M Sellars - The End Of Desire

Colors bloomed as realities once again shifted, and I found myself back in the motel room alone. The roller coaster ride of channeled visions was tossing me haphazardly about and depositing me wherever its whim desired. Not particularly unusual as such ethereal events go, but I didn’t think I would ever get used to it.

I blinked.

I remembered Ben telling me before I ever boarded the plane to come here that he was looking at a picture of Annalise and that she was a dead ringer for Felicity. I suppose, however, that simply hearing someone say something like that makes it easy to discount their opinion. Even though I hadn’t seen the picture myself, I was positive that I, of all people, would have no trouble telling the two women apart. After all, I had been married to one of them for almost fifteen years, so surely I would know my own wife.

However, at this moment my personal perception was no longer crystal clear on that point.

Without thinking, I muttered aloud, “Felicity?”

Her name tumbled into the room wrapped in a question. I knew the woman I had just seen in front of me couldn’t possibly be my wife, but the image was truly beyond uncanny.

As if triggered by my question, the light overhead bloomed, and I once again found myself with at least one foot in a different plane of existence.

I can hear my own voice echoing in the room as I utter my wife’s name.

Though her breathing never alters from its frantic pace, the woman suddenly jerks as if startled. Pushing herself forward, she sits up, still straddling the man. She stops twisting her heel then drops her foot down to the bed, and her victim is given a momentary reprieve from his agony. Cocking her head to one side, she appears to be listening intently, as if she hears my voice as well.

Slowly she turns toward me.

I study her face as she looks through me, creasing her brow. I can begin to see the differences in her features, but not at first glance, or even the second for that matter. I takes a long moment before I am certain that I am not looking at my wife.

I remember hearing it said that everyone has a doppelganger somewhere on the planet. Whether or not that is a scientific fact I cannot begin to say, but given the vision now staring me in the face, I am inclined to believe it. This woman can almost pass as Felicity Caitlin O’Brien’s twin.

She turns, and showing little concern for her victim, she drags her now bloody heel across him as she climbs from the bed. She slowly saunters toward the window at the front of the room and stands there, still listening for a repeat of the sound.

Though not fully nude as is her victim, she is scantily dressed. What little of her wardrobe there is consists of black lace and patent leather. Her red hair cascades in a loose spiraling fall down her back. It feels hot in the room, and I can see that her exposed ivory skin is damp with sweat. It glistens in dim light as she remains still except for the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. On her left shoulder, I can see what appears to be a tattoo of a stylized triskele.

I have seen it before. It is the mystery veve from the previous crime scenes.

After several minutes she reaches out and slips a finger between the slats of the blinds. Slowly, she presses down, opening a small gap through which she carefully peers.

I watch her as she tilts her head from side to side until finally she is satisfied that no one is there. Turning, she saunters back to the bed and looks down at the bound victim.

“Don’t worry, little man. It was nothing,” she says to him in a sweet drawl. She takes a moment to flip an errant shock of hair back over her shoulder then adds with a feigned pout, “Of course, that nothing interrupted me, so I guess we’ll just have to start over.”

Sliding one knee onto the bed, she dips forward and scoops something into her hand before bringing the other leg up. Kneeling next to him, she smiles sweetly and holds up a stun gun.

“Ready?” she asks.

He begins to buck against the bonds, a scream caught behind the duct tape gag and diverting to exit in the form of a short, nasally whine through his nose before being unceremoniously cut off as he chokes.

“Good,” she giggles. “So am I. Just remember, I love you.”

With a wicked grin, she leans forward and presses the business end of the device against his bare genitals and squeezes the trigger.

I buckle and begin falling backward as I feel his pain.

But what’s worse is that I also feel her pleasure.

In that moment everything shifted, and the three-dimensional quality of the vision flattened then faded in a bloom of light. I could instantly sense that I had stepped back into my own world, but both the sensation of pain and arousal remained.

Though I had felt myself falling, I found that in reality I hadn’t moved at all. I was still squatting next to the bed, staring directly ahead, just as I had been at the beginning. I did notice, however, that I was holding my breath. I let it out with a heavy sigh. My eyes were itching and dry, so I closed them, but the moment I did so I feared I would regret the action. It seemed that blinking was getting me into a lot of trouble right now. Still, I knew that sitting here forever with my eyes closed wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I steeled myself in preparation for the onslaught of another round and allowed them to flutter open.

This time, the vision was still gone.

Letting out another sigh, this one of a semi-relieved nature, I rocked back on my heels and stood upright. Reaching to my face, I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes. Slipping the spectacles back on, I gazed around the room. Everything was just as it had been when I entered. Nothing had changed, no matter how real the things I had just witnessed may have felt.

Making a slow half turn exactly where I stood, I finally wandered back to the small room housing the vanity. Removing my glasses once again, I twisted on the faucet and cupped my hands beneath it. Bending over the sink, I first pressed one handful of water against my face and then another. After a third, I turned the water off and leaned forward with my knuckles on the vanity as I stood there dripping into the basin.

The phantom pain in my groin had faded away, but the sense of arousal had only grown stronger. It was still distinctly feminine, however, and was as odd to me as it was pleasant. Of course, it also made me feel terribly ill.

“Gods, Gant…” I muttered to myself. “Just get the hell out of here while you’re still sane.”

“Gant?” her honey dipped drawl floats into my ears. “So that’s who you are.”

I am still standing at the basin, and I know the voice has come from behind me. Without bothering to dry my face, I pick up my glasses and slip them on then turn to look out into the main room.

She is perched on the edge of the bed, on the side nearest me. But, she has changed. Her hair is dark auburn and piled atop her head in a soft swirl reminiscent of a long ago era, which matches the high-necked Victorian dress she now wears. What I see of her face is stern, and far more oval shaped than before.

She is seated next to the headboard, and I can still see the man sprawled out behind her. He appears the same although there seems to be far more wounds on his body than there had been before.

She flickers like a frame jumping on a movie at the theater.

Her hair is once again fiery red and long. She is back to being a scantily dressed mirror image of my wife. She uncrosses her legs and re-crosses them in the opposite direction, stretching one out as she does so. She smoothes her stocking carefully then regards it with little emotion.

“Damn,” she says, her voice flat. “A run.”

She still hasn’t looked in my direction, and I begin to think that perhaps I was simply hearing things. I begin to turn away.