The Brand Ch. 12

Again, Geralynne paused, the playfulness gone in her eyes, no longer smiling as her hand reached the knob.

"Think about it cunt." She said, "I dare you."

With that, Geralynne slipped out the door, and then gently closed it behind her. Victria looked away, closed her eyes, shook her head and sighed. It's the eve of a fucking new year, she thought. I'm in the hospital and my lover is trapped inside herself alone in a psych ward, and I no longer have my job. This is some rock bottom shit. There you have it God; touché', fucking touché'. I haven't been this far down since; since I was fucking eight. So it's tread water; or drown; right? Fine God. Fucking a man; fucking A.

10

Dean was taught how to use a computer at work, so when he'd finally bought his own, it didn't take much for him to start finding some decent porn. Martha got herself her own little laptop, with the money she'd earned at the waitressing job she'd been working at for the last two years. Life's monotony had acquired a razor's edge since Melody left. It sharpened the distance between her and Dean; their lives together now cut cleanly with silence, brushing past each other through hallways, in the kitchen, mute breakfasts and dinners, his taking over their bedroom and she moving into Melody's old room. Melody's old room: the room she'd vacated, having evacuated the house those few years ago; leaving it for Martha to keep praying that her daughter had found herself a peaceful, serene, place of her very own.

Dean had fished his dick out. He'd found some third wave feminist friendly lesbian porn. God, he loved lesbian porn. Initially, the notion of it, knowing his daughter herself had in inclination toward; you know, had guided him toward what he considered more appropriate images and films. So he'd started his new pastime by viewing a good deal of straight sex scenes; nightly strings of banging, oral and ass fucking. Dean became particularly fond of the ass fucking, the fine young girls taking it into their creamy white rumps, their hair and makeup all done nice, their eyes half closed as the man pulls his cock out, and then squirts his load all over her sweet little ass.

Dean had gotten some quick hard owns then boy, and he'd taught himself how to edge too, pace himself, hold it off until his big Texas belt buckle rattled with his ejaculation. But, those scenes had started to get a little boring, and then there just got to be too many big cocks in the way of his looking at the pretty meat. He'd come across video one evening of a pretty, decently sized breasted young blonde thing on her knees, kneeling in the middle of four naked men. Dean watched her take each of them in, and then stared, fondling his cock, as she, as each of the men finally jerked themselves to squirting all over her face, against her breasts and into her nice blonde hair.

He'd found himself thinking about that one at work, so he'd watched it again the next night. Then, the night after that, he happened to find a video of a man, a fairly lean and handsome young man, sucking off another. The sucking man didn't seem very pleased to be in the position to do the sucking and neither man had very much to say, especially the one doing the sucking, the same man who ended up, inevitably it seemed, having to turn around and, well, give himself; end up.

Dean found himself staring at the other man's ramming his cock into the first man's ass, feeling his own hard cock in his hand, the door locked behind him, Martha off at work, his eyes scrutinizing that taboo intersect of man ass and man cock, his cock, he wished he could rewind to see the sucking again, his cock coming, spilling as the man in the video pulled his own cock out and sprayed the first man as far up as the back of his neck. The second man had finally spoke something, nothing Dean could hear as his own come seeped down his shaft, but he'd heard the man laugh. Dean had not edged for that one.

The video ended. He regarded his spent, shrinking dick and sighed heavily. After that, he didn't want to see anymore cocks thrusting or balls bouncing. He just wanted girls, all kinds of girls. And those scenes had done him good in the beginning, but then he started to wonder whether his daughter's disappearance meant that she'd been succumbed into the porn industry. After all, a weak minded girl like her, she was a sucker for a promise. She'd left with nothing, maybe a little, but not enough to last beyond desperation. It wasn't that he wanted to see her there. Either totally desperate or working in porn. That would be damned sick, and Dean wasn't sick, as far as Dean knew. So he started to make sure, before he wiped his dick out, that none of the girls in the pictures or in the movies were his daughter. He wasn't a sick man. He knew where to draw the line.

Now, with cock in hand, he was taking in some responsible porn: produced and directed by ethically guided feminists and starring gender equal or trans gender, fair wage receiving, feminists, feminists with a penchant for vigorous pussy eating, pretty toe devouring, chick tranny dick sucking and ass munching: Dean's latest favorite spectacle.

