Shadowed Soul Read online

  Manhattan grew brighter and bleaker through my grubby kitchen window as I choked down a second cup of coffee. I wished I could remove myself and my few loved ones from this confounding algorithm that chronically equalled hardship. Assailed by a kinetoscope of women in bondage, longing for escape, begging for rescue, and I felt again like a bastard. As I placed my cup in the sink alongside the dinner plate I cracked the night before, I noticed Bailey’s food and water bowls. They rested on a plastic mat we had bought to protect the floor from the shrapnel of his over-enthusiastic eating. One bowl bore a cartoon dog with a big smile. The sight stuck me in the heart like a rusty spike. I needed my wellspring, my wife, my son, my dog. I could not do this alone. I needed their warmth and compassion. I decided to return to them this evening as soon as I finished work. And if the offer that I stay with them was there then I would snap at it, receive it in my arms and embrace the light that they provided.

  This feeling of acceptance brought with it a sense of hope and happiness that meant that the Shadowed Soul did not have such a hold on me this morning. My spiral downwards had abated. I showered and shaved and went to work with a feeling of elation and happiness.

  “You’re twenty minutes late, Thomas,” said my manager scowling at me as I entered the office.

  “Sorry, Steve, rough night,” I said. I stole a little joy from the expression on his face when I called him by his first name. He hated first names, even though he was only two years older than I. For some reason he felt we should all call him Mr. Mitchell, even though company policy supported that team work strengthened with first names.

  “Thomas, that’s twenty minutes that you’ve effectively stolen from Quexinor,” explained Steve with a pained expression. “This company has 35,000 employees around the country. What would happen if they all decided they’d had a rough night? How much time would be stolen under those circumstances?” Steve was on a roll, rightful but pedantic.

  “Twenty-three-thousand-three-hundred hours would be lost,” I answered smugly demonstrating my math skills were sharper than his. “That equates to 79 working days, but I’ve got a new baby, Steve.” As if I had been up all night feeding a newborn like a saint instead of feeding on BDSM like a pariah.

  “Thomas, I…”

  “Steve, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” I said modestly.

  “Congratulation,” said Steve awkwardly, not really caring that I was a new father. “I’m glad we had this little chat, Thomas.”

  Steve ambled back to his office as I made my way to my soulless work zone and logged on. I hated my job; it was another fragmentary thing in my life that seemed to serve no purpose other than to make my life harder than it should be. I spent eight hours a day at a computer checking data for errors and questioning the data suppliers when I found discrepancies. An excruciatingly bland process it was composed of a dull cycle of message after message and screens and screens of data. Quexinor farmed out their services to various pharmaceutical companies to clean the data that was collected during their own clinical trials. During grad school, I had fallen into this job hoping to establish a future with a powerful company. I fantasized about working on a study designed to cure clinical depression. However, it had not happened. I had worked on myriad studies and while my colleagues found empathy in the studies, I had none. My colleagues seemed able to correlate what they were doing on a daily basis with individuals who suffered from various illnesses. They recognized their own value in this job as a means to improve the lives of many people. Already, I felt so far removed from people that anything resembling empathy for unnamed subjects in Russia or Germany was never going to come from me.

  However, there were times when the sheer repetition of the job had been a comfort. I found solace in the list of tasks that needed to be completed by a certain time. It distracted me from the burden of my own issues. Guaranteed eight hours of mind-numbing freedom, it was an escape. Unchallenged by rote tasks, much of the time though I found myself bored out of my mind. I was wasting my life in a dead end job. Toying with giving it up and risking a search for something that I loved to work at frightened me. I had always thought I would love to run a bookshop. But I felt undeserving, like I should continue to suffer. Plus, now that Jonathan was here, the responsibilities that yoked me to the job in the first place were more constrictive. I was trapped forever in my personal hell, living a rerun of one of my mother’s soap opera melodramas.

  “Grim reality. Life does that though,” I told myself reinforcing my low expectations.

  Work blurred away with the time and I left twenty minutes late so Steve could not continue to fault my wanton heist. Stopping by a push-cart vendor on the way, I went straight to see Beth, fruits and flowers in hand, elated to see her and tell her my decision to move to her parents’.

