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Rated: 18+ · Article · Thriller/Suspense · #660748
The Method of Transgression: Part Four

Her hands were still trembling when she hung up the phone. It was always hard to talk to them. Even Rob. Now she had reason for caution as well.

Would it be so hard to go back? A bitter laugh tumbled from her lips. After what you've done? There is no going back. She paused on her way back to the kitchen where she had been slicing beef for a stir-fry. What I've done... A part of her brain seemed to squirm in her skull, to slip back to a vision of her last day in L.A. A violent tremor rippled through her, and she wrapped her arms across her chest. Don't think about it. It'll be fine. Just don't think about. It's over. Like a parasite disturbed in its feeding the bleary memory skittled away.

Helen realized she was shaking when she reached the kitchen. She took a sip from a glass of merlot to calm her nerves; the knuckles of her hands turned white as she braced herself on the sink. She turned on the water to begin washing vegetables. It was Friday, and she was hoping Frank would be able to make it.

She turned over a vision of him in her head, swallowing the guilt that rose like bile in her throat. They had only been seeing each other for a little over a month. She was growing increasingly fond of him, however. He even reminded her a little of Allan at times, when they were younger. A nagging guilt was beginning to manifest in her gut, as though she were somehow being unfaithful. Somehow, it was as though she was beginning to miss him.

She found it strange that she was never able to appreciate him in those days... those days when his heart had been accessible to her. He had seemed too loud, too boisterous, too cocky. She'd hated the way he threw his money around, his unrepentant generosity to his many friends. She had hated the way he looked at her, the simultaneous puppy-dog worship that was so common in the men she'd known back then, and the possessiveness. The way that his green eyes had seemed to claim ownership over her.

She'd lost all respect for him as he played completely into her greedy hands. After she'd met him through mutual acquaintances, she'd gone out of her way to arrange meetings between them. She shrank at nothing, sinking so far as to blackmail those acquaintances with their activities inside and outside of the swanky strip club she'd worked at.

"No, honey. I don't want money." She'd offered a predatory smile as comfort to the pallid face of Brad Horne. She could tell he was attempting not to stare at the photographs she'd strewn across his desk.

"It was just a party, Vixen. For Christ's sake, a bunch of consensual adults having fun."

"Did you know it's illegal to fuck seventeen-year-old girls, Brad honey?"

"You didn't tell me you were seventeen!" His eyes darted to the office door, and he lowered his voice. "What do you want, Vixen?" He snarled.

"I want an invitation to that party you're hosting."

"How do you know about that?" His anxious rage was swept beneath astonishment.

"I make it my business to know."

"I don't think it's your kind of party," he sneered. She wasn't fooled by his disdain. The hand on his desk was clenched into a fist, the other raked though his tousled blond hair, already thinning at twenty-five. That combined with the black circles beneath his bloodshot eyes gave him the appearance of being much older.

"That's not your concern. Your concern is that I get an invite."

"What the fuck do you want with a bunch of stuffy business men, Vix?"

"Again, that's not your-"

"-concern. Right. And how do you expect me to explain your presence there?"

"I don't care. Tell them I'm doing an internship here, and you think I have potential. Don't worry, sweetheart. I clean up real nice." She stood, towering in her stiletto pumps, and gathered the photographs. He looked at them regretfully.

"You're a real bitch, Vix."

"No. I just know what I want. You're a successful business man, Brad. I'm sure you understand that sometimes a business man has to be ruthless."

"Get out of here," he waved. "You'll get your fucking invitation. This isn't going to be an ongoing situation," he warned. "This is your one and only favor."

"It'll be the only one I'll need," she'd responded with a convincing assurance she didn't have. "And you'll want my real name on that invite. Helena O'Brian. Thank you for your cooperation."

"History, it's all history!" She scolded herself for indulging in the recollection. She looked down at the forgotten head of broccoli in her hand. She dropped it into the sink in disgust.

Stalking from the kitchen she stood in front of the mirror. She sank to her knees in front of it, raising her hands to her face. Her cheeks were damp. She'd been crying. Was crying, she noted in detached wonder, as another bulbous tear carved a new path down her skin.

