There is this thing about being normal.
It is often described as the preferable way to spend our lives, telling us how to behave socially, how to prevent embarrassment, how to be accepted by the people around us.
But do we really know how it's properly done?
Are there rules, say, things written down? Oh sure, there is the law, of course, and there are the ten commandments, or whatever moral rules your religion prescribes. But they're just meant to keep our inner animal in line, aren't they?
The truth is, normalcy isn't a fixed thing -- it fluctuates.
What used to be a taboo for our parents, is shrugged off by our children. And what our grandparents found perfectly acceptable might be a horror to their offspring. In one city people act out things in public that gets them arrested somewhere else. And on one site of erotic stories subjects are banned that are easily accepted on another.
This is a story about people who don't behave normally.
We're not meant to understand them or accept what they do, nor is there a morale we're supposed to look for. It is about two people acting in ways they might not even understand themselves.
It's a struggle.
But, in the end, it is their way to find happiness.
***
Angel, demons.
A story of a girl and a woman.
***
Part One.
A girl, explained.
She didn't doubt she was what people call a slut.
There may have been times when she thought differently, but she must have been fooling herself. Some might say she came a long way, others that she fell deep, depending on their outlook.
But she knew better.
She never
became
a slut, she'd always been one -- she just didn't admit to it until someone pointed it out to her. That someone owned her now, she was her property. The woman enslaved her, and in doing so, she set her free.
Yes, you'd call that a contradiction.
The girl knew better.
***
Before we go on, let's visit the house where the girl was born and where she lived all her life. It was hers, as far as it was a house at all.
At night, it felt more like a huge skeleton of shadows -- the belly of a crouching dragon. It was a house to stumble through on bare feet, feeling your way into velvet darkness, sensing the cool shrouds of familiar ghosts grazing your face.
If you were her, that is.
To you the house would feel perfectly harmless -- you might not even notice the ghosts' presence at all, not even at night. Because, you see, they were entirely
her
ghosts, the demons of her youth.
Firstly, there was the silent ghost of her father.
It was as cold in death as he had been in life -- an ambitious immigrant who never allowed his warmth to show through his need to climb socially and be accepted in the country of his dreams. But now he was gone. And all he left behind for his youngest daughter was this skeleton of a house.
Plus, the eternal certainty that she was inadequate.
Then there was the ghost of her mother, who always knew how to behave -- outwardly. She also knew how her youngest daughter should behave. There was never a question about what the girl might have wanted, or even what she might have been able to do, or be.
The child's small fingers were trained and molded to conquer the piano during endless afternoons with cruel taskmasters who were more interested in her flirting mother anyway. They taught her how to play; she even started teaching others. But after her mother died, she never touched a key again.
Yet, the woman's ghost kept feeding her guilt of wasting a talent she never had.
Then there was that other specter, a demon really. In its own seductive way, it was more horribly evil than the other two combined. It was the ghost of her older brother, who forced his hard erection on her, making her suck it. Over time he taught her how to take it down her throat, suck it to completion and swallow its salty essence. But more than that, he taught her to like it and in the end, to take pride in it.
Sucking cock became her one redeeming quality, she knew.
Then he died in an accident.
One more ghost kept her awake at night and even haunted her during daytime. It was the only one she felt was benign; the one that kept her sane.
Maybe.
It was the ghost of her older sister, who died of cancer, leaving her in a sobbing pool of misery. Her death was the ultimate disaster. The girl always thought her sister was the only human being she could share her fears and defeats with, even the dark and embarrassing ones.
Although she never told her what she did with their brother.
The death of her sister was more than just a heart-breaking loss: she felt betrayed. It was then that she learned there must be a Power somewhere who needed to punish her at every turn of her miserable life. The memory of her sister grew into maybe the most devastating one to plague her.
It kept reminding her that no one should love her.
Ah yes...then there of course was this other presence. Not a demon, really. Not even a ghost, as its owner was still alive. But it was there and it was evil enough to cause turmoil in her mind. It was the memory of her husband, the man who once lived with her in the huge house. He made it feel less empty for a few years.
He made her feel noticed, wanted.
And his cock was the most beautiful she ever sucked.
Of course, he left her; everybody left her in the end, didn't they? Especially the ones who claimed they loved her. He slept with his secretary for more than a year before she discovered it -- how pathetically cliché.
She threw him out of the house, then fought a long and bitter struggle over divorce. Even when the curtain fell at last, she knew that she would take him back in the blink of an eye -- him and his glorious cock. But, finally, all that was left was this skeleton house and the demons that lived in it.
She loved her husband. She still loved him.
But deep down she now accepted that he could not have acted differently. Betraying her was the natural thing to do. For her, loving someone must be like nursing a futile emotion.
Eventually it would wither in the garish light of reality.
She deserved what happened to her. She did. She knew she deserved everything the world had in store for her.
And then some.
***
A woman, explicated.
"Do I need love?" she mused.
The mirror reflected her pale face as she set off a sparkling green eye with careful lines of black. Her night-dark shining hair was slicked back to reveal a porcelain brow.
She pouted, making the mirror's vanity lights gleam on dark, wet lipstick. An ironic chuckle escaped her throat as she inspected her face.
"Sure," she mumbled. "If somebody could tell me what it is."
***
Before going on, let's go back -- fifteen years, maybe, to a tree-lined street and the entrance to a looming, gothic building.
She was a slight girl.
Her hand clutched the hand of the tall man beside her. Her eyes searched his to find trust and warmth. They were sparkling emeralds, set in dark, thick lashes. They looked bigger because of her narrow face and pale complexion. The straight frame of thick, black hair added to their dramatic effect.
It made her look frail and vulnerable.
The hem of her summer's dress danced on the breeze, just for a second exposing more of her skinny leg. Her age was hard to guess. She held her gangly body in the awkward stance of adolescence, any hints of curve hidden by the way her chest sank into the hollow arch of her bony shoulders. It gave her the unconnected quality of a puppet, only held together by the steady hand of the man.
He pulled at the chain of an antique bell.
It hung beside a door that was set in the stone front of an ancient building -- cast iron adorning its polished wood. Again, he smiled at her as they heard the sound slowly die away. Her response was weak.
Her lips trembled.
"Don't worry, chérie. Everything will be fine," he said. His voice sounded rich and sympathetic. Another fleeting smile touched the girl's face, but it melted away as the big door opened. Her bony right hand fidgeted with the grip of her suitcase.
The woman in the door opening was neither old nor young.
Her waxen face showed no wrinkles, even though she smiled. And her face was about all she gave the world, being a nun dressed in black. Her head was tightly wrapped in white under a huge sailing ship of immaculate starched cotton.
After a first quick look-over, she ignored the girl and only addressed the man. She offered a pale, narrow hand and welcomed him. Even when he introduced the girl, she only glanced briefly in her direction. Then she invited the man in, telling him Mother awaited them.
