Summary: After some time apart, the lovers reunite, and the downward spiral begins.
Notes:
This chapter took a lot of thought about how I was going to proceed, but I think it's coming along beautifully.
Please be mindful of trigger warnings. This begins our journey into dark territory. Rape is depicted, as well as suicidal ideation and intimate partner violence. We're also setting up the scene for more cannibalism and murder.
It's probably going to be a bit before I update this again, just because I want to get things perfect.
Plus, it's almost my birthday and Halloween.
Hope you enjoy, as always.
CHAPTER THREE
Kyiv, 1993
When the river runs dry and the curtain is called,
How will I know if I can't see the bottom?
Come up for air and choke on it all,
No one else knows that I've got a problem.
What if I can't get up and stand tall?
What if the diamond days are all gone,
And who will I be when the empire falls?
Wake up alone and I'll be forgotten.
The surface of the glass of vodka on the rocks in front of Artem is broken only by his tears. It’s either late at night or early in the morning, he’s unsure which. He’s living in an apartment he can barely afford, barely heat, and can barely feed himself. He soughs a slight kurva into his hands as he weeps.
When he had seen that the Soviet Union had fallen, he knew that he’d had only one chance to escape. Jeff had been drinking more and more each day. His grandmother’s health was also deteriorating. They no longer worked at the diner together, but they had kept up their living arrangements. Only, Artem had forbade Jeff to touch him anymore.
Their lovemaking had been secret but ardent under her roof. Soft gasps as Jeff had worshipped his skin, especially his chest. Frustration when he failed to keep himself hard. Then, one day, Jeff had made an unusual request.
“Arty?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I try something?”
With this man he felt he could truly love for the first time since burying his father, Artem had said yes. He had been blind, or foolish. Or perhaps not, and they had simply rushed things.
Then, Jeff had wrapped his hands around Artem’s neck and begun to squeeze. And he hadn’t stopped, even as they grappled. That look had been in his eyes again, that seeming disassociation. Jeff was away. This monster had settled into his body, in his mind’s place. The one who was only seen when Jeff was very drunk. He was angry, detached, gnashed his teeth at him and growled, inhuman. Suddenly, his lover wasn’t the tender man who kissed across his eyebrows and down his stomach until lovingly lapping at the head of his cock. He was a specter of dread. That old legend from the homeland, the mara, the witch who sits upon the chest and harasses you in the nighttime. He kept strangling Artem until he had played dead. Once still, Jeff had laid his head lovingly across his ribcage, his ear to his heart.
“I love you so much,” he had cooed, “I want to keep you here, forever.”
How would he do that? Artem thought. Not letting me go to work? Worse? Does he want my body? Literally?
Play dead. That’s all his mind could offer up as a solution. Don’t move.
And that had seemed completely logical, until Jeff had rolled him over.
With a guttural moan, Jeff had then rubbed his cock against him. No problems now, not in this case. Jeff was enormous, throbbing at his entrance, slicking his hole with his satisfaction. And because Artem was frozen, his only imperative to pretend to be unconscious, he let Jeff have him. He felt every stroke; he felt his climax. He felt the tears rolling down his cheeks as Jeff cuddled him against his body, kissed the line where his neck met his hair, and whispered, “I’d keep you forever.”
He waited for Jeff to fall asleep, for his breathing to deepen. He slid the weight of his arm off, fumbled to find his clothes and his bag in the dark. He had a credit card that he barely used and his passport in an envelope, and he took them both. He made off into the night like a fog swept away by the wind.
But his salvation wasn’t what he had hoped it would be.
The glorious independence of Ukraine was happening in fits and starts, two steps forward, four steps back. He was selling sausages at a market through Orthodox Christmas, then had been unemployed until it had been time to sell blini in February. He was starving, eating only thin porridge and drinking vodka when he couldn’t get milk. He could barely afford meat. In the summer, he did well with picking vegetables, but once the season had ended, he had been back to nothing. He had sold some of his mother’s old jewelry and gotten around fifty karbovanets, which, with the inflation, had been enough only for a few days’ worth of food. He had been evicted from one apartment after being unable to pay rent for five months, and now, it seemed, he was about to lose this one, as well.
There was no other choice. He would go back to America, and see if he couldn’t find Jeff.
West Allis, 1993.
He was alone again. It was just like 1978, only this time, worse.
There truly was no one.
He had no urge to go out “hunting.” Maybe if he were alone under different circumstances, but not now. Maybe never again.
Of all days, why had it been Christmas? Why had he had to find his grandmother cold in bed on the Lord’s birthday? Normally, a stiff body aroused him; instead, this one had consumed him with terror. He knew that she had been progressively deteriorating. He had lived with her for all this time, over a year, and had watched her downslide. It had been small things at first: losing her keys, putting a frozen dinner in the microwave and forgetting to cook it, or using her own hairbrush on Jodie, the orange cat. Then, she had started calling him by his father’s name. Then, she had forgotten to go to church one Sunday. Then, she had collapsed. He and the rest of the family had done what they could, but unlike the scourge of AIDS that somehow, he had avoided, Alzheimer’s disease had claimed Catherine Dahmer.
