Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

In what some called the afterglow, the brunette lay limp on the bed, naked, satiated, almost as if she were already deceased, but for the gentle rising and lowering of the generous breasts.

His time on stage, on camera, was over.

He arose and left the room to take his place behind the camera. There would be no elaborate camera moves; this was strictly D.W. Griffith — level cinema, because the camera behind the two-way mirror needed to appear to have remained stationary.

All he had to do now was look through the viewfinder at the action — his voiceover would be dropped in, in post-production.

The most important part of shooting the video was to make sure he didn’t catch his sister when she came on stage, as his “stuntman” (stuntwoman? stuntperson?) .

Off-camera, his sister entered with her usual swift grace, as nude as their day player but even more beautiful, supple, sleek, exquisite in her hairless beauty. She moved past her hidden cameraman, knife in hand held behind her back.

Camera trained on the brunette, his sister’s white skin soon entered frame, luminous in the soft light of the room, her pink nipples hard and erect as she moved toward the bed.

(His sister’s approach was Method, too — she lived her role, sense memory her thing.)

The day player’s mouth opened, but she did not show the shock of the others at this other naked (bald all over) woman entering the room. This one licked her bottom lip.

“Kinky,” she managed. “I’m... I’m liking this...”

She soon wouldn’t.

When his sister neared the bed and revealed and raised the knife, the woman’s face registered the requisite surprise.

Through the eyepiece, he and the camera were focused on the day player’s face, intrigued by the way this minor actress played the scene — startled at first, then giving in to resignation.

Interesting choice.

The blade arced down, the day player watching but not moving as its spear neared her neck. She, like the others, never even raised a hand in defense as the blade punctured, then slashed through flesh, blood spraying from the severed carotid artery.

Only then did the day player’s hands move to her wound, even as his sister brought the knife back and then in from a lower angle, piercing the woman’s abdomen so deep the blade might have poked out the other side.

Again and again, the blade penetrated the young woman, much as earlier he had with his dagger of flesh, his sister crying out in orgiastic fury with every thrust until, finally, the attacker moaned loudly and slumped into a ball on the floor, the day player splayed out before her, a roadmap of bloody wounds.

Now his sister, coming down from her homicidal high, lay quietly satiated. He liked that. There was a nice, artistic symmetry to it.

He had followed his sister’s descent with the camera, but that would be edited out for the video. Well, later, when all the Don Juan videos came out, in uncut director’s editions, the full sequence would at last be seen.

He helped her up and walked her to the bathroom. She was exhausted — it always reminded him of when James Brown had to be led offstage by his retinue, only he didn’t have a red velvet robe to wrap around his sister, much as she deserved one.

While she showered, he returned to the set with that familiar melancholy for when the play was over. The woman on the bed was just another inanimate object to him. Another prop. Gradually, however, during the cleanup process, the women did transcend that status.

His supplies readied beforehand, he knelt next to the body, even as the blood still dripped. Oddly, he enjoyed this part of the experience most of all — somehow, he felt more intimate with the women, after the camera had stopped rolling and his sister was off showering. Only then were he and each day player truly alone together... soft towels and gentle soap, and a woman more than just naked, opened up so he could see inside.

The blood was still wet, so it came off easily. Barely had to scrub. This one’s eyes were closed, her face peaceful despite the way her scene had ended, almost as if she were enjoying his soapy touch. As if any moment she might sit up and smile and thank him for being so careful and gentle...

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered to her.

Her head seemed to shift slightly on the pillow, in affirmation, as he leaned on the mattress, allowing him easier access to the wound in her neck. He cleaned the gash as best he could, and the area around it.

Her hair would be hardest to clean — no point in putting that off. Her dark tresses still felt soft and thick between his fingers as he used a wet towel to wipe them, taking care with each lock, as if fearful a rough touch might pull her hair and cause discomfort.

When finally he finished, he regarded the day player — she looked as though she had just stepped from a shower. The only remaining red spots were the open wounds, but nothing was to be done about that.

For some reason he thought of the old man.

He hated the old son of a bitch — dead or not. Their mother fleeing his abuse, the nighttime visits to brother and sister... then the evil bastard had to go fall over dead before they were of maturity enough to do something about him.

Daddy, in dying, had done them one big favor — with the old man gone, and when they were of legal age, they had sold the farm, the proceeds allowing them to move to LA and leave the heartless heartland behind.

Ironic — the old man had made it possible for them to come to the fame capital of the world, where he and his sister at last could be somebodies. Where they would be rich and famous and powerful.

It had taken longer to “make it” than they hoped, and they were taking what some might consider an unconventional path... but they weren’t helpless anymore.

Screw you, you old bastard!

Funny that the only way to be somebody in this town was to pretend to be somebody else. But that’s show biz!

When their day player was ready for her final curtain call — No small roles, only small actors! — he went off in search of his sister. She was gone from the shower, towel hung up, mirror fogged.

He found her in his bedroom, the black womb room, already in bed, covers tight at her neck.

“You all right, Sis?”

“Yes...”

Her voice was tiny, childlike, as when she would ask him to comfort her after the old man was done.

“... but I’d be better if you held me.”

“Let me get my shower first,” he said. “I just finished with the day player. Feel kinda dirty.”

“Go get clean,” his sister said.

He was in and out of the shower in five minutes; he lingered to watch the blood from their victim rinse down the drain, like in Psycho . That Hitchcock was good.

As he toweled off, his thoughts turned to the only woman he ever loved. The only woman he ever really wanted, in the... you know way.

But he knew better than to put his thing in his own sister. That would be sick and dirty and no shower could wash it off. His old man never understood such a simple basic moral rule, but he did.

Naked, he crawled in bed next to her. She was on her side, back to him. She, too, was nude. Hairless as a grape. He spooned her, his arm draped across her. She was so warm it was like standing in front of the space heater back on the farm.

Snuggling him, she made a sound a lot like purring.

“That’s better,” she said. “I love you.”

In the darkness, feeling her against him, he said, “I love you too, Sis.”

Her hand reached back and touched him, worked him. His hand slipped around and found the warm moist place and they comforted each other.