Downward Spiral

by T. Mike McCurley

The spoon was tiny, holding but one-sixteenth of a teaspoon. It was made of silver, as were most of her utensils, her opinion having been for years that there was no point in eating unless you observed some luxury in the process.

The red-haired woman dipped the spoon into the jar of blue and white Delft china, emerging a moment later with a tiny rounded quantity of yellow-gold powdered honey. She placed it in the crystal goblet, then gently added a measure of vodka straight from the freezer. So cold it caused condensation to appear on the glass the moment it touched, the liquor was as clear as the glass itself.

Stirring it slowly in an almost ritualistic fashion, she gazed at the goblet as the liquid subsumed the honey. Her attention seemed to be elsewhere as she watched the process. Removing the minute spoon from the glass, she wiped it clean on a linen napkin and then held the goblet in her hand. She grimaced at the contorted fingers with their swollen knuckles and twisted joints. Raising the crystal to her lips, she tilted back her head and swallowed the mixture in a single long draught. Even as the liquor hit her stomach and began the familiar burn, she began the process anew.

After the third such drink, with her morning regimen properly begun, the woman stood from the table, poured a measured amount of Meow Mix for the calico that shared the house with her, and made her way to the bathroom, bypassing the darkened living room as was her habit. She had not entered that room for years, and objects were still scattered haphazardly where they had been on her last visit. Still, her eyes reflexively flicked over the corners of the room, straining to pick out any glimpse of a man standing in the shadows.

It had been there, in the living room, where the attack commenced.

She had come home, to the one place where she should have been safe, after a long day with little to show for the efforts she had put forth. A sack of groceries in either arm, she had unlocked the door and walked in, feeling the tensions of the day fade as she reached the familiar space.

A sharp chop by a stiffened hand to the center of her throat was her first notice that everything had gone suddenly, horribly, awry. Her voice broke as she tried desperately to scream. That voice, boosted to new heights by her Emergence, should have blown the wall off the house. Instead, it came out as a muffled squeaking sound as the traumatized nerves failed to function as they were intended.

"That will keep you from waking the neighbors," hissed a voice into her ear. She was suddenly struck in the side of the head and stumbled across the room, dropping her bags to the floor. Oranges and nectarines rolled across the carpet in aimless patterns, seeming to savor their new-found freedom. A hand gripped her long scarlet tresses and jerked her upright, turning her to face her attacker. She caught a glimpse of soft brown hair and crazed eyes before the man shoved his entire hand into her mouth. Gagging, she bit down hard, but succeeded only in cracking a tooth. Then the world vanished in a flash of pain as the hand spat a jet of raw heat into her throat.

"And that should keep it that way," the man said, jerking free his hand and smiling at her as she fell to the floor and retched violently. Tears ran freely from her eyes as she tried to speak. Even at her strongest projection, she could manage little more than a squeal of agony that failed even to vibrate the windows.

"Do you know how I've looked forward to this day, Rebecca?" the man asked. He paced slowly back and forth beside her as she managed to get to her knees. Her mouth was filled with the flavor of burned meat, though she could barely taste it. Hacking up a thin mixture of blood and bile, she spat on the floor and struggled to look up. As though reading her thoughts, the man reached out with a hand and gently lifted her chin so she could see his face. Her heart sank as she recognized her assailant.

"Aggahhanaa," she gasped out, her tortured larynx failing to produce recognizable sounds.

"Yes!" crowed the man, dancing a merry jig. "That's me. Aggahhanaa!" he said, mocking her attempt at speech. "Though most call me Annihilator. Those that live, that is," he added with a demonic expression.

He walked a pace away, reaching out a hand and sweeping the contents of her coffee table to the floor. A crystal bud vase shattered noisily, spilling its lone rose as it disintegrated. Annihilator sat on the table, ignoring the debris as he watched his prey through gleaming eyes. Still on the floor, she coughed up another gobbet of liquid and cried.

