Chapter 234: Patty XXVI—Addicted
A/N: This is all so very fake, it is fiction and none of it is true! Most of these people never even existed.
During practice they could see her in the seats, sitting with her husband, the team owner. They sat rather close to the ice, he wanted to see better. Or perhaps she did too. Patrick rather liked to look at her whenever he got a moment to breathe. He liked how green her eyes were; it seemed to gleam at him from across the ice, almost as if they were unnatural.
Pauline Danceny. He didn’t like her name. Pauline seemed too plain
a name for a lady as exotic and feral as she looked. But she was American; he
heard that from some of the other players. She was from
She was an ice queen. Patrick noticed how ivory her skin was, how black and glossy and styled her hair was. A woman who didn’t liked being touched. It was obvious. He also read her column sometimes in the local newspaper. She bemoaned the state of young males today and insinuated that the youth on the hockey team needed a good dose of moral upbringing or perhaps their family with them to guide them spiritually.
He was alone. Patrick thought about her a lot especially in the home he was billeting in. He liked to imagine that she was a lonely woman, alienated in her righteousness, unaware of her exquisite beauty. He liked to imagine that perhaps she cried when she was by herself, alone in a country that was not her own, in a culture that was different and disgusting to her. He liked to think that perhaps Mrs. Danceny was just like him, lost, a soul despairing in a foreign land.
Of course this was his home country, there was a family where he was staying, there were phone calls from his own family and there were the friends he had on the Bisons, but all in all, he was alone. He missed his sister’s teasing and beating up on his brother and he missed his mom and his grandma, his father. He missed his parents yelling at him. He was also bored.
Sometimes he dreamed that he found Mrs. Danceny when she was alone, and her husband was gone. In his dreams he caught her as she slept, she would sit up scared and barely recognizing her and he would slide her blanket that was covering her pale flesh, find not even a flannel nightgown to protect her. You’re beautiful, he would tell her and of course her husband never told her this so she would be intrigued and grateful for it. He dreamed that he would make love to her and she would ask about the workings of his mind and he would tell her something that would shock her and compel her to preach to him. He dreamed that he would impress her that he was more worldly and mature than she had ever thought he could be.
He was stuck on this team, waiting for a draft that perhaps would justify why he dropped out of high school. And the team was terrible. He knew that, he was giving up five goals a night and he knew deep inside that if it wasn’t for him it would be ten goals a night. Other people didn’t see that he supposed. He could only hope they would.
The only
real thing to do was to watch television and read novels. It was when the sun
went down that things got more interesting. Already Thierry had taken him under
his wing and “baptized” him so to speak on the streets of downtown
Still with every whore he was with, up against an oily brick wall in an alley way, crushed in a dingy bathroom stall in a club he shouldn’t be in but was allowed in because he was a hockey player, or rolling on a musty motel bed, Patrick imagined it was Mrs. Danceny. It was a game of sorts to his mind. He enjoyed it. He was proud of himself that the first time he had fallen in love was with a grown woman and not a stupid, crackly haired groupie slut. Pauline, he would moan into the ears of each prostitute. They would laugh at him for lusting after such an ugly name. American, he would answer. There’s nothing I can do about that.
There she was. She was in the stands, her green eyes glittering for him. She was watching him today. He knew it. He felt a strut in his skates and then a disappointment knowing that she was something that he could never touch and would never. It was all a fantasy.
“What a waste,” Patrick said as he stripped out of his sweaty gear.
“What is?” his teammate Thierry Vigneault asked as he tossed off the rest of his.
“Mrs. Danceny,” Patrick said with a grin. “She’s a waste with her frigid, religious drivel.”
Patrick saw that smile that appeared on Thierry’s face, it was a slow, knowing, smug smile. Patrick narrowed his eyes, he knew at that point that there was a joke he had been left out of. He hated when that happened, he wanted to really belong on this team, and they were still leaving him out of things.
“What did I miss?” he asked.
