The Curse of the Hirudineans
by John W. Steele
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
“Milton... Milton! Have you heard one word I’ve said?” Edna’s sharp whine penetrated his doleful reverie. “That’s another habit of yours that I find quite annoying! You always seem to be lost in another world!” Edna crossed her legs, her foot fluttering back and forth like the tail of a cat.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I was just thinking; that’s all. I would never ignore you. It’s getting late, sweetie. I have to get ready for work. Will I see you tonight? I thought we might attend the paleontology exhibit at the museum. The crowd thins out after seven, and it would surely be an evening studded with surprises.”
Edna drew her arms across her chest, her gaze vacant. Her sparkling eyes lost their charm, burning now like two tiny embers. “Well Milton, I’ve been debating whether I should reveal this to you. But I see now that you’re incorrigible. I’ve met someone else, Milton. His name is Belvedere. He was a doctor in his previous incarnation. He brings me flowers and reads me poetry. Tonight he’s taking me to hear Raife Hollister and the Cosmic Cowboys.”
Milton drummed his fingers on the table and let out a heavy sigh. “Oh, Edna please don’t be this way. We’ve discussed the poetry issue in the past. I’ve explained my feelings about this subject to you before. Poetry has no meaning for a rational man. Its abstract incoherent concepts are demeaning to a man of science. That sort of babble has its root in the libido.”
Edna raised her chin and looked away. “I don’t care where it comes from, I know where it goes. Besides, I have other needs, you know... needs you’re not fulfilling.” She giggled, smiling demurely.
Like a rocket soaring towards the moon, Milton shot up from his chair, his face a dreadful shade of scarlet. “I have to get ready for work, dear. Can we carry on our discussion this evening? I will see you this evening won’t I?”
Edna didn’t answer.
He left the room to take a shower. Afterward, he broke the seal on a fresh pint of mouthwash, and gargled for twenty minutes. He got dressed and clipped on his yellow paisley tie. When he returned to the dining room, Edna was gone. Damn... damn... damn... I’m such a fool. A hollow feeling seized his heart. The waiting game had begun. The grandfather clock chimed eight times. Milton walked into the garage and fired up his Lincoln.
* * *
When he arrived at his parking space at the rear of the campus library, he scanned the area for fresh cigarette butts, there were none this morning, and for this he was grateful. Always mindful of birds, and the barrages of diarrhea they often discharge, he opened his umbrella, and marched defiantly towards the fire door at the stairwell.
Milton entered the bowels of the building and followed the long dark corridor to his office located deep in the archival chambers of the immense sub-floor.
Upon entering his cube, he unlocked the file cabinet, and removed a sterile four by four. He donned a pair of disposable latex gloves, and changed the dressing over the speaker of the intercom on his desktop. The chamber was as still as a tomb. The only sound was the steady tap of heels colliding with the terrazzo floor somewhere down the hall. Milton measured the brisk, even cadence of the hoofbeats: Alice had arrived.
He poured a fresh glass of organic mineral water from his thermos and sat down to work. Soon he was lost in the translation of the Gayatri Sahasranam written in the ancient Zinbun dialect. This version of the esoteric text had never been analyzed, and he felt he was on the verge of a monumental breakthrough.
Om kaamdevaaya vidmahe pushabannana tananonangangaa pracho dayaat.
The ancient consonants and phrases flowed through his mind like a sweet and gentle melody. Milton reveled in the beautiful images the words created. A fragment of spiritual understanding fell into place like a shard of a broken mirror reassembling itself. Milton was lost in the rapture of the moment when the intercom buzzed.
A sultry voice filtered through the dressing. “I have the documents you requested, Professor Harrington. Would you like me to bring them to you?” Alice asked.
Milton’s shoulders drew taught as a bowstring. “Did you floss this morning?”
“Yes, just like every other morning, Dr. Harrington. Do you want the scrolls, or don’t you?” Her was voice cold and harsh.
Milton cleared his throat. “Why yes... yes, I do. Please bring them to my office.”
Alice raised her arm and rapped three times on the door with her heavy silver Crown of Thorns ring.
“Come in,” Milton said, his voice deep and bass.
Alice entered and laid the mound of scrolls on his desk.
“Here they are professor. Exactly as you requested.”
“Why thank you, Alice, thank you very much. Please feel free to leave at your convenience.”
She headed for the door, and then turned. The door groaned as she eased it shut. Alice leaned against the casing, and looked at Milton, her eyes soft and inviting.
Alice had a face like a haggard sailor, and a body like a pornographic priestess. Her clingy, seductive clothing augmented her stunning figure. She wore short skirts that complemented her tapered symmetrical legs. Lustrous strands of raven-black hair hung to her shoulders. Her gold-capped incisors gleamed with hypnotic radiance, and the shade of her lipstick changed color every time Milton saw her. Today it was crimson.
Despite her sleazy comportment, Alice was a strong, independent woman. Every professor in the department had hit on her at least once. But most of them were married, and she would have no part of them. The only other man she found attractive was Lance, the computer technician. Alice thought Lance was pretty, but she knew he was as gay as Paris, and she’d buried any amorous feelings she had for him.
