Mail the author
Five years now, and still no respect.
The room was sparse, dimly lit, the dull scent of ammonia an ever present, by turns acrid yet strangely calming; the fumes of the familiar a salve to the soul.
I moved unhurriedly, knowing I was alone, for the time being, at least, and whistled random notes tunelessly, the sound seeming louder in the stillness of the empty room.
'Put the bins out.'
'Mop the floor.'
'Empty the dishwasher.'
Myriad instructions, each more mundane than the last, spoken to me as if I were a dim-witted child, not a Social Support Worker of five years experience, yet I tolerated them all in silence, holding my tongue, fearful of the consequences should the floodgates open, afraid that the torrent of abuse that might well spill forth would have sufficient potency to render me persona non-grata, a swift boot up the backside the only thanks for sixty months tireless, complaint free toil.
See, they all looked down at me, though they tried not to show it. They sneered at me behind my back, speaking in whispers just quiet enough that the words could not be discerned, though the look in their eye told the story well enough.
'Watch out for that one.'
'He's trouble.'
'Fucking idiot.;
Accusations, allegations and acrimony, all fuelled by that most flammable of catalysts: jealousy. Where each of them was a failure of a sort - that one a wannabe teacher without the intestinal fortitude to bear thirty sets of disinterested eyes on him on a daily basis, this one a would be nursery nurse who claimed that she left her previous job as she grew to dislike children. Yeah, right. Shoved out the door more like, once they figured out how fucking useless she was. Jesus, even one who fancies himself a writer. Claims he has had stuff published, but I know better. I've looked. Self-published twaddle, the material spunked into that great white noise THEY call the internet, a place where nobody looks for anything they don't already know about in the first place. Published writer? Total wanker - I strode amongst them assuredly, no flaws to speak of, no weaknesses and, crucially, no failings in my career.
I was where I wanted to be.
I'd chosen this.
I'd achieved.
Slowly, dawdling almost, I headed for the door of the communal living area and exited, ambling along the short corridor and into the kitchen, at ease in my solitude, preferring it that way. The home was always at its most pleasant when barely occupied and, with most staff and service users out enjoying the sunshine in the park, I felt like king of this domain. Jerry, my mutant, riddled with all manner of abnormalities and defects, was in his room where I had placed him, wheelchair bound, staring sightlessly at some animated movie or other - I didn't know which one, I'd simply hit play on the blasted DVD player - and he would remain that way until I chose to move him. He could scream all he wanted. I was in charge here.
I approached the sink, lowered for the convenience of wheelchair users, back-breaking for normal people like me, and lifted out the pan, already filled with water, soaking the potatoes set for preparation. I grabbed a peeler and set to work, the irony not lost on me. It was what I did all day, after all. Tending to fucking vegetables.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Meal prepared, I headed out of the kitchen, along the second corridor which ran perpendicular to the one adjoining kitchen to living area, slowing as I neared the office, wondering if the single staff member still present besides myself was even awake. He had certainly made no noise in a while so, instead of walking straight past, I popped my head around the door, shiftily if truth be told, but James did not notice, his head down, focusing on the paperwork spread out in front of him.
'Just gonna clean the bathroom,' I told him - a lie, but a convincing one.
''Kay Ray. Whatever you say.'
Dismissive little prick, I thought, fighting the urge to counter-comment with something quite biting ('And maybe you should clean off your cock once in a while after dipping it into those trollops down The Wagon, you filthy fucking bastard') choosing instead simply to retreat. Allow him his moment. Treat me like shit. What did it matter to me, anyway?
I continued down the corridor, turned at the end, along a few more metres then pushed open the door that I had left partially ajar. Jerry remained where I had left him - what else was he going to do - and, just like James, he barely registered my presence but, at least in his case, he had the excuse of congenital disorders to fall back on. Ignorance is a choice for some but, for Jerry, it was a blight that blossomed through the corruption of both body and mind, the Cerebral Palsy that so altered his physical and mental configuration also robbing him of the power of language, alleviating the affront I felt, at least a little.