Thierry nodded and draped his naked arm over Patrick’s bare shoulders. Patrick wanted to shrug him off but decided not to. He felt a nauseated twinge in his stomach when he felt Thierry’s breath in his ear. “She is far from frigid, Humpty Dumpty.”
Patrick wrinkled his nose and shrugged him off but he smiled as well. The whole team had nick named him after that round nursery rhyme character because of his junk food habit, it was a start into a real acceptance. “Really?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
Thierry nodded and leaned forward. “You want to know?”
Patrick frowned. “Of course,” he said. “Tell me.”
Thierry nodded. “After practice,” he said. “Meet us at the arcade, we’ll show you.”
Patrick met the boys at the arcade. It wasn’t dark yet, late afternoon, and from there they began to walk and fill him in on the big joke. Mrs. Danceny was a slut, worse than a groupie, she was insatiable. Patrick couldn’t believe them at first, he could not see how that icy woman could ever want a hair on her head mussed out of place much less screw some underage, horny hockey players off her husband’s team. And he was angry and seething inside, how could they, all of them paw and slobber on his ladylove, his angel, his chaste, marble goddess? How could she let herself be defiled by them?
It’s true, they had told him. She seduced Marc first and she couldn’t get enough from him, he asked his friend to help. Things seemed to get strange from there. She’s like a chain letter, one of them said. She gets around.
Is she that good? Patrick had asked. He wanted to double over and vomit.
She’s a goddess. You get addicted. It’s something about the way she tastes or smells or something. Half of us can’t even begin to think of our game on the ice because all we want is her. We can’t even think straight, you won’t be able to either.
Another thing, one of the other boys said. She can do weird things, like magic!
Shut up she does not, you just exaggerate.
No! The boy replied. It’s true, she can make like pictures fall off walls and lamps flicker and stuff. She’s not human she’s a goddess. You can’t look into her eyes when you’re doing it or it’s like, she can control your every move against your will! Her eyes are evil.
So that’s the reason, Patrick thought. That’s why you can’t play a decent game around me. He resented Mrs. Danceny already. Her image was fast crumbling like antiquated newspaper and blowing away on the breeze.
She can tell the future too, a boy laughed. She does it each time. She just says one thing about your future and I swear it comes true.
Her husband won’t be home for another few days, he left today on a business trip. He’s scouting for the team.
At that point, Patrick had decided that he would have none of her, this woman that destroyed his team. This woman that destroyed his fantasies of her, his pretty images. He almost felt as if he was a cuckolded husband and he had never even exchanged a proper word with her. Still, he would go along, he would maybe watch, but he didn’t want to do anymore than that.
He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him.
Our group is late, Thierry had said.
Group? Patrick frowned.
Thierry had grinned, nodded. Yeah group.
The house was huge, and yes there were five other boys there. All of them had that red mouthed, pale cheeked, spent look on their faces. They greeted Patrick warmly, one even hugged him.
Marcel isn’t done yet but you can watch.
He was shoved into the room, the door closed behind him. Patrick glared at the door but then he blinked. It felt as if something insect-like and large was crawling up his pantleg. He bent over and shook his leg, felt nothing there with his fingers but the sensation was still there, moving to his spine. Something was not right and he was drowned in a scent that reminded him of too much caramel bowling over in a pan.
Patrick could hear the moans and frantic grunting; he scowled and repressed a startled scream when he saw the bed. His angel, Mrs. Danceny was tied down to all the posts, her fingers curled into fists and a blindfold over her eyes. Her skin gleamed pale as a snowdrift, and she was completely naked. Marcel, his teammate, was on her, screwing her moaning in an almost over exaggerated sounded bliss. His thrusts into her body were sharp and violent and Patrick felt his mouth drop open. Suddenly, he was overcome with the feeling that any minute his father would come into the room behind him, twist his ear and slap him.
