ABSENCE OF AFFECT PART 3 OF 3 by Interstitial

CHAPTER 3: THE COMEDOWN

The Saturday night party at Doc’s had swirled around her, peachy yellow and more colourful than before.

All of a sudden, in this polychromatic world, she felt she could have anything she wanted. She could take anything she wanted, anyone she wanted, and she would. It was nothing less than her right and her duty. She was just—better than other people. Fact. Anna glanced surreptitiously around. She was surprised people hadn’t noticed how she glowed; how special she suddenly was. Well, they would. She’d make sure of that.

Without warning, a pure and familiar impulse, but stronger than she had ever felt—and the clear certainty in her mind—fact!—that whatever she wanted she could, and should, take, instantly and without question. She’d never felt more awake.

Anna took the bottle of Peachy Yellow from his hand, looked him straight in the eye and licked her lips slowly. “Thanks,” she said. “Now, I need something else. No strings. No boundaries. No limits.”

And later that night, after she’d taken her fill of him, along with a couple of the other guys, and even one of the female objects too, she began to draw up her own special secret checklist of things to do.

* * *

But now, in the alleyway, she suddenly knows there is something wrong. It’s just a vague down feeling at first, nagging at her as Doc zips himself up, pats her on the bottom, tells her how special she is. She sees a woman watching her from the doorway, shadowed. Anna straightens up, adjusting what passes for her clothes. The figure looked familiar, somehow. Who—? She squints in the fading light.

“Anna?” the figure says. “Is that you?”

Fucking Kathleen. What the hell does she want? But something is gnawing at Anna. What is that feeling? The Peachy Yellow doesn’t seem to be working as it should. She feels sullied, somehow. The fierce joy of her superiority is ebbing.

“Large as life, Kath, and twice as bad,” she says, without conviction. Her vision is darkening at the edges.

“What have you done to yourself, Anna? I’ve been looking for you for two weeks, after that night. Why didn’t you call me? What are you doing here?”

Anna says nothing. Doc has vanished into the shadows now. Kathleen walks towards her, into the pool of the overhead streetlight.

“You look like a complete slut, Anna! What have you done to your hair? And—oh my god—what’s that on your back?”

Was she talking about her wonderful mission statement? Kathleen was just another object, she reminded herself, but it somehow didn’t feel that way. It was Anna who didn’t feel real. She felt—what was that feeling?—suddenly weakened somehow, diminished, the peachy colours dimmed. Average. She ached for another pill.

What was it Doc had said about that? How much was too much? What was the worst that could happen? She gulps one down, then another, a third, ignoring her boring and irritating ex-best friend. Things are different now. Kathleen R.I.P.

“Are you on drugs?” squeals Kathleen. “You’ve been behaving like such a horrible person! I know this isn’t you, Anna.”

“Fuck you. I’m special, now,” Anna manages to slur. But her heart isn’t in it. She isn’t feeling right at all. Another Peachy Colours, just one more, swallowing it dry, surely four will be enough…

Something snaps in her head. The world goes peachy cream and white, and Anna sinks to her knees, helpless.

Distantly, at the end of a long dark tunnel, she hears Kathleen’s voice. “My god. You’re coming with me, Anna.”

* * *

When Anna wakes up, the first thing she realises is that she isn’t at home. She’s in Kathleen’s bed, a haze of pink, surrounded by fluffy toys. She tries to feel the old contempt for that, but it’s gone. The second thing she realises was that she can’t move; Kathleen has tied her to the bed. She tugs experimentally, but nothing shifts.

The third thing she realises is that she feels very odd indeed.

She’s grown used to being horny of course, and grown used to doing what she wants these last two weeks—because that’s her right!—but this is weirdly intense. A kind of deep arousal, nagging at her. She tries to remember what it felt like, being special, but she can’t. Everything is fuzzy and indistinct. She tries to imagine taking the initiative, hunting her prey out there in the world, but the thoughts skid away like beads of mercury on a tabletop. An absence of affect; Anna feels somehow distant, disconnected, passive.

Kathleen pokes her head around the door. “How are you feeling, Miss Cold Turkey?”

Anna gathers herself as best she can. “Weird. Why am I tied up?”