'Bath time, Jerry,' I said, though quietly, not wanting James to hear, afraid that he would try to intervene, to take charge. Shift Leader, I thought. Leading Shaft, was nearer to the truth. As quietly as I could, I disengaged the brakes, and rolled Jerry out of his room, further along the corridor, into the expansive bathroom, specially adapted for all manner of cripples and defects. Hand rails, lowered seating, raised seating, a wet area featuring a shower with a fucking seat, as well as a bath which dipped the prostrate retard into the water like an apple into hot toffee, slowly lowering them until their entire corrupted form was submerged.
'Sshhhh,' I instructed Jerry as I began to run the bath, manoeuvering the hoist into position, clipping him into place, elevating his slender frame into the air, leaving him dangling there, powerless, whilst I took a piss. Finished, I activated the hoist once more, swinging him over the bath, lowering him onto the raised dais, stripping him as quickly as I could before dropping the platform, the water washing around him greedily, sucking him in, dispassionate, unconcerned about his physical abnormalities, wanting only to integrate him, a symbiotic relationship of sorts, the water warming and soothing to him, whilst his presence allowed the water to climb higher than it would otherwise achieve.
I grabbed a jug and poured water over his head, dampening his hair sufficiently before reaching for a bottle of shampoo and I began to lather up his hair, the whole time he remaining immobile, seemingly unaware of the attention I was giving him, ungrateful, it seemed, as if he were somehow entitled to be washed and cleansed, as if the compassion of another were somehow his right.
'Can you say thank you?' I asked him, still rubbing at his scalp, the shampoo now long gone, but I liked the way it felt as his head rocked back and forth. 'You can speak really, Jerry,' I told him, 'They just lied to you when you were young.' Still I rifled his hair, pouring more water needlessly, nothing to wash away, just waiting for a response from him, a sign that he actually gave a shit about anything at all.
'Do you know where you are?' I demanded.
'Do you know your own name?'
'Are you capable of thought?'
And, as the last question was asked, I pushed, hard, palm flattened against the top of his head, his enfeebled body unable to offer up any kind of resistance so that his head went straight under and, though his eyes widened, his condition prevented more decisive action, withered legs and stick like arms jerking spastically - funny that - but without the coordination required to be in any way preventative, instead his head remaining under water, completely in my control and, internally, I counted thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, reaching twenty, releasing my hold on the top of his head, the buoyancy of his body in the water bringing his head clear, water spraying from his mouth and nostrils, his airways clearing desperately, sucking air in great, wracking gasps.
'At last, a reaction,' I said, plunging his head under once more, in total command, here, laughing quietly to myself as his vestigial limbs jerked uselessly, counting again, releasing, allowing him to surface once more, tiring if the game, moving my attentions down his body, stroking my fingers against his skin, feeling his ribs where they pushed against his paper thin skin, finding pleasure in the sensation. I moved to the left, still in contact with his body, fingers now gliding over his abdominal region, the muscles well defined, the years spent rocking back and forth in his wheelchair having toned him to the point that he sported an admirable six pack, and I lingered there, pushing at the area, the muscles pushing back against my touch.
'Aren't you a healthy little thing,' I cooed, meaning what I said, feeling myself becoming aroused, knowing that I mustn't give in to the yearnings, must only commit these things to memory, to be called upon again when alone in my room.
I moved to the left again, allowing my hand to trail further down, through the thick bush of pubic hair before finding his penis, which I took in the palm of my hand, almost as if I were weighing it, before I began to stroke up and down, coaxing life from the well proportioned member, one of the few parts of his body that appeared uncorrupted by the blight that ruined much of the rest of him.
'You like that, don't you?' I asked him, expecting no response, receiving none save the gradual stiffening my touch demanded, and now I looked him in the eye, tried to imagine what he was thinking. Did he know that what we were doing was wrong? Did he care either way, or was physical contact such a rarity in his life that he delighted in it, despite the deviancy, just as surely as I did. Rock hard now, still I worked on him until finally, without a sound, he climaxed, his sticky seed spunking forth with some vigour, and I smiled down at him for a second, before my mood changed, and now I started to twist at his cock, to jerk it harshly, painfully, and his body responded by trying to pull away, but I was clearly at the advantage.