Since she met Milton, he had become the object of her desire. Sometimes, he read her forbidden Tantric love poems through the intercom. Alice grew enamored by his voice, and the depth of feeling he had for the beautiful words. She imagined Milton was reading the poems for her, and she got off on it.
Her eyes twinkled when she looked at Milton. “I can’t forget the night we spent together after the Christmas party last year, Milton. You’re the most passionate lover I’ve ever known.”
A thrill shot down Milton’s spine, flowing through his nerves like ice water. “I told you, Alice, I was intoxicated that evening. I wasn’t aware of where I was, or what I was doing. I’m sorry.”
She laughed seductively. “For someone that didn’t know what they were doing, you did it quite well. When are you going to accept the feelings I have for you, Milton? I know you’re a troubled man, but inside you’re a beautiful person. I know just what you need.” Milton’s mouth grew dry, a lump formed in his throat. “We’ve discussed this before, Alice. Because of my condition, what you’re referring to is impossible. I told you I’m sorry, there is nothing more I can do. Now please go on about your business and allow me to return to my manuscripts.”
Alice walked up to the desk and licked her lips. “Oh, but there is something you could do for me Milton, unless of course you’re like Lance.”
Like an anvil falling from the sky, Milton’s hand slammed down on the desk. “I’m not gay!” he yelled. His voice echoed in the room.
“I know you’re not gay, honey, just a little confused and misguided is all.” Her voice was as sweet as a lullaby, as sincere as a eulogy.
He’d been in this situation with Alice before. In a moment, she’d provide him with a two-cent psychological analysis about his childhood. From this insight, a fountain of light would reveal the scars of his past and how they distorted his view of the present.
Milton shuddered at the implications, his stomach grew queasy, and his bowels began to quiver. Dealing with Alice had matured into a form of chess. Milton knew that sometimes a little defeat is the precursor of a great victory.
Milton met her eyes, his gaze sincere. “And just what is it you would like me to do, Alice?”
Her face lit up and her eyes shone. “I’d like you to take me to the ballet this Saturday evening, Milton.”
“The ballet,” he replied. For a moment, Milton thought about all the people that would attend the performance at the theater. Some of them, suffering with halitosis, would cough or sneeze. He thought about the microorganisms crawling around in their intestines and the pockets of gas festering in their colons. He knew many of them would be obese. Flatulent vapors would leak from their rectum and linger like nerve gas in the atmosphere.
He thought about the opportunistic Hirudineans, and how they would use this occasion to breed in a delirious orgy, like flies on a rotting carp. His stomach rumbled, and for a moment he felt he might vomit.
When an opponent’s mind is impervious to victory, the outcome of a battle has no significance.
“All right, Alice, the ballet, this Saturday. I’ll pick you up at seven. Now please let me get back to work.”
Alice walked over to the door, turned and smiled. “After the ballet is over is when the real fun will begin, Milton.” She winked, displayed her seductive form as she turned, and clomped down the hall.
Milton admired her lines as she faded in the shadows. Alice was a nice package, but he knew that no one but Edna could understand his twisted, broken world. He reasoned that after the thrill was gone, Alice would probably dump him anyway.
He let out a sigh, and returned to his studies. His arms began to itch, and his concentration faded. Thoughts of Edna consumed his mind, and he wondered if she’d found happiness with someone else.
* * *
It was Saturday evening, and he’d not seen Edna for several days. He sat at his typewriter in his boxer shorts, working on a poem for her. He’d tuned the radio to the hillbilly music station Edna liked to listen to when they were together. Slim Whitman was belting out his version of “Torn Between Two Lovers.” The crooner’s hypnotic yodel echoed in the room and at last Milton understood. When it came to the game of love, no one understood it better than the country yodelers.
The phone rang; Milton looked at the caller ID. It was Alice, and he didn’t answer.
It’s quarter after seven, Milton. Where are you? Her voice seethed with impatience.
He poured another glass of Bordeaux, then returned to his verse.
Oh my dearest sweet Edna.
I loved you the moment I met ya
I wish you were here
And alive on this sphere
Cause I know I can never forget ya.
Milton measured the words for a moment. True, the poem wasn’t quite the caliber of a poem Poe might write. But he felt certain that Edna would appreciate the verse for its endearing sentiment — If he ever saw her again.
He raised his hand to count the number of syllables with his fingers, and recoiled with horror. The tiny red eyes of a Hirudinean stared at him. The abominable creature slithered like a tiny snake in the crease of skin at his wrist. He held his arm in the light of the desk lamp. A legion of the hideous parasites descended into his flesh. Milton ran into the bathroom, and lathered up his arms.
He could see them clearly in the mirror now. They were growing in number. They peered out from the corners of his eyes. Their black curly tails dangled from his nostrils, twisting like tiny filaments from his nose. Milton knew it was only a matter of time before they bored deep into his brain. A tear trickled down his cheek.
When he finished sanitizing, he went in to the bedroom and put on his best black suit, and a red silk tie.
The phone rang again... a long steady cadence.
Milton raised the last glass of wine and made a silent toast. Then walked into the garage and started the Lincoln.
Copyright © 2009 by John W. Steele