Her reflection peered back at her, accusing.

You used him.

"Who?" She demanded of herself.


"So? Didn't I ensure my little brother wouldn't grow up like me? Didn't I get us out of that rotting hole? Besides, every one uses everybody, it's the way of the world."

You connived, you lied, you captured him, then abused him. All he wanted was to love you.

Her hands lowered from her face, formed small fists that pressed into her thighs. "I did not abuse him! How did I abuse him?"

You were cold. You were the ice bitch, ice queen. You took the joy out of his life. You turned those eyes like soft grass to eyes more brittle than emerald. You made him miserable, and now-

Her shoulders slumped. Her eyes looked wide and empty. Her lips thin and old. It seemed she was suddenly aware of the lines in her face, and she traced them in wonder. "-what? I wanted to make him happy-"


"-I didn't know how."

Liar. He waited for some sign of affection from you for years.

"I didn't know how!" Her shoulders began to shake, she could barely see her reflection now, but something could, something could.

She jerked her head to look behind her. Nothing. Something was watching her again. She could feel the intensity of its curiosity, its judgment weighing on her as she tried to shake herself from her confession.

And that voice in her head, "Helena, 'Lena, he just wanted to love you, and what did you do, what did you DO?!

"Stop, leave me alone!" She screamed. She viciously raised her face again, and began to paw at it, rubbing the tears away, her hands dewy with salt-water, snot and guilt. "He deserted me at the end!"

Did he? He came when you called. When you said you needed him, he came even at the end, even after it all he came and even then-

"NO!" She shoved herself from the witness of her recrimination, away from the vision of herself, those accusing eyes, the weight of her judgment. She scrambled backward until she had reached the middle of the room, which seemed to swirl around her, to bait her. She fell onto her back hysterically gasping for breath, gagging on her tears.

She could feel it. Above her it seemed. The insidious stare, that slithering gaze. Above her, below her, before and behind her, it engulfed her. She felt herself pressed in by its glare, she could feel her chest tighten in suffocation as she was crushed by it, lifted by it, her haunting witness, her Angel of Judgment, and she felt as her sobs began to slip into a desperate mewling, that she was cradled in the hand of an all-seeing God, and perhaps this was God, his Great Eye that refused to release her from its knowledge of her.

Eventually, exhausted with terror, Helen fell into a deep sleep.

She felt a rending within as She observed the limp form on the floor. So much pain...so much pain... She knew pain...

"I'm here 'Lena, it's alright baby, it's almost over, hold on."


And the ripping, the searing fire, the pressure.

"Where am I?"

"'Lena sweetie, it's almost over."



"Where am I, am I dead?"

"'Lena sweetie, I'm so sorry, I can't believe I did this to you, please God forgive me, sweetie, hang on, it's almost over..."

The screaming.

"Too much blood."

"Where's the Doctor?"

"'Lena sweetie, hold on, I'm so sorry I did this to you, baby I love you so much hold on, please baby, I can't live without you, hold on sweetie, it's almost over..."


"Nurse, get me...!"


"Sweetie, forgive me 'Lena, I'm so sorry baby, I can't believe I did this to you..."

"Allan? Where am...?"


the screaming shrieking searing pain flesh ripping

"Sweetie, I love you, forgive me..."



"Please, 'Lena, sweetie I'm so sorry...forgive..."

"hate....help me... ALLAN!"

Yes... She knew pain. The woman was quiet now. Not screaming anymore. Not screaming like She had screamed when.. what? Pain... yes... She knew pain... changing was knowing pain... Becoming was pain...

"Helen!" Something had her, move move! "Helen baby, wake up!" Move!

Frank stumbled back on his heels as Helen's body shot up, as though yanked by an invisible thread. She started to fall back again, her eyelids flickered open, showing the pupils lolling behind them, before flickering closed again. He snatched her by the waist before she could hit the floor again. He brushed a lock of damp hair from her brow. "Helen!" He shook her.

She heard the voice, felt steel arms around her, felt her head roll on her neck as the hands gripping her arms shook her. Felt herself coming awake... "Allan?" She whispered.

