Now where did THAT come from?

Lilith
John Collier
1887
(The Atkinson Art Gallery, Southport, England)

 

I use freewriting to loosen things up before I get down to the real work of the writing day. It's like warming up an engine. I don't write well cold. Most times, freewrites just get jammed into a file and forgotten. Sometimes, I go back to them when I'm looking for an idea for a story. Sometimes, I wonder what in the heck was going on in my head. "Hitchhiker" is one of those times.

That said, the lilith has turned up in a couple of stories. In one, she's an invisible faerie creature. In this one, she's much darker and much, much more dangerous.

Hitchhiker 

I sat down to eat and checked my phone. One missed call, a local number but one I didn't recognize. Hoping it might be a new client, I checked my voice mail.

And at the sound of his voice, the vault door in my mind burst open. I dropped the phone, flung my hands over my ears and curled into a ball. My hitchhiker pressed against me, cooing, wanting more, more, more. I could feel it shifting beneath my skin, filling all the spaces, pushing through blood and bone and muscle.

Almost without realizing it, I was picking up the phone, holding it to my ear. I heard the last of the message.

"... later tonight. Bye."

My hitchhiker spun in me, blurring into desire. All I had was the phone in one hand and the fork in the other. Swiftly, not allowing myself to think about it, I jabbed the fork downward into my leg. The briefest moment of nothing and then a red jag of pain. I yelped, but twisted the fork further into my leg. Blood burst and surfaced, pooled around the tines and began to trickle.

"No," I muttered, twisting again. The pain branched and I sobbed with it, tears spilling from my eyes, but it worked. Thank god it worked. The hitchhiker, my parasite, my punishment, dwindled and diminished and was gone back to its prison. I pulled the fork from my leg, my flesh coming up and then sliding off the tines with a sucking sound. I curled over the injury, choking back anger, choking back more tears.

You did it. It's over. Move on.

I got unsteadily to my feet and dropped the bloodied fork in the sink. I took the first aid kit from the cupboard, cleaned my wounds and sprayed them with antiseptic. I was getting low on bandages again.

When I was done I picked up my phone and turned it off. Whoever it was who'd left the message had promised to call back later. It was best if I didn't get that call, not tonight. Once my hitchhiker has a taste of freedom, you see, it takes a while for it to calm down. I have the scars to prove it.

 * * *

I wake most nights to test the handcuffs are still tight. I don't think it knows where I hide the keys, but I worry.

I wonder what it knows.

And on bad nights, I wonder if Matt knows what he did to me that night.

I can't ask it, and I can't ask him.

Knowing won't change anything, anyway.