“Major withdrawal symptoms. You could hardly move when I got you home, but then you started thrashing around, demanding to be ‘special’ again, crying about ‘peachy yellow’. You’ve been out forty-eight hours.”

Kathleen fumbles with the knots, untying her. Gingerly, Anna sits up. Distantly she notes that Kathleen is dressed a little out of character, quite daringly for her, and she has her dark hair scraped back in a tight ponytail.

Anna’s mind feels numb, absent all willpower. The only thing she can feel is a hungry sexual ache. She feels empty. The world feels empty. Dimly, she remembers; and the adventures of the last week flash through her mind, but they don’t feel real. She can’t imagine herself doing any of that.

Kathleen is holding up the plain white little bottle of pills. She shakes it. “This is what you’ve been taking, bitch?”

“Just painkillers...” Anna mumbles.

“Bullshit. I spoke to your friend Doc. I know all about this stuff now, Peachy Yellow. And the other stuff, too.”

“The other stuff?” Anna is finding it difficult to speak.

“The antidote. I gave you one already. Here—take another. One a day, to help you play,” she chants.

Kathleen’s being unusually assertive, but she’s glad her friend has taken charge of the situation. Dutifully, Anna complies, washing the pill down with a swig of water. She thinks of Jack Daniels, and shudders. A warm glow of love and well-being spreads through her body, all tension leaving her. The world looks faintly blue.

Kathleen is looking at her, hands on hips, smiling.

“Just look at you lying there. ‘Instant gratification’, is it? Turn over and show me, then.”

Anna does as she’s told, adopting a hands and knees position on her friend’s bed. Kathleen has been so good to her, she thinks. She doesn’t know what she’d do without her. She would do anything for Kathleen, she thinks, and on all fours she feels the warm glow of pleasing someone.

Kathleen’s voice is cool. “Everything has an antidote. Peachy Colours ratchets up your impulsiveness, assertiveness, control. The antidote does what antidotes do: the opposite. Aren’t you feeling better already?”

Anna would like to nod. The feeling is good.

Kathleen’s hand is on her tramp stamp, stroking it. Her hand moves to Anna’s buttock, squeezing. Anna thrills to her touch, rolling her hips slightly under her hand, knowing she’s wet.

“Very good,” says Kathleen. “You know what I did last night, while you were asleep? I did some of your precious Yellow, just to understand. And it was a revelation—I suddenly saw the pattern! So I went out and did exactly what the fuck I wanted for a change. God, it felt good. And then I tracked down your friend Doc, and explained to him exactly what I’d do to him if he didn’t fork over the goodies, and the antidote, right there and then. Which he duly did, in his own best interests, of course. I think I may have frightened him, actually.”

Anna dimly wonders how many pills Kathleen has taken, to come so far, so fast.

Kathleen is still talking, her words running on fast, but oddly neutral in tone. “I like Peachy Yellow. Makes me feel special, as special as I really am. Unique. You remember that, bitch? But you, Anna, you treated me like a doormat. Remember the stuff I used to take from you. Then you didn’t call for weeks. And then guess who’s there when you need help? Me. Well, you don’t get to treat me like that. So you don’t get to have any Yellow, and you’re going to keep taking the antidote, and then we’ll see what happens. Don’t you just love the warm and wonderful feeling of it?”

Anna would like to ask a question, but something stops her. She realises it’s because Kathleen has not invited her to speak. She’d like to shift position, to look Kathleen in the face, but she can’t, because she hasn’t been asked to do that, and her body just doesn’t want to. Dimly, she knows it’s only the drug, the antidote, but that makes no difference at all. Her personality seems to be dissolving.

“And today I bought a present, especially for you, bitch, since I know what you like.”

Anna starts as something wide and long slides into her, and she trembles in position as it starts to vibrate, sending waves of glorious pleasure through her helpless body.

Everything is amplified. Everything is blue.

She hears Kathleen’s voice, still talking, up close, but heard as at a distance. “Is that big enough for you? I’m going to dress you up, later, just how I want you to look, and then I’m going to play with you properly, and after thatwe’re going to get you some new body art, get you all nicely labelled up so everybody can know exactly what kind of a bitch you are. And then you’re going to be my servant, and you’ll just do everything I say. I can make you do anything I want now.”

