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Bill W. Morgan
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roleplay.jpg
Art by J. D. Sixsmith 2015

Role Play

Bill W. Morgan

 

          His father warned him at an early age to stay away form that particular part of his mind.  Standing above him in the pale light of early morning, his father’s voice would spike with anger as the hickory cane he always carried tapped away against the door jamb of his small room.  During his formative years his father showed him what such thoughts could, would produce, and in kind had trained him to ignore the impulses, the sudden jolt of subconscious desire that would wake him in the night, like a thief come to take away his soul.  He would say the Lord’s prayer until it stuck to the roof of his mouth.  However, as he grew, as the shadows of adulthood eclipsed that of adolescence, his urge to give into the impulse grew as well, and if he tried to speak the Lord’s prayer those unspeakable urges would block him, confuse him with deep carnal needs.  The images would come in a rapid stream, a betraying reel to reel movie that left him weak and wanting for more.  The prayer, and any salvation that it promised, fell dead among the war of imaginative plots. 

          It was years after his father had died that he finally gathered enough strength to curse the prayer and give in to the joy of pleasure, of self-gratification.  Free and open about it, he would no longer hide away in his room, door locked, hand posed awkwardly at his crotch, blanket tucked to his chest.  Afraid his father would walk in.

          In time he allowed the fantasies free reign of his mind and like most ideas, they planted and grew.  His plots became more involved and soon the mind wasn't enough to satisfy his needs.  The next progression involved the purchase of a doll, a female companion that he purchased from the pornographic store downtown, late at night so as not to endure the judgmental gaze of others.  He kept her undressed and in the corner of his small bedroom.  Some nights he would just talk, a one-sided conversation that made the predawn love making that more meaningful.  Other nights, when the urges were monsters pounding at the doors of his mind, he would turn animal, push her against the couch and have his way.  Of course she would fight back, fight off his unwanted advances, but on those nights when the caged animal inside him showed its teeth, he was too strong for her weakened opposition. 

          It was on one of those occasions, during a late night episode that she cried out.  He heard this and momentarily forgot his viciousness.  He turned her over and met her absent gaze, waiting for another burst of emotion.  Nothing came and soon he tired of listening.  He continued and ended with a finale that made him blind with ecstasy, and made her moan in spasmodic pleasure. 

          Soon he grew tired of the usual games, his mind; more so the monster craved an escalation in the fantasy, and in a stroke of pure genius, he bought a black rubber mask from the very same sex shop.  Now he could be a stranger, one that came to the bed while she lay sleeping.  He could tap her shoulder until she turned to meet his eyes.  He would disrobe and with her astonishment playing on her face, he would stand before her erect, but unknown.

          Or, he could be the psychopath with the serrated steak knife that made her do things, things born of the deepest depravity.  He would slide the blade down the inside of her slick, pale legs and with a few measured swipes free her of her cotton panties.  She would lay there naked as he paraded around the room in the mask, the master of his own reality.

          One night as he played the stranger he again heard a faint whimper.  As he turned her towards him, he watched a tear roll down her cheek.  He moved off her quickly, laid beside her.  He touched her cheek lightly, waiting for a response.  He took the gag ball out of her mouth to get a better look.  Perspiration, he reasoned, nothing more.  He was out of shape, and in the warm summer breeze that blew in from the open window of his small bedroom it was only normal to sweat when one is exerting one’s self.

          A few months later, after work one night, he went to the nearest sporting goods store and in another flash of genius he purchased the sleekest hunting knife he could find.  He wrapped it in his coat before he opened the door to his house.  He meant to surprise her with it.  She was on the couch, bound at her hands and legs, the gag pushed firmly into place between her lips.  The radio was on to keep her company while he was gone and as it clicked over to a festive tune, he stood above her to show her his surprise.  

          He had purchased the knife in an attempt to get her to do what he wanted her to do.  He had tried to get her to bathe, but on more than one occasion, she had successfully fought him off.  On those nights, the sex was forced and she spent the aftermath in the trunk at the foot of his bed. 

          Now he twisted the knife wildly in the air and threatened her.  She stared blankly at the opposite wall ignoring him.  He reasoned with her, she in turn refused to meet his demands.  He slid the knife down her cheek and she flinched, or maybe it was just a slight shift in the couch as he sat beside her, he wasn't sure.

          He slid the knife past her outstretched arm to her flank, down to her thigh, past her knee to her ankle.  He was careful, but a momentary slip of the sharp edge, and a small slit opened near the ball of her foot.  He heard the gasp of escaping air and then a tiny line of blood formed over the cut.

          He carefully wiped away the blood, patched the cut, and forced her to bathe.  Later that night as they made love on the small deck of his back yard, hidden away from everything except the pale light of a winter moon, he whispered his undying love.  Exhausted she slept peacefully at the foot of his bed.

          A few days later, during the night, the labored breathing at the end of the bed awakened him.  He tugged hard at the dog chain around her neck; there was a slight gag, then silence.  He lay back down on his pillow, but was unable to sleep.  He turned the bedside light on and focused on the figure at the foot of his bed.  No longer was her frame slender and beautiful, now it lay across the bed weak and defeated.  Her eyes were pale and worn heavy on her slack face, no more the pale blue fire that sparked his imagination that night at the sex shop.  The harsh reality of their relationship now played across her face with each strained breath.  Even her sex had taken to a defeatist attitude; it no longer hugged him with warmth.  Instead, it stole away his emotional connection to her, a cold, clammy hand strangling away happiness and replacing it instead with anger.

          He took from his nightstand the hunting knife, the sharp blade slicing into his index finger.  He stood above her as her eyes unfocused and her breath stilled the room.  He said the Lord’s prayer and buried the knife deep into her neck.

          He buried her the next night in a small plot of land behind the tool shed in his back yard.

          Three weeks later he sat on the couch watching the evening news, the knife perched on his right knee.  The reporter bobbed her head as she told the story of the missing girl.  The second such disappearance in this small city, she said.  He tipped his gaze slightly as a picture showed on the screen.  A faded Polaroid of a young girl with pale blue eyes smiling into the camera that sparked some far off memory in his mind.  He said a silent prayer for her then turned his attention towards the bedroom.  He had bought another toy at the store.  She was waiting in the bedroom for him.

 

End



Drunk

by Bill Morgan

 

Drunk

Arms outspread

Screaming at the cool

expanse of formulated brick

a panicked study of chemical dependency

 

Shirt off

Summer night after a dismal rain

I had just lost an uninteresting argument

with a wicked siren

I had bedded for a month

Now she walked out

arms intertwined

With a pretty boy whore

 

I punched the wall hard

thick pieces of solid rock

refusing to give 

Imbedded in callused skin

To numb to care

 

“Goddamn son of a bitch!”

I yelled

“Goddamn son of a bitch.”

Pulled back and let fire

This time I felt bone give way

 

This is reality

No butterflies overhead

No nocturnal reprise

under neon bar tops

Seventy-five dollar tab

Empty stomach

alone,

broken,

pissed off,

Drunk

Bill W. Morgan was born in Las Vegas, Nevada in 1976. In 1985, his family moved to Carson City, Nevada.

 

His work has been published in Ill Gotten: an Anthology of Punk Poetry, and the Wildcat Review. Capital Press published his first poetry collection, When We Awaken, in 2000. His second book, Showcase: Five Short Films, was published in 2013.  He is currently working on his second poetry collection, as well as a collection of short stories.



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