Tales From The Belfry: Carrie's Tale



  TALES FROM THE BELFRY:

  Carrie's Tale

  by

  Stan Smith

  Published by A Touch of Strange Publications

  Copyright © 2014 Stan Smith

  CARRIE'S TALE

  He'd cheated on her. That's why.

  It was why her so-called best friend Brandi had suggested the Revenge Fuck. "Listen, Carrie," she'd said, "go out and find the hottest, sexiest guy you can, and screw his socks off. Hit that bastard Gareth where he lives. If messing around is so great for the great Dr. Cooper, make it great for you, too. And it's not your fault!"

  But was that great advice from someone like Brandi? Carrie had never trusted anybody whose name ended in "i". They were all former cheerleaders or something. And Brandi suggesting the "revenge fuck" was rich, considering her affair with her husband's accountant. The whole neighborhood was filled with unhappy husbands and wives, and plainly, Carrie's marriage had been no different.

  While revenge sounded like a good idea, Carrie wasn't sure. Maybe it was her fault. She'd been so tired lately, keeping up with Gemma and Baby Gavin. The kids had so many places to be, so much to do. There was Gemma's dance class, Gavin's soccer, both children's music lessons, her own errands, PTA meetings, parent-teacher meetings, bake sales, Girl Scout cookies to keep track of (Gemma was an eager salesperson, but woefully disorganized), Gavin's diorama project—it was all too much. She just wasn't in the mood like she had been before the children. And then there was that C-section scar.

  Even though it had been nine years since "Baby" Gavin was born (he'd be "Baby" Gavin until he was 30, in Carrie's mind), the scar was a reminder of the 20 hours of searing pain she'd suffered before the obstetrician had finally decided to perform a Caesarian section. And still Gavin had not wanted to leave the womb. It seemed as though the entire operating team had had to struggle to wrench the baby from her body; the attending nurse had practically been standing on her belly before his head ultimately poked out.

  Sex had never been quite so appealing after Gavin. She'd continued to perform her marital duties with a workmanlike efficiency, making the right sorts of noises at the right times, never refusing Gareth (except for the "monthlies"), and catering to his every strange fantasy (what was it with men and French maids?) when required. But it was never with as much enthusiasm or enjoyment as it had been before the "baby".

  So was it any wonder that Gareth had turned to his attractive office assistant? The one with the stunning blue eyes and the men's magazine figure? The one who doted on him daily, found every chance she could to brush up next to him, knew his thoughts before he did? In short, the woman who was what Carrie had been before the children? Was it really not her fault?

  Sure, she'd lost a bit of her beauty; who hadn't after two kids? But she wasn't saggy. She didn't need Victoria's Secret to hold them up. She did pilates twice a week, yoga daily. She ran two miles a day. And you had to look really hard to distinguish the few gray hairs among the blonde. Was it her fault? Was it?

  No. Hell no. It wasn't. It was his, the randy slime.

  How could he forget all she'd done for him? The "personal statement" he hadn't had to write or type that got him into Yale med school. The endless late-night study sessions she'd partnered with him. The crappy New Haven 5-flight walkup that they had to endure for the eight long years of his residency. The fact that it was spotless when he came home, cleaned even though she'd waited tables for eight hours beforehand just to make ends meet. The many, many nights alone while he worked the graveyard shift in the Emergency Room. The books she'd kept (for free) before his practice had earned enough to hire an accountant. The care and feeding of his children—the ones he never seemed to think about or have time for. Twelve years of being the perfect physician's wife.

  No, Dr. Gareth Cooper was a rat bastard.

  Somewhere along the line, he'd forgotten about what his family had been. He'd forgotten about beautiful, graceful Gemma, eleven years old and just on the cusp of womanhood. He'd come to ignore boisterous, fearless Gavin, a nine-year-old with boundless energy, insatiable curiosity, and the sunniest smile this side of Shirley Temple. She'd called the family trio—Gareth, Gemma, and Gavin—her musical group: the "ThreeGees" and they all sang "Stayin' Alive" in the car on the rare vacation that Gareth's busy schedule allowed. And he'd certainly forgotten about willing, pliant, always-there Carrie, hadn't he?