Frank kissed her brow. "No Helen, it's Frank, wake up baby." Her eyes flickered open, and stared at him vacantly, the dark irises watery in the bloodshot backdrops. She blinked, and her eyes seemed to focus on him.

The face she saw before her shimmered, first Allan, now Frank, Allan, Frank... "Frank," she finally confirmed. She raised a hand to her head, her temples were throbbing. "What's going on?"

Relief swept across his worried features, and he lifted her, carrying her to the bed. "I don't know. Are you epileptic or anything?"

"Huh-uh. Must have just gotten dizzy." She strained to remember how she'd ended up on the floor, and recoiled at a hazy recollection of her dramatics. Then she remembered the presence, it had been there again, was still.....

Frank watched as Helen's eyes grew to terrified circles, her eyes traveling the room as though desperately seeking something. Uneasy, he followed her eyes, and found nothing.

"What's that sound?" She asked. She cocked her head, she could hear hissing from somewhere in the house.

"What sound Helen?"

"That...you know, that sound. That hissing."

He let out a sigh of relief. "It's the water running Helen. You left the water running in the kitchen." She watched as he stood and disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. It was a small comfort when the hissing stopped. Somewhere she could still feels those eyes, the accusations. "Frank!"

He rushed back to her side, his eyes roving the room. "What is it Helen, did someone come in here? Were you attacked?"

"Still here," she breathed.


"It's still here," she whimpered, pressing herself back into the pillows, her hand gripping his violently.

"Helen, there's nothing here. No one's here."

"Still here." She felt exhaustion pushing down upon her, her heart that had been pounding like a drill a few moments before began to slow in time with her breath. "Still here, still watching," she weakly insisted before drifting back into slumber, her hand finally allowing blood flow back into Frank's hand.

She awoke in darkness. Bolting upright, she stretched her mouth wide and shrieked. There, it had finally made its move. She struggled to fight off the grip over her mouth, the clutches of her captor.

"Helen, Helen goddamnit it's me, quiet!"

Frank's voice. Helen slumped and ceased her struggling. She was released, and she heard the of sound feet slapping against the wooden floor. Then a soft light filled the room as he flipped on the lamp, and turned to meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry for screaming," she stammered helplessly, suddenly mortified. She looked around. "It's dark outside, what time is it? When did you get here?"

He swiped his hands across his face, and let them fall, moving back to the bed with a yawn. "It's not as late as it looks," he said after glancing at his watch on the nightstand. He dragged himself next to her on the bed, and reclined on his side, propping his head in his hand. "About eight o'clock. So Helen, you wanna explain what all this was about?"

"What?" She asked with an answering yawn. "How long have I been asleep?"

"I have no idea. You were passed out on the floor when I got here. How did you get there?"

She furrowed her brow. She remembered, and she stubbornly shoved down the urge to look around the room. He probably thinks I'm nuts already. She shrugged. "It was nothing I'm sure," she lied, meeting his eyes. They did not waver. Helen was an excellent liar.

"Helen.... Helen this is getting to be serious business. Now, I have no illusions as to our relationship, as I hope you don't." He nodded in answer to her smirk. "Good. But I am concerned about you. Don't you think it might be time to tell me what you're running from?"

No emotion. "What do you mean?"

"Fuck, Helen! I know I'm about as sharp as a bowling ball sometimes, but give me a little credit. You come out here from God knows where, but you don't have the East on your tongue. You hole up in the middle of nowhere, supposedly a seamstress, but with no sewing machine, and I'll be goddamned if I've ever seen so much as a pattern lying around here."

She couldn't help jumping slightly at his perception, simultaneously scolding herself. She saw him take note of her reaction, and smoothed her features again. With a voice like iced tea she dripped, "So? What concern is it of yours exactly?"

"Don't get cold with me, Helen. I'm not through. You refuse to associate with anyone in this town except for necessities, and except for me for whatever misguided reason. You never talk about yourself, your family, your past. It's like you didn't exist before you came here. All I know about you is that you’re lovely, witty, you obviously have money, and it's beginning to look like a little bit of paranoid delusion too. Don't look so fucking surprised. It doesn't take a shrink to figure out there's something very wrong going on in that head of yours. You acted like my five-year-old earlier, and to be honest, faithless or not, I'm concerned about my family, and I don't like that I may have involved myself with someone that could have psychological issues, or even be involved with the fucking Mafia for all I know!" He stood up, raking a hand through his tousled hair.