  Indecision is the worst. Acceptance tipped the scales for me. It was all for the best. It would be cramped and I would still be paying rent for an unused apartment. Ultimately, it was only slightly more expensive than paying for storage. The alternative, to stay alone in that apartment, would do me in. I decided to sequester my decision until it was time for me to leave Dorothy and Pete’s, as a last-minute surprise for Beth.

  As soon as Beth opened the door I kissed her.

  “I’m so sorry, Beth,” I murmured. “I was total a dick last night.”

  “Flowers!” exclaimed Beth, and hugged me. “Oh, and fresh fruit, too. Thomas!” We kissed for a long time as Bailey waited patiently for a pat. I felt whole.

  Dinner conversation between all of us was light and easy with Jonathan at the fore. Absolutely no one risked a departure to ask me how I was. And it never occurred to me to ask if anyone in the house was sleeping well despite the presence of a howling baby in need of frequent feeding and diaper changes.

  Jonathan sopped up most of our attention, and Bailey scavenged the remains. Jonathan had seemed delighted to see me. Pete and Dorothy, however, and worst of all Beth, acknowledged my presence but showed no especial interest in me as the evening wore on.

  “Can you believe, they didn’t even bother to ask you how your day was!? You’ve got to be an infant in this house to get any attention, Thomas,” advised the Shadowed Soul. I was invisible to them.

  Pete held my son and droned on about how he and Dorothy had tag-teamed diaper changes throughout the night so Beth could heal.

  “My conclusion,” said Dorothy sleepily, “…is that baby boys are smellier than baby girls.” Dorothy cooed and clucked at the baby like a woman possessed.

  “Look mom, no hands,” laughed Beth smugly, sinking into the couch to luxuriate in doing absolutely nothing.

  “The perfect wife and mother, Beth!” joked Pete.

  “I’m healing!” protested Beth and giggled.

  “Well, heal faster, already,” muttered the Shadowed Soul almost loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’d think she’d given birth to a miracle rather than a mewling child.” I wiped his spittle from my ear. No one even noticed my discomfort.

  “You hold him for a while, Thomas!” said Pete smiling broadly as he handed me the baby. “We could all use a break.”

  “For such a tiny creature, it’s amazing how much energy he absorbs from everyone,” remarked Beth, hands-free. “I mean, look at us. We’re all pooped.”

  As I held Jonathan I looked into my son’s little face. Studying his sleepy eyes and his happy, burbling mouth I observed indifferently that the Shadowed Soul and I together felt nothing for the infant.

  “The kid obviously thinks he deserves front and center,” admonished the Shadowed Soul. “I don’t know about you, Thomas, but I’m not going to lavish him with attention.”

  Whether Jonathan sensed my disinterest was directed at him, I will never know, but he started to cry, tiny, irritated sobs that escalated into fully orchestrated keening. I stared in disbelief. Had the infant read my mind? Before I could react, Dorothy swept up the baby in her arms, cradling him while muttering stupid placatory nonsense. Again, all eyes wer
e on that baby. Not on me, the man who had been forced to give everything up so that a screeching baby could be comfortable. Yet I was the one being ignored, pushed aside as obsolete. I knew that Jonathan required care and attention. I was not a monster. But they all knew perfectly well that I needed love and affection, too. And that child was like a vacuum, sucking it all in his direction and leaving nothing for me but a morass of emotions.

  “I think we’re all exhausted,” noted Pete. “The late nights, you know.”

  “I better go,” I mumbled and stood up. “I have to be early to work tomorrow. This time of year, you know.”

  “Oh, okay.” Beth conceded my departure far too easily. Had she not been blind even so she would barely have noticed that I had come at all after our initial hopeful kiss. “I’m not feeling so great below the belt,” said Beth apologetically waiving good-bye to me from the couch. Bailey walked me to the door. I patted Bailey and ruffled his ears and he looked at me imploringly; in his expression I could see what he meant: I still love you, Tom, even though you’re the one who’s being a baby. I nodded a little at him and kissed the soft fur on his head and then I left without looking back at Beth. My resolve evaporated, the Shadowed Soul surfed the side-lines delighted that I was powerless to stop him.

