The Gift

Author's Note. It has been a good many years since I last wrote a story on this site -- life just got in the way, and my priorities lay elsewhere. But I have managed to steal a few hours here and there and offer the following. It's a bit different to my early work, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy it.

Hot_Sister. June 2025.

*

The Gift

Sarah Richardson sat uneasily in an office of Baker, Baker & Phelps, Lawyers, and wondered again why they had asked her to be here. She had no need of legal assistance in her neat, ordinary life, but the message had received seemed compelling and contained enough information to convince her it was real, and that it was worth an hour of her time to attend an appointment.

The figure in front of her was, she thought, typical of any lawyer: of medium height and of florid complexion, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit. She saw the tightness of his collar and the bulge of his waistcoat, testimony to the good living he earned, reinforced by the rich opulence of his office with its thick carpet and the expansive wood paneling. A full-size oil painting of a distinguished figure occupied a good part of the wall behind him -- presumably of one of the founders of the company, but she could see no resemblance to the man seated before her.

For a moment the lawyer regarded her, the light from a nearby window illuminating his glasses like shiny coins, and then he spoke in the patriarchal tones she imagined he used on every client who entered his office, particularly if she were a young and attractive woman.

"Thank you for calling in to see us, Miss Richardson. I promise I won't take up too much of your time."

Sarah nodded but said nothing. No doubt he would get to the point shortly.

"I'm sorry to ask you this, but before I can disclose the purpose of this meeting I must establish your identity. I hope you will bear with me." He watched the girl incline her head briefly before continuing.

"Can you please state your full name and address?"

"Sarah Jane Richardson, 24 Amalfi Crescent, Oakdale."

"And your date of birth?"

"27th February 2003".

"And your profession?"

"Contemporary artist. May I ask what this is about?"

The lawyer smiled. "All in good time, Miss Richardson. What was your mother's full name and occupation?"

"Marilyn Elizabeth Richardson. She was a well-known actress, whom you may have seen on television."

"Indeed - and I always enjoyed her work, as I admire yours. Can you tell me where she lived?"

Sarah gave him the information he wanted: details of her childhood, where they had lived and of the motor vehicle accident that had taken her mother's life two years earlier. Finally, the questions stopped, and he examined the documents she had been instructed to bring: the passport with its bold blue and gold cover; the well-worn driving licence and the medical benefit card. At last he seemed satisfied.

"I wondered if I might ask one last question before I get to the point of the meeting", he said at length, handing the documents back to her. "What do you know of your father?"

"My father?" Sarah was taken aback. "I -- well, nothing, really... only know what my mother told me."

"Which was?" he prompted gently.

"As I say, not much. I know she fell pregnant with me not long after they met, and he left her before I was born. I know she was bitter towards him, which was unlike her." She shook her head. "She never really spoke of him, and I learned not to ask. I only know his name was Pat, or Patrick, and he abandoned her. I suppose she might have told me more in time, had she not been taken."

"Indeed," the lawyer said gently. "It was a tragic loss." He gazed at the window behind the girl for a moment, observing a moment of silence before resuming. "Perhaps," he said, "this might answer some of the questions you never had answers to."

He reached forward and offered her a thick manilla envelope that had been resting on the desk. "This was left in our care just after you were born, with strict instructions that it was for your eyes only and it should be delivered to you, if you survived, on or after your 21st birthday." He smiled faintly. "I'm glad you did and that we were able to track you down."

Sarah took the envelope tentatively. "Do you know what's in it?"

"We do not. The brief was simply to deliver it to you."

"And are you sure it was my father who instructed you?"

"He gave every impression of being so."

Sarah considered questioning his answer but realised he was probably wasn't even working here that long ago. Did legal firms require proof of identity when someone left a bequest? She did not know, and in any case it was probably better to read whatever was in the envelope before worrying about such details. She examined the envelope in her hand, noting the heavy cartridge paper and the bold script upon it.

"Should I open it now?"

"You may, if you wish, and I will extend you privacy to do that. Or you can take it away to open at your leisure." He steepled his fingers, thinking of the right words to say. "In my experience documents such as this can sometimes deliver, er... a profound and sometimes challenging perspective, so perhaps it best if you read it at home when you have the time and inclination."

Sarah slipped the envelope into her bag. "I will, thank you." She rose to her feet. "I -- well, do I owe you anything for this visit?"

"You do not. I believe the fee paid by your father adequately covered the service we have offered." He stood up and extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Richardson, and I hope that whatever is in that envelope helps you understand your circumstances a little better. I'm sure we will see you again before too long."

Sarah pondered his final words as she left the office but thought them unlikely. She didn't need a lawyer, and certainly couldn't afford them.

But circumstances were to prove her wrong.

*

Four days later the envelope remained on her mantlepiece, unopened. Each day Sarah returned from work and glanced at it, thinking that perhaps it was time. But on each occasion she left it unopened, uneasy with what it might tell her about the past.

Like all children whose fathers had abandoned them Sarah felt not only resentment, but guilt. Her mother had recounted how he'd been in her life briefly, but had left without a word of farewell. Sarah could not imagine he was discontented with her mother, who was the sweetest and most beautiful creature in the world, so it must have been her who drove him away. Had he been disappointed in the prospect of having a child? Would he have found her ugly? Or perhaps he was unable to accept the burden she would bring with sleepless nights, extra expense and crushing commitment.

Whatever his objection to his daughter it was a hard burden to carry, especially for her mother who was left to raise the child on her own. But, because there was no other option, they had moved on and whilst far from wealthy, they had survived. Sarah was not given to profanity, but she thought the envelope would contain nothing but the pain of the past to dismay and disturb her. Fuck you, she thought, whoever you were. And fuck the ghosts you're trying to bring back.

She considered throwing it in the trash but didn't, perhaps because of the regret of not knowing what it said. And so the envelope stayed on the mantle, beckoning mutely as she worked on the canvas of her latest painting.

The fourth day after the lawyer's meeting was a Friday. Weekends were always enjoyable and she was looking forward to a night with good friends at a restaurant not far away. The abandoned envelope caught her eye as she poured a glass of wine and on impulse, she crossed the room to pick it up. It's now or never, and I can talk about it with my friends, she thought. I can bury the ghosts, in whatever shape they may come, and then I can move on with my safe life.

She sat on the sofa and turned the envelope in her hands. It had her name written upon it in spiky handwriting, together with an annotation "only to be opened after her 21st birthday." Other than that, there was no indication of who it was from, or what it contained.

And so, with a sigh, she broke the waxen seal and tore open the flap to extract the dozen or so sheets of paper inside, and she began to read.

'My Dearest Sarah,

If you are reading this, it means that you have been found and your identity verified by my lawyers. It also means you are alive and I am dead, which is as it should be.

I left your life on the day that you were born without any explanation to your mother and I'm sure that some of the resentment she would have felt would have been given to you, too. I understand that, because I abandoned her to the hard life of a single mother, and denied you a father in your formative years. But please understand that I longed with every fibre in my being to stay with you and your mother. She was the first person I had ever loved and I know I would have loved you too.

But circumstances of my own choosing, and the sliver of fate that had brought us together for so brief a time conspired to make that impossible, as you will see. If I had stayed it would only have been for a little while longer, and it would have brought great distress to your mother - and so I chose to walk away, and I could not tell her why.

When you read this letter you may wonder why I bothered to write it, for it is not a happy story. I was a wastrel and a thief. I did far more bad things than good, and I deceived everyone I'd ever known to my advantage, including your mother. It's not a record that will make you like me, but perhaps you may be able to find a little understanding and forgiveness in your heart when you know the truth. I truly hope so.

I won't bore you with many details of my early life, as its of little importance, but I was born Patrick O'Shaun Murphy in the city of Belfast in February of 1971. Yes, I know -- I was much older than your mother although she didn't know that for reasons I will explain.

