Tatiana Samokhina

Valerie. Her name crisp on his lips, cinder-rough; hers are cotton candy. Elegant, too—a subtle breeze, a faint whisper. Desired, and so—oh, so!—desirable. He whispers it into her ear, Valerie, Valerie, Valerie.

She’s watching him, silent. Her round cheeks are all covered in minuscule freckles—as if polka-dotted. The sleek tentacles of her bulky, bright-orange hair—Valencia oranges, Valerie-oranges—tickle him on the neck. Teasing, beckoning. He leans closer. Carbon dioxide from his lungs brushes against her skin. So soft, so delicate. Perfection; she’s utter perfection.

And a minx; she’s a minx, Valerie. A playful witch, a jolly enchantress. She’s always been like that, from the moment he saw her at the thrift store. Been a couple of years already, and they’ve been together ever since.

It smelled musty in the shop, he still remembers. The fusty tang of old, dusty books and shabby plastic knick-knacks rattled in the air. He stood by the DVD shelf, his fingers clutching a one-of-a-kind X-rated film, when she walked in, her orange hair—a waterfall; her smiling eyes—a gate to heaven.

The door squeaked, must have been from delight. Fresh and innocent, with a dandelion peeking out from the top pocket on her sundress, she made her way to the jewellery section, where she stopped and pressed a slender forefinger to her sugar mouth. He watched her, mesmerised, only the top half of his face visible beyond the shelves.

She picked up a bracelet. Twirled it. Turned it. Placed it back on the shelf. Earrings, close to her earlobe, very-very close, so close he shivered. Lucky earrings.

Another one. Twirled it. Turned it. Placed it back. A ritual. A hypnotising ritual.

He could even imagine mornings together. Whispering her name into her sensitive ear. Breathing in her scent, sweet and tangy. Breathing in her. Caressing her. Enjoying her. Loving her.

She gasped when the string of beads in her hands snapped, and tiny glass baubles exploded—burst—fled. Scattered like marbles; knock, knock, knock on the shabby wooden floorboards. Panic on her face. Her plump, freckled cheeks—raspberry colour, she squatted and started collecting the beads one by one. He rushed to her, the film abandoned on the shelf. He knelt by her side.

That’s when it first tickled him, her heavy, tumbling hair—a succulent orange. He’d always loved oranges. When he was five, and six, and ten, he used to steal them from wooden crates in godforsaken supermarkets. Would always come home with pockets full of oranges. Sweet-smelling, juicy oranges. He loved the fruit juice sliding down his tongue and pooling in the corners of his mouth as much as he loved Valerie. She was—she is—really special, this girl. She knows that; she should.

About the oranges he stole, his mum could always tell. She used to say be careful, and he was. He listened to her—obedient; he still does, although mum’s gone, buried deep under a sycamore tree in a graveyard by the water. Miles away. His eye twitches. He misses her—Rosa, mum. At least Valerie is here.

Rosa was very different to her. She was heavy, grounded and stable, as if a magnet was pulling her up from beneath the earth. Or maybe it was the remains of his father… they were only married for seventeen days before a corn harvester ground him up as he slept in the cornfield. Mum screamed for seventeen days until her throat snapped. Like the string of beads in Valerie’s hands. Pop.

Eventually, longing for a new life, she reclaimed her voice—somewhere between the cornstalks, jumbled with Father’s blood. Then he was born. He, Timmy. He had his mother’s chin—a sharp triangle—and his father’s laugh—crumbly, coarse semolina. A perfect mix of both.

Rosa was a zealous, mettlesome mother. When they pointed fingers, she looked at him with her coconut bark eyes, and said, they don’t understand you Timmy, baby, they just don’t understand. He knew she was right, of course. When they said, it was him, glancing at the snapped neck of a stinky, old pigeon, she barked, not Timmy, no and never! He clung to the hem of her robe, shaking his head, like she was shaking her finger. Not me, of course, no and never. When they dared to assume it was him involved in the behind-the-barn incident, she pounced on them, her fingers long and sharp. She walked him home, scratching behind his ear. That silly girl is an inventor, that’s what she is. She nodded. I said hi, that’s it, Timmy whispered.

They had a tranquil, languorous life, Timmy and Rosa. When Rosa went, his life shattered, but Valerie… this minx, this witch, she breathed new, vigorous fire into his mirthless lungs. Flames of love and pleasure.

Valerie, Valerie, Valerie. He presses his lips tight to her ear. He rubs his skin against hers. She’s covered in goosebumps, his sweet girl. She’s so quiet, it’s almost oblivion. His tongue reaches for her earlobe. She smells of oranges and tastes of them too, Valencia oranges, Valerie-oranges. He melts into his desire, his love, his longing. Oh, what a peaceful, reposeful moment!

Somewhere—a siren. A whirlwind of sirens. They are muted, though, so must be far. He shakes his head; he won’t let anyone or anything interrupt their ritual. They’ve been through so much to build this reality.