"It took me so long to track you down," he told her, as calm as if he were discussing the weather. He crossed his left leg up onto his right and leaned forward, placing his chin in one hand and propping his elbow on his knee. His expression took on a downcast look, as though he were depressed by the situation. "So many rumors, so many lies. It seems almost no one knows who you really are, Rebecca. No one knows the real name of the mysterious Siren. Well, except for your brother."

Her eyes widened at the mention of Chad. Not one to miss such a detail, Annihilator nodded. A smile crossed his face again as he continued.

"Oh, don't worry about him. He'll be all right, I promise," he said, his voice syrupy sweet. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, breathing into her face as he spoke. "Too bad, though, that his apartment doesn't have wheelchair access. I think he'll need it from now on."

An agonized groan tore from her, culminating in a fit of coughing. The crazed booster laughed aloud as she burst into a new flood of tears.

"I couldn't believe it when he said you lived here. It's so far from where you....Is work the word I want here? Or is what you do really work? Either way, the commute must be a real bitch. Anyway, back to what I was saying. I noticed a lot of articles in those trashy genebooster magazines from some little norm named Chad Henry. Somehow, a lot of them had to do with you. I put two and two together, came up with five, and paid him a little visit. Oh, but your publicity won't be a problem any more. I doubt he'll write anything again. Ever."

She tried in vain to curse him, ignoring the pain it caused, but could do little more than make a snarling noise and dribble more blood. She was saving her energy, though, and knew that when the time came she could get in a good kick that might give her a chance to get away.

"So little Chad, or what's left of him at least, tells me big sis lives way up here on the rich side of town. 1312 Drury Lane. And here you are! I'd recognize that hair anywhere, you know. You really should style it differently. Doesn't suit your face," he added in a stage whisper, raising an eyebrow and then winking at her. Without warning, he lashed out with a hand snapping her head back and flinging her onto her back on the floor. The sound of the backhand slap reverberated in the room.

"You..." he began, growling aloud as he searched for the right word. "You meddling little sheep!" he finally said, standing from the table and once more beginning to pace around the room. "It's people like you that make life a pain in the ass for people like me! You stand out there, show yourself off, beg the herd of norms to love you! And they do, of course. You, with your pathetic little megaphone voice. All I wanted was to have a nice day breaking things and tearing things up, and what happens? Some do-gooder bitch and her friends have to come and try to run me out of town! Not that it's not fun slapping you people around, you know, but it's the principle of the thing! You tried to put yourself on my level. Thought you were as good as me!" he shouted, his agitation clear as he paced faster and faster. Flecks of white foam appeared at the corners of his mouth as he ranted.

"I am a god, do you hear me? You can't stop me. You can't hurt me. I have more power than you and your herd mentality could imagine. All I wanted was to have fun! You got in my way, little girl, and for that, you gotta pay."

With that, he grabbed a long sliver of crystal from the floor. He stared at it for a moment, his expression softening as he calmed somewhat. He held it out in front of her face, forcing her to look at the glass. Part of the etched picture was still visible.

"What was this?" he asked, seeming genuinely intrigued. "Looks like... I don't know. What?"

She managed to sit up as she muttered a garbled response, hoping it would placate him at least a little to learn that it was a sailboat.

"It's what?" he said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively as he examined the drawing more closely. "Doesn't look like a unicorn to me," he said, once more amusing himself by misinterpreting her reply. A snorting sound came from his nose. "Huh. A unicorn. Oh, well."

The glass made an audible whistling sound as he whipped it forward, slashing a line across her face. He smiled again. Reaching out with finger and thumb, he pinched the flesh where it had separated. Making the cut gape upward, he used the radiant heat power from his hands once more. The scent of burning skin filled the air as he cauterized the wound and sealed it shut.

"That's one," he said gleefully, reveling in her pain. He leaned back as she brought up her hands to clutch at the injured cheek. As she rocked back and forth, he licked the glass, then shook his head. "Too fast. Didn't even get blood on it. We'll have to do better next time."

