short story: THE WILDERBEAST

 

As if two jobs and as much photography as I can possibly squeeze in wasn't enough, I thoroughly enjoy writing short stories. Creative writing. Though my style may not be to the liking of some people, as it's blunt and often from the dark side of humanity. But I don't write for other people. I write for my own pleasure and to maintain good mental health. Here is a sample for you.

THE WILDERBEAST

She'd dug him up down at the squat on #5 Road and Westminster Highway. Right on the North-East corner there, he had fortified himself in a mud-hole, in a ramshackle piece-of-shit camp where he had barricaded himself as if it was his own, personal property. One can only hope he also considered the latrine at the gas station on the other side of the road his own personal latrine. But with nothing but major road arteries on every side of him and his little green plot of land - when it wasn't turned into a mud-hole by the rain - nobody would really care where he dumped when he dumped.

She, on the other hand, figured she could do what she considered to be a good deed and score a few brownie point with her pastor and her congregation, if she took him in. Especially if she could make him "see the light". See Jesus Christ. She never considered that maybe Jesus Christ was not who he was looking for. Never even crossed her mind for a second.

But that's how he ended up in her car. Under the pretext of "I'll buy you a meal, clean you up and then you can crash at my place tonight". When that one didn't work at first, she added: "I got a bag of weed my friend gave me". A flat out lie, but it worked. Deception often does.

Being a curious photographer, she had just walked in on him that morning, when she wanted to see what was behind the barricade by the road, in what used to be a really nice green patch. Dressed like...well, a woman -  one of those who don't mind being seen and noticed - she hadn't noticed anything but his ramshackly castle, up until the point where came up behind her. She almost freaked out, certainly shocked, when he put his hand on her shoulder and spun her around and she looked right into his less than charming facial features. Maybe that's why she got the idea about her church? Bringing her own wilderbeast home, taming him and and...have him meet Jesus Christ. He'd probably rather meet peace and quiet and then that bag of weed? Who knows the story of how he got to where she found him? She sure as hell didn't. She was just going for the brownie points with her pastor and her congregation.

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Calling him a conversationalist would be as fat a lie as calling Mother Theresa a slut. So far, he hadn't muttered a single word despite her efforts. So there he was now, in her Lexus, stinky, dirty. Well actually more than dirty; filty. In filthy rags and a head of hair that was probably riddled with lice, and then a full-face beard that made him look like something between a Viking and a Neanderthal. A true wilderbeast, she thought to herself. A wilderbeast in a high-vis vest. Not once did she ever wonder about the story behind him. It was all hallelujah, she had convinced herself.

She detoured past Lansdowne T&T where she picked up some food to cook him a meal: "Wait in the car. I'll just be a few minutes". Not once did she consider - even less ask - what he was used to eating. "I'll cook us some nice chicken feet and pig snout. Actually, let me do the pig feet too, and the tail" she told herself. Her cashier was one of her neighbours from Francis Road. "See you on Sunday in church" she told her. He managed a quick look at what she'd bought, once she got back to the car, but muttered not a single word. With his mouth, that is. But if eyes could speak...

Once she hit home on Francis, she parked the car she showed him in. "My husband is not home", she said as she had a good look at him, walking behind him with her groceries, to the front door. "Not bad for a wilderbeast", she thought to herself and smiled. "He's back in the old country to take care of some business and might not be back for a month or two". "Why don't you take a nice, long hot shower while I prepare us some food". He truly smelled like he could need a shower, real bad. "I'll get you a towel and show you the washroom you can use", not wanting to let him use her own. She took him upstairs, grabbed a towel in the closet and showed him to the guest's washroom. "Everything you need is in there. I'll go start cooking and then I'll bring you up some fresh, clean clothes". Still not a word from him.

After chopping her vegetables in the kitchen, her burning curiosity got the best of her, and she snug up the stairs and open the door just a crack to spy on her wilderbeast. Through the glass shower door she could see him leaning up again the wall with both hands under the shower head, steam rising as the hot water hit his back and ran down to the tub floor. She could also see that he was pretty well hung, which kind of turned her on. After all, she hadn't had a real man for a few years, and only a young boy after her husband went back. She silently closed the bathroom door and turned around to look at herself inthe hallway mirror: "Am I still fuckable?" she asked herself. "I'm not in my 20's any longer, but I think most men would still find me sexually attractive".

When she opened the bathroom door again, he was standing by the mirror with the towel wrapped around him, looking at himself in the mirror. She walked up behind him. Real close. "At least you smell better, now" she thought to herself. She could feel the heat of his still steaming body as she stood as close as she could behind him, without touching him.

