she would turn me down - I had already promised her a meeting several times a couple of months ago, yet I never actually met her.
Nevertheless I called Gabriella, who was a good friend of Sári's.

Gabika was not enthusiastic to hear my request.
"What are you up to?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing" I said off-handedly. "I just need to circulate, you always told so, and Vanda, too." I saddened, as I still missed Vanda badly. I hadn't seen my smiling, lovely friend for more than half a year.
"Listen" Gabika said warily. "I can arrange a meeting with her. Yet think it twice. She is a bit snobby, and perhaps you'll feel insulted by... anything. So do be careful, I tell you."
I smiled, despite of my ill mood. I could not help it as I imagined Gabika's face when Sári wanted to get closer to her. My friend was a mischievous girl who loved fun, but she, unlike me, respected some limits.

***

Next afternoon, I entered a small club to spot a blonde woman sitting in a corner, her legs crossed. She waved her hand, and flashed a smile at me.

A weird daydream

Jeff's voice echoed from a distance. I wondered whether he sounded like Stephen King - I did not know what was King's voice like.

"Do you want to know what happened...?" he asked in a faraway spot of my mind. He certainly referred to the man tormented by the group of faceless people.
"I do" I responded silently. I did not say a word aloud; the conversation occurred in my head.

"He was disemboweled."
I flinched, half disgusted, half excited.
"Tell me about it" I ordered with odd curiosity.

Jeff's description was elaborative like a forensic report.
"Do you remember the room in which you could see him? It happened there. They got him outside in a nearby street when he wanted to open his car. In that district, no one is foolish enough to interfere when a fight is in order. So they hit him until his face was swollen and gory. They kicked him in the head, too. Then he was forced into the house you've seen - this was the part you've witnessed. After we left, he was also castrated..."
"And I could not see that...!" I interrupted.
"It needed some efforts" he continued calmly. "He objected vehemently as you can imagine. Then they cut it short by slicing his throat. His internal organs were also removed, I'm afraid. Then they left him there, his face down to earth."
I felt a pleasant and numb inertia.
A part of me abhorred myself for finding interest in a human's torture - but another part enjoyed itself.

"Why?" I murmured to Jeff.
"Didn't you like it?" he asked back, sounding smug.
"I did. But why?"
I could not hear his answer though. I drifted to sleep.

Secretive

He waved his hand again. His friendly face darkened.
"What happened...?" I asked, almost in a whisper.
"I don't wanna talk about it" he said quickly, awkwardly. "And perhaps hearing it won't do any good to you. Goodness knows even I was shaken myself. Then how would you react?!"
"It doesn't matter" I urged him, but he interrupted me.
"Yes it does. For me, it does."
"Why?" I asked faintly.
"Because I can't take the responsibility if you aren't ready to handle it. End of story."

I was disappointed. I longed to hear the story, but I did not ask another question. Zentai could be my equal to be obstinate. Furthermore, I was not eager to tell him about the case. He did not consider me the most rational person anyway, and most likely he would not believe me.

"Take care" he said, emphasising the words. He, again, looked as though he wanted to say something, but at last he did not.
"You too. And drive carefully" I told him as I got out of his car.
The rain was still pouring, and the outside world seemed dark, cold, and hostile again.
That evening I did not "meet" Jeff whilst I was meditating. I just could hear his voice.

A friend's advice

I could not wait to go home - I'm afraid I was impolitely quick to leave when Zentai offered to take me home at last.
He led the way to his car, which was not as big and splendid as Milán's, but it was sensible and comfortable and lovely. I snuggled into its seat with a smile of gratitude.
"Why were you so rude to Klaudia?" Zentai asked me earnestly.
"I was not rude" I retorted. "I offered her good ideas, and she asked me for cheap sensationalist rubbish. That was a rude thing to do! I might have sold my..." I almost slipped out a rude word about my intimate parts "and perhaps I will do so later, but I never did and never will sell my brains!"
"It's not the first time when I try to help you and you consequently refuse it. Then you should get along on your own" he replied grumpily.

I gasped.
How could I get along without his help? He has been such a dear friend, even a bit moody.
I could not ask him about the case or Jeff, like I could Vanda - but I did trust him.

