M Sellars - The End Of Desire

In front of me, there is a nude man tied to the bed, a standard clothesline rope criss-crossing beneath the metal frame and securing tightly to his wrists and ankles. An extra loop of the rope is visible around his neck. The reason for it becomes clear as I watch him struggling against the bonds. Each time he pulls against them, the noose tightens and he begins to choke. I can actually hear the distant echoes of him gagging, muffled though they are, as his mouth is covered with a wide swath of duct tape which is wound about his head and lower face.

I watch as, with each desperate twist or pull, the rope bites deeper into his throat, forcing him to cease his fight. A look of suddenly realized terror is filling his eyes, and between each bout of choking himself, he lets out a nasal whine.

I know that seeing this should disturb me, but it doesn’t. Not in the way that it should.

What actually does disturb me is that I feel no compassion as I watch him. No empathy. But, even that isn’t the worst of it. If I was feeling nothing at all, perhaps I could make sense of my uncharacteristic disregard by attributing it to a forced clinical detachment.

But, unfortunately, that isn’t the case.

I am feeling something.

I am amused.

Worse than that, the tickle has returned, and I am becoming increasingly aroused by his plight.

Though the immediate feelings I had sensed upon entering the room had been a combination of both killer and victim, my primary concern for my own safety had been in regard to him. Not her. While I’d had my brushes with channeling killers, they were always alive when I had done so. Though I knew that this one, or at least part of her, wasn’t, I hadn’t considered it as fully as I should have, and now that changed everything.

The dead were the ones who spoke loudest in my head, and they were the ones who most often tried to pull me deeper into their world in an effort to make me understand. I suppose I couldn’t blame them for trying to get their points across any way they could. Dead or not, everyone has a story to tell, and it helps if someone will listen.

But, this one didn’t just want someone to listen. She wanted someone to control. Though I could feel the victim and hear his anguish, he was a bit player on this mental stage. Miranda had a far stronger presence, and she intended to dominate the scene now-just as she had done then.

That was one of the problems with channeling. It didn’t really matter what you as the channeler wanted or even what you personally found to be distasteful. You were simply a conduit, and it was all about the likes and dislikes of the one flowing through you.

I definitely didn’t want Miranda this close to me, but it was too late. She was already inside my head, or I obviously wouldn’t be feeling the things I did. It was this realization that I clung to, using it as a shield against her onslaught and denying her control over me. My gut feeling was that I needed to cut and run right away because I no longer feared becoming her victim, I was afraid of becoming her. Given the pure insanity of that very thought, I was starting to believe all of this wasn’t just a risky move-it was a flat out mistake.

But, I also knew that if I left now, I would leave empty-handed. All the deception and trespassing I had engaged in so far were only worth the gamble if I was going to have something to show for them in the end. I had to keep going until I found something tangible that would help me locate-and stop-both of these killers.

Of course, a raging psychosexual event that might possibly leave me blithering in ethereal bliss was definitely not the result I needed, especially when one considered the imagery that would bring it about. Unfortunately, that seemed to be where this was all heading, and very quickly at that.

Since running wasn’t an option, I decided maybe I should find a different way to approach all of this. But, before I could do that, I was going to have to back out of the path I had already taken.

I started to stand up but found I was once again frozen in place, unable to make myself move. I chose to try the same thing I had done earlier-I blinked hard and willed the image to go away

But, when my eyes fluttered open, it remained. In fact, it seemed even more tangible than it had before. It looked real enough to reach out and touch, and I even found that I had to stop myself from doing just that.

Trying again, I drew in a deep breath, shut my eyes, then slipped my thumb and forefinger beneath the rim of my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. After a moment, I let the breath slowly out through my mouth and allowed my hand to fall. With trepidation, I opened my eyes once again.

He still hadn’t gone away, and now it was even worse- because he had company.

The new arrival in question was a petite redhead, and it was visibly obvious from what I saw happening in front of me that she was this poor man’s worst nightmare. Unfortunately, he was not alone in that, as she was mine too.

I had a sense, within the vision at least, that a good deal of time had passed between what I had been witnessing moments ago and what I was seeing now. It appeared that the man was still alive, but judging from the visible wounds, blood, and burn marks on his face, I could only surmise that Miranda was well into his torture at this point.

As I watched, conflict stormed through my brain in the form of internal voices locked in a heated debate. One of them was demanding in no uncertain terms that I close my eyes or look away immediately. It was telling me I should do whatever it takes to break this connection. I knew in my gut this was the voice I should be listening to, but it was only one of the three bickering inside my skull; and, the other two were ganging up on it.

The second voice was countering that if I didn’t watch what was being offered, everything I had risked would be for naught. It was telling me I might miss a vital clue that would allow me to stop her. While that had once been a valid point, I wasn’t so sure if I believed it anymore.

The real problem was the second voice’s partner in all this. It was the one that worried me most. It came to me as little more than a murmur of support for the heretofore failing argument; however, I wasn’t completely fooled. I could sense that it had its own agenda with a horribly dark intent. But, even more frightening than its intent was the power it seemed to carry with it. I only wished that I had recognized that fact a bit sooner because it wasn’t until it had all but assumed control that I realized the source-it had joined forces with the sickeningly pleasant tickle that had been set loose in my body, and together they were drowning out all good sense and reason. As I had feared, Miranda was trying me on for size.

Even as I fought to maintain control, my tenuous grip on my perceived reality faltered, and the vision stepped in to take its place.

Though I can see her only in profile, I swear that my wife is in front of me at this very moment, sitting astride the bound man. She is positioned such that she is pitched backward; her arms are outstretched behind her, straining and rigid. Her hands are clamped firmly to his thighs as she supports herself. Her back is arched, and her chest is rising and falling at a quickened pace. I can hear her panting just as I can hear the man’s muffled squeals of agony.

She has one stocking-clad leg extended in front of her, bent slightly at the knee, and I see the muscles of her calf flexing as they keep a tight rhythm with her panting breaths. Her foot is pressed against the man’s upper arm, pinning it against the headboard. Her calf is flexing because she is slowly twisting her stiletto heel into the flesh of his bicep. The end of the spike disappears into the deep depression it has created, and blood is oozing from the wound.