"You look wild. Can I cut your hair and give you a shave. Actually, can I shave your head clean and your beard right off?" He looked at her in the mirror, not moving a muscle in his face. "Is he examining me? Is he planning his attack and how he's gonna fuck me?" she asked herself, as she started turning on to the idea. Still not saying a word, he just nodded his head in agreement. She went to get the scissors, the razor and the gel. "Maybe you'd like to shave me too?" she wondered. "Most men like a clean shaven woman".

Hair falling in big chunks and tofts, curtesey of the scissors and when it was time to shave, she moved so close she could even feel his breath: "Holy shit. I better find you a toothbrush and some toothpaste too" she reminded herself. When she was finished with scissor and razor, she took a step back and had a good look at him, with a measure of pride in her work. "Not bad at all", she said. "Now you actually look quite handsome" she said. "A changed man, an amazing transformation" were her words, as she gently touched his hairy chest.

"Where's the weed?". The first words that came out of his mouth. The first words she'd ever heard him say. Very calm, relaxing, deep voice.  "Oh, shit. I forgot my promise, my lie". The words came racing though her mind. Thinking about how to get out of this one, she changed tactics: "I got somethign much better" she told him, and started unbuttoning her shirt slowly. She took it off and dropped it on the floor. Then she opened her bra and put it on the counter, exposing her beautiful breasts to him, nipples already gone erect. Definitely still fuckable. Highly fuckable, indeed.

He looked at her for a moment, up and down: "Take it all off", he said. She did as directed and stood naked in front of him. Not completely clean shaven, but just a slim little runway she was sure would turn him on.

"I'd rather have the weed", he said. "You fucking bastard" it just flew out of her as she grabbed her clothes and stormed out, devastated by his rejection.

Later, sitting at the dining table over dinner, in her husband's suit that she'd lent him, and herself is a long white dress, it was he who broke what had been an embarassing silence up until that point:

"You have to understand, I have not been with a woman for many years", he said. "I don't even think I can please you".

"I don't care what body part you use", she said, "but you are welcome to give it a try. I haven't been with a man either for years and I'm still a woman, but I am sure the Lord will bless me accordingly, some day". Embarassing silence, again.

"You don't know my story", he tried again. "I used to be the CEO of MegaCorp before the shit hit the fan and I lost everything". She gasped. She knew that name as a subsidiary of the company her husband were doing business with now. "Wife, daughter, house. Everything. Then the drugs, the shame, the stigma, the suicide attemps". She was left speechless. "I'm not your future. I'm not even a good fuck any longer. I'm rock-bottom. I'm a piece of trash". "But you are still human", she replied, finally cluing into the fact that she knew nothing and and her ignorance and prejudisms were through the roof. "You still have a wife and a daughter". "Ha!" was his response. "When I went down, the wife went out...the door...and she never came back. My daughter is the reason I'm still alive. Just knowing that she's out there, somewhere, makes all the pain a little easier to bear". She was left speechles. Just didn't know what to say. All choked up and the beginning of a tear starting to form in her eyes, she chose to say nothing.

That Sunday, she was sitting in church. She had asked him to come along but he had refused, so she went alone. It wasn't brownie points and the conversion of a wilderbeast that was on her mind now, as she sent a prayer upstairs. It was a real person that was on her mind, she now understood. It was about the survival of a real person.

"If I live or die will have nothing to do with your perceived gods or your JC" he'd already told her. "To me, that's all bullshit. But if it helps you to think that way, go ahead. Whether I live a few more years or I die tomorrow, depends on things that neither you nor I can control. Sometimes I wish I'd croak tomorrow, or preferably yesterday, but then I close my eyes and see my daughter for my inner vision, and I know it's not time to go yet. She pulls me back from the cliff, simply by just being there, out there somewhere".

When she got home from church, he was not there. She made dinner...that wasn't chicken feet, pig snout, feet and tail. Six hours later she was still sitting at the dining table...alone.

Two days passed and still no sign of him. She was worried, now. Truly worried, so she decided to go look for him. She didn't know where to look. He could be anywhere, she figured, but decided that the squat on #5 and Westminster Hwy was a good place to start. A five minute searh of his "home" was all she needed. She found him in a pool of mud, wearing the suit she had lent him and with a needle in his arm, straight into the vein under the rolled-up sleeve. He looked at peace and on his chest was a picture of his daughter, with a simply scrawled message: "Thank you. To both of you". Then she broke down and cried.