Dean stared intently as Sissy Blue slowly worked her fingers along the inside of the waist band of Lucy Juice's pink panties; when the phone suddenly rang. He didn't drop his cock so much as left it there, standing at attention, a blue cast from the PC screen making his polished smooth head gleam. Squinting at the name on the display, Dean turned down the computer's speakers, and then answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Good evening." Spoke the unfamiliar voice, "May I speak to Mr. or Mrs. May please. I apologize for calling so late-"

"This is Mr. May. Who is this?"

"Oh great. I'm Dr. Jeremy Peebles. I'm a psychologist here at Greater Hartford General, in Connecticut, and; your daughter Melody is currently under my care."

There occurred a pause. Over the silence, Dean reached for the button that shut down the screen and pressed it.

"Were you aware that your daughter has been living in Connecticut?"

"What's wrong with her?"

"Well, she's in a catatonic depression. It seems she's been caught up in a few situations: a robbery and a home invasion. She's not hurt. I mean, not in any physical way. It's just that; she's become very severely withdrawn and I really need to get some information and consent in order so that I can start an appropriate method of treatment."

"Treatment?"

Dean tucked his suddenly flaccid penis into his pants and zipped up.

"Yes; treatment: drug therapy or perhaps shock treatment. Melody is just about shut down: no movement, no speech, and no appetite. I'd like to help her sir, but I need your support. Can you fly here to Connecticut?"

"No."

The word and the silence that followed was like a small detonation and explosion for Peebles; certainly knowing such a response was possible, but so blinded by the light of the care he gave to caring, loving families that a twinge of pain still squeezed his objective heart.

"Okay? How about your wife? Will she be able-"

"Doctor, we ain't got no money for no damn flight to no damn Connecticut. Look; I'm sorry. You're telling' me she's alive and well?"

"Alive; yes. Well; she can survive this, with support. Mr. May-"

"Well Hell Doc; support her! I mean, you folks go to school and learn your shit. We're all in text books, ain't we? So take care of it Doc."

"Mr. May, I'm giving you the opportunity to help your child out of a very difficult situation."

"Doctor; Melody is no longer a child. She left here, her own young woman, over eighteen. Do what you need to do. Shit, go ahead: electro shock therapy her as! Maybe that'll get the gay out of her! She's a big girl Doc! She can man up. Wait. You telling' me she ain't got no support way out there north east?"

"Well; she was homeless, but, she has a friend."

"Oh well now she's got a friend. Well shit; there you go! How about that? We figured out how to help her, just you and me, right here over the phone. Sounds like she's got everything she needs right where she is."

Another pause. Dean's eyes darted around the room, narrow with fury as he turned the computer's screen back on, and then initiated shut down. God damn bleeding heart doctor, thought Dean, interrupt my good time. Fuck this. I'm goin' to get drunk. Stupid walkin', talkin' pussies; think they can do whatever the Hell they like. I swear to God: if my own mother wasn't one her own dang self, I'd-

"I see." He heard the doctor say over the line, "If I could perhaps call back another time and speak with Mrs. May?"

"Oh you don't need to trouble yourself with that sir. I'll take care of informing her of Melody's; condition."

Another silence ensued. Peebles closed his eyes as he listened to Mr. May's impatient breathing.

"Are we good Doc?"

Again, Peebles paused. He would fight another way. He would care for his patient.

"Yes Mr. May." He said, in his objective voice.

"Very well then. Good evening to you sir."

Peebles listened to Mr. May's setting his phone back into its cradle, and then set his own office phone down. He stared at his computer screen and the sparse data the hospital had on the young woman in his care. Her last visit to the hospital was facilitated by Ms. Charpentier; a series of tests, the customaries, all negative, and Melody's health recorded as optimal. All billing went to Charpentier's insurance. May was not a dependent, but an employee. So it was a working relationship, Peebles mused, a working relationship with; fringe benefits?

The psychologist then scanned back up to the top of Melody's history, to the case note written by a Dr. Rosalyn Grant, in April of 2009, at Greely Regional Medical: White Female; 22: GSW, superficial, on the right outer thigh. Peebles closed his eyes while he rubbed his forehead. Three thousand miles is a long way to run from surviving. How curious the conversation was with Mr. Dean May of Bear Lake Colorado. Peebles suddenly took a deep breath, minimized the hospital's records portal, and then clicked his case management software open.

