Dim
by Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve

   I do not exist.

   I am not invisible, don’t get that idea. I have substance and form, just like the rest of you. I breathe in through my nose and out of my mouth. In with the good air, out with the bad. I just don’t seem to exist. Let me explain.

   People don’t seem to see me. I mean, if I approach them and talk directly to them, fine, they’ll talk to me. But if I don’t, I’m not there. It’s as if the world has become blind to my presence. Or perhaps my presence has become dim. Either way, I’m able to watch a lot of the world go by without it knowing that I’m watching. Which is how I stumbled upon Rodney. Or rather, he stumbled upon me.

   I was sitting in the park across from my house one night, tired of an evening full of mindless television and mind numbing boredom. I had decided to take a walk and had ended up here. The neighbourhood was noisy; cars were driving by at a frightening pace, people were shouting at each other. It was 11:30pm on a Saturday, what did I expect?

   I sat and listened to the sounds around me, feeling somewhat nostalgic and wishing it was 1989 all over again so that the 1990’s would never come. It was in that decade that I somehow lost myself and lost my substance. By this point however, the wish to find myself again was like a dull tooth ache at the back of my mouth. It was there, but I could ignore it.

   After nearly twelve years of being dim, I didn’t know if I wanted to become visible again. I didn’t know if I could deal with the world that hadn’t seen me in years. I felt, for the most part, that it wasn’t worth it. What I wanted was to find out what had caused it.

   Don’t get the wrong idea though. It’s not like I woke up one morning and no one could see me. It was a progression of events. Automatic doors not opening for me, hand dryers not working no matter how many times I waved my hands in front of the censor, people budding in line in front of me at the grocery store as if I wasn’t there.

   Either way, being dim does have it’s advantages. For instance, I haven’t paid for a morning paper for years. I never have to pay for fruit off of a market stand. I never have to pay for lunches at cafeterias; I can just walk in, grab my food and walk out. I keep thinking I should something huge with this. Not like rob a bank or anything. I would never do that. But something worthwhile. Had I known what the fates had in store for me, must have been two years ago when I saw Rodney, I would have stayed home instead. I’m not a good meddler. I should of stayed in and left well enough alone.

   But the night air had called to me, had tickled my nose a little and I had no choice but to pay heed to my legs and go where they’d want me to go. I was a man without a plan, no agenda to call my own. I was free to do as I would, and I let my legs do the walking for me, taking me where they wanted to go. They obviously had a place in mind.

   I often believe that the body and the mind know things that I do not. Like, how do we avoid accidents in the nick of time, how do we avoid that pothole, that puddle, that unfortunate event. It’s as if our bodies know. Or perhaps that’s just ore rambling from an invisible fool; you decide.

   Now, just so you know, the park is fairly secluded. Most people who enter its borders are hookers, punks or those without a home. Drugs were pushed here, as well as bodies. It wasn’t a particularly nice park, just the only one around in which to do my thinking. You could do anything here, it seemed, and not get caught. It would be a perfect place for a mugging. Or a murder.

   I was so lost in my reverie that I didn’t hear anything until the man I came to know as Rodney was part way into his job at hand. I heard a rustling of the leaves and underbrush and a sound, almost as if a cat toy were being squeezed too tight. I looked around and then saw something moving on the ground in the shadows, not even fifteen feet away from me. I made my way over cautiously.

   What I first mistook to be one shape, was actually two. There was a man, dressed in dark clothes, pants down around his ankles, thrusting into a woman who lay under him. The woman didn’t look as if she were enjoying herself, however. The man had his hands wrapped like rope around her neck and her face was turning blue. The woman’s mouth was open, though no sound came out. “You’re so tight,” the man said, “How’d you get to be so tight for Rodney? That’s it, honey, that’s it.” He thrust into her, oblivious of my presence.

   There was a muffled cry from the woman. This turned out to be the last sound she ever made on this Earth. Her dying only seemed to drive Rodney to frenzy. He rammed into her now, his hands crushing her neck until there was a barley audible crack of a neck bone. He grabbed handfuls of her hair as he pulled out of her, his cock dripping. He thrust his penis into her mouth and came all over her face with a stifled groan.

   This all happened in a matter of minutes. I could do nothing but watch, hypnotized by something that I had never before witnessed: the death of a human being. I had never seen anything so shocking to the system, never heard a sound as audible as that last breath, the braking of bone. I shivered, though it was a warm night.

   Why didn’t I do anything? I asked myself. Why did I just stand here and watch? I resolved to myself, then and there, that I would follow Rodney. I didn’t know what I would find trailing him, but perhaps I would find a way to contact the dead woman’s family.