My childhood was one of hardship and, like many kids without purpose I fell in with the street gangs in the poorer parts of the city. We progressed from petty theft as youngsters to more ambitious crimes as teens, and by the time I was eighteen I was a hardened criminal who cared only for himself and nothing for others. I was in jail by the time I was 20 and spent the next thirty years more in than out of it, and by 45 I was living on the street addicted to heroin, and stealing what I could to support the habit. In short, I unworthy of anyone's love or respect.

I can hear you thinking 'how the hell did my mother shack up with such an old loser?' It's a good question and the answer is one that you'll find very hard to believe -- but I swear by everything I held dear that the following account is true. They say that death brings the ultimate truth, and I have no more lies to tell in my last few days on this earth so you must make of my story what you will.

I have not prayed in many years, but I do so now. May God bless you, Sarah, and keep you safe.'

February 1998. Patrick's Story.

I remember the day they made me the offer just as clearly as if it were yesterday.

It was a bitterly cold morning and we were huddled around the brazier, trying to get warm and wondering where breakfast might come from. There was Luke and Jago and Ratchet and a couple of new guys who I hadn't seen before, their faces lean and pinched and the stubble grey upon their cheeks. The cold wind skittered down the empty street, raising a spiral of dust and playing with leaves and scraps of paper, and the lights in the tenement buildings across the Lot were fading in the thin winter morning.

'Jesus H, it's cold!' said Jago. He was crouching next to the brazier and I saw his eyes were watering from the smoke.

'Like a nun's twat,' added Ratchet. We'd given him that name a year or two back on account that his dentures clicked when he chewed -- a regular little noise like the locking ratchet on a winch.

'Nun's twats are tight, not cold.'

I looked over at the speaker, knowing what I would see. Luke was the youngest of us and the best educated. He'd been a stock market jock in better times but stress and drugs had done for him, and now he shared the street with us. He was a nuggety little guy with a thick beard shot through with grey but his eyes were bright and he still had a sense of humour.

'What you say?' asked Ratchet.

'I said that nuns have tight twats, not cold ones,' Luke explained. 'They're tight because they've never bin used, but they're warm.'

Ratchet screwed up his face. 'How d'you know that? Youse never had one, I bet.'

'No, I never did.'

'So how d'you know they is warm?'

'It stands to reason,' Luke explained. 'Their little cracks are small and squeezed together like a mouse's ass. That keeps the heat in.'

Jago laughed. 'That's right, Ratchet,' he said. 'Not like Cindy's canyon. You can feel the heat beaming out of that big motherfucker whenever she drops her drawers.' Cindy was on the street just like us and sometimes exchanged sexual favours for a loaf of bread or a cigarette. Most guys thought the price was too high for what she offered, though. Age and hard living were doing her out of business.

Ratchet grunted. It was too cold to talk and he was hungry, like the rest of us. The conversation died away and there was only the distant rumble of traffic and the sound of Luke's wet sniffing.

I looked down the street to see if any cops were around. They tended to stay out of this area but occasionally you'd see them. The old tenement buildings towered either side like grey concrete barriers, their smashed windows as jagged as broken teeth, and the weeds in the sidewalk were waving in a brisk little wind. I could see another group of vagrants further up, huddled around a fire just like us, and I saw the black limo appear around the corner beyond them.

'Hey, check this out,' I said. We watched as it turned towards us, and we saw the other group run, melting away into the doorways and cellars like rats before a flood.

'It's not the pigs,' observed Jago. He stood up and I saw him glance behind him to check the escape route.

'More like the Mayor's ve-hickle,' said Luke. 'Hey, perhaps he's bringing us voting cards.'

'Or food,' said Jago, hopefully.

We didn't see the car coming the other way until it was almost opposite, and by then it was too late. It stopped suddenly and the doors burst open and three guys came out, moving fast. Big guys. Jago and the others were quick, though: they scooted through the hole in the fence and were gone, but Luke and I were slower and by the time we'd turned they were there, blocking the exit and shoving cards in our faces.

I thought then that they cops, but the biggest one stared at me for a moment with eyes as pale as wet sandstone.

'You fancy a square meal?' he asked, 'and a clean, warm bed to sleep in?'

'Sure, but -'

'You're wondering what the catch is.' He shrugged. 'Nothing. You come with us and agree to a couple of tests, and we'll look after you for a week or so. Hot showers, warm beds, food -'

'What kind of tests?' Luke demanded.

'Medical tests. Blood only, to see if we can clean it. Get rid of any dependencies, like.' He smiled suddenly and I was reminded of a barracuda. 'No catch, honest.'

I could see Luke bristling. He hated to be called a junkie, even if he was one. He opened his mouth to argue and I took his arm, quickly, my fingers digging into his flesh to silence him. They didn't look like the sort of guys to provoke.

'OK,' I said. 'But you bring us back here afterward, right?'

He looked around at the filth and the squalor where we lived. 'Right.'

'OK then. Let's go.' I released Luke's arm and we shuffled after them. I could almost smell breakfast.

***

It was great for the first few days -- really easy. The nurse was pretty and the routine was a piece of piss -- a few blood samples in the morning and this weird drink at night. It tasted like dog shit, but it was a small price to pay for getting between real, clean sheets and not worrying about freezing to death or getting set alight by some deranged crackhead on the streets.

On the sixth day a poncy looking guy came around in a white coat and told us we'd done really well, but today was when the treatment would really start. He said it would be tough for an hour or two, but everything would be fine and there would be a cash bonus of 500 pounds for us at the end, if we'd agree. Fuck me, I'd have bent over a kitchen table and taken Arnold Schwarzenegger up my arse for 500 quid, so it wasn't a big deal.

So they took us both down to the treatment room and put us on steel beds with the big overhead lights shining down, and banks of monitors and bunches of tubes and pipes beside them. They put thick leather straps over our arms and legs and tightened them down. The intravenous drips went in and the poncy doctor adjusted them, and then stood back. I remember how his glasses gleamed in the light like pennies on a dead man's eyes and I recall how he looked at us: almost as if he'd just lit a fuse and wasn't quite sure what was going to happen.

Luke was on the gurney beside me. 'I don't like this, Pat,' he whispered. 'This isn't what they said -' but I didn't care. I guess a few days of good food and hot showers had made me remember what it was like to live normal. Besides, it couldn't be that bad, could it?

The first chemicals felt like a drain cleaner had been forced into my blood, surging through my system like coils of barbed wire, scouring and cleaning, burning as it stripped away the clag and degradation of a lifetime. I could feel every single little tube, pipe and capillary in my body wriggling like a skewered snake as the gunk swept through them, my arms and legs jerking and the restraining straps biting into my flesh as I writhed in agony. My heart was racing, hunting like the engine of a chainsaw, and my brain seemed to swell in my skull until my eyes bulged from their sockets. Christ, it hurt! There was no respite, either, no bit of wood to cling to as I rode out the storm -- just unrelenting agony as a thousand wire brushes scoured out my insides to leave the flesh raw and twitching like freshly killed offal on a butcher's slab.

And then, at last, the agony stopped as suddenly as it had started and I lay gasping on the cold steel bench. I felt like a hollowed tree, my insides a throbbing void and only my fluttering heart and my swirling consciousness to tell me I was alive. My skin was clammy and devoid of any sensation so I never felt the prick of the second intravenous feed: but I felt the surge inside me... a coolness like a soothing balm caressing the raw blistered flesh. The sensation spread quickly, filling the aching void to hold me back together and for a few moments it was pleasant: and then, like a Poltergeist, it reared up and flung itself towards my brain.

