Chapter 309: Cheli IX—Not My Fault
Taste sweet, spicy… not taste… smell… the taste was of salt, of sweat of fear, and she smelled musky as well, the smell of fear. A man could get used to that, a woman’s voice going higher with fear and begging, her hands held out in supplication, apologies for things she’s never done, appealing to the better angels of one’s nature. A squeak of pain, claws, screams, all of this a woman does to incite pity but not in a man, not in a man, never in a man. Who is she kidding?
He felt the pain at the base of his jaw.
Hello, Mimi.
Yes, Michele would never do something like this, she would never dream of attempting something like this. Mimi would. Oh how she would, and she would lick the blood off her slim fingers too. Look at her; he can see her eyes glint at him like shiny dimes in the dark. Michele’s eyes wouldn’t do that, but Mimi’s would. She looked at him, the tip of her tongue reddened from his blood and if she could, he knew she would open the wound further and lick off him like a vampire bat.
Clitter clatter of a knife on the floor, scrapes across the floor, hits the wall, lies still, he can feel the impression on his foot from where he kicked it.
I want to feel your hands on me, your little hands.
Chris groaned deeply, yes there it was, this time her little hands were on him, yes, yes oh GOD yes, he felt himself growing, throbbing stretching her insides, ripping her and yes she wanted more.
Hello, Mimi.
It’s what she likes, you like! Her tiny throat too small to be respected, and he knew how other women hated that throat, would starve for that throat. She had a child’s throat, delicate, pulsing, peachy, and soft and he wrapped his hands around it. So small, like her little fingers, he could wrap both hands around it. She liked it like that. Scream baby, can you scream now?
Chris please…
French kitty-kitty says please again.
Slashes of pain on his hands and on his arm. She didn’t want
to lick it up that time. What do you want a dish of
Chris what are you doing?
Come on whore! Beg! You get points if I don’t have to hit ya!
CHRIS!
Did you forget your French pussy-pussy? Did you forget it? Say it in French this time, SEE VOO PLAY!
A hundred pieces shattered over his head, he heard the crash and tinkle and the pain walloped his senses. Water everywhere, wet, water, drip, slosh… Chris felt a hard smack against his side and he tasted blood, felt it running down his face along with trickles of water, he was soaked to the skin. That’s when he realized that he was awake. He blinked, he swallowed, his heart glugged in fear. “Tracee?” he whispered. “Tracee?”
He could hear her breathing, rasped, strangled… STRANGLED!
“Oh GOD!” Chelios yelled, his hands felt warm, they were warm with his wife’s flesh, he felt a scraping pain on his skin. He stood up, Oh God no, this didn’t… I didn’t… Feeling dizzied, he stood up and clicked on the light, “Tracee please!”
“HAAAH…ha…HAAAAH…ha…” her breathing rhythmic and labored. He heard her before he saw her. A pile of lavender satin and slim limbs, Tracee cowered in the far corner of the bedroom, one of her hands at her throat, the other on a large shard of broken colored glass. She must have hit him with the vase of roses by the bedside. The flowers lay scattered all over the floor. Wide eyes, fearful eyes, confused eyes; she held the glass out, pointing it at him, like a dagger.
“Tracee!” He ran to her side but as soon as he was close enough to touch her, she flicked the glass and Chris heard it scrape and felt the pain of it slicing the skin of his throat open. “FUCK!” He fell back, could feel instantly that it was not deep. His hand landed on a rose branch, however, and he screamed again as the thorns stabbed into his palm. He cradled it against his chest and he saw then the bleeding lines on his hands, from his wife’s nails, her last means of defense.
“Stay away from me!” she squeaked. Her voice had a childish, raspy quality to it, it was difficult for her to speak he could tell. She took her hand from her throat and Chris felt his eyes fill with tears when he saw the purple bruising already snarling all over the pretty skin of her neck. “Get the fuck away you will… not… hurt… me!” She coughed and closed her eyes, her face crumpled in pain.
“Tracee, baby I…” he wanted to cradle her in his arms but as soon as he leaned in he felt her knuckles slam into his cheek, the hardest punch she would ever deliver. Again Chris fell back onto the wet floor, felt thorny plants stab into his back, he could smell the sweet aroma of the petals. A calm aroma, the smell of roses, crushed, trampled, juices released, a woman scented with roses, Mimi’s roses. “God fucking DAMN HER! It’s her fault Tracee! PLEASE!”
He could hear her standing up, he rolled to his side and watched her as she grabbed the phone, and her hands were trembling. “Chris,” she wheezed, “Get…. Out… get out of this… house now.”
“It’s my house!” Chelios hissed feeling angry now, persecuted, rather than somber and sorrowful. “This is my house! Tracee and I will not leave. Baby, it was an accident, I had a dream, I was dreaming about… Baby you know I wouldn’t knowingly…”
“Get out!” Tracee gasped. “NOW! Or I will…” she coughed again. “I will call the police… get out!”
“Tracee I didn’t…”
Tracee began to sob and she shook her head. “Leave… leave…”
“At least call a doctor… I can get the team doctor he can look at you.”
Tracee shook her head, moisture dripping from her eyes and nose. Chelios felt his heart clang to a stop when he saw her dial three numbers and then she hung up the phone and threw it onto the bed.
“Tracee what the fuck did you just do?” Chris growled, he could feel his entire body twitching with hurt and rage.
“You fuck!” Tracee gasped and she pointed at her throat. “Tell me… what… you just did.”
“You really screwed up this one, Cheli,” the policeman said, “I don’t know why you fellas think you have to do this.”
Chelios pressed against the cold pane of glass in the backseat of the car. Who the fuck was this guy thinking he could call him fucking “Cheli”? He squirmed within the painfully tight handcuffs; they cut into his skin courtesy of the lady cop who upon seeing the scratches on his hands tightened them. “It’s not what you think.”
“What does she weigh like 110 pounds?” The lady cop asked. “You’re my son’s favorite player what the hell could she have done that was so bad that you have to screw up everything like this, huh? What do we need you incarcerated for huh?”
“Look you don’t fucking know SHIT!” Chelios snapped, “OKAY! SHIT!”
“Don’t cuss at me,” the lady snapped. “I’m not a girl you can cuss at. Save it bucko; just be glad you’ll get a solitary cell.”
As Chelios held the number ID tag, as he stared into the camera taking his mug shot, all he could think was, shoulda shot her, coulda killed her, woulda been better for everyone.
Maltby was quiet, looked at him with almost dog-like confusion as he posted bail hours later. Chelios didn’t look back; he kept his eyes away from Malts. He didn’t want to hear it; Thankfully, Malts didn’t say a word in the station or in the car as he drove him over to his place. All Chris wanted to do was find a couch and sleep before the media storm that he knew was coming.
As soon as he was in the door of Malts’ apartment however, his teammate said, “Gee Chris, I told you! You shoulda been taking some b-12 and folic acid, it helps with that rage.”
Chris turned to Maltby and held up his finger, Malts’ eyes widened. “Not fucking now, Malts, or I swear to God I’ll kill ya.”