Anna doesn’t argue. There is no argument to be had, in this strange and happy state. Her head is full of warm cotton wool; the vibrating inside her is pleasantly distracting. She hopes it stays there for a while. She dimly wonders what Kathleen has in mind, hopes it won’t hurt; somehow Anna manages to mumble the question, and Kathleen smacks her on the ass, hard.

“Objects don’t talk. Anyway, that’s just the start. I’ve got good plans for you. A whole checklist of new and interesting things. Activities. Changes! See?” Kathleen waves a little piece of paper in front of her face and Anna reads what’s written there with a slow dawning realisation.

“I’m going to make you really special, Anna, just like you wanted. I bet you can hardly wait, can you?”

THE END

ABSENCE OF AFFECT PART 2 OF 3 by Interstitial

CHAPTER 2: SPECIAL

“What kind of issues?” she’d repeated to Doc. Kathleen was hanging back from the bar, still listening, suspicious. She ignored her.

“Many and various. Let me run through a few things.” Doc had looked at her seriously, then, like a real doctor. Perhaps he was a real doctor, for that matter. He’d even begun to tick off the key points on the fingers of his hand. “One. For example, do you ever feel you lack a sense of self-worth, or confidence, that you suffer from uncertainty?”

“Um, yes. Sure.” Anna thought: what a bizarre conversation. But she was intrigued. It was true. She had always been a bit shy and unsure of herself. Such a daddy’s girl, Kathleen called her, and that was saying something, coming from her.

“Well PCL-R—Peachy Yellow, most people call it—addresses such insecurities in spades,” Doc was explaining. “You will feel more confident than you’ve ever felt before. Special! Like the world is at your feet!” He’d paused, sipped at his drink. “Two. What about feeling that you aren’t in control, that you can’t always go after what you want, you can’t get people to do what you want, you always end up putting their feelings first? Trying to please them?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“This stuff helps get rid of all that. It’s a real upper.”

In the bar, that Friday night, Kathleen had tugged mournfully at the sleeve of her friend’s blouse. Anna shook her off, irritated. “Pack it in Kath. Why’d you always have to be so lame?”

“Three,” continued Doc. “What about guilt? Do you feel trapped, burdened by responsibility, by society’s norms and expectations?”

“Often.” No shit. She’d been a veritable basket of good-girl hangups, before.

“Dealt with. No negative feelings at all. And four, by the way: do you find you repress your impulses, rather than follow them?”

“It sounds like you know me very well.” Anna had smiled girlishly at that. “I blame my upbringing.”

“There you have it. There are lots of other positive effects too.”

* * *

“Anna. Who is this guy? Is he trying to sell you drugs?” Kathleen again. Anna felt herself beginning to simmer. Could she go nowhere, do nothing, without having to report to somebody?

Anna turned, looking her friend in the eye. “Kath, for heaven’s sake, stop being such a, such a prig! Aren’t I allowed to just talk to people?”

Kathleen quailed slightly, her face falling. “You don’t know him. And you’re supposed to be out with me.”

“Who’s your little friend, Anna?” Doc asked, archly.

Anna felt anger and frustration flare. “Nobody. Just nobody,” she snapped spitefully, no longer caring about her friend’s feelings. “You’re nobody, okay? You’re just a pain in the ass. I don’t care about you. Just leave me alone.”

The other young woman’s face crumpled in hurt. “Anna, please! Why do you always do this? Why take it out on me? Why do you always get so nasty?”

The honest answer, she’d thought, was that Kathleen was the only one she felt she could be nasty to; the whipped puppy, always coming back for more. She always had been, always would be the doormat. And while expectations said that there was no bad bone in Anna’s body, Anna knew differently.

“We’re supposed to be friends. You stole Stephan from me,” shouted Kathleen. “And I even forgave you that.”

“Jesus, Kath. You only went out with him once. It wasn’t my fault.”

Doc was just looking on, interested.

Kathleen spun on her heel, giving up now, and wanting no part of this. Anna shouted goodbye at her retreating back, promising to call tomorrow, knowing this to be a hollow promise, and turned back to Doc.