How can I describe it? It was like nothing I have ever experienced before, or will again. Imagine your brain frozen for a few fleeting seconds, set like a great iceberg in your skull whilst the hammers of your consciousness battered at it like lost souls at the gates of hell. Then imagine it swelling - the ice expanding and your skull creaking and crackling under the strain, your eyes bulging as if they would fly from their sockets and your fingers clawing at the straps to reach them, to push them back lest your head explode in a mist of blood and brains. And envisage colours bursting from deep within the frozen fissures, spinning outwards in a million sparkling fragments to ricochet inside your skull, swirling slowly at first but then accelerating like a cyclone until your consciousness becomes a blur of white and red and gold and the ice gives way to fire. In this maelstrom each cell in your brain is wrenched asunder -- a hundred trillion specks of matter colliding in your skull like grains of sand in a windstorm, flung this way and that, fracturing the connectivity of your brain like splintered glass and bending your dendrites like reeds in a tsunami. And now multiply that by a hundred, and you'd start to get close to what I felt.

I don't know how long it lasted -- maybe a minute, maybe a thousand years. My limbs ached from fighting the straps and I could hear Luke's shrill screams... or were they mine? In my anguish I perceived all that I had ever known being sucked out of my brain -- a jumble of fleeting pictures and a myriad of numbers and names; times and dates and scents and faces; music and memories. It was all drawn from me in a whirling cloud like a shattered house in a tornado -- hanging there in a dark cloud of gnats swarming over a stagnant lake. My lips ran red with blood where I had bitten them and my brain was baking in my skull like a dry pot over a fire... and I knew that I would die -- that my heart and lungs and brain could no longer stand the onslaught and they would burst like overripe Satsuma plums in the twisted vessel of my body.

And a nanosecond before my death the pain was suddenly gone and a great peace descended. My head throbbed briefly, a little spasm as the synapses of my mind clicked back into place, and in that moment it was if I could see into my own brain.

And it was astonishing, for the confusion and disfunction of my whole life had been swept away. and the labyrinthine coils of grey matter lay soft and open like a fertile field on a summer's day. All that I had ever known was now stored in just one corner of my mind and I could understand and remember every detail and emotion that I had ever experienced, and recall at will the most minute factor of my life.

Beyond that corner the rest of my brain lay like a great glowing engine, its memory banks empty, thirsting for knowledge. It growled like a caged beast and I felt the awesome strength of its power and the raw edge of its hunger. Through the prism of my new awareness I had an inkling of what it was capable of and how I could harness it, for power itself is only a means to an end. For the first time in my life I perceived a new beginning -- a new existence that would deliver a life of comfort and privilege -- so unlike the one I had been used to.

I was Patrick O'Shaun Murphy, 47 years old -- a vagrant, a thief and a scoundrel. I had only the clothes on my back and a few pounds in my pocket and in all of my life I had not done a single thing of which I could be proud.

And as I lay there with my new-found awareness I knew that today was the first day of my new life and there was nothing that I could not do.

*

Professor James Anderson was not one of the world's good-looking people. He was tall but slightly stooped with thinning grey hair rising in tufts from his skull, and his rimless glasses perched on a beaky nose that exactly mirrored the dorsal fin of a shark. His face was long and his chin was elongated, dissected by a turned-down mouth that gave him a look of permanent distaste, as if the rest of society disappointed him. He looked like a disgruntled horse wearing a rumpled grey suit and a bow tie that didn't match - but his eyes behind the glasses were as clear and bright -- a hint of the intellect that lay behind them.

I'd only ever seen him once before and there'd been no connection then: but with my new awareness I could feel his distaste for me as thick as slime on the surface of a pond. To him I was nothing more than a guinea-pig, plucked off the streets as an expendable piece of trash to be played with and then discarded if things went wrong. How had I not seen it before?

He approached my bed without speaking and his long, thin fingers automatically moved to my wrist to take my pulse, even though the monitor above my bed told him it was 68.

'How do you feel today?' he asked eventually, his fingers still on my wrist.

'Astonishingly well, all things considered.'

His grey eyes flicked to my face and I could see his interest in my choice of words. Yesterday I would never have spoken that way. 'Really? Why do you say that?'

I shrugged. It would be better for the moment not to reveal my new consciousness. 'Because I thought I'd die, Doc, when you put that shit in my veins.'

He regarded me for a moment longer and I could see him thinking. My connection through his touch wasn't clear yet: a sort of flickering image, like one of those old fashioned lantern projectors, but it was enough for me to detect his clinical interest, his need to understand if the treatment had worked. He was wondering whether the cravings had gone, the blood clean and drug-free and I felt him examining my waxen skin drawn tight over the cheekbones and my dark, sunken eyes. I could sense his disgust at my degradation and my minuscule intellect, and I understood his monstrous ego.

His eyes flicked to the nurse beside him and I felt his interest shift and his pulse quicken for a moment before he turned back to me.

'So what happens now, Doc?' I asked him. 'Was that the last treatment?'

He nodded absently. 'It was. Now -- we wait and see if it worked.'

'Where's Luke?'

'He decided to drop out of the program,' he said tersely. 'We took him back to the street.'

I nudged his brain again to look for the truth, reading the pixels as they painted the image. It was clearer this time: Luke on a gurney, his face grey and his eyes open and a smear of blood tricking from one nostril. Dressed in his rags and laid on a freezing park bench in the dark, so in the morning he would be just another dead addict who'd got pissed on Meths and frozen to death.

'But he's OK, Doc?'

The pale blue eyes rested on mine for a moment. 'Sure, Pat. He's fine. We gave him his bonus and he'll be waiting for you when you've finished here.'

I nodded absently, as if accepting his lies. 'So how long will I be here?'

He shrugged. 'A couple of days. We want to know if the treatment worked.'

'And then what?'

'And then you're free to go, Pat. With the money, just like we promised.' His eyes glittered behind the glasses and his mind told me a different story. Not long, Not long at all. You are the last survivor of our secret little program and there's something different about you. Soon we will take you to pieces to find what the treatment did. Dissect your heart and your lungs and your liver to prise their secrets out of you. Soon you'll be dead, my smelly friend, and I'll be a step closer to the greatest medical breakthrough since Penicillin.

Professor Anderson removed his fingers from my wrist and almost immediately the connection was broken. He went to turn away and I saw his complicit little smile with the nurse, and I laughed softly at how stupid he was. The man was looking for a cure for addiction but he'd found something worth far more and missed it. The ability to control the mind, to harness its full potential.

I reached up and seized his arm and like a searchlight searing through the darkness I unleashed the full force of my power on him. In my mind's eye I could see frontal lobes of his brain curdling like sour milk in a saucepan, shrivelling and solidifying with the arteries bursting, spraying blood like tiny hoses until they were cauterised by the heat. He uttered a strangled cry and his hands flew to his temples, fluttering on the bony skin, and his back arched like a bow. For a few moments he swayed on his feet and I thought he would fall on me, but he crumpled to the floor instead and in the sudden silence I fancied wisps of steam were coming from his cooked brain.

The nurse cried out and bent to help him, and I touched her back and entered the soft suet pudding of her consciousness. I could see at once that she loved him and the images of their frantic and furtive couplings were clear in the flickering pictures in her head. It saved her life that day, for she was young and foolish and besides, two dead people would raise too many questions. And so I spared her, easing into her memory banks to wipe everything she knew of me, and I watched as she wept beside the body of horse-face.

And the next morning they let me go, for nobody could remember why I was there.

March 2024. Sarah

Sarah set the letter aside and rubbed her eyes. The words she had read were disturbing, to say the least. Her father, if the words were to be believed, had been twice her mother's age, raddled with drugs and hard living, and a thief and murderer. Perhaps that much was true, in which case it was hard to believe that her mother could have been attracted to him, yet alone borne his child. She had been one of the beauties of her time, lauded for her sweet nature and kindness and with a promising career ahead of her. The question her father had posed was a good one: how the hell had such a union ever come about?

