Chapter 1
I haven’t touched a human in three years. That seems like it would be a difficult task, but it’s not. Not anymore, thanks to the Internet. The Internet that makes my income possible and provides anything I could possibly want in exchange for my credit card number. I’ve had to go into the underground world for a few things, and once in that world, I decided to stock up on a few fun items, like a new identity. I am now, when necessary, Jessica Beth Reilly. I use my alias to prevent others from finding out my past. Pity is a bitch I’d like to avoid. The underground provides a plethora of temptations, but so far, with one notable exception, I’ve stayed away from illegal arms and unregistered guns. I know my limits.
The UPS man knows me by now—knows to leave my boxes in the hall and to scrawl my name on his signature pad. His name is Jeremy. About a year ago, he was sick, and a stranger came to my door. He refused to leave the package without seeing me. I almost opened the door and went for his box cutters. They almost always carry box cutters. That’s one of the things I love about deliverymen. Jeremy hasn’t been sick since then. I don’t know what I’ll ever do if he quits. I like Jeremy, and from my warped peephole view, there is a lot about him to like.
The first shrink I had said I have anthropophobia, which is fear of human interaction. Anthropophobia, mixed with a healthy dose of cruorimania, which is obsession with murder. He told me that via Skype. In exchange for his psychological opinions, I watched him jack off. He had a little cock.
While I may go out of my way to avoid physical human interaction, virtual human interaction is what I spend all day doing. To the people I cam with, I am JessReilly19, a bubbly nineteen year old college student—a hospitality major—who enjoys pop music, underage drinking, and shopping. None of them really know the true me. I am who they want me to be, and they like it like that. So do I.
Knowing the real me would be a bit of a buzz kill. The real me is Deanna Madden, whose mother killed her entire family, then committed suicide. I inherited a lot from my mother, including delicate features and dark hair, but the biggest genetic inheritance was her homicidal tendencies. That’s the reason I stay away from people. Because I want to kill. Constantly. It’s almost all I think about.
Over the last three years, I’ve learned how to optimize my income. From 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. I use a site called Sexnow.com, which has a clientele of mostly Asians, Europeans, and Australians. From 6 p.m. to 11 p.m., I’m on American turf, on Cams.com. In between shifts, I eat, workout, shower, and return emails—always in that order.
Whenever possible, I try to get clients to use my personal website and also make appointments. If they go through my website, I make 96.5% of their payout, plus I can hide the income from Uncle Sam. The camsites only pay me 28%, which officially constitutes as highway robbery. I charge $6.99 a minute. On a good month, I make around $55,000 and on a bad one, about $30,000.
Camming makes up seventy percent of my income; the rest comes from my website, which allows men to watch my live video feed. I broadcast at least four hours a day and charge subscribers twenty bucks a month. I wouldn’t pay ten cents to watch me masturbate online, but apparently two hundred and fifty subscribers feel differently.
The $6.99 a minute grants clients the ability to bare their sexual secrets and fantasize to their heart’s content, without fear of exposure or criticism. I don’t judge the men and women who chat with me and reveal their secrets and perversions. How can I? My secret, my obsession, is worse than any of theirs. To contain it, I do the only thing I can. I lock myself up. And in doing so, I keep myself, and everyone else, safe.
Sometimes I allow myself to be delusional. To daydream. At those times I tell myself that one day I will be happy—that I am banking all of this money so I can move to the Caribbean and lie on the beach. But I know that if I did that, the sand would be covered in blood soon enough.
I try to sleep at least eight hours a night. Nighttime is when I typically struggle the most. It is when I thirst for blood, for gore. So Simon Evans and me have an agreement. Simon lives three doors down from me in this shithole that we all call an apartment complex. He has, over the last three years, developed a strong addiction to prescription painkillers. I keep his medicine bottle filled, and he locks me up at night. My door is, without a doubt, the only one in the complex without a deadbolt switch on the inside.
I used to have Marilyn do it. She’s a grandmotherly type who struggles by on the pittance that is her social security. She lives across from Simon. But Marilyn stressed out too much; she was always worried that I would have some personal emergency, or fire, or something, and would need to get out. I had to find someone else. Because I worried over what was coming. At night, my fingers would start to itch, and I would come close to picking up that phone, to asking her to unlock my door. And then I would wait beside it, wait for the tumblers to move and my door to be unlocked. And when I opened it, when I saw Marilyn’s lined and tired face, I would kill her. Not immediately. I would stab her a few times, leaving some life in her, and wait for her to run, to scream. I like the sound of screams—real screams, not the pathetic excuse that most movies tried to pass off as the sound of terror. Then I would chase her down and finish the job, as slowly as I could. Dragging out her pain, her agony, her realization that she had caused her own death. I had gotten to the point where I had picked out a knife, started to keep it in the cardboard box that sat by the door and held my outgoing mail and various crap. That was when I knew I was getting too close. That was when I picked Simon instead. Simon’s addiction supersedes any concern he has for my well-being.
Chapter 2
Simon
I have exceptional hearing in my left ear and enjoy sitting against my sixth floor apartment door, listening to the activities going on in the hall. It’s amazing how much people give away on their way from the elevator to their apartment. Sometimes people step out of their apartment for “privacy,” a fact I find hilarious. From my door side seat, I hear the fights, the secret phone conversations, and the everyday normalcy that gives away so much about a person.
