M Sellars - The End Of Desire

I blinked hard in the darkness then forced myself to relax and simply observe. I didn’t know how long I would be able to actually accomplish that feat, but for now it worked, and that was enough to allow me to move once again. Taking a pair of steps farther inward, I twisted in place, carefully shut the door, and then flipped on the light switch before turning back to scan the interior.

It looked much as I had imagined it would. Cheap paneling covered the walls, leading upward from dark institutional grade carpeting and ending at an off-white acoustically textured ceiling. A single light fixture clung to the center of that light-colored plane, spreading luminance downward from a pair of medium wattage bulbs.

A full bed all but dominated the narrow room, jutting out from the wall to my left. It had already been stripped of linens, but the vinyl mattress cover showed several rusted smears of varying size and shape that I suspected were the product of blood that had soaked through the sheets. Along the wall to my right was a low dresser with a television perched on its marred top.

Also to the right of center, on the back wall was a doorway leading into a small room housing a vanity-style sink and dressing mirror; left of that, on the perpendicular wall I could see what was most likely the door to the shower and toilet. Oddly, in the far left corner of the main room, a table lamp and telephone sat on the floor between two outdated chairs. A small, round table that looked like it might have originally made a home beneath them was sidled up close to the head of the bed.

I stepped slowly through the space, negotiating the tight area between the foot of the mattress and the short bureau. All the while I was fighting against feelings of arousal. Under different circumstances I am sure I would have considered it a pleasant sensation, but at the moment it seemed sick and twisted. It kept hammering at me, gaining ground with each shuffling step I took.

I paused again and took a deep breath, focusing instead on the pounding headache I’d been trying so hard to forget. The pain wasn’t exactly what I would call welcome, but it was preferable to the sickening idea of being turned on by what had happened here, and that was the ethereal sensation I needed to deny.

Extreme arousal was almost too mild a description for the feeling that had been coming over me as I stood out on the walkway, and now that I was directly exposed to the scene, the excitation was taking over. Though I was alone and had no need to speak, what little of my rational self that remained wanted desperately to put what I was feeling into words. However, try as I might, nouns, adjectives and any other modifier for that matter had become all but meaningless. I could think of no way to accurately convey the sensation with simple syllables. Even the verbal theatrics of an adult film didn’t seem as though they would do it justice.

I had felt something very similar to this at the crime scenes in Saint Louis and had thought it close to overwhelming then. I had even experienced it all first hand the night Felicity had tried to kill me while under Miranda’s control. However, each of those instances was merely a faint hint in comparison to now.

I’m sure that at the other scenes the sensation had probably been masked by a host of conflicting energies occupying the room, namely evidence technicians and cops. As for the night of my direct encounter, I was too busy dealing with my own fear to take much notice of anything else.

This, however, was different. It was the first instance in which I had been alone and unthreatened in her world. Although, whether or not I was truly unthreatened remained to be seen.

Even as I concentrated on the aching in my skull, an intense and very pleasant tickle slowly undulated through my groin. I instantly caught my breath and even felt myself rock slightly as my knees seemed to buckle momentarily. Even though it was a shock, the level of pleasure the sensation carried with it was unlike anything I had ever felt before. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of what had caused it, but at the same time it felt so amazing that I found myself consciously wishing it would happen again.

Out of reflex I looked down. Even though no one was here but me, I couldn’t keep from making a self-conscious check to be certain I wasn’t embarrassing myself. Surprisingly, given the nature and intensity of the sensation, what one would assume to be the affected body part appeared to be at rest, and nothing was out of place.

But, then, when I gave it some thought, I suppose it shouldn’t have been such a surprise after all. There was something about the sexual energy that was alien, and having been down this road before, I knew exactly what it was. The arousal was patently feminine, just as the fear was wholly masculine.

I simply stood there for at least a solid minute, maybe even two, struggling to center my thoughts on the ethereal migraine and deny the other sensation. If my ploy was truly working I couldn’t say, but since there was no repeat of the tickle, I pressed forward.

Continuing around the end of the bed, I made my way over to the table. Its surface was crusted with reddish-brown smears of dried blood in various patterns just like the mattress cover. One recognizable outline was almost certainly that of a knife or maybe even a pair of scissors. Others were not so defined, some of them large, some of them small. I had seen what Miranda had done to Officer Hobbes back in Saint Louis, so I knew mutilation was a big part of her sick turn-on. Therefore, it really wasn’t a stretch for me to imagine a severed body part or two from the victim being responsible for the more generous stains.

Here and there, around the edges of the table, a silvery glint of bi-chromatic fingerprint powder glimmered in the soft light. A basic effort to go through the motions, I assumed, because I’m sure the police didn’t really expect to find anything by way of a usable print here.

Thus far I had been observing a hands off policy, making it a point to look but not touch. I wish I could say the decision was because I didn’t want to disturb anything given that the scene had apparently not yet been cleared. However, noble as it sounded, that idea had become moot the moment I pushed open the door. I had broken the seal, so if the police needed to return in search of further evidence, I had already rendered anything they might find inadmissible because I had contaminated the room, thereby breaking the chain. I wasn’t really certain whether what I had done was a misdemeanor or a felony, or even what penalty it carried. But, I was definitely hoping I wouldn’t be finding out anytime soon.

To be painfully honest, the real reason I was keeping my hands to myself was self-preservation because I feared my inherent predisposition for uncontrolled psychometry. Simply being in this room had already bombarded me with more than I was sure I could handle, the most recent sensation being a case in point. Actually touching something could put me into a spiral, sending me through an ethereal event from which I might not recover.

It’s not like it hadn’t happened before. Over the years I’d almost died more than once while channeling homicide victims. I wasn’t too keen on it then, and I definitely wasn’t interested in becoming one of Miranda’s fatalities by proxy now.

Squatting down, I brought myself to eye level with the bed. I don’t know what I thought I was going to see from that angle, but one never knows until he tries, so I did. I panned my gaze across the tableau and tried to visualize what had gone on here one short week ago. Having had what amounted to my own firsthand experience, I expected it would be relatively easy to do. What I didn’t expect, however, was the visualization coming upon me with a vengeance.