And now he was trapped in another house, alone. This time, his father was in another state rather than down the street.
She had bequeathed him the house in her will, and for that he was grateful. He hadn’t been forced to sleep outside again, let alone in the brutal Wisconsin winter. Yet, even without hypothermia, he ached in his soul. Instead of losing his toes, he was losing his mind.
Perhaps he had lost it a long, long time ago.
Catherine Dahmer’s room was kept spotless and untouched, a memorial to her. He closed and locked the door and almost never entered.
The rest of the home had rapidly devolved into squalor.
Endless empty cans of beer, empty glass liquor bottles, crumpled McDonald’s bags, video rentals that were overdue, library books that were overdue, cat piss on the carpet when he had forgotten to scoop the litter clean, cigarette butts, scattered magazines, overflowing ash trays, an unflushed toilet, a shower curtain gathering mildew, a microwave with stuck-on gravy on its inside walls, open cans of beans and flies in the sink… and that was just to name a few of items in the heaps of detritus that had become his life.
He was unshaven most days, unshowered, reeked of alcohol, body odor, and piss. It was the deepest depression he had ever known.
He had given up on there being a Higher Power, a benevolent deity.
He had given up utterly on life.
If the gun had still been in the house, he would have used it already.
His father came by around once a month, and he made a grand effort to look as if he was getting by rather than suffering. But he couldn’t fool Shari. Shari could see right through him. Shari could tell that he was in pieces.
Sometimes when he stroked himself off, he thought of the corpses he had used to possess. Others, he thought of Artem with his head between his legs. Usually, however, he thought of nothing, simply went through the motions and cried.
Loneliness was a two-ton weight hanging over his head, waiting to break and crush him.
On a dreary, windy night in February, with clouds over the moon, he thought he had imagined the sound at first: the phone ringing. He thought that he had forgotten to pay the bills and the lines had been turned off. Apparently, his father had decided to intervene for him.
Shuffling on bare feet in spite of the cold—there was still heat, but he kept it low as another form of punishment—he slowly advanced to the kitchen wall phone. It was 12:12 AM on a Monday morning, who on earth would be calling?
“Hello?” Jeff croaked.
“Oh,” replied Artem flatly, although not with malice. “It’s you.”
At first, Jeff forgot to breathe. Then, he started hyperventilating. He couldn’t see through the hot tears. His throat burned with vomit. He held his hand over his mouth to prevent it from coming up and out. Over the line, Artem’s voice rang distantly, first in annoyance, then in worry.
“Jeffrey! Suchka,” Artem said softly, using the term of endearment rather than the curse. “Are you by yourself there?”
Faintly, Jeff heard himself say, “Yes.”
“Where is your grandmother?”
“Gone… since Christmas.” And then he was crying again.
“Blyat. This is horrible. I’m coming back. I should be home within a few weeks.”
Artem did not even notice the slip of the tongue, but Jeff did. His tears dried, and he held the phone to his ear with a slack jawed wonder and disbelief. He asked Artem to repeat himself.
“I said it should take me a few weeks, to get the money, Jeffrey… Are you okay?”
“No, no, you said that you should get home within a few weeks. Home.”
To Artem, it was a small mistake, and he simply shrugged, said goodbye, and hung up the phone. He would need to go talk to a few close friends.
To Jeff, this singular word would change the trajectory of his life.
West Allis, 1994
Jeff lay on his bed, on top of the supine body of Artem. Unbeknownst to his lover, the warm milk he had given him had contained Halcion. As it had been every night, for the past year.
The first few nights had been traumatic for them both. Jeff had immediately needed physical comfort in the form of cuddling and sex, whereas Artem seemed distant, almost apprehensive, when it came to being touched. Artem would not tell Jeffrey that he had been conscious during Jeff’s first experiment; Jeff felt rejected and dejected.
(And I don't know what's got its teeth in me
But I'm about to bite back in anger
No amount of self-sought fury
Will bring back the glory of innocence)
It caused resentment, and then that resentment had boiled over into rage. It was a rage that no person had ever witnessed and survived. The last time Jeffrey had felt it had been the night at the Ambassador Hotel, and that had been one that he had sealed shut out of conscious memory.
Or had he?
Because when he looked at Artem now, he swore he saw the face of Steven Tuomi.
Not just his face, but his body.
Tall, slim, and lean, the perfect chest and shoulders, succulent nipples, a firm stomach with v-lines leading down past his navel to a perfect cock. He had both hated and needed him, desperately.
The rage, it both sickened and enticed him. He needed to use it to overpower, to dominate, to control him. He needed him on the bed, he needed him underneath him, he needed him naked, desperately.
Artem, had been confused by these reactions. He had, not long ago, felt indescribably lonely, and owed his boss (and his boss’s mother before him) a debt of gratitude for having a small, insignificant nest egg squared away. The market was going to have to close without it, but what did it matter? No one was really buying his meat thanks to the inflated prices it was forced to sell under. His mother had had a tin of money for an emergency. Well, Artem had desperately needed to get to Jeffrey, his “friend” in the United States; it was put to good use. Since the Soviet collapse, the flights were getting better, smoother, with newer machines and more trips into the United States; it had been relatively easy to book to the MKE. From there, what little money he had had left had paid for a cab ride west. And now that he was finally here, Jeffrey was angry? For a boundary?