As was often the case when she sought solace, Sarah picked up her brushes and turned to the half-finished painting -- the one she hoped would pay for next month's rent. It was a composite work depicting different shades of light and colour over open water, the work delicate and finely delivered to give an almost ethereal sense of tranquility; but the brushstrokes she now delivered were wide and crude and angry, almost as if she were trying to erase the face of the father who had brought a window of such violence into her life.

*

The following day Sarah picked up the letter again. The early sunshine threw soft shadows over the room, and the cup of coffee she set beside her breathed wisps of steam into the crisp morning air.

During the night she had thought much about what her father had written -- if it was indeed him -- but it still defied any logical explanation. The words had also left her with a deep unease. She had always imagined him to be someone who, even though he had abandoned them, might have some redeeming features: but the bleak picture he'd painted had none. Perhaps the remaining pages might bring some relief. She picked up the letter again with a sigh and began to read.

"If you have got this far, Sarah, you probably think little of me. I understand, but I can make no apology. I promised it would contain only the truth and, regrettably, that truth is hard. My words are also my catharsis: a chance to set out many faults, not only as a final confession but also to allow you to judge me fairly by what you know, rather than what you do not.

And I'm afraid it gets worse, for the chance I was granted by the medical procedure I have described could have taken me to a better place - but I was too greedy and stupid to take it. Bear with me, though, for amongst the wreckage of my life there is a love story too.

The medical thing I went through gave me extraordinary powers and I continued to use them to my advantage. Frankly, it's a chapter of my life that I look back on in shame, but I can't undo it and, for what it's worth, I never permanently harmed any of the young women I used for my own gratification. I think it's important you know how my life worked, as it eventually led me to your mother - so I will give you one example of my conduct. I warn you though, its grim reading -- so if you want to skip this section you should move on a few pages."

March 1998. Patrick

She was a small girl, perhaps five foot three her stockinged feet, but she was stacked in all the right places. She also oozed class and breeding from the top of her glossy blonde head to the toes of her hand made shoes.

I watched as she moved briskly down the street towards me, dressed in a tailored jacket of soft, honey chamois over a cream silk blouse and brown pants that accentuated the tight curve of her buttocks. The blonde hair was cut in a little bob, the edges curling softly over the pale skin of her neck to balance an oval face with good, regular features. Her make up was perfect, accentuating the symmetry of her face: a pair of full lips turned at the edges to give an impression of laughter, a little button nose and a pair of dark eyes that were bright with the knowledge that she was not only beautiful, but young and empowered as well.

It was the lunchtime rush hour and the streets were crowded. I'd watched a hundred other girls walk by me, short and tall, plain and beautiful. All of them had been better than the raddled hags I'd had for many years but none matched what I wanted, so I'd let them walk by untouched, waiting for the one. The woman I looked for must not only be beautiful, but rich and privileged as well, for it was they who had shunned me.

I let her walk past and I followed, watching the roll of her buttocks as she moved towards the next intersection. The pedestrian light was red and she stopped on the edge of the pavement and pressed the button impatiently. Her fingers were long and slim and unadorned by rings and her nails were painted pink, and I breathed her perfume and studied the little whorls of gold hair on the soft white flesh of her neck, the skin unblemished and vulnerable. I imagined biting it gently, my teeth just breaking its glossy surface as I fucked her from behind.

As the lights turned green I reached forward and touched her, my fingers light on the back of her hand and I entered her psyche before she could react. Some people's minds were more difficult to enter than others but she was complicit. My hand curled over her wrist as the connection was made and we stepped off the pavement and walked together as I harvested her details. Amy Grant. 22 years old, a medical student. Fertile. Sexually active. A picture of an apartment flickered in my mind, an exclusive address not far from where we stood, and images of her bedroom, her possessions, her car. Daddy is rich and loves his little girl. Pictures of her medical college, her friends, her tutors. Today is a study free day. A projection of the shops she had been to, the clothes she had bought, and the lunch date with her friend Naomi. Envy for Naomi. Longing, too. Ah, unrequited lust... the desire to eat Naomi. Was she a virgin? I thought so for I could find no images of a man in her brain.

My fingers gripped her hand and I held it tightly, leading her back to her flat whilst I quietly erased the memory of her lunch date and injected myself as a trusted friend I could feel my influence working by the sudden warmth of her skin and the way her fingers curled around mine, and I could sense her growing eagerness to show an old friend her new apartment. And then like warm oil into a sponge I dripped desire into her brain, and in response I felt the quickness of her breath and a sudden awareness of moisture oozing at the juncture of her thighs.

By the time we arrived there was nothing more to be done: she fumbled with the keys, dropping them on the mat in her haste, finally opening the door and slipping inside, holding it open for me as she flung her shopping bags on the floor. She was already tearing off her clothes before we reached the lounge and I sat in one of the big recliners and watched as the brown pants and blouse joined her suede jacket on the rug. For a moment she stood before me dressed only in a bra and panties of the finest silk, the filigree lace edging delicate against the porcelain of her skin. Her eyes were on my face and I saw for the first time they were a deep blue, and her pupils were dilated with desire.

'I want you to fuck me - '

'Pat.'

'Pat.' She mouthed the word as if it were a drop of honey on her tongue. 'I want you to fuck me.' Her voice was soft and measured but husky with lust. 'I want your seed in my pussy.'

I laughed, watching as she deftly unclipped the little lacy bra. Her breasts were surprisingly large for such a slim figure but they sat firm on her ribcage and the nipples were like ripe cherries.

'Would you like that, Pat? To feel how I milk you?' she asked, and pressed her fingers under the elastic of her panties to slide them off. Her vulva was crowned by a wisp of gossamer hair and the labia were small and tight, and she moved her fingers either side to ease them apart. She was pale pink inside, the flesh as sweet and ripe as exotic fruit.

'Undo me, Amy,' I said, and I watched her slender fingers open my belt and draw down the zip. She tugged at my pants and they fell clear, and her eyes were on the thick shape of my cock beneath the cotton drawers. For a moment I saw doubt and confusion flicker in her eyes, and I touched her mind to put it at rest.

'Take it out. Suck me.'

Her fingers curled around my cock, her hand small and white against the engorged shaft. For a few moments she studied it, her eyes bright, and then she pulled aside my pants and bent to take me into her mouth.

'Look at me.'

Her eyes swivelled to mine I watched the expression in their crystal depths. Lust, mostly, but that was to be expected as I had put it there. Her hair swung forward in a curtain and I willed her hand to hold it back, for I wanted to watch this little lesbian girl who had never touched a cock. I wanted to savour the sight of her servicing my dribbling knob, her fingers struggling to encompass its thickness and her lips stretched tight as piano wire around the shaft.

She was awkward at first but it was only inexperience and so I leaked knowledge into her mind: what pressure and cadence to use and how to wriggle her tongue and use the inside of her cheeks. She settled into the task and I oozed a little lubrication into her mouth and tapped into her senses to taste it. She was moaning softly as she worked, her hand grasping me, milking my shaft as if willing more juice to seep from the swollen bulb.

'Tell me you love cock,' I murmured. 'Tell me you've never tasted anything so good.'

My organ slipped from between her lips with a small sucking sound. 'I love cock' she echoed, 'it tastes so good.' Her eyes were on mine, shining mirrors filled with complicity and love.

I touched her again, just a tiny push to remind her of Naomi, and I laughed as confusion sprang into her face. She glanced quickly at the hand that encircled my shaft as if it was clutching a poisonous snake, but I oozed desire again before she could release me.

'Tell me what you want to do, Amy.'

'I want to fuck.'

'How. Tell me how.'

'Every way I can. In my mouth... in my pussy...'