  Navigating his comeback, the Shadowed Soul crooned to me the entire bus ride back to the empty apartment.

  “I’m here for you, buddy,” assured my demon. “We’ll play tonight. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

  As soon as I got inside, I switched on the computer, and clicked on restore all items. My odyssey into the world of bondage and discipline continued. And so it went, the cycle of abuse and degradation, so briefly interrupted by Beth and Bailey. My world compressed and torqued as I sat back to watch blood spatter inside my computer screen. Was it a paid actress or a kidnapped runaway? I would never know. My eyes widened as I settled in for another night of lust and disgust.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Steve’s office revealed not a trace of family. I wondered if he went home alone each night and did what I did. My supervisor pretended to deal with an urgent email as I waited in the chair opposite his desk, rage simmering to a boil within me. The prick had asked me to his office and now I was being inconvenienced.

  “Clearly some middle management strategy to destabilize your self-worth, Thomas,” whispered the Shadowed Soul conspiratorially. “He wants you to know he has more important things than us to attend to. Let’s mess with him!” The Shadowed Soul was eyeing the stack of well-ordered documents on Steve’s desk. “What if all those tax files accidentally, just, you know, slid off?”

  I smirked at the thought of laying waste to Steve’s meaningless piles of perfection. Instead, I turned my attention to the fake Christmas tree that twinkled listlessly in the corner of the drab space and nodded off. Christ I was tired. It had been four months since my son’s birth, and about four weeks since I had seen him. I tended not to go around as much citing the extra hours I had to work. In truth I could not face going to that fucking house with the false smiles and veritable empire that was being built around my son instead of around me. It was like a juggernaut over which I had no control; as the baby would grow older it was just going to get worse. Jonathan was already more comfortable being held by Pete than by me. While that had hurt at first I became inured to it. If that was what that baby wanted then so be it. He was still an unreasoning force of nature; there was nothing calculating in his actions unlike those of the three adults who professed to love me. So, my visits slowed to a trickle then simply stopped. There were still telephone calls and emails; that suited me. Instead, I found solace in a million different women, bound and gagged, suffering and powerless like I was. My evenings wasted away feverishly searching out edgier degradation visited upon helpless women. Ropes, chains, straps and gags restrained exposed bodies and silenced anonymous cries.

  Steve’s pathetic tree reminded me that the burden of Christmas was upon me. I could hardly cope. Five days remained yet my disjointed fever dream persisted. Month after month, I had floated through without lasting impact on anything or anyone. Maybe I would go and see them on Christmas if they wanted me, but the rest of the time I would cocoon myself in helplessness and silence.

  “Thomas, thank you for coming,” said Steve finally deigning to acknowledge my presence. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had a rather more pressing matter to attend to.”

  “To which to attend,” I mumbled, letting the Shadowed Soul correct Steve’s grammar. Steve ignored the disrespectful remark.

  “Thomas, there isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’ll cut to the chase,” said Steve forthrightly. “There have been a number of complaints about you from the team. Your attitude, your personal hygiene and appearance.” He paused to unmask a flicker of disdain. “A concrete example, Thomas, the way you’ve come to work today. Are we growing a beard to play Santa for the newborn?”

  Restraining myself from punching him out, I parked my hand on my chin and I was surprised at my heavy stubble. When had I last shaved? Or, showered? It was a blur.

  “Sorry,” I said glaring at him.

  “Those newborns,” said Steve patronizingly. “Other people find a way.”

  “I said, I’m sorry, Steve,” I reiterated.

  “Thomas, there’s more. Your productivity has nose-dived. Your workload has to be carried by the team mates and that’s not very fair, is it?”

  “No, Steve,” I conceded.

