Insidious
Page 6
Closing my eyes, I reached for my car. Fleeing the stench of the garage, the warehouse, and my life was my only thought. Without a doubt, I needed to get away from this place.
After so many visits, somehow not having Stewart present had made it worse. But then again, he was. He was there through a new system of cameras. With this new system, he could watch from our home. Our home. In one afternoon, he’d taken away the separation of warehouse and home: one of my last refuges.
My hands trembled as I pulled my car door closed. I fought with the new reality: Stewart’s voyeurism wasn’t over, not as long as breath still entered his lungs. With this newly installed technology, his favorite sick form of entertainment would continue. The last two months of reprieve as he fought against the cancer was only that, a momentary break. The sadistic motherfucker would keep this going until the bitter end.
I turned my eyes—devoid of makeup—toward the rearview mirror. Thank God there was a shower at the warehouse. I hated the smell of the men. Again, the loss of sight heightened my other senses, including that of smell. I wasn’t supposed to know who his friends were. It used to give Stewart a rush as we’d enter a party or a function and he’d taunt me with the idea of whom I knew and who knew me. Closing my eyes, I still heard his sadistic tone as he paraded me on his arm.
Of course, the men never let on. They never came forward, but smell was a powerful sense: whether cologne or aftershave, a breath mint or body wash. When I’d least expect it, an aroma would remind me of the warehouse, the music, and Stewart’s incessant directions. Then I would know. I would know that the man smiling sweetly at his wife, or taunting me with his stare was one of Stewart’s friends.
This afternoon, his friend wore cologne similar to Stewart’s. When we first married, I loved the erotic combination of rose and sandalwood, and oud. I’d noticed the unique scent the first day we met. I remember finding the bottle in his room and reading the name: Tom Ford Oud Wood. There was even a time when I would lay my head on his pillow just to inhale the scent.
That was before, before the warehouse, and before death grabbed him by the balls. No longer did he walk in a cloud of expensive cologne. Now the scent of death and denial hung in layers around him and his makeshift hospital room.
The great Stewart Harrington wanted to die at home. He wanted to be surrounded by the luxury and opulence of his hard work. Bullshit! Stewart Harrington wanted to live. Going to the hospital and being attached to their equipment would admit defeat. I couldn’t imagine him admitting that until words were beyond his control.
That knowledge refueled my strength. The motherfucker was going to die: of that I was confident.
Turning up the radio, I tried to drown out the wordless dark tunes in my head. Slowly, I put the car into reverse. Exiting the garage, the sunlight steamed through my windshield, blinding me as I reached for my sunglasses. Damn, it was still daytime. This fucking day wouldn’t end. I looked toward the clock when the screen on the dash changed. STEWART flashed on the screen indicating an incoming call.
I choked back the bile and hit the CALL button that allowed my husband’s voice to replace the music and fill the car.
“What?” was the best greeting I could manage.
“Are you coming home?”
I turned the car right, not sure where I was headed, only that it was away from our penthouse. “No.”
“No?”
“You fucking lied!” I’d played the role so long that my unexpected outburst no doubt took Stewart by surprise. “You said you’d always be there. You weren’t there!” The road before me blurred from my tears as I fought to regain my semblance of control.
“Tori,” his voice was soft, though his pet name made the bile return to my throat. “Come home. Let’s talk about this.”
“No. We’re not supposed to talk about this at home. It’s supposed to stay separate from home. You ruined everything.”
“Come home.” Unlike his tone through the damn headphones, these words were spoken more as a plea. “The doctors want to give me more medicine. I want to see you first. I want to tell you how good you were. How proud I am of you.”
He fucking wanted to do more than that, and I knew it. I gripped the steering wheel and weaved through traffic, not even the slightest bit concerned with my destination. “I’ll be home, just not until later.”
“You know, you don’t have the right to be mad. I checked the contract. There was nothing in there saying I would always be present.”
“Well, Stewart, I haven’t read the fucking contract since before we were married. But I have heard you tell me that you’re there, with me. I hate it! I’ve always hated it. But at least… Shit!” I slammed on my brakes and threw my weight onto the horn. Stupid fucking tourists, walking in the damn street.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Take your damn medicine. I’ll be home when I’m home.”
“I want you to come home now. You’re my wife.”
“I am your wife. I’m Mrs. Stewart Harrington and I’m going out. I’m calling my sister or something. I’ve followed your rules. I played your whore. Now I’m doing something for me. I may not have read the contract recently, but I do remember there’s nothing in it restricting my activities.” Before he could refute my comment, I went on, gaining strength with each word. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do this afternoon. I’m not going to sit in a chair and watch you die.” Because if I did, I’d grab a pillow and accelerate the process. The words were right there. Thankfully, I had enough self-control to bite them back. “Goodbye, Stewart. Get some rest. You’ve had a busy afternoon.”