'Then we'll do it, Amy. Take me to your room.' She led the way and I turned and followed, marveling at the delicious curve of her hips and the tightness of her buttocks.

Her bedroom was pink and frilly, with lace edging on the doona and big fluffy pillows with hearts embroidered on them. There was a picture frame next to the bed and I picked it up and regarded the image it contained: a woman older than her, with short dark hair brushed back and eyes harder than her face. Naomi.

'Who is this, Amy?' I asked her.

'My friend.'

'It's Naomi.' I said. 'Tell me what you do to her.'

An expression of alarm flitted into her eyes but I reached into her mind and calmed her, drawing out the images as they flickered in her brain: Naomi smiling, her eyes soft with love as they kiss; Naomi laughing, watching her juice squirting, squirting, the drops like golden rain upon her lover's tongue. Naomi lapping, her fingers holding the tight cheeks, her tongue dancing on Amy's virgin ring. 'Do you love her?' I asked.

She shrugged. 'I love what we do.'

'Does she like men?'

'I don't know.'

'You can tell her about it.' I reached over and drew her to me, my lips closing over hers. So soft. Her breath was as sweet as honey and her body arched against mine in eager anticipation, her face tilted to receive me. She was sighing, little sounds of pleasure as our tongues danced together, and her nipples were hard against my chest. She drowned my senses -- the softness of her skin, the fragrance of her hair. Her little hands clutching at me, touching, touching, the nails pale pink like tiny shells; her eyes, cobalt blue and fringed with dark lashes, laughing up at me as she nibbled with her little white teeth. My cock like a truncheon, the skin hot and stretched tight in delicious torture. I imagined it soon inside her -- burrowing into her tight, virginal little body.

Beside the bed was a large mirrored wardrobe and I studied its reflection: the young, slim blonde lying on her side and the vigorous young man behind her. The disgusting raddled body I had had was gone, as were the planes and valleys of drugs and hard living that had been etched on my face. I supposed Horse-Face's drugs had done that: cleansing me mentally and physically. Now I looked no older than the young woman I was going to fuck.

"Are you ready, Amy?" I asked.

"Do it." She lifted one leg to give better access to her oozing slit.

I placed the head of my cock against her and pressed forward, watching as her vulva surrendered to allow the head to crown. In the mirror I watched her expression as I penetrated her, eyes closing and her mouth opening in an O at the sensation of being filled by another person.

"Fuck me, you're tight," I murmured. "So tight. Tell me what you can feel."

"I -- its big." She was gasping, her body tense as I slid my length inexorably towards her belly. "I never knew it would be -" and then a little gasp of breath as the final inch pressed against her labia. Her eyelids fluttered and her little pink tongue flickered over her lips. "Ah, fuck! That's huge. Just wait... wait. Let me -"

But I couldn't wait. I wanted this spoiled rich brat to feel, just once, what it was like to be truly fucked, and waiting for her tight little quim to adjust to the thickness of my meat wasn't in the plan. I drew back my hips, watching as her labia clung wetly to the shaft as it withdrew, until just the rim of my glans remained inside her.

For a moment I paused at the entrance to her delicious, quivering little body, and then with a savage thrust of my loins I skewered her again, a long, powerful stroke that ended with a satisfying smack of my thighs against her buttocks. She yelped in surprise, her hands gripping the sheets and her eyes wide with surprise.

Over the next forty minutes I fucked Amy Grant in every way that I could. I pounded her from the back and from the side, and from above with her slender legs wrapped tightly around my waist. I took her against the wall, rattling the bottles on her dressing table; and I carried her around the apartment impaled on my cock whilst she squeaked in delight at every step. Balancing her on slender shoulders I penetrated from above, relishing the long, slippery strokes deep into her torso, and I bent her over the end of the bed and entered from behind her little face scrunched against the bedsheets.

And at last I was ready. I set her on her knees on the edge of the bed and pressed her down so her tight little tush was thrust backward. Her vulva, swollen with desire, projected outwards and I rested my knob against it and entered her again in one long, delicious thrust.

It didn't take long from there. A few strokes into the wet sucking embrace of her flesh, and then the tsunami of my orgasm hit like a speeding train. I seized her hips and unleashed as deep as I could: seven or eight long scalding jets of sperm to splatter the trembling walls of her cunt, gasping as I revelled in the sensation.

And then it was done and I stepped back, watching as she slumped on the sheets. Her delicious little body was covered in a sheen of sweat and a gob of my semen dribbled from between the gaping pink lips of her vulva.

"Christ," she said at last. "Fucking hell! How come I've never done that before?"

It was a good question but not for me. I leaned over and touched her wrist to enter her mind for the last time to erase every memory of me, and I left her there, gasping on the rumpled bed.

March 2024. Sarah.

Sarah's mind was conflicted as she set the letter down once again. Disgust was the main emotion, mixed with horror that he should consider the control and rape of women as not constituting physical harm. Surely he couldn't be her father!

She resolved not to read any more. Why would she? It was obvious that he was nothing more than a self-obsessed predator. Perhaps, if he was still alive - she might have been compelled to read more - if only to reassure herself that he represented no threat; or perhaps to turn it over to the police stop what he was doing. But the fact that he was dead removed that excuse, and she almost convinced herself there was no need to continue.

Except, in the back of her mind was a dreadful question that, one way or another, needed an answer: had her mother been just another Amy Grant, brainwashed into sex with a monster? Was she herself the product of rape? Or had there been some greater meaning? It seemed unlikely, but she remembered the words he had written earlier in his letter: '... for amongst the wreckage of my life there is a love story too'. It was the only hint there was more to this sordid account than she'd read so far; and so she steeled herself for a third time, and continued to read.

"Over the next three years I learned to use my powers to greater effect, a bit like a musician striving for excellence through years of practice. I found I always needed a physical connection to link with my subjects, and the more substantial the better. A single touch of a finger would give me a little control, but solid physical contact ensured a rich harvest of thoughts and deeds, much refined from those early days when I'd left Horse-Face dead on the floor.

Every person I interacted with was a bit different. Some people's resistance was weak and pliable, and I slid into their consciousness as easily as a hot knife through butter. Others were more resilient, with defences like fibrous muscle through which I had to slice, layer by layer.

Occasionally, I'd encounter someone who just wasn't worth the trouble, like the tall redhead who mentally fought my intrusion with grim and silent determination; or the little blonde whose mind was so tortured that I withdrew quietly and walked away before she could corrupt my soul. For the most part, though, my subjects were compliant, and I was able to manipulate their deepest feelings and desires without difficulty.

I noticed too that, if the contact was especially solid, I could explore physical aspects of my subjects as well as mental. A healthy person's aura hummed in synchronicity like a well-oiled machine with every part in harmony; but in others I detected discordance between mind and body, and I learned to differentiate the signs I was reading. An internal pelvic glow, like a lantern in a cave, hinted the woman was most likely pregnant, while lethargy and dullness pointed to underlying disease. Sometimes I could identify the problem: to muscles stiffening with incipient sclerosis, bones growing awry with premature arthritis, or tissue tainted by the impending shadow of a dark malignancy. These were rare, however, as the women I took were for the most part young and healthy, and full of life.

If the connection was especially strong I found I could influence them physically as well as mentally. I could move their muscles them to smile for example, or to use my own power to manipulate their limbs like a puppeteer controlling his doll. The process was a curious sensation -- a sort of two-way exchange I could feel flowing back and forth: my own instructions entering their body to drive muscles and sinew, and tactile feedback flowing in return. It was a flow of energy both into the subject and back to me, melding ourselves almost at cellular level.

But it was difficult to do and it caused residual side effects like fatigue, or, if I had been notably vigorous, aches and pains in the same parts of my body as I had been directing on theirs. It was as if their tissue had become mine, susceptible to whatever it was experiencing, and so, for the most part, I simply instructed their brains to move their own bodies to do my bidding. It worked well and was less effort for me.

