Txm6 -- Taxi Murders -- 52nd Day

Laurie Catherine Fallon

Day 50th: May 29, 1992

In my dream I held pieces of my skull in the crease of my temporal lobes. I imagined the place where the axe cut the stones or the guillotine set up to make the ritual more predictable.

It was as if I lived in the blood of my menstrual cunt. I fumbled square balls transformed into testicles and I ran up the edges of walls to hide behind a mountain that held the head of women I had known.

There were no men there. I mixed pictures.

It was my photo album and I knew every black and white image. Every picture had been taken before my birth. I knew that. That was old news.

When I walked out of my bed, or really, I rolled out of it, I felt how the floor felt as I banged it hitting knees first. I was cold.

I was naked and out of control rubbing my thighs until it almost hurt.

When the dream stopped I was blank. I woke, or I thought I did, and held each of my names, my faces, and bodies.

Joann stood there. I had not seen her since High School. When we were 18, as birthday presents, we worked two stripper joints in the city. Never in my life had I made 500 in a night. No fucking, just blow jobs, and lots of booty rubbing. Joann was lesbian and sometimes, well, I needed a massage. She used men. She always did. I need her now. I need my baby sister too. She died when I was young. There was this terrible fire, and Billy saved me and not her.

Joann was ebony to my light. She had blue eyes and was odd but beautiful. She said her granfather was African, not a negro, as she called him.

My hands revived and I counted the ragged skull plates in her skull to make sure Joann was alive and intact. I did not want to lose her. Now, she was much older, and I imagined her as I did her mother screaming at kids.

I wanted to smell her as I did when we would come home late from fucking some smelly men. I really loved men, and hated that I did.

If I could smell her pusssy now, at least that, then I knew I would be reassured. I imagined that I stood on my hands to catch the rear end pages of her novel.

Joann typed with an old fashioned Hermes typewriter. It was noisy. She wrote disgusting things about men and women having sex with gargoyles and beasts. We were smoking fucking adults but she wanted me to call her Mama. I did.

She smiled all the time and the snakes wrapped around her when she hissed.

"If you are Satan, tell me. You must confess. You are Satan posing as a dream cop. I have heard about how you report these terrorist dreams to the FBI."

I was eighteen and thought I was sophisticated but I couldn't handle her.

It was not like I had been writing a diary for a million years. How could I be eighteen? I must be twenty-five. I was born in 1965. It is is now 1992, and in October I will be 26. I started counting backward in my dream.

When I hit the ground my breasts flopped out of my tee shirt. I felt as if I had split open, divided. I was full, pregnant, about to burst. My legs trembled, and I needed to touch myself, but then I restrained my hand.

2.

When I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I remembered this cell. The walls were cinderblock. There was one window covered with paint from the outside. Lights flashed when I walked. I scratched another line on the floor with a nail I had found buried in the wall.

I carefully put it back. I have been here for fifty days.

I was surprised how deeply I felt pleasure not pain when my captor, the man called Abel, made me fuck him. I hoped that was a dream too, and as one, I could feel the skill of his hands. I was in his cross hairs he said. Reality surprises you more than dreams.

He hit my head many times that first week. He was careful to hurt but not damage. He rubbed my stomach, and spoke to the fetus inside my womb. I could not protest. I was gagged. He tied my legs to the head of the bed. It smelled of come and blood, piss and whatever food he pushed at me as if I were his dog. Later, he would curl up to me and speak to me of angels while he fucked my ass.

After a time, he lived inside the crease of my brain, in the place where the ax cuts the stone, my rose above the surface of what is known and provable. I became a prediction. I became Hamlet's bare belly and my mouth made his cock my bone. Don't deny that sexual shimmy. That throb opens doors faster and faster than balls cupped. I can feel where you dive, and my mouth dangles from the pink hood of his Lordship's prick.

Yes, I let my fingertips tingle them to sensations as exquisite as my fingers thumb or crisscross my clit to marvel at the ages of men borne from the Saddle of the Cross let down to ache without any squire or bar child to hump at beck and call for fucking car hop, down and dirty bar girl blow job behind the bathroom door as filmed in action color.

Have you ever looked at any human skull of any age or gender inside out or upside down? There are a million grooves writhing within the belly of it.