Mrs. Danceny’s mouth was visible to him and her nose and he could see her lips twisted in what looked like pain. She was even making small noises as if she were in pain, she looked disgusted. She was not enjoying this. He was raping her, they all were. Patrick swallowed and felt his cheeks redden, and his eyes filled up with tears. Was she still his angel after all? They were tormenting her, they were violating her. They were taking her goodness.
“Marcel,” he said quietly.
But Marcel didn’t answer; he seemed lost in his rhythm. Patrick was just about to run to the bed and pull Marcel off her when he noticed that she had begun to moan. He knew the sound of it, he saw the half grin on her face, and she began to get louder, arched her back underneath him.
Patrick swallowed; he felt a prickling uneasiness that raised the hair on his body. It seemed cold in the room now, and he hugged himself. He wanted to turn around and leave. He knew that it was impossible. The easiest way to freeze himself completely off the team would be to walk away. This was his test then, they wanted to see how he would perform.
Patrick tried to watch, instead he found himself fascinated with the red polish on her nails, the way her fingers curled. He could hear her moaning in complete ecstasy now, she would yell things, and most of them were in English. He wrinkled his nose and frowned at the lamp next to the bed. There was sunlight pouring into the room but the lamp was flickering on and off, so was the overhead lights.
He heard Marcel gasp and cry out in that final pleasure and the boy slid off her body, not even offering to untie her. He had a dazed grin on his face and he seemed to fumble badly as he tucked himself back in his pants, zipped up the fly. He stumbled away from the bed, fell down, laughed in a high pitched voice and on his hands and knees, he crawled to the bedroom door.
“Lemme out!” he drawled and the door was opened. He was still laughing as he crawled out of the room. Patrick watched him, imagined he was watching a ghoul from the mouth of Hell, something borne from the mind of an overactive Sunday School teacher.
“What’s your name?” Mrs. Danceny asked. Patrick twitched and forced himself to look at her. He looked only at her blindfold. Her accent was indeed not even close to Quebecois. It sounded clipped and artificial, like someone who had studied and was proud of themselves for sounding like a Parisian Professor.
“Stephane,” Patrick said, feeling that creeping sensation on
his skin and silently apologizing to his brother for using his name.
“Stephane,”
Mrs. Danceny said slowly and she smiled, sighed, a
move that raised her large breasts high and then down. “There’s something
different about you.”
Patrick scratched his head, “Do you want me to untie you? Are they doing this against your will?”
“Ahhh,” Mrs. Danceny sighed, “I knew there was something different about you.”
Patrick felt his eyelid flutter; it was like a tickle on his face. His mother used to tell him with a smile as she mussed his hair that an angel was tickling him with a feather to get him to laugh. He found himself thinking of his mother, how soft and round her body always looked in a swimsuit. He wanted her then at those times to hug him, protect him. He hated his father at those times too, for kissing her and spoiling his chaste image of her.
“I don’t know you,” Mrs. Danceny said. “Which one are you? That ginger haired goalie?”
Patrick felt the tickle pull his mouth down in a grimace. “No, I’m new.”
Patrick watched her slim throat, her tongue slide across her lips. “Describe yourself. How old are you?”
“I’m short,” Patrick said and he closed his eyes, “Brown eyes and black hair. I’m seventeen.” He wasn’t lying about his age.
“Come here,” she said.
Patrick shook his head.
“I can see you,” she whispered. “The blindfold is for their sakes, not mine.”
Patrick shivered. He walked slowly to the bed, his nostrils met instantly with the smell of sex and sweat, of damp sheets. He could see the landscape of her ivory skin, beaded all over with sweat and pools of it in the concave parts of it.
“You’re the ginger haired goalie,” she said. “Aren’t you, with the big blue eyes?”
“Yes,” Patrick said.
“Why did you lie to me?”
“I don’t want you to taint me,” he said, amazed at how easily he said it. He saw her pink lips pull into a smile. She was not insulted. She laughed and there was something vapid and giddy about it. He was completely revolted.