“And there I was just thinking how nice and sweet you are,” he said with a grin. “Just that frustration coming out, I guess?”

Anna sighed. “Yes. Just that.”

He was holding out a small white pill. Anna took a deep breath. Well, why not, she’d thought. What was the worst that could happen? She’d hesitated before taking the pill from his hand. Don’t take sweets from strangers. It sat innocuous in her palm.

“And PCL-R stands for…?”

“Doctor Hare’s checklist. The one that inspired this stuff. Just call it Peachy Yellow. You’ll see why when you try it.”

“Thanks,” she’d said, swilling it down, and indeed, she felt instantly good, more vibrant, more—present. The world seemed to brighten around her, to intensify. Peachy coloured.

It had kicked in quickly, and Anna began to feel amazing. Completely in control of everything. It was as if shrouds and layers of anxiety and pressure and constraints and conformity were just peeling away, and her own true self was exposed, bright and invulnerable. She was fearless, confident, assertive, alive.

“Whoah. Peachy yellow everywhere,” she’d exclaimed. It was true. “Where’d you say you got this?”

“Military sources. Allegedly.”

Anna buzzed with strength and joy.

* * *

Anna snags herself a booth at Red’s and a couple of rum and cokes just to maintain an even strain. While she remembers, she logs onto Citi and cancels that stupid monthly donation. There’s better things to be spending her money on than bloodsucking charities and bleeding heart goodwill-mongers for the lame and incompetent. Like, for example, something ‘appropriate’ to wear.

She idly scratches her new tramp stamp. It’s still a bit itchy. Anna is delighted with the wording though: concise, unequivocal, and a clear manifesto for life. She would make sure it was on full display tonight.

Anna eyes herself in the mirror behind the bar. She likes what she sees—although she also knows she’d have felt very differently about that a few weeks ago, back when she was weak and timid. The drink is taking the edge off now, and loosening her up nicely. Thoroughly turned on by her own gorgeousness, she logs onto Cocksuckr and idly swipes through a few candidates for instant gratification. No, no, no, no—ah. Nice; a big one. Well, she’s in the mood. She’s always in the mood for something, these days. She swipes ‘yes’, and is shortly connected to her target of the day.

What an excellent app, she thinks, for the select few who have no interest in the mealy mouthed fakery of conventional impulse control. Just half an hour later she would be down on her knees in the back room of Red’s with a nutritious mouthful of sweet anonymous man.

Anna feels a lot better for that, and decides to do a little shopping. She manages to slip out of Red’s the back way, without paying the check, and as an extra bonus grabs a crisp handful of tens from the tip jar in passing. A last swig of JD gets rid of the cock taste in her mouth, and she chucks the empty bottle idly into the road. It smashes satisfyingly in front of some chubby kid cycling along with her mom, and Anna quickens her pace as she hears the tyre blow, the crash, followed by the predictable scream of mommeeeee as the kid goes down among the shards.

Anna’s glad she’s not the maternal type.

Later, shopping, Anna even manages to snag a few very appropriate items when the store guards aren’t looking. Nobody could have stopped her, anyway, she thinks. Fact: nobody, but nobody, is as smart as her. A perfect day, so far.

* * *

A night of fierce joy, that Friday, the best night of her life; but the comedown, the Saturday morning after the night before, had been terrible. She’d gone to bed feeling on top of the world, peachy-coloured, superhuman; she’d woken up crying, feeling just like any other average person again. And that was the thing; it was the stark feeling of averageness that was crushing. Everything was so ordinary. Just like Kathleen.

It was the worst downer in the world. There was nothing special about her at all, she felt, and that meant she was just the same as millions of other women like her, drudging their way through average colleges and average careers and average boyfriends and average husbands and average children and, and, and—

- and now she knew there were other roads to travel.

So the first thing Anna’d done, that Saturday morning, was text Doc. Of course he would meet her. Of course he had more Peachy Yellow. Of course he would look forward to seeing her later. Here was his address. And there she was, at nine-thirty that night, outside his door; and there he was, opening it and inviting her in. He had company, and she was welcome to join the party. Would she like a drink? Of course she would. And what about a little pick-me-up to go with it, hmm? No, it’s definitely not addictive, not at all. Just don’t take too much, that’s the trick.

