Late... again

Mother Theresa at work

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She’s late… again.

She knows what’s coming; after the eighth time, her instincts are more accurate than an “Error Proof Test.” Her doctor can’t tell her anything she doesn’t already know. This tainted world is trying to conjure another one through her. This one will be special too -- a gift from the Champion, the real one, the one that matters. He forced her, in the way entitled athletes use the cattle around them, but she never cried rape; she's stronger with his image intact. She knows she’ll be a walking target in 9 months time. She feels vulnerable. It’s time to choose a target of her own.

Meagan’s Law makes it easy. She knows where they live, the monsters that hurt children. Not the fresh ones, they have the cops breathing down their throats so hard, watching their every move. The ones that have lost their novelty in the neighborhood; the ones people already treat as though they don’t exist, where the neighbors don’t have children to worry about. They are starved for company, for attention, attention from a young girl or a waif of a woman, attention from someone vibrant and radiant, attention from someone like Theresa.

She the perfect candidate: no tattoos, uncut -- just like he came into the world -- with an outie as the finishing touch. She finds his “type” from the court records: Blonde hair in pigtails, ankle socks, a long skirt that prevents long strides. The courtship is as short as it is easy. Catch him outside, someplace he goes to be unknown.

"Hi! Do you come her often?

Go along to whatever establishment he considers date-worthy. It was the Scotsman, this time. One of the crew might have recognized her, judging by the way he went pale when he took their order. Even if he did, they wouldn’t dare interfere. In her youth, this place seemed like a palace; memories from an old life that gnaw at her self-respect. She calls up the lines, and lowers herself enough for them to spill from her lips. The clock is running; there’s no time for pride.

"I love the fries here! They just taste so good! The crunchy ones are the best, aren’t they?

It was even easier to slip the roofies into his super-size Orange Drink. Back to his car -- old, dented, with seat-stuffing seeping from the torn pleather interior; convicts can’t demand very good pay, doubly so for molesters. He should have known better than to think this girl would go for him, but he’s not thinking so clearly now, and he’s in no shape to drive.

"It’s OK. You just relax in the back seat for a minute; I’ll be right there with you as soon as I find a quiet place to park.

He’s out for hours. She has all the time she needs to prepare, binding his knees to his chest, and his arms across it -- the fetal position, complete with a 1000-pound test weight “umbilical cord” extending from him like a ghost of the original, winding its way through the knot of his limbs, and around his neck before climbing up her thigh, and further on, to the Source.

They lay in the dry bath, the noose of her legs gripping his naked, helpless form, the back of his head resting where his understudy was taking root. The water wakes him with a start, but he can’t even struggle, weak from the drugs and bound so well, the gag quieting his attempts to plead. She runs her hand softly over his balding head. He starts to cry.

"Sshhhh. It’ll be OK. Sshhhhh. Calm down. It’ll be OK. Sshhhhhhh.

He tried again to call some strength when the water passed over his face.

"Sshhhhh. It’s almost time. It’ll be OK. You’ll see.

Not until his eyes bulged and blood ran from where she bound him does she let his water break. The flimsy tub tips and falls on its side, Theresa releases the gag, arches her back and pulls, twisting her labor to retract the gift. His mouth gasps open in the air, which catches in his throat, tangled between his Center and her Source. His first breath never comes; there is no crying. That is how it’s done.

"It’s OK. It’s OK. See? Everything’s OK.

Drenched and naked on the wet tile floor, Theresa lays on her side, one leg still draped around his still-warm body. Rubbing her belly, now.

"”Sshhhh. It’ll be OK. You’ll see. Everything will be OK.

I was thinking of posting this directly to Theresa's entry, as the description of her death magick ritual -- a shadow of her baby-killing rather than an advancement of animal sacrifice -- but I decided that this could work as its own creature, however poorly written. Not described is how she cuts out the belly buttons (remnants of the umbilical cord) to keep as the fetish. Menzoa | profile | Sep 01, 03 | 4:39 am