  It had all seemed so perfect, so right. So certain, so indestructible and eternal. And now, Gareth had made it all a sham, a mockery of her dreams. He'd let his penis do his thinking, and shattered the life that Carrie had so painstakingly built for him and for herself.

  So maybe Brandi was right. Maybe it was time for revenge.

  She chose an upscale hotel bar on the other side of town. She didn't want anyone she knew to see her, to see what she was up to. It was what people used to call a "fern bar," quiet and secluded, with subdued lighting and soft music. The conversations were made in hushed tones; the booths were deep and curved, with tall seatbacks that afforded near-total privacy. The bar itself was long and elegant, with polished brass and dark mahogany. A few couples sat near the front of the room, heads bent together in tender tête-à-têtes.

  He was sitting near the end.

  He was tall; Carrie guessed over six feet, dark hair sprinkled with flecks of gray. There was an almost regal quality to the way he carried his obviously well-muscled frame, and his strong jaw was softened by the luminous smile he shared with the bartender. Carrie imagined that he was some sort of athlete: retired maybe, on account of the gray hair. His clothes were casual but cultured, and expensive: Ralph Lauren or Tommy Bahama. Just the sort of man whose amorous attentions to Carrie would destroy Dr. Gareth Cooper's fragile ego.

  Perfect.

  She was looking down at her appletini, trying to muster up enough courage to approach him, when she felt a strange tingling on her right cheek. She turned to see what had caused it, to find him looking at her.

  With Those Eyes.

  So light blue they were almost silver. So full of depth that they seemed bottomless. So hypnotizing that she was entranced almost immediately. The face, almost too handsome. And that luminous smile! Inviting, compelling, sensuous and full of urgency, yet gentle and comforting, all at the same time. Gareth would be wounded deeply. But who cared? What was the point now? With a man like that around, who cared about anything?

  She knew what had happened almost immediately. In those first few moments after awakening in the hotel bed, she knew exactly what that marvelous—man—had been, and what he had done to her. Without reaching up to touch them, she knew that there were two, and what she had become. There was surprisingly little pain. In fact, she felt better than she had felt in some time. There was something surprisingly freeing about being dead. Or undead, or whatever you called a vampire.

  Well this is interesting, she thought. What did it all mean?

  It meant a lot of things. It meant she wouldn't have to worry about growing older. She wouldn't have to worry about cutting her hair, or dyeing it, or what kind of clothes to put on in the morning. She wouldn't have to worry about hay fever, or the flu. She wouldn't have to think about tampons, or staining a white dress after the 5th of the month. No bills. No filling the minivan up with gas. No worrying about what the neighbors would say after she threw Gareth out of the house. She wouldn't have to worry about pediatricians or medical plans. She wouldn't have to scramble eggs or fry bacon or get out bowls for cereal, or help with homework, or kiss an "owie", or trips to Disneyland or driving to—

  Her tears soaked the pillow.

  Afterward, she sat up and dried her eyes. That wasn't her. She was
stronger than that. She gathered up her things and started for the door, instinctively glancing at herself in the mirror that hung over the bed.

  There was no reflection.

  She stopped and reached up to feel her face; it was still there, but somehow, the lack of her reflection in the mirror made her feel insubstantial, nonexistent. All of her resolve drained away. She wasn't strong after all. She opened the door and walked out, not knowing where she'd go or what she'd do.

  She existed in a kind of daze after that. She didn't know how she got from one place to another, or what day—or more properly, what night—it was (she'd learned the hard way what the sun could do; the burns were healing slowly); she just bounced from one dark alley to the next, sleeping where she could be protected during the day, and only venturing out in the darkness. All she knew was that she needed blood. It was the most important thing in the world.

  At first, she felt horrible guilt. She could barely bring herself to rip into the neck of an unsuspecting victim and feel him struggle as his life's blood poured thick and warm into her mouth. But the rush she felt, and the strength it gave her soon quashed any qualms she may have had about doing what