And whilst my powers improved, so too did my own persona. Aside from my controlling ability, Horse-face's treatment had given me extraordinary mental capacity together with an elixir of youth such that I appeared twenty or thirty years younger than my biological age.

Can you imagine the capability my power gave me? Aside from sexual conquests I could get the finest table in any restaurant merely by grasping the Maitre D's hand; or obtain any manner of goods, like cars or flights or holidays at no cost. I could break the law with impunity, secure in the knowledge that any arresting officer would forget why he was there. I could even influence the wealthy to transfer money to my hidden account in Switzerland. It was an extraordinary whirlwind of self-indulgence that I seized with both hands to enrich my lifestyle.

As time went by I developed the means to generate my own wealth through canny investments. I traded in stocks mostly, using my vast intellect to tell me when to buy and when to sell, and I built profitable companies that were managed by able people who only ever knew me as a faceless and mysterious enabler. By the time I was 50 I was rich enough for three lifetimes, and with wealth came respectability: a different name, a new life story and nice houses.

But, ironically, the more I had the more discontent I became. I had good looks, enormous wealth and as many beautiful women as I wanted, but as time went by the hollowness of everything I did became more and more of an issue. I realised I was living a life based on lies and deception of the worst kind, and I knew that one day, when my time was done, there would be not one single thing of which I could be proud.

And I was lonely, too. I began to long for genuine human interaction: to know people who valued me for what I was, rather than just robots who were in the sack because I'd brainwashed them. I was sick of compliant, perfumed bodies gazing at me adoringly; of thousand-yard stares as I fucked them, and expressions of confusion as I withdrew. I wanted affection and respect, and a legacy to carry my name forward, so I stopped my predatory ways and tried to reinvent myself.

It took longer than I thought as I had forgotten how to be selfless -- or even the ability to spontaneously interact with normal, kind people. As each week went past I'd look back and realise with a sinking heart that, although I hadn't coerced anyone, neither had I been able to find any real human connection.

I had almost given up hope when I met your mother. She was the love of my life and I thought we would be together for the rest of it -- but, as it turned out, she was the one who killed me.

March 2002. Marilyn (Sarah's Mother)

"How about that one?" Bec whispered, gesturing towards a man sitting a couple of tables away.

Rebecca had been my friend forever and we were in the Horse and Hound public bar, playing our favourite game, which was to guess the background of strangers. We'd already figured out the couple on the table next to us were having an affair, and the group of girls on the other side were sex workers taking a little Dutch Courage for the night ahead. They probably weren't, but the excessive make up, false eyelashes and short skirts on a cold winter night certainly made them look that way.

I peered over at the lone figure, trying not to make it too obvious. He appeared to be on his own, which usually meant a travelling salesman or rep. About 30, I judged. Clean shaven, good features and smartly turned out. The hand grasping his beer glass was well manicured and a gold watch peeped from the cuff of his quality coat, hinting that he was doing all right for himself.

He glanced across at our table and I hurriedly averted my scrutiny, but not before registering a pair of troubled blue eyes set in a face that was decidedly more than just well-featured. He was, to put it mildly, a really good-looking guy.

"I'd say a salesman, Bec, although he doesn't have the rumpled look of one. And he's got sad eyes."

Bec pretended to look across the room towards the bar. "They look OK to me" she said, "and he's fucking yummy. Definitely white collar, but not an Accountant or he'd be sitting with a broom up his arse." Bec had been married to an Accountant who had been a nice guy but just couldn't keep up with his vivacious wife. It had coloured her view of the profession, however unjustified that might be.

"A TV producer?" I ventured. "Here to make a documentary about the night life of Willington-on-Marsh and miserable because he hasn't found any."

Bec giggled. "We should introduce him to our sex workers over there."

"Or perhaps he's a visitor looking for long lost relatives."

She shook her head. "Not a chance. Those are film star looks and there's nobody with a gene pool that good in Willington."

I pretended outrage. "What does that mean? I live here."

Bec's eyes settled on me. "But you just live here, Marilyn. You were born somewhere where people do have good genes, not like the fuglies in Willington."

"Well, maybe he comes from there too."

My friend laughed. "Ah ha! Do I hear the pinging of your ovaries, Marilyn Richardson? God, it's about time!" She grasped my arm. "How about I go over and ask if he'd like to fuck you senseless?"

I smiled at her good-natured banter. "I can tell you, Rebecca Brown, that the very last thing I need in this world right now is another man in my life."

She shrugged. "A fuck is a fuck, my friend. It doesn't mean lifetime commitment, and you sure as hell are overdue for one."

"Maybe. But not for another twenty years, when I've forgotten who gave me the last one."

I glanced over at the stranger again, only to be met with his blue eyes regarding me. He smiled, and I looked away.

*

We are creatures of habit, and the Horse and Hound is a good pub so it wasn't a huge coincidence that Bec and I found ourselves there a couple of nights later. What was a surprise was that the stranger was also there, sitting in the same seat as before. He caught my eye and I smiled despite myself.

"You haven't been sitting there for two days, have you?" I asked.

"Just got in," he replied, "but I was here yesterday for an hour or two."

His voice was soft but carried a warm timbre of culture and authority together with a hint of an accent. Not from these parts then. Ireland, perhaps? He was wearing the same light jacket as before, but sported a different shirt -- blue, to match his eyes.

"Well, enjoy your evening." I went to move on.

He held out his hand. "Patrick."

It's human nature to take a hand offered in friendship, and I did it without thinking. I remember it was warm, and, like his voice, imparted strength and vitality.

"Marilyn."

He held onto mine for a second or two longer than necessary before releasing it. For a moment or two the skin on my hand tingled, as if some residual warmth had been transferred.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" he asked.

"It depends on what."

Patrick nodded briefly, as if understanding my reluctance to become involved. "The other evening," he said, you and your friend -" he glanced over at Bec, who was grinning at me like a mad woman. "I um, sensed you were sizing up people in the bar, like -- you know, just working out who they were and what they did."

I laughed. "I didn't think we were that obvious, but yes. It's a game we sometimes play. There's nothing in it -"

"What was your guess for me?" he interrupted.

I regarded him for a moment, but there was no guile in his expression and I didn't get the sense he was trying to hit on me.

"Someone from out of town. A film producer desperately looking for something interesting to say about Willington; or perhaps someone looking for long-lost relatives."

Pat smiled. "Not even close, I'm afraid."

"So what do you do?" I couldn't help myself.

"I used to play the stock market, but it's a cut-throat business and so I bought a place near here to bring some peace and normality back to my life." He gestured with one hand at the room. "I like the sense that nobody actually gives a crap about how rich or poor you are, or what you did for a living."

"Well, you're right about that, but you'll find there's nothing exciting ever happens around these parts."

"That suits me." He smiled into my eyes. "And you're an actress."

"How did you know that?!"

He laughed delightedly. "You weren't the only one playing that game."

"But that's a pretty far-out guess. How did you know?"

"The look, the clothes, the hair," he chuckled again. "And when I couldn't work it out I asked Martin behind the bar."

"That's cheating! What about Bec?"

"Your friend? He glanced over to where she was sitting. "No, I didn't ask about her. So what does she do?"

I glanced over at my friend. She was still beaming from ear to ear but was now waving her hand like a traffic cop directing us to join her.

"Why don't you sit with us, and you can ask her yourself," I suggested, and then immediately regretted it. I wasn't ready for anyone else in my life, but perhaps Bec would take to him.

March 2002. Patrick.

I only cheated a bit. Just a little nudge to find out what she did and whether she was interested. But then I let go and, for the first time in years, I enjoyed the cut and thrust of actually talking to someone.