'You're a filthy sack of shit,' I hissed at him. 'You did this. It's your fault.'
And still he gazed up at me blankly.
'I hate you,' I declared, before commencing the clean up.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
With Jerry back in his room and the bathroom cleaned of all signs of occupancy, save the condensation, I snuck back down the corridor, tip-toeing, almost, eager not to be heard. The tinny sound of a radio broadcast helped to mask my footfalls and, quickly, I peaked my head around the office door, pleased to see James still at the desk, the paperwork before him apparently all consuming. Back along the corridor, I eased open the door just one along from Jerry's, bold in my actions, knowing the room was unoccupied, and would be for at least one more hour. Into Julie's room I strode, not needing to pause, knowing what I sought, and just where it was kept. The chest of drawers was situated at the foot of her bed, but where normally a mirror would be positioned, here was only bare wall. No one with Down's Syndrome had much need of mirrors, I thought to myself, delighting in my cruelty. I pulled open the top drawer of the unit as quietly as I could, grasping for a pair of knickers. Pink, large and adorned with feminising frills that seemed almost sarcastic given the wearer, I brought them up to my face, sniffing at them eagerly, allowing my tongue to dart from between my lips, tasting the material, but only lightly, aware of the need for discretion, telltale damp patches definitely to be avoided. With my free hand, I squeezed at my already engorged cock through my trousers, kneading at it gently, seeking to enjoy the sensation without tipping over the excitement threshold, and was about to stuff the knickers into my own pants for a short while, when a noise troubled. Footsteps, surely, marching quickly and, suddenly stricken with panic, I threw the knickers into their drawer, sliding it back along its rollers, wincing at the slightest sound it made, then padded to the door, pressing my head against the wood. From beyond, only silence assailed, so I inched the door open a crack, peering into the gloom, knowing that if I were caught now, no amount of explanation would suffice. Moving quickly, I eased the door open as rapidly as silence would allow and squeezed through, holding the door still, using a deft hand to guide it shut without a sound, and stood in the corridor breathless, certain that I looked like what I was: a man guilty of something terrible, yet the shame that should have burned was utterly absent and, once the initial burst of adrenaline had subsided, instead I was left with no sensation other than frustration, the sexual satisfaction I sought still a pressing need, the pressure in my underwear testament to nature's demand. Just as I was about to head for the bathroom, to complete the job. the source of the footsteps revealed itself, and Hannah emerged from Jerry's room. She saw me standing in the corridor and, for one terrifying moment, it seemed she could see everything I was thinking, a look of disgust flickering over her features before, with the utmost professionalism, she masked her revulsion, and spoke.
'Can you come with me please, Ray?'
'Er, yeah,' was all I could muster, still uncertain about how much she knew, or even suspected.
Without another word, she span on her heels, and I followed meekly behind, her manner clearly communicating that any attempt at conversation would be met with limited response. She reached the office and entered, sitting opposite James, who nodded at her politely, no words exchanged. She reached for something on the table in front of her, a folder, black, large enough to contain multiple sheets of A4 paper and, as she lifted it in front of her, tilting it so that she could read the files within, my attention was drawn to something on the front. An image of some kind, though the light made it difficult to make out clearly, so I inched nearer, adjusting my positioning to better make out the picture and, to my astonishment, as clarity came, so too confusion as its companion.
'Wh-wh-why?' I stammered, unable to formulate a cohesive sentence.
'It's time for your medication, Mr. Jenkins,' she said matter of factly, tapping the front of the folder, as if confirming that the image displayed was truly of myself.
'I don't want it,' I protested.
'Not this again,' she snapped, impatiently.
'Bu-bu-but.....'
'Please behave yourself, Mr. Jenkins.'
'But why do none of the other staff have to have them pills?' I demanded. 'Why do none of the other staff have to live here, neither?'
Hannah's eyes widened, then she span in the chair to face James.
'Isn't he sweet?' she said to her colleague. 'He thinks he's one of us.'
No comments:
Post a Comment