Rain was pouring, heavy drops were running wildly on the gleaming windscreens. The streets, buildings, and secluded areas around us were dark and seemed unfamiliar, but it did not unnerve me, as I was with a friend.
I stared at the warm lights of the blocks of flats. I used to love such lights when I was younger. By now my imaginations were somewhat marred by disillusionment, but they used to be unscathed when I was in my teens. Back then, anytime I had been walking in a town after the night had fallen, I had watched the windows and dreamed of my future home with my lover. In my latest daydreams that certain lover had the appearance and character of Zólyom Milán, I imagined our intimate and blissful relationship. I almost could see our future selves living in a comfortable and modern flat.
How stupid - I did not really wanted to live together with him literally. I was too ill-tempered and too much of a loner to share a flat with even my nearest and dearest ones. Yet I would not mind Milán to visit me, let's say, a few times a week, to have a nice conversation and to spend a couple of pleasant hours in bed with me.

Zentai had to drive a long way to arrive to the hostel.
He parked the car in front of it, and looked the building up and down. He did not say a word, but his opinion was written on his face.
"You really should think how to go on" he advised finally. "You should move into a nice apartment or something... And you should not turn down the good chances..." he shook his head and waved his hand. "I loved your idea about ancient deities though."
I gave him a faint smile.
"You sure that you're alright?" he asked thoughtfully. "Your ESP sensitiveness makes you so... I worry about you, I really do, big girl. When I as at your age, which was quite long ago, there was a dirty case when..."

I perked up my ears. I was going to hear something interesting, something important.
I have already figured out from his slipped remarks that he was seriously depressed in his youth. By now, it was completely gone, and he referred to it so subtly that most people would never get the hint - I could only because I was depressed myself. Some colleagues of his, who knew him for a long time, spread rumors about his miserable "withdrawn" state in his early twenties, but I never truly believed them.

However, he sounded as though he experienced something very odd and unpleasant. Perhaps it had to do something with his subsequent depression.

Not for sale

I was sitting in a corner, blessedly unnoticed. Zentai sat near me, talking to people who I hadn't ever seen; every now and then I tried to listen to their conversation, but most of the time the strangers just bothered me, and anytime they gazed at me with smiles that were meant to be friendly, or asked a question, I blushed fiercely.

I spotted the afore mentioned woman nearing me, which did not improve my mood. I blushed even deeper. She just smiled at my embarrassment, descended on a chair and stretched comfortably. Zentai greeted her with a familiar grin, they certainly knew each other.
"Hello" she said. "I'm * Klaudia."
"From * Press" Zentai added; the company was named after the woman.
"A publisher?" I asked suspiciously.
"Not really" Zentai explained quickly. "They are an independent limited company."

I nodded. I was pleased - I had already read one of their books. It was an intriguing documentary about hideous crimes committed by teenagers during the past decade. I was particularly interested in the case of two fourteen years old girls who murdered a taxi driver in an excessively cruel way, kicking and crushing him. Choosing such a topic, aggressive teenagers, female ones furthermore, was a dangerous ground, and most publishers could not have the courage to do so.

I relaxed a bit and did not glare at Klaudia anymore.
"I've heard about your interests in... creepy subjects" she said.
I smiled.
"Momentarily I'm planning an article about cruelty in ancient times" I said. "I love ancient Eastern legends and rituals..."
"Oh, that's old news" she said, she looked at me as though I went crazy. "People are interested in dreads from our days! Like accidents or odd cases you can read in yellow pages..."

I felt insulted. Comparing my ideas to pulp magazines was mere outrage. Anyway, I hated journalists who could not offer any better than other people's misery, mostly with scandalous grammar and spelling. Gore events of the past were at least scientific and exquisite.
I did crave for being rich and envied by others. I also wanted Zentai and Vanda take me seriously at last. Yet not at any cost.

"I won't go down the pulp road" I said, head held high.
A Third Eye editor, sitting next to Zentai, seemed apparently comforted.
"We will be interested in your article" he said quietly.
Zentai himself did not look happy.

Unwelcomed party

Perhaps he believed I would be impressed. He was wrong. I was alarmed.
"I cannot promise a thing. I'll ask Zentai about it" I said suspiciously.
Actually I did not have any intention to attend meetings and socialise with strangers, yet I did not wish to enrage my friend again, so I did not dare to say no immediately.

***

Zentai, like I expected, suggested me to go.
"It's a honour to be invited there!" he explained. He sounded happy, even proud.
I exhaled a secret sigh. It meant that I would have to suffer a mass of unknown people for hours with a forced smile on my stiff face.
"Last time when I visited such a nice event, a man tried to attack me on the street" I reminded him gloomily.
"He did not! He was a reader... and you attacked him" he retorted. "And mind you, I would take you back to your place by car."
"Thank you. Nice of you" I told politely, although I wished he would not take me home but let me stay away from the entire thing in the first place.
"The club where we'll meet is quite a snobby place" he continued. "It'll be to your liking. And perhaps you'll meet people... publishers... who'll be of your help later. One never knows when they can find new jobs and chances."
I did not remind him that I had already decided not to co-operate with publishers anymore.