She’d gulped down the little white pill hungrily. She would not be average.

* * *

She is #here now, at the appointed time, dressed, she thinks, entirely ‘appropriately’ in her new purchases, fully herself from the get-go, and dressed to impress. She’s particularly pleased with the sheerness of the crop top, which makes her nipples stand out fetchingly. Her new stretch miniskirt is barely recognisable as clothing in the conventional sense—indeed, it is barely present at all—and it leaves an appropriately limited amount to the imagination. She’d toyed with wearing a little flash of Agent Provocateur, underneath, but why compromise? And of course the heels. Always the heels.

The guys are positively goggling at Anna, and all the women are giving her the stinkeye. Good. Let the jealous bitches stare, trapped in their inhibitions and neuroses. She turns slowly, making sure they all read the words on the small of her back and that they get at least a glimpse of the forbidden fruit between her legs. Such power she’s acquired! It is becoming, though; the least she deserves.

Fact, she thinks: I am the most beautiful and powerful person in the whole world; unique, brilliant, special beyond your capacity to appreciate; women should quail, and men should worship and beg. Fact!

Right on cue, up saunters Doc. He’s grinning at her. “Hi Anna! Glad you could come, man,” he said. “You’re looking very … appropriate. Loving the tat. And I see you’ve bleached your hair too. A brave departure. How are you doing with the Peachy Yellow?”

“Hey, Doc,” she replies, beaming, turning on her best superficial charm module. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She moves close and sticks her hand down his trousers, grabbing something warm, caressing, and rubbing her breasts against his chest. She can make people do anything she wants them to do, now, she thinks. “I’ve never felt better. You got some more Yellow for me, right?”

“Sure thing.” Of course he does. She knows how to get what she wants. Anna always gets what she wants, she thinks. “Let’s go out back.”

She extricates her hand and follows him to the fire exit door.

Outside, warm evening air. Doc hands her another little plastic bottle, and Anna takes a pill there and then. You should only do one per day, he’d insisted, or the effects could be very different from expected. But needless to say, thinks Anna, the normal rules don’t apply to special people like her.

The rush goes through her at once, peachy colours better than ever, and she knows exactly what she wants, right there, and she’s suddenly wet and hot and ready. Anna turns around in front of Doc, spreads her legs and bends over. She feels the mini skirt ride up over her bottom in just the right way. She’s glad she hasn’t bothered with panties or any other such inconvenience. She hears Doc unbuckling behind her.

“Come on Doc,” she pants, impatient, wiggling her ass temptingly. “Payment in kind. I know you want it, and I want it, right now.”

“Instant Gratification,” he says, reading her tramp stamp out loud. She can hear the smile in his voice. “How very now.” And then he is pushing into her, deep and hard, and she raises her ass to receive him, taking what she wants, what she deserves, as always.

Fact: this stuff is a revelation, and that weekend of discovery had been a revelation; a memory to cherish forever as the defining moment when she finally shuffled off the mortal coil of average for good.

She recalled her pathetic faintheartedness at the time. What a conservative jelly she had been, before. “I’ve never been into drugs,” she’d said. But of course, that was because she’d been a contemptible little wimp, before.

You know what? If I’d met myself then, I would probably have punched myself in the face just to teach myself a lesson, thinks Anna, remembering her old self as Doc thrusts inside her. She rolls her hips to encourage him. Come on Doc, I haven’t got all night, she thinks.

In the moment, Doc pushes harder, deeper still, and she feels the beginnings of something interesting building. She rolls with it, enjoying the thrust and slide. From behind, like this, he could be anyone, she thinks. He is anyone. Just another faceless man to be taken whenever she wanted.

Doc is on his game now, and he has a firm hold of her hips. Instant gratification beckons.

She feels Doc spasm inside her, colours swirling at her peripheral vision, and she spasms in return, coming hard and fast, hanging onto the fire escape for leverage. Instant gratification, duly achieved. Anna wonders if anyone is watching. She hopes so. She deserves to be seen; she’s special.