Behind the trees, inside the moss, a thousand of paths wander outside calm mystery. They stretch death too far and the match boxes struck for fire place romance suddenly are more risk than pleasure. Yes, I think so now. I would give it up. I would blank pleasure allowing those male dense walls to encircle soft insincere words uttered more as perfunctory scales practices as will tames attitude: his becomes the tame space and I exorcise all the petty gods and dance above the rape barely letting my whistle ricochet from back of my cunt to the front of the flap of my clit and the pubic bone that pressures it all making my whole body cry. I want more than a whistle. I want to belittle his intentions with scams more viable than saints.

My child kept me alive but soon it would be born, and as they say given back to my family. Lilith, Abel's sister, doesn't punish children, but she liberates them from their mothers. She tells me how she will make me come and then murder me slowly with IV drugs.

Where is my Henry? He believed in my life. His hands were my triumph. He loved where I felt empty and never asked in return. He laughed. He watched my eyes when he laughed. He made me shake with something I had not known ever. I wasn't afraid when I slept.

My child churns inside, now awake, part of the account of the dream and it pushes backward, banging against the inside of my mouths. I am not empty. My cunt is filled, and the pulse inside, shifts, and I watch the skull emerge, more horrible than the dream, but then I know it's a delusion. I am intact. My water has not leaked.

Perhaps when I die I will have another movie to live. I stop, hold my voice back, and then resume sensing how the vibration of my throat and the calm flutter inside when I tense, release, clasp, and then push open, extending diaphragm, as if that helped, to relax my arse, and push the veil out, make my secondary lips whole, as I felt, in the dream the dry head emerge, backward through my sucking cunt absorbed as a curse relieved. I do not live at my funeral. Nothing was left at the grave site. There were no held or displayed. It was not a wedding. I felt the pink bud of my shaved parts, and I felt soft, wet, and I seemed to dream waking, as I felt my twin lips, running them through and up my shaft, clit, and then quickly inside to slow the tension, as if I were full, and dangerous.

I reached up and my nipples sore, from my Devil. I can't imagine a more handsome fiend. Bright eyes.

Fucking, I am aroused from my self and my child, and massaging nipple, it leaks soft, not true milk, but the moisture from inside my fingers, transferred from cunt to breast, then mouth, and full of my belly, I shift, and quietly I am innocent. I felt as a child when mother washed my privates, softly opening the parts, and making me laugh, climbing into her arms. It was warmer then tension. I knew a brief pause and then grief after my dance screeched with the rhythm of the bells that pushed me away from my quiet room and into the bright sunlight where decapitation made the front page of the Enquirer.

I have come, and the fates resume, as if I cannot stand the skull, held, as I wearing just loose shift, expose myself, and let it go, knowing ever second of my pleasure has made dear Tony AKA Abel as he calls himself, blend his prick with the clouds, and then when I pee, the irritation, a sharp pain, as infected, swollen, uncomfortable I am relieved unsettling my bowels. Fuck privacy.

In my dream, or some deranged delusion that same fucking skull shifts, and I am trapped inside the socket.

Part of the bridge of nose and cheek, inside the mouth, at the top, and then below beyond the tongue, space quiets as breath was forgotten.

I drown or choke. It was a muscular reflex, a pulling backward from gagging deaths as defined bones scatter.

Blood, as rich as loam, underplays the chorus. What was the temperature of heat, I asked feeling the turgid spark of his shaft, pulling it out, ablating it, dissolved. I would be neuter if I could, which is not this clitoridectomy, no respect, nor given out like palms before Easter, forgiveness for death.

My infant nurses or some mouth, like Maria did, blindfolded, tied, foot to hand and bound with another woman, named Lilith, no not a bird but Tony's older twin, and then on screen names flood a carefully kept chart.

Assembled at last (or reassembled) I cannot travel beyond some primitive direction. There I see it. High School. Health Class. A chart magnified on a screen and a disembodied voice harps on something I cannot hear. It is blatant life, and I am no kidding, and action drama.

Years ago I painted a portrait of my left hand. It is blue, wet blue over silk; not a painted fabric, but soft, early fields.