From there, he opened his file on Melody, scrolled to the end of his case notes and proceeded to type an update. 12/27/14: Subject's male parent contacted, but refused to discuss his child's case or otherwise aid in her rehabilitation. He stated that this care provider was free to make treatment decisions on her behalf. This care provider will attempt to contact the subject's mother on a future occasion. Meanwhile, a low dosage of SSR will be prescribed. As for constructing a treatment plan, Benzodiazepines and ECT therapy will be considered as this provider collects more data on the subject. Methyl-D-aspartic acid antagonists may also enter as considerations. This care provider will consult with the group as to the viability of a treatment plan that involves repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation per the catatonia.

This provider will also further evaluate the suitability of the subject's partner as a level of support. The jewelry around the subject's neck remains a concern; its simultaneous extravagance and potential symbol as an implement of masochistic control. It seems the subject has limited options, the numerous barriers to her cure having been constructed externally, over the long term, as well as self-imposed, and perhaps exploited by the partner. .

Peebles read over the case note, saved it, and then closed the program. Locking the computer, the doctor wearily rose from his rolling office chair, took his coat from along its back, and then flung it over his shoulders. He gave the top of his desk one last look. His keys were still where he'd left them, just beyond his mouse pad. Peebles grabbed them, and then stuffed them into his pocket. He lingered for a moment, between his desk and his chair. He reached for the desk's middle drawer and pulled it open.

Shining back up at him was the soft glow of Melody's platinum collar, the glimmer of its seven diamonds and the fact of his having borrowed one of the Surgical Unit's bone shears and having cut her free of the obviously expensive jewelry. Peebles had a good reason to remove it, a very good reason. He didn't know whether his patient would choke herself with it or if one of his other patients, God forbid, would try to take it from her, and perhaps kill her in the process.

He thought Charpentier would understand. Wouldn't she? Surely, she would be reasonable when it came to the sanctity of her lover's body and the recovery of her mind. Could she argue with that? She might, Peebles thought. He would be ready. She would likely complain, once she was aware, of the choker's disappearance. It is expensive, after all. But, Peebles was curious to know, exactly how vehement Charpentier's protests would be. Slowly, the psychologist pushed the drawer back closed again. Withdrawing the keys from his pocket, he locked the drawer, sighed deeply, tucked the keys back into his pocket, and then left his office for the night.

11

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Here we go then."

Vance easily lifted his sister into the wheel chair he'd parked by the bed. Three weeks had rolled slowly by; three weeks of Victria managing her pain, drowsing and rousing in and out of sleep, working with physical therapy, the New Year rung in with patronizing praise, her wounds healing, working things through, talking matters out with Vance, connective tissue connecting but the lack of feeling in her lower legs still present. It was after those three weeks that Dr. Gupta cleared her to temporarily leave the TTU and Dr. Peebles to allow her to visit Melody in the hospital's closed Psych unit.

Once seated, Victria quickly disengaged the break, and then briskly rolled herself out of the room, leaving Vance to run after her. He followed her down the corridor, passing the nurse's station, he shrugging at the befuddled staff behind the counter, and then barely catching the same elevator to the 11th floor. He'd gripped the handles of the chair and pleaded with her to let him wheel her into the solarium. Victria conceded. Once they were cleared to enter the unit, he rolled his sister to the spot where Patrice usually sat with Melody during meal time. Victria watched as the young grey haired, haggard looking girl tried to get Melody to eat some food. After a moment, Vance stepped back while his sister wheeled her chair over to join them. Patrice looked up and paused; a spoonful of soup held firmly in her grip.

"You must be; her friend." Said the weary eyed little old lady of a child, "Victria; right?"

"Right." She answered, gazing into Melody's blank eyes.

"I'm Patrice."

Victria glanced at her briefly.

"Hi Patrice."

"Hi."

Patrice took a few mouthfuls of her own chicken soup, and then resumed trying to get Melody to take a spoonful. Melody was seated on a blue plastic chair, the contents of her food tray growing cold on the table by her side, her hands limp and open in her lap as she stared blankly into Victria's face.