Valerie must agree; she doesn’t move—calm and a little submissive. She keeps watching him, her eyes glittering. She’s enjoying it too—the tranquillity. And him, Timmy, her love. They were both very lucky they walked into the fusty thrift store, their shared paradise. Feels like yesterday—the memories are so fresh.

He nudges deeper into her neck. I love you, Valerie, he whispers. Love you, love you, love you. She flinches as the sirens, still faint, saturate the frosty September air seeping through a narrow gap in their window. It’s only been there a couple of days. They were playing marbles when one of the balls jumped up from her trembling fingers, wanting to escape, and cracked the window. It didn’t escape; no, it didn’t. It was still there, in the pile.

And Valerie, she’s still here, too. The sirens grow louder, bubbling up, and she stiffens. Relax, beautiful girl, you’re safe here. He nibbles on her earlobe, and she moans. Softly, as if not at all. The noises from outside too acute, too shrill. He wants to swear, but he won’t; she doesn’t need to hear. He longs to dissolve into her. To be one with her. She’s so sweet, so desirable…

The sirens, annoying sirens, bark loudly and—vanish. Oh, finally. The heavens must have heard. Some peace and quiet.

He runs his finger over her skin. She’s all pebbled, like orange peel. Are you cold, my love?

The pounding of unknown footsteps. Somewhere there, behind the door.

She’s all shaking. He pulls the blanket higher.

Knocks, off in the distance. The thudding and crashing. Oh, all this disturbance!

Screams and shouts. The door falls. Over here!

There are so many of them. All in black, covered in black, hiding in black, they storm inside, they’re loud, intruders. She’s over here. They pull him aside. They tear him off from his oranges, his Valerie.

Cold steel around his wrists, clicking.

Tim Graves, you’re under arrest for abducting Valerie McKenna.

No, she’s there, under the blanket, he was breathing her in only a moment ago. Let go, let go—his Valerie, his orange, his favourite, succulent orange.

You have the right to remain silent.

Let me go, it’s a mistake. Valerie, my enchantress, my queen!

She’s breathing. She’s unconscious. There’s a pulse.

Intruders in white closer to her than he is. Not right. Let go. Valerie, love, I’m still here. Don’t touch her, she’s mine. My girl, my minx. They pull him, pull him away, far from her, Valerie, still on the bed, by the window, by the crack in the window, a note slipped through, neighbours found, called the police, kidnapped, found, alive, Valerie.

No, let go, we met at a store, it smelled of musty books, I remember. The beads snapped on her neck as he pulled her—no, she was holding them, they snapped in her fingers, exploded, scattered. He helped collect them. His feet crushed the dandelion that escaped from her pocket—no, he picked it up, tucked it back inside, and she smiled, shyly smiled.

She screamed as he pulled—no, no, she gasped, she quietly gasped. The beads snapped in her fingers. She crouched, he did too. They worked together, shared the moment, the intimacy. She wasn’t scared, no she wasn’t. The dread on her face… no, no dread, only acceptance. She also knew they met for a reason. She chose him as her destination. Why would she fear him? The beads snapped. He didn’t pull. An accident, a mere accident. That’s how they met.

He dragged her out, shoved her into his car. No. No, who said this? They are inventors, those who said this. She went after him, her smiling eyes—a gate to heaven. She cried, she screamed; she only smiled. And the shop assistant who ran out, and the faint sirens behind, and his trailer with no number plate—all this is only an invention of a sick mind.

He shudders. They are taking her away. His wrists clasped behind his back. His Valerie, his oranges. Hers now untied, decorated with two deep scarlet marks—two bracelets. His gift, his present. How don’t they understand…

They drag him down the stairs like a sack of corn. Shove him into a car. Like he did once… No—no and never! NEVER!

He’s restrained; he can’t move. Sirens, more sirens, a vortex of sirens. They’re so loud, he wants to scream.

No, mum, tell them, tell them it’s not me, no and never.

Mum deep under the sycamore tree in the graveyard by the water. Miles away. His eye twitches. He misses her—Rosa, mum. Valerie now, too. A minute without her, his heart is ready to collapse. He needs her—his elegant, cotton candy girl, his love, his life, his everything.

They carry her out of the house. The waterfall of her orange hair cascading off the stretcher. Around, a crowd’s gathered. Everyone pointing fingers. Again. He clenches his teeth. He roars. He wriggles. He convulses, convulses, convulses. Valerie, girl. He screams, he screams, he screams. Their hands locked. So many hands squeezing, pressing, tight. How dare you! Let go!

His veins pulse pulse pulse.

His heart beats beats beats.

He yells howls moans.

A moment

Her name freezes on his lips, cinder-rough, as a needle enters his skin—and reality collapses.

---

Tatiana lives in the beautiful suburb of Surry Hills and works in the bustling City of Sydney. She is an English teacher and fiction translator, in love with literature.

More riveting stories are waiting you… Return to Issue 6!