Simon was, for a long time, the “Brown-Haired Smoker.” I keep a notebook next to the door, in the cardboard box. In it, I have a page dedicated to every resident on our floor, including myself. There were fifteen ‘Sixers,’ as I like to refer to us, and when Simon moved in, “The Brown-Haired Smoker” is what I wrote on the top of the page.
He moved in with a girl who, as best I could tell from my peephole, was one step above trailer trash. They were arguing, carrying black trash bags full of crap, and her voice interrupted his twice between the elevator and their door. I started a page for her and titled it “Trailer Trash Tonya.” I later found out her name was Beth, and she worked at Applebee’s. Two weeks after moving in, they got in a fight, she moved out, and I threw away her page. From the words of their parting, she would not be coming back.
In return for my containment, I keep Simon’s prescriptions current. Vicodin is his latest addiction, and from his level of dependence, it is a demanding tyrant. Simon understands that if he ever unlocks me, ever releases me before morning, his prescriptions will stop, and his addiction will go hungry. He doesn’t realize he might die at my hand.
Chapter 3
Annie
Annie sat on one of the high stools in her kitchen, kicking the baseboard of the bar top, which caused her stool to slowly spin, right then left. Her book bag, the edges frayed from three years of use, slumped against the bar, exhausted from a day of reading, writing, and riding the bus.
“Stop that,” her mother said—not turning—the sound from Annie’s kicks grating on her nerves. She stirred a bowl of pink icing, Annie’s birthday cake cooling next to her on the counter. Seven candles were laid in a line next to the cake, along with a jar of sprinkles.
Annie stopped, using her hands instead, to spin her stool. She looked at the digital display of the old microwave above the stove. 3:49 p.m. Over two hours ‘til her party. She pushed off the stool, the worn soles of her sneakers smacking against the kitchen’s clean linoleum floor as she headed to the round table, pushed into one corner of the kitchen. Rounding the table slowly, she ran her hands over the tops of the bright and sparkly packaged plastic bags, stuffed with candy, markers, and packets of stickers. Ten favors in all, for her ten best friends. Hearing her father’s call, she turned from the table and ran, following the sound of his voice ‘til she reached his chair, set up in the living room.
Her father wanted company, so Annie sat in the living room with him, her feet tucked under her, curled into the corner of the couch. Their dog, a mutt that had scratched at the trailer door for two weeks before her mother finally relented and welcomed him in, jumped up beside her, circling twice before settling in, snug against her body. His wire bristle black and grey hair scratched her bare leg, and she reached out a small hand and patted his head. His tail thumped, slow and steady, and he opened one eye to look contentedly at her. He was a good dog, but what she really wanted was a kitty—one with soft fur and big eyes, who would curl up in bed with her at night.
“How was school?” Her father’s voice was creaky, roughened by too many years of cigarettes and coughing. He reached for his tea, and drops of condensation dripped down the side, landing with a soft splat on the worn surface of the table.
“It was good, Daddy.”
“You like first grade?”
On TV, a soda commercial came on, and Annie watched a bejeweled pop star singing and dancing through a crowded street. “I guess.”
“How’s your teacher? Miss Parakeet, is that her name?”
She dissolved into giggles and reached out and pinched her father’s arm. “It’s Miss Sparrow, Daddy. I’ve told you that, like eight times.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I get confused.” He grinned at her and tousled the top of her blond head. “Excited about your party?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Super excited, Daddy.”
Chapter 4
DoctorPat92
MALE ASS PLAY: Many men find anal sex pleasurable, and some may reach orgasm through anal penetration—by stimulation of the prostate in men. Pegging is the term for sexual practice in which a woman penetrates a man’s anus with a strap-on dildo.1 The National Institutes of Health, with information published in the British Medical Journal, states, “There is little published data on how many heterosexual men would like their anus to be sexually stimulated in a heterosexual relationship,” but that it is a substantial number. What data we do have almost all relate to penetrative sexual acts, and the superficial contact of the anal ring with fingers or the tongue is even less well documented, but may be assumed to be a common sexual activity for men of all sexual orientations.”2
A client’s username can tell me a lot about the person. With descriptive usernames, like DoctorPat92 or 1HotLawyer, it is often who they are or who they wish they were. Numbers in a username typically stand for a child’s birth year, their graduation year, or their age. I have a lot of “doctors” that pass through my chat room, but DoctorPat is, for once, an actual doctor. And, as you might guess, I occasionally have a need for one.
DoctorPat92’s real name is Dr. Patrick Henton. He is a fifty-five year old general practitioner in a little town in Maine called Buckfield. According to reviews on Google, he is well liked and competent, though I don’t know how competent the sole doctor in a town of 1,900 people needs to be. He is more than adequate for my basic needs. A sequestered individual, with no access to the outside world, has to work pretty hard to get sick or injured. My basic needs revolve around one thing—drugs. Not for me. For Simon. I’m sure DoctorPat thinks I am the painkiller addict. I don’t really care what DoctorPat thinks. He writes me prescriptions, and I watch him take eight-inch dildos. . . .
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