Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

“You remember, when you showed me the way to Jessie’s place—the dead cat.”

“Oh yeah. It was pretty messed up, wasn’t it? Sure, I told the boss. He said one of the owners must’ve left it behind.”

“I thought there weren’t any pets on the island?”

“Well, technically there aren’t. Who knows, maybe the cat got away and the owners couldn’t find it.”

“I suppose. Poor thing.”

He smiled her way again. He had a deep dimple on one side of his face. She began to blush.

“Animal lover huh?”

Marla giggled, “Yes, yes I am. More of a dog person than a cat person, though.”

Adam finished his coffee. The small talk had run out, and the coffee with it. He took his empty cup back inside, then said his goodbyes. Marla wanted to invite him over for dinner. What time do you finish work? Maybe we can go for a walk sometime? But she felt awkward and just thanked him again for the coffee and supplies.

She was halfway through her chores before she realized just how awkward she’d felt speaking with Adam. Fixing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she grinned to herself. Whenever she felt that about a guy, it generally meant she actually liked him. Marla suddenly felt a little sick. Blushing, she got on with her chores.

Sadly, the sick feeling proved itself to be the beginnings of Marla’s period rather than the tummy flutters of true love. Back at the summerhouse, restless, hot and itchy, she’d tried reclining on the wicker furniture next to an open window. The breeze had begun to annoy her, however, and the furniture had become the focus of a series of violent fantasies involving kerosene and a large box of cook’s matches. By the time the sun had gone down, she was already curled up in bed holding a pillow against her gut in the absence of a hot water bottle. Drifting off into a sticky sleep, Marla could see those flames raging in her dreams—vast towers of creaky wicker furniture blazing like idols in some bizarre pagan rite. Chairs and two-seater couches interlocked with hand crafted coffee tables, forming cages inside which cats and dogs screeched and howled. Hundreds (no, thousands) of the creatures jostled against each other, tearing into their fellow inmates’ fur and flesh as the kerosene flames billowed higher. A plume of dark crimson smoke rose over the scene, stinking of burnt coffee grounds and black metallic death.

When she awoke, Marla’s bleeding had started and was heavier than ever before. She went to the bathroom to staunch the flow, clutching at her belly. The Consortium Inc. had kindly provided a box of tampons, unbranded of course, in with her toiletry supplies. She grabbed the box and was about to open it when the hollow gnawing pain inside her inverted, becoming a kind of kicking spasm. In agony, she began to feel afraid. Normally she’d have a day or two of increasing cramps and nausea before her flow began, and the discomfort would never be as bad as this. Her hands shook as she used the applicator to insert the tampon. Another painful spasm seared in her gut. Doubling up, she let the rest of the tampons fall to the bathroom floor in their box and limped back into the bedroom, head spinning. Collapsing on the bed, Marla watched the ghosts of her imagined wicker fires die behind her eyelids then promptly blacked out.

Morning birdsong rang out across the island. Marla, meanwhile, slept like a dead thing. Her breath was barely audible above the joyous chorus of birdsong outside on the roof. Gradually the shrill orchestra penetrated through the layers of sleep and Marla groaned herself awake, remembering the agonizing abdominal pains of the preceding night. She was already in the bathroom, taking a pee, when she realized the pain had gone. Not just gone, but disappeared entirely, as if it had never been there in the first place. In fact, she felt healthier than ever, rejuvenated somehow. Removing her tampon, Marla was stunned by its dryness. She had expected to see lots of blood, but there was very little. And what scant blood was there had already taken on that deep brown color, like autumnal leaves turned to rust. She was puzzled about how her flow could have diminished after such an aggressive bout of pain. She pressed some tissue paper between her legs and inspected it. Marla could now see that her menses hadn’t just diminished, they had stopped . There was nothing on the tissue paper—not a trace of blood at all.

Beyond the green belt, towards the beach, Pietro lay in bed trying to masturbate to some memories of a blonde he’d fucked on the beach one night in Palermo. He couldn’t remember her name, or where she was from—some Eurotrash from the East no doubt—but he had clear memories of seducing her back to the beach and doing her over the bank of a sand dune. He tried desperately to fixate on an image of her ass, pale and round as two full moons, but try as he might he just couldn’t stay hard. He grunted in frustration as his dick went limp in his hand, vowing that he had to do something about this; he needed to feel alive again. Life on the damned island was sapping his virility. Pietro concentrated on a mental facsimile of Marla’s face. Maybe this new blood could, well, give him some new blood. He traced the line of her mouth around the head of his cock with the digit he lovingly referred to as his “pussy finger”. Oh, wait. There was a little stirring in his loins. It was a start.

Something else stirred on the island too, a presence that sensed its time was coming. A sudden shift in the seasons. It churned the waves in the sea like a great invisible oar. It rattled the branches of the trees and hissed through their leaves. The birds flapped their wings and stopped singing for a few moments, as if steeling themselves for changes yet to come.

As the days passed, Marla found herself becoming accustomed to her new life in paradise. Whenever Adam dropped by with a food parcel, she imagined herself the Lady of the Manor and he the faithful servant. They drank coffee together outside the summerhouse and got to know a little more about one another. Adam was a business school dropout, who had gotten into the security profession after a brief stint as a volunteer at summer camps. Gradually, Marla opened up to Adam, regaling him with tales of her wilder days and nights in London. At points the conversation became a little muted, whenever Marla began to dwell on the past. She made a mental note to avoid sounding too maudlin in future—nobody likes a Moaning Minnie after all. But there was lots of laughter too, with Adam making fun of Marla’s “posh English accent” whenever he could. She enjoyed his easy humor, and his company in general, but after a time she began to feel there was a downside ( isn’t there always ). This was her thing; Marla was actually beginning to wonder if there was something “wrong” with her. Waiting for Adam to make a move was becoming something of a thankless task. She wasn’t enjoying the way his visits had descended into a routine indiscernable from the systematic list of chores she had to perform daily up at the house. The initial relaxation of her first few days on the island had turned into a kind of breathless tension—a cycle of expectation and disappointment that left her feeling very much like a tightly coiled spring. Mopping the huge expanse of kitchen floor at the house became an act of aggression and perhaps most disturbingly, Marla had begun chattering to herself like some insane old washerwoman. This wasn’t good, she’d decided, and so opted to visit Jessie in the hope of getting good and loaded on her secret stash—and to hell with the hangover.

“Ah, you’ve got cabin fever already,” said Jessie with an evil twinkle in her eye, “Pietro’s gonna be gloating, that bastard. He said you’d only last a week. I had you down for at least a month.”