After so many visits, somehow not having Stewart present had made it worse. But then again, he was. He was there through a new system of cameras. With this new system, he could watch from our home. Our home. In one afternoon, he’d taken away the separation of warehouse and home: one of my last refuges.
My hands trembled as I pulled my car door closed. I fought with the new reality: Stewart’s voyeurism wasn’t over, not as long as breath still entered his lungs. With this newly installed technology, his favorite sick form of entertainment would continue. The last two months of reprieve as he fought against the cancer was only that, a momentary break. The sadistic motherfucker would keep this going until the bitter end.
I turned my eyes—devoid of makeup—toward the rearview mirror. Thank God there was a shower at the warehouse. I hated the smell of the men. Again, the loss of sight heightened my other senses, including that of smell. I wasn’t supposed to know who his friends were. It used to give Stewart a rush as we’d enter a party or a function and he’d taunt me with the idea of whom I knew and who knew me. Closing my eyes, I still heard his sadistic tone as he paraded me on his arm.
Of course, the men never let on. They never came forward, but smell was a powerful sense: whether cologne or aftershave, a breath mint or body wash. When I’d least expect it, an aroma would remind me of the warehouse, the music, and Stewart’s incessant directions. Then I would know. I would know that the man smiling sweetly at his wife, or taunting me with his stare was one of Stewart’s friends.
This afternoon, his friend wore cologne similar to Stewart’s. When we first married, I loved the erotic combination of rose and sandalwood, and oud. I’d noticed the unique scent the first day we met. I remember finding the bottle in his room and reading the name: Tom Ford Oud Wood. There was even a time when I would lay my head on his pillow just to inhale the scent.
That was before, before the warehouse, and before death grabbed him by the balls. No longer did he walk in a cloud of expensive cologne. Now the scent of death and denial hung in layers around him and his makeshift hospital room.
The great Stewart Harrington wanted to die at home. He wanted to be surrounded by the luxury and opulence of his hard work. Bullshit! Stewart Harrington wanted to live. Going to the hospital and being attached to their equipment would admit defeat. I couldn’t imagine him admitting that until words were beyond his control.
That knowledge refueled my strength. The motherfucker was going to die: of that I was confident.
Turning up the radio, I tried to drown out the wordless dark tunes in my head. Slowly, I put the car into reverse. Exiting the garage, the sunlight steamed through my windshield, blinding me as I reached for my sunglasses. Damn, it was still daytime. This fucking day wouldn’t end. I looked toward the clock when the screen on the dash changed. STEWART flashed on the screen indicating an incoming call.
I choked back the bile and hit the CALL button that allowed my husband’s voice to replace the music and fill the car.
“What?” was the best greeting I could manage.
“Are you coming home?”
I turned the car right, not sure where I was headed, only that it was away from our penthouse. “No.”
“No?”
“You fucking lied!” I’d played the role so long that my unexpected outburst no doubt took Stewart by surprise. “You said you’d always be there. You weren’t there!” The road before me blurred from my tears as I fought to regain my semblance of control.
“Tori,” his voice was soft, though his pet name made the bile return to my throat. “Come home. Let’s talk about this.”
“No. We’re not supposed to talk about this at home. It’s supposed to stay separate from home. You ruined everything.”
“Come home.” Unlike his tone through the damn headphones, these words were spoken more as a plea. “The doctors want to give me more medicine. I want to see you first. I want to tell you how good you were. How proud I am of you.”
He fucking wanted to do more than that, and I knew it. I gripped the steering wheel and weaved through traffic, not even the slightest bit concerned with my destination. “I’ll be home, just not until later.”
“You know, you don’t have the right to be mad. I checked the contract. There was nothing in there saying I would always be present.”
“Well, Stewart, I haven’t read the fucking contract since before we were married. But I have heard you tell me that you’re there, with me. I hate it! I’ve always hated it. But at least… Shit!” I slammed on my brakes and threw my weight onto the horn. Stupid fucking tourists, walking in the damn street.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Take your damn medicine. I’ll be home when I’m home.”
“I want you to come home now. You’re my wife.”
“I am your wife. I’m Mrs. Stewart Harrington and I’m going out. I’m calling my sister or something. I’ve followed your rules. I played your whore. Now I’m doing something for me. I may not have read the contract recently, but I do remember there’s nothing in it restricting my activities.” Before he could refute my comment, I went on, gaining strength with each word. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do this afternoon. I’m not going to sit in a chair and watch you die.” Because if I did, I’d grab a pillow and accelerate the process. The words were right there. Thankfully, I had enough self-control to bite them back. “Goodbye, Stewart. Get some rest. You’ve had a busy afternoon.”