He waited for her to recover from the shock of the attack, content to take his time. "So, have you lived here long?" he asked in an obscene parody of small talk. His eyes snapped wide and his mouth opened in an excited 'O' shape.

"Do you know the Muffin Man?" he asked, his words a rush. She looked at him, confused by the question. The sudden mood swings she was coming to accept, but the question itself was bizarre. Seeing her look, Annihilator cocked his head from side to side and began to sing an off-key version of the nursery rhyme.

"Do you know the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man? Do you know the Muffin Man, that lives in Drury Lane?"

He emphasized the last two words, gesturing about himself to indicate the house in general. "You get it? Drury Lane!" he said enthusiastically, beginning to pace again. His finger wagged as he continued to repeat the rhyme over and over. He changed the pacing into a semi-dance, wiggling his hips and shaking his head.


Drawing in a deep breath, Rebecca shook off the memories and rubbed at her eyes, feeling the slick oiliness of fresh tears on her palms. No matter how much she tried, the flashbacks always came to haunt her. They were always Kodak-fresh; no degeneration after time, as the psychiatrists had predicted. The drugs had not helped, nor had hypnosis, therapy, or any of the support groups for victims. She always remembered it in vivid detail. The song, repeated over and over, the casual violence, and the omnipresent sadistic smile.

She shuffled to the bathroom, turning on the hot water in the shower, and quickly undressed. She showered slowly, luxuriating in the feel of the stinging jets on her skin. She applied her soap rapidly, though, as had become her habit. She was disgusted by the feel of the yards of ropy scars that covered her body, scars he had so happily given her. Cut and burn, cut and burn, her mind whispered. He had not stopped with the face, working his way across her body. The only things he had not burned were the breaks. Every finger, both arms, ribs, the long metatarsals in her feet, all snapped like toothpicks in his incredible grip.

Stepping from the shower, she wrapped a towel around her hair, binding it up top in a heavy knot. She dried her body quickly, flinging the wet towel uncaringly onto the floor where it joined two others of its kind, mute reminders of yesterday's shower. She slipped into a terrycloth robe and combed out her hair, looking at the oil painting of sailboats on a lake that hung above the sink. She could still hear him whispering in her ear as she lay tattered and bleeding on the floor.

"I'm not going to kill you, Rebecca. Not today. But every time you look in a mirror you'll remember me," he had said.

It was true. After months in the hospital, and even longer in therapy - both physical and psychological - she still could not bear to see herself, to look at what he had done. It had taken her five minutes after she arrived back at home to begin shattering every mirror she owned, including the massive one above the sink. Johnny Reb and Lightbringer had cleaned up the shards, lest she cut her feet on them. She could not even look at the pieces where they lay.

The memory of how she had once looked, the beauty she had once possessed and taken for granted, still grated on her. She felt reduced to little more than a sideshow freak by his cruelty. There were no more photographs of her in the house. She had destroyed them all in a fit of anger, even the ones Chad had taken. That part, at least, she felt sorry for. They were all that was left of him.

Her brother had survived the attack only to die from the same self-pity that ate at her. Two weeks after his release from the hospital, he had been found in his wheelchair, a pistol in his hand and a note that said simply 'No more' on it tied around his neck. The coroner told her it had at least been quick.

She finished with her hair and returned to the kitchen, pulling out another chair from beside the table. The first one was still placed away from the table's edge. She knew she should eat something, but nothing sounded especially good at the moment. She settled for a return trip to the freezer, retrieving the icy bottle of Stolichnaya from its customary place. Only half left, she noted idly. It was a small matter, as three identical one-liter bottles held residence in the cabinet, awaiting their turn in the freezer.

The light on the answering machine was flashing, and she pushed the 'play' button as she passed with the bottle to recover the honey jar. It rewound for a long while, then began to play back its recording. The voice, with its characteristic Southern drawl, was utterly familiar even in its current tinny version.

