PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller by Michelle Muckley Read Free Book Online Page B

to look at her,
my first instinct to shout, to arouse Gregory to the intruder and betrayal of
his privacy, but as I open my mouth no sound comes out.  She stares at me as my
mouth hangs open like a ventriloquist’s dummy whose puppeteer is lost.  I look
back at Gregory, unaware and lost to a place built of his own virility.  I turn
back to Ishiko but she is no longer staring at me.  Instead she stares past me,
tilting her head to the side as if I am no more than an apparition in the steam,
an inconsequential element of the scene.  She places clean towels on the bed
without taking her eyes off him, regarding his body as if it were a statue on
display to be admired. 
    “You
cannot be here,” I whisper as I pull the door to the bathroom closed but
without shutting it, sealing Gregory from view, and leaving Ishiko and I in the
near darkness of the bedroom.  Her eyes glisten back at me as they catch the
reflection of the small amount of light sneaking out from the bathroom.  I can
still hear him grunting, and it is intensifying. 
    “I
have brought fresh towels, as Mr. Astor told me to.”
    “But
he is in the shower.  You saw him in the shower.”  I do not feel the need to
add any other details about what she has seen or what we can both hear.
    “But
you opened the bathroom door.  If you were not here, the door would have been
closed, and I wouldn’t have seen,” she pauses before adding, “anything.”  The
noises have stopped. 
    I
wanted to tell her that what she saw was not for her eyes.  It wasn’t for her
eyes, because it wasn’t even for mine.  But I can’t because I know he had been
waiting for her.  I wonder if she had been in here before like this.  I
wondered if before it had been her hand on his body, or his on her.  I wondered
if this is how it started, a casual and supposed accidental meeting as she
brought in towels.  I got another urge to smash her pretty face against
something, the bed frame or the nearest cabinet.  I thought for a moment how I
would enjoy seeing her blood spray onto the sheets, but I was interrupted by
the bathroom door opening.  I hadn’t realised the water had stopped running
during the moments lost to my own fantasy.
    “What
are you both doing here?”  His words were stern, that of a father, and me the
child.  He referred to us both, but it was me who he looked to for answers. 
    “I
came to ask you something, and she brought you towels.”   I stuttered my words
and knew that they sounded unconvincing, abashed.  He was covered by a towel
already, his selfish seed spilling penis covered from view, his oversized body
underworked and underdeveloped.  Where his pectoral muscles should be hung
lumps of skin, and his stomach was protruding over the towel as it cut through
his flab.  I hated him for making me feel this way, and I hated her even more
for not feeling the same. 
    “Well
if you wouldn’t mind.”  He ushered us both to the door, irritation and no hint
of shame in his voice as he flicked on the light.  “Ishiko, organise the food,
and you,” he said, looking at me, “organise yourself.  Your cheeks are all
flushed and your hair is a mess.  We are expecting guests, remember.”  He had
managed to get us both out of the door as if I had no right to be there whilst
he was naked.  I wanted to scream back at him that I saw what he did, that it
was too late for privacy, but he closed the door, shutting us out.  So instead
I gripped Ishiko by the arm, firmly to the point I could feel her blood pooling
in her hands and pulsating back at me trying to push me off.  She pulled her arm
away but I held it tight, my fingers locked in a grip. 
    I
said, “You are not to go in there again.  Do you hear me?”  I was whispering
but spitting at the same time and I saw a few drops land on her face.  I think
one hit her eye because it flickered shut.
    She
nodded without saying anything and wiped her face.  She walked down the stairs
without