“You’re dirty,” he said, feeling more confident of it. “I don’t want you to infect me with something.” He hoped that she heard the arrogant stamp in his voice. He hoped that she felt ashamed for destroying the only pure, placid thing he had to hang onto.
“Ah but you are,” Mrs. Danceny said. “My dear boy, I felt you as soon as you entered the room. I could feel it all through my body. You’re almost the same creature as I am. It’s the same feeling I get when I see you on the ice, and I just know you’re special.”
Patrick shook his head. “You can see through the blindfold.”
She smiled. “Yessssss….” She laughed and then whispered. “You’ll die before your daughter and she only has a day left after that.”
“I don’t have a daughter,” Patrick said, perplexed by the distant tone in her voice. Was this her fortune cookie? It irritated him, scared him.
“Someday you will,” she muttered. “I can seeeee it.”
Patrick shook his head. “Did they drug you?” he asked. He noticed the table next to the bed, the empty syringes, and some other suspicious implements. “How long have you been tied to that bed?” He asked. It smelled like she had been there for hours. She could die if she dehydrated there, he didn’t want to be responsible for that. He reached over to the rope binding her and he loosened the knot. He felt almost surgical as he did it, like a vet taking care of an injured dog.
Her hand fell heavily from the bind, bouncing on the mattress. Patrick saw the glaring red smear ringing her wrist and he reached for her hand to have a closer look. Her hand shot out and closed around his lower chin and jaw, yanking his face forward. Patrick gasped but didn’t struggle too much. She pulled his face forward until his nose was almost touching her. Her breath was liquor sour as she spoke. “Patrick, Patrick,” she whispered. “You’ve been touched before and you think it was a dream of pink candy and snow. You’re the same as me.”
Patrick felt his eyebrows twist in anger and confusion. He was dunked into the memory of a nightmare he had two years ago. A dream about a woman with pale skin and pale eyes, pleasuring him and draining him dry of life. “You don’t know anything about my dreams!” he hissed. “Now do you want me to let you go or not?”
She laughed a deep almost guttural laugh this time. She let go of him and he fell back onto the floor and he rubbed at his damp chin, feeling dirty. She whisked the blindfold off and blinked with eyes so deep, so colored green that it seemed as if there were no whites to them. Patrick felt himself freeze and his fingers dug into the floor. He felt a tickle in his brain, his muscles twitching.
“It’s not my fault,” she said in a low, mournful voice. “You see me? I should have listened. Mama told me not to but I did. I should never have, even if it was to marry.”
Its drugs! He thought. It had to be drugs, they made the eyes look funny, distorted the personality. An opium or a narcotic.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” she whispered, a large tear rolling down her cheek. “I’m not here to hurt you. It’s not my fault.”
Patrick blinked slowly and he stood up, feeling a little dizzy. “Do they even kiss you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “Boys never do.”
Patrick leaned over her and he kissed her, only her mouth was clean then. He felt almost intoxicated immediately, the feel of her warm lips zipping through his blood and he felt the urge to do it then but he resisted it.
“You don’t need a condom if you don’t want,” she whispered, “I know how you boys dislike them. I’m clean.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “You’ll get pregnant soon,” he said.
“I am unable to carry a baby.” She said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Patrick shook his head. He stepped away from her.
“Dumpty are you done!” someone yelled. “It’s my turn.”
Patrick looked at the door. “Fuck off for another minute eh?” he yelled. And he looked at Mrs. Danceny whose eyes seemed a little more normal, the whites returned, her face a mess of despair and self loathing. “Or maybe five. Give me five!”
She closed her eyes began to whisper what sounded like a prayer. She then untied herself and opened a box on the nightstand. She pulled out another syringe and a small medical bottle. “Thaaaats my baby,” she moaned as she injected herself with the liquid. “Thaaats how you pretty boy, you pretty boy.” She sighed and opened her eyes which were once again dilated and green. Patrick felt that chill again and he looked at the lamp which had once again, begun to flicker.
Links to other sites on the Web