"Can I, can I try?" asked Victria.

"Oh; sure honey!" said Patrice like some matronly little Jewish grandma happy to have some company, "Go ahead. She, she might take some from you."

Victria took the spoon. Patrice looked on curiously as she began to brush the palm of one hand nervously against the back of the other.

"Those, those was some really nice flowers you got for her." Said Patrice; smiling timidly, "You had, Miss Cassie bring 'em up for ya'; huh?"

Victria didn't answer immediately. She was focused, using one hand to help Melody keep her mouth open while letting a little broth trickle in.

"I did." She answered finally.

"Well hey, would you look at that!" said Patrice in an excited whisper, "Her throat is doing that up and down thing it does when you swallow. Say, that's great Miss Victria!"

"Yeah," answered Victria, "I guess it is."

She didn't smile as she savored the small victory nor had she smiled as she watched for herself as the muscles in Melody's throat rose and fell with the effort of swallowing her next mouthful, and then the one after that. Then she saw it or didn't see it; Melody's pretty pale neck, naked, bereft, orphaned and deprived, to the jugular notch. Victria flushed slightly, though her expression hadn't changed.

"Patrice?" she said, "Would you mind doing me a favor?"

"Well; sure, I guess." The young girl answered; reservation in her voice, "Wutcha need?"

Victria met Patrice's worried gaze.

"Can you bring Melody's flowers to me?"

Patrice looked away, bringing the tips of the fingers of her right hand to the tiny shadow beneath her bottom lip.

"Well," she said, "I don't know if they'll let me, but I'll try."

The young girl rose slowly from her seat, glanced once more at Victria, and then set off on her mission. Standing by the solarium's exit, smiling at Patrice as she passed, stood Dr. Peebles, detective Powers and Vance. They looked on, spectators to Victria's and Melody's folly: in pain, in love; their lives deferred.

Between Vance and Peebles, once Victria had been talked into remaining calm and open to his perspective, they'd explained together how deeply Melody had fallen into depression. Peebles had suggested that Melody may have been manic all along. He described her catatonia as symptomatic of something else; likely either some post-traumatic stress, bipolar disorder or manic depression. Whatever it was in her past that served as the initial trigger, and then had been re-triggered during the robbery and then during the home invasion, had now bound and gagged Melody's mind with the silken cocoon of her fear and was sucking the very life out of her like parasitic insect.

Melody, for most of the last three weeks, had been in a perpetual state of stupor, her gaze fixed, her face frozen in astonished mute indifference. For those three weeks, she had not moved of her own accord. Her anxiety became so extreme, she had lost the will to speak. But then, gradually, Melody had manifested other brief flashes of symptom that Dr. Peebles tried to feel encouraged by because he considered them as more extroversive: communicative. There were unusual movements of her arms and legs, her imitating another's words, her visible agitation and the expression of emotional pain from normal physical movement.

Alone with Melody, Victria began to reflect on those conversations with her brother and the hospital's psychologist as she stared deeply into her lover's limpid green, yet unsettlingly vacant, eyes. She sat there for a moment, searching, studying, and her eyes darting away and back again. Presently, she began to paw gently at the lifeless hands on Melody's lap. Then, her own hands shaking, Victria took one, held it tight for a time before finally bringing it to her face. She closed her eyes, cupped Melody's palm against her cheek, pressed her nose against the heel of her lover's hand, and then drew in a few slow, deep breaths. A moment more, a slight shake of her head, her lips parting to speak, her eyes fluttering open, Victria began to softly weep.

"Oh Mel, "she cried, "I'm so, so, sorry. I didn't mean for any of this. I, I was just playing around, like a stupid little kid, you know, like taking the chance, out of sheer foolishness, swallowing pennies just because the first one just went right down."

Victria paused to wipe the cry snot from her nose.

"So now God, the universe, and the alien race that planted us here, I don't know, whatever it is, it's fucking with me. It, it wants me to break, to stop my wicked, witchy ways, to let go, but I can't, I won't. It still hurts so badly. So it's done it. It's got you. I mean, it's like the amazing person that you are has been crumpled up into a little ball and tucked into some little crawl space inside the back of your brain somewhere. What the fuck is this, Mel? What the fuck!"