***

* Hall, where the meeting took place was lovely indeed. It was not as splendid as the expensive hotels where the preliminary castings of beauty pageants were held - true that no-one intended to have sex here, and sexuality has always been better paid than book industry. And * Hall was still elegant with its chandelier lit interiors, its warm golden lights, black seats, and gleaming mirrors on the dark walls.

The people who filled the room disturbed me though. Once I thought I would be much more satisfied when I would be appreciated by many people at last, and this way I would not be lonely anymore. Now, when I almost achieved it, and these people did appreciate me, I still felt lonely, and, furthermore, uneasy with so many strangers around. I never counted on my withdrawn nature when I dreamt of noisy success.

A woman peered at me once in a while. I was sure I could notice some contempt in her eyes - only because I was odd and penniless. It bothered me much. In general I was scarcely interested in others's opinions, but I hated to be despised only because I did not have money. Furthermore, I did not enjoy to be penniless, of course.

Accepted

I did not have to wait for a long time to get an answer - they called me in a day.

I felt odd satisfaction. Finally, finally I didn't have to peddle or beg on my knees for weeks to be published. They did find me. Which was a new thing for me, yet I found it completely natural. I was competent after all. I did expect to become a real author, more likely sooner than later.

The editor of the Third Eye was enthusiastic.
"We adored your new one" he complimented. "You have a knack for depicting dreads. We also loved the comparison between the old time serial killers and the present cases. We only missed... the motives... of the latter ones" he added thoughtfully. "There was no robbery... no avenge... none of the usual reasons. We never know from your article why did those people had to be murdered."

And I would not let you know, I thought darkly.
"Yes. Perhaps it's a gap, but there you go" I told off-handedly.

"Never mind" he said hastily. "Listen, we got an invitation for you. A forum for authors, publishers. Are you interested?"

Details

A moment later I emerged from my half-reverie, curled up comfortably on my bed.
I was slightly nauseated by the things I've just witnessed. All right - imagined. According to Vanda's book, such meditations - without the control of a professional and practiced leader - could touch human subconscious, the realm of the hidden fears and desires.

At the same time, I loved what I saw. It was just a game, unharmful and exciting. I still could recall the joyous and vindictive feeling that took over me, I was still heated by avenge and hatred, although I could not exactly determine against whom.

Nevertheless I quickly wrote down what I'd seen, before I could forget any of it.

On the following day I did some research on Internet. It was not hard to find what I was looking for, as I memorised the details of the first murder, its circumstances. As though I could forebode that later I would have to do something with it. Or as though I have already witnessed... imagined?... something similar.

I found the second case relatively soon - it was elaborately written in the online version of the pulp magazine in which I had read about the second murder. Some "unnamed source" stated that the body was badly mutilated.

***

A couple of days later I sent the article to the Third Eye.

Odd healing process

The man was unwilling to comply. He was still on his knees, and shivered visibly, yet he did not do what he was ordered.
One of the standing figures lifted his hand, and I could see a flash of a blade.
The kneeling man snivelled.

The faceless attacker poked his arm with the knife, drawing blood. As a result, he slowly began to open his trousers.

By then, the time-worn and bleak room was gone. We all were standing in a huge building.
I stared wide-eyed; that place was splendid. I could not percept much of it though, for the torchlight was out in a split second, and the walls and the other objects dissolved in the darkness. All I could see, very dimly, was the scene in front of us.
I was disappointed that I could not see more of the magnificent room. On the other hand, I was glad that Jeff was there, too, next to me. I grabbed his upper arm and held on to him. With him around, I felt safer.

There was a violent fight occurring in front of us - they pushed the now bare victim down the floor and straddled him.
I felt excited. I heard his screams with delight.
The tormentors, their faces still hidden in the shadows, began to work between the man's legs, using the knife with nimble and skilled hands.
Cries of pain filled the air - and I felt wrath and savage satisfaction simultaneously. My own wounds healed at last.
My repulsion, my humiliation was washed away as I saw him suffering.

Jeff tugged at my arm gently.
"Time to go back" he whispered.
My triumph faded away. I did not want to stop, not now; the scene just started to turn interesting.
"We'll be back soon" Jeff promised with a small grin.

A proper subject

Next day, Milán called me on the phone.
"Mina, dearest" he began in a clipped tone. "I fixed the whole affair. She, grudgingly, agreed not to report the case."
He did not dare to mention her by her name, I thought with a dark smile.