"The Mafia, Frank? Come now, honey, are you really so far removed out here? Even you must know the Mafia doesn't have any real power any more." With a frigid smile she observed the seething anger that clouded his expression.

"I don't care how fucking removed or uneducated or whatever I may be! Sometimes I think you're a fucking lunatic!" Detached, she watched him take a deep breath, visibly trying to control himself. He returned to the bed, and took one of her hands in his. She looked down at it, liking the dark contrast against her white skin. "My point, Helen, is that I don't know who you are, where you've been or what's going on with you. I’m concerned, but I'm more concerned for myself. I'm a selfish man. This fling is over."

No! Don't leave me alone in this place! She refused to acknowledge the pleading within her, instead opting to keep her face expressionless.

She took note of the words, processed them through her brain, and ignored them. She lifted his hand to her lips, and softly bit the palm. His eyes widened slightly, and he started to pull it away, but she used her other hand to hold his wrist with an iron grip. She slid her tongue up the length of his index finger, softly nibbled at the tip, and pulled it into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around it, gently sucking.

His wrist went limp, and he narrowed his eyes. She began to work on the second finger, her eyes locked on his. "Helen, I'm not kidding."

"I believe you," she whispered against his flesh. The slightest graze of teeth. Frank, she had learned, had very sensitive hands. His lips involuntarily parted. She was sure the Watcher noticed too, but she chose to ignore its presence for the time being.

She moved her lips to his wrist, biting it gently. She shifted herself to her knees, and raking her nails up his bare arm, she moved behind him, her movements sinuous as a snake. She pressed her breasts against his back, moved her lips to his ear, trailing her tongue from its ridge to his lobe, biting, and released the merest hint of a trembling breath. "Frank," she purred, "I'm a big girl, I can handle whatever decision you make. But you are here now, after all..." Her mouth seared the flesh of his neck; she reveled in the salty flavor of his skin.

She felt the bicep of his arm tighten beneath her palm. She slid her other hand across the denim of his jeans, over his thigh, higher.... "Helen-"

"-sssh." She answered, both with the hush of her voice, and grip of her hand on his hardening cock. She could feel the lurking scrutiny behind her, all around her, and her nipples hardened. Yes, you like to watch, don't you?

The music of sex, she contemplated, when Frank finally shoved her back on the bed, covering her with his weight. The whispering of shed clothing, the rhythmic restraint of aroused breath, air escaping from parted lips in a hiss, the sleek sliding of flesh against flesh, the pounding beat of lust like hands slapping a drum of sweat-drenched skin.

Her eyes closed, her nails digging into the flexing muscles of his back as he entered her, the fire through her limbs as her back arched, her legs climbed to wrap around him. Behind her eyes she saw Allan at their wedding, his rakish grin, his joy... A cry escaped her lips as Frank thrust deeper. Allan's eyes silently pleading with her as she turned her cheek to his goodbye kiss... he'd never tried again. She swallowed, trying to capture a breath, her heels digging into the curve of Frank's ass, insistent. Allan's silhouette in the darkness, standing over their bed as she rolled to her side, feigning sleep. The creak of springs as the tempo was increased, Frank viciously pulling her hands above her head, holding them there as he buried his face in the hollow of her throat. Allan's eyes across the breakfast table, cold and emotionless. Electricity lighting fire to her veins from the tips of her toes and searing its way up through her taut and straining limbs. Allan that final morning, when he kissed their daughter goodbye... she longed for the same in the strange emotional state she'd succumbed to since the birth of their child...Allan turning away... Frank stiffening over her, biting her shoulder with a groan, the electricity gathered in the center of her being, bursting into ignition, racing to scorch every tingling atom of her body, and then in an exultant and agonized scream, "Allan!"

And she knew even in Frank's revulsion, her Watcher approved. It knew her. How she had failed to understand this before, she didn't know. It was perhaps the only thing that knew her.

"The Method of Transgression: Part Five

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