   Rodney, finished, but still hard, stuffed his penis back in his pant, stood and lifted the woman onto his shoulders. He brought her to a car parked on the edge of the park which had been hiding better than its owner had, deep in shadow. Putting the dead woman in the back seat, I clambered in beside her before he closed the car door; I didn’t want to
give myself away. The door slammed shut and I was sitting in the back seat of the car with the body of a dead woman.

   I wasn’t sure where Rodney was going, probably going to get rid of any left over evidence. I sat for a while, perhaps five minutes, listening to the sound of the car around me. The creak of the leather upholstery, the wind was picking up outside the car.

   I inhaled. I had never smelled a dead person before, and I suppose it was never to late. I breathed in through my nose, smelling a light perfume. My aunt had worn it for a time. It was feathery light and almost disgustingly sweet. It made me want to vomit.

   The woman’s hair was dishevelled, and I straightened it out as best I could. It was quite a thrill to touch a dead woman. I wondered….what was the attraction of molesting the dead? Was there some thrill that lay underneath their skin, some enzyme that comes out only after death that renders the dead sexually attractive?

   Curious, I touched the woman’s collar bone. Her shirt was still open, revealing her right breast and it’s nipple, still pink, still hard. I touched it, ever so lightly. However, instead of forcing the urge to touch the dead out of my body (I had been expecting revulsion at touching such an intimate part of a deceased woman’s body) it excited me. I felt a hum under my skin that set my loins on fire.

   Rodney returned, pulling the drivers side door open. I withdrew my hand from the woman’s breast and slumped down in the back seat, so as not to be observed. I wanted to go on this voyage with Rodney. I’m sure he had some interesting things to show me.

   The ride to Rodney’s place was uneventful except for his talking. He talked to her. It was almost a constant monologue of speech that lasted just shy of half an hour. I had no idea where I was now and I didn’t care. All that cared was discovering what I had come to think of as The Secret. Why molest the dead? What was the attraction? Rodney kept talking and I had no choice but to listen.

   “I should take the eyes out,” he said, “because when you all look at me, I feel as if the world is going to crash, bang, BOOM!” He laughed the stilted falsetto laugh of a teenager not quite comfortable with the world. “All of you do that to me, did you know that, Hailey?” Hailey, I thought, the woman’s name was Hailey. “You are the prettiest of the bunch, your tits are so fucking perky, it’s no wonder I chose you. God…” there was the sound of a zipper being opened. I watched as Rodney pulled out his penis and began jerking off in earnest. He was going to masturbate while he was driving. Well, my good friend Rodney really was a thrill seeker.

   He came fast, still pumping his cock with a ruthless enthusiasm that showed little regard for his heath or the state of his penis. He covered the dashboard with cum, but wasn’t worried enough to wipe it off, apparently. Now the car, heat turned up, smelled of human waste (the woman’s bowels had let go), sweat, cum and cheap over the counter perfume.

   Salvation wasn’t that far away, though. Not five minutes later, Rodney stopped in front of what I took to be his house. It was large, nondescript and plain. Just the kind of place I figured a necrophiliac murderer would live. Out of the gaze of the public eye.

   Rodney came to the back of the car, opened the door and hoisted Hailey out and on to his shoulders. I eased out of the car, before he could close the door. The last thing I needed was for his car alarm to go off if I tried to get out of the car when he wasn’t there. Then Rodney would be alert and looking for something. He would see me.

   He made his way to a backdoor that was padlocked. He undid the lock with a key from around his neck and started down a flight of stairs. I realized, with a jolt, that he was going down to the cellar beneath the house. I followed him down and watched as he set Hailey with slight reverence on the floor and went back upstairs to close the door. A
light went on.

   The room was filled, wall to wall, with dead bodies. Mostly woman and a few men looked at me with their glassy eyes. They were all chained, arms up, to the wall above them. They were all ready; it seemed, for easy insertion, easy access. They were ready for Rodney, I thought.

   Rodney came back down the stairs, naked and hard. I could feel an erection growing in my pants, hard and fast, as I watched Rodney chain Hailey to the wall, as I watched him thrust into her.

   Quiet, so as not to disturb Rodney, I took my own penis out of my pants. I looked around the room. A world of possibilities awaited me in this cellar and I planned to leave here a changed man…….

©2003 Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve

Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve is a young writer living in Ottawa Ontario Canada. His work has been published in numerous magazines including the following: Mytholog Magazine, Green Man Review, Clean Sheets Erotica Magazine, Slow Trains Literary Journal, Adult Story Corner, Shoe String Poetry, Muse It Magazine and the Everymans Journal. He also runs a web site for writers entitled Reflections of the Muse. (http://crowswolf.tripod.com/reflectionsofthemuse/)