  “I have three children and I know it’s tiring and stressful, Thomas,” said Steve with a watery smile. “Had these been the only complaints I would have advocated on your behalf. You do know I like you as a person, Thomas. However, I checked your online activity. You read the company handbook, Thomas? I’m referring specifically to our policy regarding proper internet usage.” I closed my eyes, a heavy hand closed around my stomach. “I’d like your answer, Thomas.”

  “Yes, Steve, I--” I stammered, as my life imploded further.

  “Then you’ll know that company internet is strictly for business use? Now, I know that people sometimes want to surf the net during breaks, shop for the holidays online, and I even don’t mind ten minutes here and there during core hours.” He paused and looked at me with regret. “But the sites you’ve been camped on are unacceptable. What were you thinking, Thomas? What possessed you?”

  What possessed me was perched on the arm of my chair gagging on laughter as he clambered up the side of my head, digging claws into my face for traction. I wiped his stinking saliva off my brow along with my own rivulets of perspiration. My manager’s stare was met my ours, as the Shadowed Soul and I glared back at him.

  “You don’t have to answer him,” murmured the Shadowed Soul. “Tell him to go fuck himself. I bet he wanks in his office when his door’s shut.” I smirked at that.

  “It’s not a laughing matter, Thomas,” said Steve coolly.

  There was nothing I could say, not really, I could neither justify nor explain what I had done. To lob blame on my Shadowed Soul would secure me a one-way to Utica. I was not ready to admit publicly that I suffered from a chronic condition. Instead, I endured Steve’s bureaucratic lecture.

  “Twenty-one days, Thomas! It takes a mere 21 days to make or break a habit!” exclaimed my manager. “How long have you been at this?” Steve ranted. I tuned out.

  Whatever point he made was irrelevant. Humiliation would be chased by despair; termination of my employment was certain. I had allowed myself to be drawn into my dark obsession so much that I lost my one means of support. How would I ever provide a lifestyle suitable for my family?

  Before walking me out the security entrance, my manager escorted me to my office and watched judiciously as I gathered my few personal objects. I found the process cleansing. Nose to grindstone, my so-called team, some of whom I had called friends, avoided eye contact with me. Not that I blamed them. It was almost Christmas and their goal was to finish and celebrate with loved ones. In silence, Steve o
pened the exterior door and locked it behind me with a nod. He had successfully removed me from his life.

  “Firing you is the one thing your sniveling manager did, Thomas, to inspire my respect for him,” hollered the Shadowed Soul, prancing gleefully around me in the street.

  “Fuck off!” I snarled at my Shadowed Soul. Magnifying a desolate winter wasteland was the contrast to my pitiable bundle of personal possessions. “You’ve destroyed my income because of your obsession with porn!”

  Rather than provide relief from my own captivity, my desire to see helpless women in states of increasingly elaborate bondage had further exacerbated my own prison. True that my limbs were unfettered and I was free to move unencumbered by physical restraints and I could express myself without having to navigate the discomfort of a gag, yet, I was trapped in my own mind. A helpless victim of the Shadowed Soul, a more frightening aspect was I had no recollection of having accessed bondage websites at my work desk. The Shadowed Soul had manipulated me like a puppet.

  “You won’t need this crap,” said the Shadowed Soul confidently as he snatched my bundle of personal belongings, including the photo of my wife and newborn. The sound of oblivion followed as I let him dump them in a trash bin. “Let’s go have fun, Thomas.”

  Without thinking, I caught the bus back to my empty apartment with my destructive twin. We looked out the window with hostile indifference, passing shops adorned with Christmas cheer and sidewalks thronged with shoppers enduring the search for gifts. Some carried a Christmas tree and garlands to satisfy their need to force color and light into mundane existence. A few smiled. Often contorted in scowls their faces made me hate them.

  “They don’t know what it’s like to be you, Thomas. It’s as if their problems are the only things that matter,” muttered the Shadowed Soul. “You’d think everyone had an easy time compared to them.” I watched them scurry, stuck within small grooves, inconsequential paths that lead from birth to death. Bland and pointless their existence meant nothing to anyone beyond a tiny circle of family, friends and acquaintances. Incandescent blame exuded from my every pore. “These stupid people and their inane problems are the problem.”