"Naturally she did" I murmured curtly. "I didn't do any wrong."
"You just attempted to strangle her!"
"I did not. I hit her and scratched her, true, but I didn't attempt to... strangle... her" I corrected him indignantly.
"Would you be kind enough not to repeat this performance?" he asked in a dangerously calm voice.
It depends, I thought, but I did not say a word, for I didn't want to outrage him even more.
"Thank you" I told him almost warmly. After all, he actually took the trouble to save me. Which meant he did not want me to be harmed. And this time I lost my composure more than ever before, and the consequences could be, to say the least, unpleasant. After what I had already committed, alongside with Dolores, then the things I witnessed when I was with Máté's gang, I would not wish to confront the police.

***

I was freezing, sitting on my bed. My feet and toes felt colder than icicles, and my thin upper body was tormented by the temperature of the room.
I drew closer to the radiator. It was slightly mild, nothing more. I mentally abused the very one who produced it, and craved for the heat of a convector.

I was scribbling the draft of the Third Eye story, and I needed new ideas to continue.
I curled up for a meditation.

Relax.
Get rid of thoughts and impulses.
Shut out the world until you feel safe.
Go downward into the conscious mind.
Down.
Down.

This time I "arrived" into a dark room. It was empty and bleak, there was not a piece of furniture to be seen in it. The stone floor was grey and rough and covered with a layer of sticky dirt and dust, and the glass panes of the windows were missing. It reminded me of the abandoned warehouse where once Máté and his friends were. I considered whether I should stop with the meditation immediately.

Yet I did not. I spotted a familiar figure in a corner.
"Jeff?" I whispered. "Where are we?"
"That doesn't matter" he answered whilst coming nearer to me. As much I could see of him in the darkness, he did look like Stephen King.

People burst into the room. Mostly men, but some of them appeared to be females. I never could see their faces, those of them was shadowed, and I have been near-sighted.
They were shoving a figure in front of them.
That latter one was staggering. He was tall, stout, and bulky. I could not see his face well, as it was swollen and bruised, even bleeding.

None of them seemed to notice neither me nor Jeff. I drew closer to him.
"Can't they see us?" I breathed. He shook his head.

I watched them in amazement. They pushed the tall man forward and knocked him on the floor. One of them kicked his side and stomach repeatedly, several times. He made muffled, wailing noises. He seemed fully conscious, yet he did not even try to protect himself from the blows and kicks.

"What a disgusting, slimy scum you are" a female voice hissed.
All the voices sounded oddly echoic - even if I knew some of the persons present, I could not recognise their voices.
One of the figures kicked the abused man in the face. A sickening crash was to be heard.
Some of the faceless ones placed thin wax candles on the floor and lit them.
I could not stop staring. I glided closer to watch, but King - Jeff - stopped me by grabbing my arm. I could not feel any physical touch, I was just an unsubstantial viewer of the scene.

"Stand up, you fuckup" a male voice ordered.
The man in question crouched and stayed on the ground, pulling up his knees protectively.
Someone kicked his back with considerable strength. He cried out. He slowly got up on all fours, shaking violently.

The others obviously enjoyed themselves.

"Pull off your pants" one of them barked.

The fight

By then I could not percept anything but my own white-hot fury. I just wanted to hurt and hurt anyone, impulses of clawing, tearing, smashing, and tormenting shot through me.
My fingers, strong and tense with anger, dug deeply in the girl's flesh, and I wanted cause even more pain, in exchange for the turmoil that was fire in my brain.
"Dirty… slut… do you dare to… cross me?" I panted, my voice hitched.

She did not. She did not even have the courage to protest. The mocking flash completely wanished from her gaze. She just stared at me, her eyes wide with fear and wonder. Which gave me dark triumph and satisfaction.
I let go of her, only to plunge my fist against her head.

This was when Milán came to his senses and grabbed both of my arms.

I was squeaking.
For a moment I hesitated whether to fight him or not. Yet I never wanted to hurt him; for it was Milán, my Milán, the one for whom I cared. My worry for him could penetrate my rage. I went limp in his grip.

I calmed down, whilst he seemed very, very angry. He let me go.
I took a step back.
This time I felt bad – even, if a bit, ashamed.
The little secretary did not protect herself, she never hit back. She seemed so terrified with those wide eyes.

Milán was appalled, too.
"Sorry" I whispered to him, only he could hear.
He bowed his head.
I suspected he did not know what to say or do. Even my parents seemed frightened when I, all of a sudden, burst into a fit of rage for a trivial reason, then, screaming away all my anger, only a few minutes later I asked for their forgiveness in a perfectly calm and composed manner. These very sudden changes in my mood appeared unsettling for them.