They were fun, those two girls. Bec was the more extroverted, plying me with alcohol she really couldn't afford and asking a million questions, but it was clear she was doing it for her friend. Marilyn was more circumspect, but as the evening wore on she relaxed a bit and I began to see the person hiding behind that reserved shell. I wondered what had caused it but it was too early to ask, and I didn't want to cheat by reading her mind again.

I didn't want to lie either -- well, except about the dark years of my debauched life, so I told them what I needed to make me sound interesting: how I'd been brought up in a typical Irish working-class home with seven siblings and a Da who liked his drink better than he liked any of us. The story of a poor kid who made good.

"The future wasn't very bright for any of us, really," I told them. "It's true that poverty breeds poverty and we didn't have much except for the love of my Mam." That bit wasn't quite right: she'd be down at the pub most nights too, leaving the kids at home while she turned a trick or two to help with the housekeeping or to buy a new frock when she needed one.

"So how did you turn that around?"

"I was lucky. I had a head for numbers and the local bookie wanted someone to help out at the weekend, when folk put a few quid on horses they couldn't afford." I laughed, remembering what it had been like. "I think he just wanted someone to stand outside and encourage people to come into the shop, but he soon found out I was as quick as him at working out the odds and steering people into the wrong bets." I took a sip of beer, thinking back. "It wasn't hard work, and it got me into the business of figuring out what was a safe bet and what wasn't."

Marilyn was watching me, her grey eyes attentive. "I spent a bit of time reading reviews about your work," I told her. "They were very good."

She rolled her eyes. "Is anyone ever happy with their work?"

"Don't tell me you're one of those actors who never like what they've done."

She shrugged. "I don't indulge. I also never listen to listen to critics who have nothing better to do than tear us down, and I try to learn lessons so whatever comes next will be better than the last."

"Well said. And what is coming next?"

"Not sure just yet, but maybe another Season of The Betrayed." she shrugged, "but I've also learned not to count on anything until the ink is on the contract."

"And would it be with the same cast? I remember reading that you and the leading guy had a thing going." Across the table Bec's suddenly frantic expression told me to drop the subject. "Uh, not that it's any of my business. I just -"

"As I said," Marilyn replied cooly, "there's nothing certain about anything."

"I'm sorry if I said something -"

"It's nothing," she said firmly. "Do you have family?"

"My Da passed a few years ago. I think he had dreams of a last pub fight to glory, but in the end his liver just gave up and he died the death of an alcoholic. Ma is still alive, though." Although I have no idea where she is.

"And the seven siblings?"

"Ah well, you know us Irish. Full of charm and wanderlust. They are spread all over the world, just about." I took another swig of beer and stole a glance at the girl's face. She really was beautiful with those enormous blue eyes and golden hair. "I think they're doing all right, too -- they all had the gift of the gab, like."

"Yes, I can see that they would." She smiled, the gesture touching her eyes. "And what about you - you can't sit around for the rest of your life and do nothing. You're too young."

I shrugged. "There's time to figure that out. Maybe I'll start up an Irish Pub in Willington. It needs a place with decent music."

Marilyn laughed. "You're right about that. There's live music on Saturdays, though. Why don't you find a nice Irish band to play here instead of the usual spotty rock-group kids?"

So I did, and that's how it started.

*

Before long the three of us were firm friends. The Irish band, which I quietly supplemented to make it worth their while, were a great hit and the night life in Willington suddenly took on a whole new dimension. The Pub got busy, but Martin the owner always kept a good table for us and plied us with free drinks as we'd doubled his business.

After a couple of weeks, I tapped into Bec to find out more about her friend. We were dancing, a slow Irish ballad, so it was easy for me to slip into her mind to find what I wanted. Images of the first day at a new school when she knew no one, and then a little golden haired girl asking to be friends. Growing up in Bournemouth with Marilyn, now inseparable. Drama school together, the occasional fling before committing to a marriage to a dull Accountant that ended quickly. Tears and laughter, ups and downs.

The images were snapshots of a normal life: friends and acquaintances, likes and dislikes, the humdrum of making a living. But Marilyn was always there, as a constant. I dug deeper into what she knew about her friend. Funny, kind, reliable. Quiet. Lived with her widowed Mum. Liked boys but was circumspect. A few crushes, and then her first real love. A wedding planned, honeymoon booked, invitations sent. And then the crushing revelation that he'd been cheating. A broken heart that needed mending. A bruised soul wanting to trust again but not trusting enough to do so.

And woven through every thought was concern for her friend, who she wanted the best for. And I saw that she saw me as a way to help.

Later that evening I danced with Marilyn, and later still we made love for the first time.

April 2002. Marilyn.

If I let the memories come back, I can recall that awful day clearly: the murmur of voices in a house that should have been empty - breathless words of passion, overlaid by the rhythmic squeaking of our old bed. Peeping through the open door I saw her lithe body, skin glistening with sweat and her long hair swishing back and forth with the vigour of her movements. His hands were on her waist, guiding her, and his face gazed up at hers with rapt attention. It was a look of love, not lust. A look of one who knows the other intimately, and is unashamedly taking what he wants without regard for any other.

I remember too the disbelief and shock, and then the crushing sense of betrayal that numbed my senses and robbed me of coherent thought. I crept back down the stairs, collected my forgotten phone and shut the door quietly. It was the last time I ever saw him.

Ash had seemed the perfect match -- funny, engaging and handsome. Had there been the smallest hint of what he really like it might have prepared me, but there was none. I had imagined him to be my life partner where love and respect would be the bedrock of our future, but it was now clear that he had neither. How could I ever trust anyone with my heart again?

And yet, here I was just a month or two later, in Patrick Murphy's arms, aware of the press of bodies on the dance floor but lost in the moment with him. What the hell was I doing? He was handsome, to be sure. He was also funny and engaging -- but it was not those qualities that drew me to him. It was the sheer animal magnetism of the man: an intangible and mysterious power that made him irresistible, and it frightened the hell out of me. Handsome, funny and engaging were qualities that I could assess and, if I wanted, resist. Mystery and magnetism were not.

And as snuggled down into his arms I swore that I would not, under any circumstances, let him into my bed.

He fucked me four times that night, and each time he took my mind and body to places I hadn't thought could even exist. I gave myself in ways that I could not have imagined and, in return, experienced a unity that was truly extraordinary. It was as if our flesh became one -- a melding of every sense that we possessed in perfect synchronicity. He took everything that I offered, and I was filled by him in every sense.

By the next morning, I was head over heels in love and later that week, when he asked me to marry him, I couldn't say yes fast enough.

*

If you've made it this far, Sarah, I'm sure there was one question in your mind that has kept you going; did my mother marry me because she truly loved me, or was she just another brainwashed victim in my monstrous life?

That's easy to answer - we were together because we were truly in love. She was an extraordinary woman -- compassionate, kind, bright and filled with life. And I swear to you on everything I have ever held dear that I didn't influence her in any way. It was a whirlwind romance, that is true, and I'm sure her family and friends were worried - but they need not have been. I worshiped the ground she walked on, and the few months we had together were extraordinary.

Which leads to the next question: why did I abandon her, if I loved her so much? That one is more difficult to answer.

The night we first made love was extraordinary for me. It was not a quick fumble, nor an act of lust such as I had become used to -- rather, it was a magical event that seemed so natural and right.

It was also the first real contact between us. I had touched her, of course, but only through the brief gestures of two people attracted to one another. We had danced, too, but I was careful not to let my powers intrude in any way. So it wasn't until we made love that I really, truly touched her.

