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The Confession JA Konrath |
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“From the beginning? The very beginning?” “Wherever you want to start, Jane.” “Wherever I want to start. Well. I guess you could say it all started when I was thirteen years old, when my father started coming into my bedroom.” “You father molested you?” “Molested? That sounds like he stuck his hand under my bra. My father fucked me. Made me suck him off. Called me Daddy’s Little Whore. Used to write it on my forehead, in marker. I’d have to scrub it off before going to school. Wretched bastard. Went on until I ran away, at sixteen.” “And that’s when you met Maurice?” “That pimp fucker thought he was so smooth, busting out a white girl. Had no idea my old man busted me out years earlier.” “Was Maurice the one in the pit?” “No. Maurice was the belt sander.” “Who was in the pit?” “You want me to tell it, or answer questions?” “Whatever you’re more comfortable with.” “Okay. I’ll tell it. Maurice found me at the shelter. Slimy pricks like him can probably sniff out teenage pussy. He talked sweet, hooked me on crack, and the next thing you know I’m blowing guys in their cars for twenty bucks a pop. Wasn’t that bad, actually. I know I’m nothing to look at. Even before all the scars, I was fat and dumpy. Plain Fucking Jane, my mom called me. You got a cigarette?” “Menthol.” “Beats sucking air. Thanks. Anyway, Maurice set me up with this freak. Guy took me back to his place, had a whole torture dungeon in his bedroom. That’s how my face got all fucked up. Cigarette burns. Looks like acne scars, doesn’t it? Kept me there for four days, then dumped me in a trash can.” “Did you know his name?” “We’ll get to that. You wanted this from the beginning, remember?” “Take your time.” “Shit. I’m sorry, I can’t smoke menthols. Do you have anything else?” “No.” “Do I have to smoke?” “No.” “I want to do this right for you.” “It’s okay.” “Thanks... Mr. Police-man. Where was I? Oh yeah, after my face got burned, Maurice couldn’t give me away. I wound up ass fucking winos in alleys for three bucks a pop. You ever have gonorrhea in your ass? Hurts like a bitch. And fucking Maurice wouldn’t give me money for the clinic. Whatcha got there? A picture?” “Is this Maurice?” “Jesus! That’s disgusting! Is that real?” “Is this Maurice?” “Yeah. That’s him. Doesn’t look too good there, does he? Heard he might live.” “We don’t know yet.” “Ha! Be damn tough for him to testify. But I’m getting ahead of myself. After a while, the VD got so bad I couldn’t walk. Maurice beat the shit out of me, left me for dead. That’s when Gordon found me.” “Reverend Gordon Winchell?” “He’s no reverend. No church would have him. He was just another preacher, screaming scripture at drunks in soup kitchens. Saved my life, probably. Got me to the hospital. Actually came to visit me during my recovery. Seemed like an actual decent guy from a while. Until I learned his kink.” “What did he do to you?” “On the day of my release, the good Reverend took me to his apartment, tied me to the bed, and began biting me.” “Biting you?” “Look at this—” “You don’t need to—” “Don’t get all prude on me. See? Nothing there. Bit my nipples right off. If I wasn’t in handcuffs I’d show you what he did to my twat.” “Jesus.” “You okay, Mr. Police-man? You don’t look so good. You want to take a break?” “How did you get away?” “He had it all worked out in his head that he’d kill me. But he couldn’t. Didn’t have the balls. So he dumped me in front of the same hospital he brought me home from.” “Did you call the police?” “Are you fucking kidding me? I called fucking everybody. When my dad was raping me, I called DCFS, and he paid the assholes off. When that freak burned my face, I filed a complaint, and you guys didn’t do shit. Gordon eats my private parts, one of your finest told me to have my pimp take care of it. Is this turning you on?” “Stick to the story.” “This is some pretty sick shit.” “Stick to the story!” “Okay. Sorry. Where was I? I lost my place.” “The cops didn’t help you.” “Right. Okay, here it is. That was it for me. I had enough of playing the victim.” “Is that when you started...?” “Is that when I started grabbing these sons of bitches? Yeah. When I got out of the hospital the second time, I tracked down the freak, watched his house until he was asleep, and then broke in. Used his own handcuffs on him. And his own blowtorch. It was hard to restrain myself, lemme tell you. But even holding back, his balls turned black and fell off after only three days.” “This was John McSweeny?” “Yeah. He sure was a screamer. Screamed so much, his throat actually started to bleed. Know what the weird part is? He smelled great! Like honey baked ham. When I burned off his face I was actually drooling. Is that funny or what?” “You stabbed Mr. McSweeny.” “The hell I did. I never killed no one. After a week or so, I uncuffed one of his hands, and gave him a steak knife. Fucker cut his own throat, and that’s God’s truth.” “After McSweeny came Maurice.” “Nope. Next came my father. I invited him over, got all weepy on the phone saying I forgave him. Hit him with a tire iron when he walked in the door. The freak, McSweeny, had all of these ropes and pulleys and shit, so I stripped Dad naked and hung him up. Then I lowered him down on that hat rack. Right up his ass. Funniest damn thing you ever saw. The more he moved, the lower he sunk, the higher