On the other hand, I felt insulted that Milán refused to accept my apology. My hands were shaking as I re-arranged my clothes with quick moves.
"Next time" I told maliciously, in a conversationalist manner "you should close the door before you begin to act indencently."
The girl was taken aback again. There were scratches on her neck. She drew closer to the door in order to flee.
"Don't you forget about your blouse" I suggested sarcastically.

Milán sighed. He glared at me.
"What came to you…?" he murmured.
"Can't you imagine?" I asked back wearily.

He could. From time to time we made one another aroused, and he was a willing participant. We have been close friends and allies. So I had the right or a sensible reason to feel betrayed.
At least he did not look at me with dripping repulsion. There was just a slight trace of aversion in his gaze, not more than Gabika’s eyes held when she witnessed my ill (literally ill) temper in play – a healthy person's fear of abnormality. I felt miserable, for I never knew when would my friends have enough of me, and I needed them so desperately.
"I never wanted to hurt you" I told quietly.
"You struggled with yourself not to attack me, and you didn't" he stated, almost moved.
I shot a sharp look at him.
"How did you know that?"
"It was written on your face. You looked as though you want to destroy anything around you. Yet you didn't hit me."
"I'd never hurt someone who's dear to me" I said.
"You shouldn't hurt those you hate either" he warned me. "Now she has the right to accuse you of stalking or physical abuse, although I will try to talk her out of it, I can't guarantee a thing. You didn't see the look on your face. You were scary. For a moment I thought you wanted to kill her."
I thought so, too, but I didn’t have any intention to tell him that.

"You really should learn how to control your rage" he said darkly. "Otherwise it will get you into trouble."
'I only came to you to give an outline of a new novella" I told him sourly. "Unfortunately you were occupied…"
I pulled the thin piece of paper out of my pocket and handed it to him. For a moment he looked at me questioningly, almost embarrassed, then he took it.

He circled his arms around my thin shoulders and drew me closer to him. I rested my head against his chest, whilst he caressed my hair.

Red-handed

First of all I combed through several Internet sites to find details about serial killers and aberrant criminals.
The colourful and impressive list included Lady Báthory herself, as well as women from the 1980's and 90's.

I savoured my research like some particularly rare and delicate experiment.
Female serial killers turned out to be sexually repressed, wild and shameless ones. True that some of them, like Lydia Trueblood, had lame and boring reasons to kill people, like getting life insurance money after their husbands.

I was, of course, interested in those who attacked men violently, mostly out of revenge, like Aileen Wuornos did. I read the lady's biography eagerly, and I was fascinated by her crimes, whilst her gruesome life (an example of a woman abused and exploited from her early childhood) deeply moved me.
I could not help but felt truly sorry for her. I thought that juries were still biased when it came to a murderess. Not to mention in case when she retaliated on a man, furthermore, for being assaulted.
It angered me, I found it unfair. My hands clenched into fists when I got to know what happened to her at last. Notwithstanding her first victim was a rapist.

I have found familiar names like Karla Homolka's. I clearly remembered that I had already read about her crimes in my childhood, back in the nineties, in an issue of Women's Journal.

***

Perhaps these stories gave me the idea of the second novella meant to the American project.
I quickly digged my copy-book out of my bag and scribbled down a short outline in a few minutes.

When I was ready, I cut out a white page, and made a copy of the outline, a neat and perfect one. I wished to hand it to Milán.
He would be surprised to have two writings by me instead of only one.

***

The surprise was on my part though.

When I stepped into the office, I found MY MILÁN there, actually kissing his little secretary.
She was half nude, her upper body was covered only by a black bra.

I gasped in shock and panted heavily.
I always thought Milán did have beautiful girlfriends. Tall, lovely looking and exceedingly elegant women, just like Vanda, with whom I could never stand a chance.
Instead, this girl was awkward. With her imperfect skin and soft and fleshy shoulders slumped forward, she reminded me of a big and ugly tree-frog. Credit given to her, she had ample breasts, and it was more than enough for men, I've already witnessed it with Dolores.
Really, this girl was just as ungraceful and stout like my former colleague.

She was just as astounded like myself, but there was that flash in her eyes again which was hardly to mistake - deep contempt and malice. Any woman would look the same way at her rival in a similar situation.

At the same time, something was howling inside me, desperately, painfully.
I felt betrayed. Milán was my friend, my confidant, my mentor. He promised me lots of beautiful things. And now he turned me down FOR THIS...

Red hot fury took over me when I strutted to them, grabbed the girl's neck and dig my long nailed fingers into it.