If more professionals in mental health and social services had been willing to speak to homosexual couples during the 1990s, they would have explained the toxicity of this relationship. Jeffrey would not take into account Artem’s reticence; since he was here, that meant that they could resume loving one another. But it wasn’t that easy. Had they been in love? Had it merely been clinging to one another for survival? He clearly didn’t know the difference; nor did he understand the impact of his actions. He was still drinking heavily. He had absolutely no ambition. His reason to live seemed to be the hope that he would once again have Artem for an unlimited access to sex.
It had all come to a boiling point one night when, during yet another verbal altercation, Jeff had fully unleashed his rage.
“I just don’t understand… why you don’t love me.”
“I do, Jeff! Why would I be here if I didn’t? Can you tell me? Why would I be here if I didn’t feel something for you?”
Jeff had chuckled sardonically. “Liar. You don’t love me. You won’t let me touch you.”
Artem sighed heavily. “There’s something we need to talk about, regarding that. But I can’t with you right now. You’re all, uh… nesty. You speak through your ass right now.”
Jeff had glared deeply. “See, that’s what I’m talking about, you can’t even be nice to me. And you expect me to believe that you—”
“I am walking away.”
“No.”
“No, no, Jeff, you are incapable of being reasoned with, and I don’t even know why you act how you do.”
“Don’t you leave me again.”
“I’m not, I am just… out of this conversation again.”
And in an instant, in a fog of anger, Jeff had a frying pan in his hand and was walking after him.
“I said, don’t you LEAVE ME!”
With one downward motion, the pan clacked against the back of Artem’s head. It made a loud ringing sound, like a warning bell. Artem was then crumpled on the floor in front of the steps. When Jeff floated back down into his body, he found himself raising the pan again, this time above Artem’s face, and he was leaning menacingly over his lover’s body on the floor.
“No,” Artem whimpered, holding up his hand. “No, Jeff. Please. No.”
Jeff flew into a blind panic and was soon crumpled onto the floor, as well.
“Why do I keep doing this to people?” he groaned, through tears, through begging for forgiveness. “Why am I such trouble? I never meant to cause you trouble.”
Before Artem could stop him, he was spooning him upon the floor, covering his face in tiny kisses. Rather than feel afraid, Artem melted into the contact. He had been so lonely. Just so soul-crushingly lonely.
That night, Jeff had confessed his murders to the first person he had ever had in his life.
Somehow, he had finally remembered the details to what had led up to the death of Steven Tuomi. The same sudden violence, the same pleading. Only that time, Jeff hadn’t stopped himself. He had kept beating the man until his bones had turned to pieces.
In spite of everything, Artem had relented, and they had made love. It was the most tender and passionate sex that either had ever felt. Jeff had relinquished control, needing to feel that he belonged to someone. The orgasm he received seemed to gently wash over his entire body, head to toe, and left him feeling light and tranquil. It was the most peaceful he had felt in months.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered earnestly. “I just can’t… I just can’t tolerate losing people.”
Artem then had a moral quandary: Jeff was sometimes dangerous, but he needed someone. And so, he presented an idea.
So began Jeff’s “experiments.”
Once a week, Artem gave him permission to render him unconscious. Jeff could then make love to his still, death-like body as he pleased.
But it had taken him some time to realize that there was more bubbling under the surface of Jeff’s calm waters than he knew about.
Jeff’s love was a blitzkrieg. He would work himself into an animalistic frenzy of possession and go berserk. Artem often woke to bruises from bites. Sometimes, Jeff drew blood. Others, he seemed determined to snap off body parts completely. Artem had once needed to go to the hospital for stitches, finding one of his nipples almost separated from his flesh. Still another time, he had had difficulty sitting for several days, as Jeff had bitten into his ass like a rabid beast.
And yet… how could he be upset? It was a love deeper than he had known in almost a decade.
(My, my, those eyes like fire,
I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre.
Come now, bite through these wires,
I'm a waking hell, and the gods grow tired.
Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher.
Grow back your sharpest teeth, you know my desire.)
It was nearly impossible for Artem to talk about his family, and yet, with Jeff, he tried to. He talked of his mother, innocently believing that snow was falling over Pripyat, taking his sisters to the bridge to dance in it. There was also the matter of his father being present during the test. Had he been one of the engineers who had pressed the button? Had he inadvertently doomed everyone? Had he indirectly killed his wife and daughters? Was he truly a villain, or a victim?
To Jeff, these admissions were less an unburdening of his lover’s soul, and more so a blooming of his heart from his chest. He was laying it all bare. His heart was on the outside. Jeff longed to sink his teeth into it.
Simply lying on Artem’s bare chest aroused him almost unbearably. He couldn’t stop thinking about how his insides would feel wrapped around his hands, wrapped around his cock. He needed more. He needed someone dead. He was unwilling to kill Artem, so he knew what had to be done.
He had to kill again.
️All Hallows Eve