the pole went up his poop chute. He lasted almost a month. I’d bring him food and water. That pole got about two feet up him before he finally died.” “That’s murder, Jane.” “That’s gravity, cop. If he stayed perfectly still, he would have lived. Blame Isaac Newton.” “Then Maurice?” “Then Maurice. When I was honey baking McSweeny, he was anxious to make the pain stop. Gave me all sorts of things. His bank account. His stocks. His car. I went to the dealer who used to sell me crack, bought a needle of H, snuck up on Maurice.” “You mentioned you used a belt sander.” “It takes all the skin off, but then gets real slippery. I kept buying belt after belt, until I figured out I could improve the traction if I threw salt on him.” “How long did you torture Maurice?” “A few weeks. He’d scab over, then I’d start on him again.” “So... the guy in the pit?” “That was the good Reverend Gordon. He got a heroin poke too, and when he woke up, he was chained up in the hole.” “What did you do to him?” “Poetic justice. Fucker liked to bite, so I gave him a taste of his own medicine. I went to the pet store, bought a big box of rats. Put them in the pit with him. They were tame at first, but when they got hungry they began to nibble nibble. They started on the soft parts—look, do I have to read anymore?” “Stick to the script.” “But you’ve still got your clothes on. You don’t seem into this at all.” “I pay the money. I make the rules. I want you to finish reading.” “Look, sugar, I’m the best. Why do you want me to sit here and read when I can make you feel good?” “Please don’t...” “Are you crying? Don’t cry, baby. It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Let me just get these pants off.” “I don’t want to...” “I like shy boys. Are you a shy boy? Let’s see how shy you are—Jesus!” “You... you were supposed to stick with the script.” “Where’s your cock? You don’t have a fucking cock!” “You read the story.” “The story?” “Reverend... Reverend Gordon.” “But that was all bullshit, right? Some freaky shit you made up?” “He... liked to bite...” “You’re bullshitting me.” “I’m... a whore...” “I’m leaving. Open this door.” “Daddy’s Little Whore...” “Open this fucking door or I’ll start to scream!” “McSweeny’s house. Soundproof.” “You psychotic fucking freak! Let me out!” “I won’t hurt you. I want you to understand.” “Get the fuck away from me!” “You’re a prostitute. You’re a victim too.” “Let me go!” “Someone hurt you, right?” “I want to leave. Please let me leave.” “You didn’t choose this. You didn’t choose to fuck men for money.” “I... want to leave.” “Who hurt you? Your father? Your pimp? You can tell me.” “I... don’t...” “I won’t judge you. It’s okay.” “No...” “Who was it?” “Don’t...” “Who was the monster that made you this way?” “My... uncle.” “Your uncle?” “He’d babysit me. Make me do things.” “I’m sorry.” “I... didn’t mean to call you a freak.” “I know. It’s okay.” “Jesus, I thought my life was shit. But all you went through...” “It’s okay. From now on, we’re both okay. Come on, I want to show you something.” “I... I don’t wanna go down there.” “Trust me. I would never hurt you.” “What’s that smell?” “I told you. Smells like ham.” “That was all true?” “Most of it. Except they’re all still alive. Meet Mr. John McSweeny.” “Oh my god...” “Looks tasty, doesn’t he? I use that wire brush on his burns. Still can coax a few screams out of him. Watch your step, there’s the pit.” “Oh Jesus...” “I see the rats finished off most of your face, Gordon. And congratulations! Looks like they also had a litter of hungry babies! You’re a papa!” “What... what is that?” “That’s Maurice. Can’t even tell he’s a black guy anymore, can you? That belt sander is quite a tool. Want me to pour some vinegar on him, wake him up?” “This is all... I can’t believe...” “I know. It’s a lot to take in. But here’s who I really wanted you to meet. Say hello to my father. The person who turned me into the man I am today. Go on, say hello.” “Um... hello.” “He can’t talk, because of the gag. But if you want him to answer, just give the pole a little shake. Like this. Hear that? I think he likes you.” “He’s... crying.” “Of course he is. He’s got two feet of hat rack up his ass. Probably punctured all sorts of vital stuff. You want to give the pole a little shake?” “No...” “Go ahead. Not too much, though. Just a little tap like this. See? You can hear him screaming in his throat. “I don’t want to.” “Yes you do. You’re a victim, just like me. The only way to stop being a victim is to fight back. Go on.” “I really don’t...” “Stop playing the victim.” “But...” “Fight back. It’s the only way you’ll be able to live with yourself. Put your hand on the pole.” “This isn’t right.” “Raping children isn’t right. Pretend it’s your uncle hanging there. Remember all the things he did to you.” “My uncle. That fucking son of a bitch.” “Whoa! Hold on! You’re going to kill him, shaking it that hard. Ease back.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...” “Yes you did. Felt good didn’t it?” “I... I thought of killing him so many times.” “Death is too good for men like that. He doesn’t need killing. He needs to be shown the error of his ways. Oh... don’t cry. It’s okay. No one is ever going to hurt you, ever again. I promise. There there.” “Can we... can we...” “Can we find your uncle and bring him here?” “Yeah.” “Of course we can, dear. Of course we can.”
The End
Copyright(c) 2006 by JA Konrath
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