When I painted it, in dream or not, I believed I had discovered the world. I sped in the cold sea and I lived within delicate arms with hazy brown skin. I thought of blue orchids and I tasted like melons when I licked my fingers. I bulged. I felt my involuntary orgasm forced by electric vibrator. I was bound, blindfolded, mute, deaf, and the collapsed inside, as fingers, mouths, tongues, toes, scraped at my open bound door, and then I lifted up my ass, naked beneath her gown, carefully, button by button, some hand opening my crease from the bottom, allowing dark eyes to peer outward, as his fist allowed just one brief exploration casually entered and then quietly stopped while I was forced to squat, lowering my ass, allowing his entire hand to break through the resistant wall and then drown.

I resisted, and pushed back, refusing, and then at the wall between come for release sake.

I swallowed myself, and just when it happened, I felt warm fluids, more than semen flood my tits. I would have broke down the sky scrapper, and yet I endured the tease, and fragrant, oil, and then I knew, blood when some dripped inside my lips, mine, I thought, no, a pint extracted from your children, the voice echoes, and my ears, out of shape, remnant, a curious vestibule as my features are absorbed, and then dissolve.

There is nothing. My face is blank. I saw the skull lose fat and skin and then baked, it whitened, and picked apart, rewired, the jaw opened and closed, and blood ran freely down my belly, and entering, drowning it seemed, a cock, or dildo was forced inside my cunt, to the hilt, and expanding I absorbed it, the skull, enemy, within, not as human specters but more a force controlled by the direction of the flood, wind, even as the footsteps, and the paths that were chosen against my will. Doom keeps going as a fit.

"What wonderful literary conceit, Laurie, Henry said, watching Laurie pee, absorbing the account of her dream, as one would a political speech, and not knowing what went down squatting behind the bare garage wall:

HENRY:

"Nothing. Art cannot be spent," Henry said when interviewed on the WFAN by Mike Lupica after the report of murder, by the Frankenstein killer, Abel.

"Art must be had," he answered, angry, distracted from the confessions, realizing accomplishment and success presumed another shift, back inside silence and when he felt the detached prick, real he said, enter, stiffened by a wooden mantle, he became the earth, and let his self return.

Dreams swallowed his lips too and the girl inside, more open, shifted, and the slut, although victim, exposed rape when self propelled on knees, splitting the pole, entered, slow, making the surge shift the speed increased, and when the raw walls of her cunt burned as she said for hours the next day, he felt as if he were with Laurie hiding out. He held the same skull. This was not serendipity. He made her come again and then again, and with each last gasp more splendid, as he anticipated his own death. He blended figures from childhood dreams when some guy named Billy from Laurie's childhood (she talked about him all the time). She rode in Henry's dream. She rode all dreams Henry said. She was not some teenage fuck. Henry had lifted her up. He showed her the red head of angels and then plunged, and he knew when he let her go, Laurie became the face of Christ, as he saw it. She sucked the words from my mouth. Henry slept. It was many years earlier, and Henry's cousin James Caine had told him this horrible story about how he and an older girlfriend had murdered two girls.

LAURIE

When I woke, I was nineteen, and the poet held a funnel, stuffed my throat, cunt, ass with that pained Christ face, the image, you imagine, before communion, or just after, when you felt presence, and then, at the cave, the stone pushed back, I entered, and was kept alive, my infant, protected, abused, and helpless, aroused, I stopped the dream, and knew death would be easier than the exigent relief that alluded the Man Called Abel as he fucked dry my ass, and my infant struck out, revived, stiff, her body paused, then release as the lake between my thighs grew marvelous moss and snails, salt and steam.

I would call her Molly.

I said write the name Molly on her belly in lipstick. Please.

**

Abel did it, but didn't tell Lilith, and to prove the truth weeks later he handed her a newspaper clipping about the child that had been found in Van Saun Park. Newspapers don't usually report that kind of information, but in this case the Gadfly, known for his dark stories, about horrible crimes had reported it.

Laurie worked her nipple as the heart empty, silent, revised, and became that supple wall. She lived and will live, as Abel murdered his sister when she tried to kill Laurie. He did put the baby in the park, and called the police from a pay phone using an electronic mask. Laurie did not witness any of it. She recovered from childbirth, and her body ached, and her breasts grew tight, and when Abel returned he called her sister and sucked her tits.

3.

Laurie dreamed again.

Be Laurie, so I can be Sheila, my dead sister, I killed in that fire when I was ten. Be anyone she said. I will unclasp myself from pain.

Henry has such beautiful hands, and I will remember them always and there is tenderness at one end. No, the theater will not close yet.

"Cuddle with me Laurie your heart beats faster." I can feel Henry say it.