"Beck? You there? It's Johnny," the voice said. Johnny Reb, checking in on her as always, and as always cautious to avoid using the name 'Siren' to protect her identity. Even after the battle in which they had finally captured Annihilator, the battle that had cost Johnny his right arm and a year in physical therapy from a broken back, he had made it his personal mission to save her from the pit of despair into which she had fallen. She tried to smile as the message continued.

"Missed you last night, girl. Me and Justin had us some fun," he said, referring to the scarlet-costumed powerhouse who called himself Justicar. Of course, 'some fun' meant they had ben in a fight. Those things scarcely interested her any more. Even after she had regained her voice, the necessity of wearing a mask to hide her entire face and the re-tailoring of her costume to conceal her damaged skin had made the whole thing less exciting - almost less important.

"I'm worried about ya, Beck. Hell, ya never come out and just hang with us no more. I know you been drinkin' more of that Russki crap than you should. You need to get outta the house some. We called the other night and you never so much as said hello. Gimme a call when you get this, okay? You got the number. Please, just let me know you're doin' all right. Well, I'll let you go. Let me know something. Bye."

She made a mental note to call Johnny and assure him that she was fine. Her depression had caused the team to suffer, she knew, but they were able to handle things without her. As she stirred the drink, the machine chirped and announced that the message had ended. She dropped the spoon into the glass a second later when it announced that the message had been recorded two days earlier. Where had the time gone? Another message began.

"Pick up the goddamned phone." ordered a booming voice. It was Justicar, and he sounded angry. The tape reel creaked once as the voice paused for a moment, apparently waiting for her to comply. Then it continued. "Rebecca, Justin. You know, I'm about sick of this shit. Johnny may baby you, but I won't. Maybe you haven't looked around lately, but there's a real world out here. A world full of problems. You told me you'd help deal with those problems, and now I can't even get you to answer the phone. Crawl out of your bottle and say something, damn it!"

There was another moment of silence, then Justicar mumbled something that sounded conspicuously like "drunk bitch" and hung up. The machine rattled again and declared that the message had been recorded yesterday. She stared into the glass of honeyed liquor, wondering just how much she had been drinking. She knew it was a lot, but two days gone? On impulse she stood and walked to the cabinet as the next message began. An automated voice rambled on for a full minute, telling her about the newest deal on satellite television service available for a limited time only. She opened the cabinet door. It took a moment for her mind to process the fact that there was only a single bottle of vodka left where there had been three. Her shoulders slumped.

"Rebecca?" called the machine. She jumped and turned to look at it, eyes wide with surprise. She had not heard the voice for over a year. It was the voice of Charles Whittington, the man known to the public as Graviton and one of two boosters ever to face Annihilator and walk away without injury. He and Lightbringer had been the decisive pair in the fight against the insane genebooster when the group had gathered to bring him down.

"Rebecca, are you there? God, I hope this is still the right number. It's Charles. I'm up at that house in the woods," he said, voice trembling. She knew where he meant. He had gone to work for the government at a base in Oregon last year, training geneboosters for service in emergency response.

"I can't talk long, but I knew you'd want to know, Rebecca. He's here. You know who I mean. He's here at the house right now. They're trying to get him to work for us for a while."

The goblet fell from her hands, shattering musically on the floor. She looked with horror at the machine as Graviton continued to speak.

"I sent the directions to your e-mail. I'll be ready when you get here. I have to go now. Goodbye, Rebecca," he said, then the call disconnected. Her fuzzy mind whirled with a mix of emotions and she started to shake with laughter. The sound echoed wildly in the house, causing the tiny cat to look up from its bowl of food. Glass crunching beneath her bare feet, the woman walked to the cat and picked it up, stroking its fur with a deformed hand.

"Wanna go for a trip, Ripley?" she asked softly, then broke int a fit of laughter. Her next question was delivered in a sickly sweet voice with a psychotic thrill to the tone.

"Wanna see momma kill Annihilator?"

Go here for Part II