The totality of that connection fired up my sensors like floodlights in an arena. I had no need to control her as she was already a willing participant, so they explored her body in every other way, speeding to its most remote corners to map, explore and report. I experienced every beat of her heart as it pumped blood through her arteries -- a sort of pulsing sibilance like the steady beat of a muted drum. Every flicker of her eyes was evident to me, as was the flow of air into her body: in and out, in and out -- diaphragm expanding, muscles relaxing and contracting, lungs imparting oxygen to refresh and invigorate. I detected the myriad of electrical signals speeding back and forth through her body, racing to every muscle; and I felt the network of her nervous system vibrating like a spider's web as it gathered a million sensations through touch and taste and smell. And, behind this orchestra, I could feel the rhythm of her thoughts as they passed through the soft, delicate folds of her brain.

It was an extraordinary experience, for it meant that in an instant I was not only connected to her physically but in every other way as well. And I saw that her body was wondrous, with each part working perfectly with the others as she moved sinuously beneath me -- except for one. For there, lurking deep in the central part of her brain, was a dark shadow.

I zoned in on it to find a cluster of astrocytes, deep and low in the left parietal lobe They had mutated and, even as I watched, pulsed and vibrated like a hornet's nest as they multiplied. Can you imagine my anguish, Sarah? After a wasted life I had found a woman who truly loved me, and I her. But the future I had envisaged together was, in that terrible moment, dashed. But I managed to maintain my composure as we made love on that day, and each time I coupled with her again. I'm sure she sensed my change in mood though, as I struggled with what I had learned. She would ask me what was wrong, and I would smile and reassure her, but I could see in her eyes she didn't believe me. It was a shadow that fell over both our lives, and I was the only one who knew why.

I studied all I could about brain tumours, devouring every medical paper and journal that I could find. Each time we made love I would examine her affliction, noting how it was growing. I reached out to surgeons far and wide, and all of them told the same story. It was inoperable, they said. All I could do was to make the remaining months of her life comfortable.

I wracked my own brain for an answer. Could I cauterise it? Bake it where it lay between the soft folds of healthy, living tissue? But I remembered the wisps of steam coming from Horse Face's skull and although my powers were more refined than then, I doubted if I could be precise enough. The thought of boiling her brain like a suet pudding terrified me: there had to be another way.

And then I thought of excision. If I could reach into her and separate the malignant cells from her brain at the molecular level, it might give me the precision I needed. I resolved to test my theory on another part of her body.

Your mother had a mole above her left clavicle. It was nothing really: a portion of raised and discoloured skin shaped almost like a little heart. I had joked about it once, calling it a lucky charm, but I could see she was sensitive about it, so we didn't discuss it again. It was benign and could have been easily removed, but she had lived with it all her life. I would use that to test my theory.

I'd never done such a thing before but, as it turned out, the procedure was relatively easy. The next time we made love I zoned into that part of her body, seeing at once the cluster of melanocytes in that characteristic shape; and by focusing my power I was able to scrape them away as easily as picking at a scab with a fingernail. I could see them as they floated free, tumbling like tiny pieces of broken detritus into her lymph system, to be disposed of by the body's natural filtering mechanism.

To my delight, the experiment worked. The skin in her affected area was red and itchy but the discolouration had gone. It seemed that excision was the way to go.

Except for one shocking fact. The following morning I perceived the mole to be on my body, exactly as it had been on hers -- that small heart shaped mutation of the skin identical in every way to what she had had.

Don't ask me to explain it, Sarah. Perhaps the connection between us really was at molecular level, allowing cells to pass between us and take root in my body somehow. Perhaps I'd mutated them in some peculiar way, so that I 'caught' them during our sexual union. Whatever the reason the evidence was unmistakable, and I understood in an instant what would happen to me if I tried to excise the tumour from her brain. It seemed there was no way that even me, with the extraordinary powers I had been gifted, could help her.

About a month later I noticed her first symptoms -- an unsteadiness of her left hand as she lifted it for some menial task. I recall the surprise in her eyes as she observed it, before shrugging it off with a smile. I suppose she thought it was a trivial thing: too much wine the night before, perhaps, but I knew it was the beginning of a dreadful journey - headaches that would feel like a kitchen knife slicing into her skull; changes to her temperament with periods of incandescent rage and pits of dark depression; and then, in the final stages, the loss of bodily functions, paralysis, blindness and, eventually, a dreadful debilitating death. It was more than I could bear to think of and I resolved to try and remove the tumour without further delay, whatever the consequences.

Over the next week or so, as I was deep inside her, I used my powers to locate the rogue cells in her brain. It was astonishing how quickly they had multiplied, and I could clearly see the Glioblastoma lying like a hot coal amongst the healthy tissue surrounding it. I suppose it was the size of a pea by then, surrounded by a dark aura of festering cells that buzzed and vibrated as they went about their dreadful business.

Gently, bit by bit, I directed my energy into that festering little pit of corruption. The connection was powerful: good enough for me to perceive the affected area clearly and the blackened and mutated cells flaking off as I touched them. It would have been tempting to zap it all at once, but I could not risk it so I scratched slowly, noting with satisfaction the progress day by day.

And after each session I would watch her carefully, dreading that I might have damaged some vital function of her brain, but she seemed well. The tremors in her hand subsided and she remained the bright, vital woman I had come to love.

After a week I entered her brain to find no trace of the tumour, nor even of the early shadow that was the first sign. I scanned the area carefully but found only healthy tissue and so, with a sigh of relief, I withdrew -- but not before I observed a warm glow around her womb -- she was pregnant! Yes, it was you Sarah. No more than a few hours old: only a tiny cluster of dividing cells but even then giving off enough energy for your father to know you. How many other Dads could say the same thing?

My own brain tumour was quite advanced by the time you were born but your Mum's pregnancy was difficult so that took the focus off me. I'd been having headaches, which I told her were simply migraines I'd had all my life, and there was weakness and tremors in the left side of my body, which I managed to hide from her. It was clear what my future was, though, and over those last agonising months I tried to make every minute of our time together rewarding. I had decided that she didn't deserve the awful job of nursing me to my death, and I obviously couldn't tell her the truth of what had happened, and so it was better that I simply disappear. She would hate me for a while, but it would be for the best.

You made your way into this world on a cold February night in hospital and you were perfect. I remember it well. Marilyn looking tired but so happy, and you swathed in a little white blanket. I stayed for a while, holding her hand with my heart breaking for what I was about to do, and then I kissed her gently on the cheek, touched your tiny cheek with one finger and walked out, never to return.

So that's it, Sarah. I'm a freak and a monster, but I loved your mother. And, as I have so little time left it remains for me to make one final bequest from my grave.

I've also set up a Trust Fund for you, accessible once you are 21. It will see you and your children, if you have any, want for nothing for the rest of your lives. It's honest money raised from the sale of my businesses, so I hope you will take it. Simply call the lawyer who gave you this letter and he will make it happen.

It remains only for me to tell you how much I loved you both. I wish I could have stayed in your life, but saving your mother was the one selfless thing I ever did, and I have no regrets. We are all destined for the grave and the few years I sacrificed were worth it, a hundred times over.

May life treat you kindly, my child.

Your father, Patrick.'

Sarah set the pages down and stared out of the window as she tried to digest what she had just learned. The deep unease and disgust she had felt was now tempered with the knowledge that the gift he had given had not only saved her mother's life and her own, but cost him his own. What had the bible said? "Greater love has no one than this: that someone lay down his life for his friends."

For a long time she sat, thinking about her mother and the circumstances of her brief liaison with Patrick Murphy. It was clear now that she had had no idea what he was or what he had done, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

The shadows were stealing across the room when Sarah finally roused herself. She crossed the room to the fireplace and gently laid the pages of her father's letter on the burning coals, watching as the paper curled and blackened as the flames consumed them. Her future, which had seemed uncertain, was now secure, and it seemed right to secure the past too. The gift she could give was to make sure his secrets, good and bad, had been taken to his grave.

*****

Copyright. Hot_Sister June 2025. Not to be reproduced in whole or in part without the express permission of the author.