ABSENCE OF AFFECT PART 1 OF 3 by Interstitial

CHAPTER 1: GOOD GIRL GONE BAD

Rolling out of bed, Anna goes straight for the black coffee and a fistful of Advil, and wishes fervently that she had a cigarette; a recent craving, since she’s only just taken up smoking in the last week. However, headache aside, she feels lucid enough, and what had happened last night was what it was. Self-doubt is for the little people, right?

Anna’s different. She can do what she likes, now.

Mrs Fluffy is mewling for milk and rubbing herself on Anna’s ankles affectionately. Anna gives her a sharp kick and she skitters away, squeaking in that detestable way kittens have. Ridiculous animal. Tomorrow, she thinks, she’ll dump it by the side of the road somewhere out of town, and see how it feels about that.

She dwells on a few pleasant details of the previous evening. She’d been in the mood for the full-on dominatrix look, last night; leather and heels, hair tied back tight. And it had paid dividends. She’d very quickly spotted a likely candidate, and that candidate had done exactly as instructed, according to the natural order of things, really.

The female object had willingly acquiesced to Anna’s demand to take her back to her place, although looking at her in that get-up, who wouldn’t have? When she’d told it to strip, and kneel, it had complied with no objections. When she’d bound its hands behind its back, and then to its ankles, it’d moaned gratifyingly and had begged to be her slave, as instructed. It was only when she’d begun to whip the thing, gently at first, but then harder and harder, the strokes of the lash getting ever more vicious, that it’d started to beg properly, and loudly, for Anna to stop—please, please, for God’s sake, please!—but by then she was well into her stride and it was far too late for that.

By the end, it had finally begged her in the way she wanted, and had worshipped her as she deserved, and eventually Anna had let it go. She almost felt a little sorry for the female object as it stumbled off. It’d really had no idea what it was getting into.

Sipping on a double espresso, Anna eyes her apartment and thinks that given her recent adventures, it’s high time for a little redecoration, in a less conventional style. Too much pastelly sweetness, here, for her taste. It’s all too girly-girly by far. What the hell had she been thinking with that pink?

She shakes the bottle of Peachy Yellow. Only one pill left; she needs to get some more, later. Anna swallows it dry, and at once feels calmer, stronger, clearer, more certain, more focused, more in control of everything; in short, more herself. She throws on some clothes from the pile in the corner of the bedroom, whatever isn’t too dirty, and heads for the door before she’s physically sick over the scatter cushions.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs Arnheim is lurking with her shopping.

“Good morning, dear,” she croaks. Honestly, thinks Anna, the old hag is getting more hideous by the day. “You’re looking very, ah—different today. A brave departure, if I may say so.”

Admittedly, she might well be surprised to see Anna leaving the house dressed in a low cut stretch top, mini skirt and six inch heels. But who the hell does she think she is to comment, thinks Anna, given the other woman is dressed, as always, in the style of an unreconstructed bag lady?

“Morning,” grunts Anna. “I suppose you want a hand upstairs with your shopping?” It’s been a traditional Saturday morning ritual between them, since she’d moved in there.

“Ah, yes, thank you, dear, that would be lovely. I’m not getting any younger.”

“Well fuck off. I’ve got more important things to do.”

She’s absolutely not in the mood for niceties this morning. Pushing past Mrs A before the old bat can reply with one of her ancient homilies, Anna’s gratified to catch a glimpse of her toothless mouth dropping open in astonishment.

As she sashays down the road, making sure she steps on all the cracks in the sidewalk, a ping on her phone. Another message from pathetic ex-friend Kathleen (R.I.P.). And then Stephan again, vomiting sweet nothings by text. Anna decides to ignore him until he gets the message. No point in actually dumping him—let him suffer.

The drugstore has cigarettes, of course, and while she’s at it she grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels. It is, after all, nearly noon.

* * *

Life had all been so different just two short weeks ago.

Stephan had been away on some boys’ trip, and she’d been at a loose end, so that same Friday Anna had hooked up for a few drinks with Kathleen. Her friend was a kind and timid little sweetheart, they said, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and so was Anna, then, to all appearances, a fact that had been starting to worry her.

Why did she always feel she had to please people? Her parents; her bosses; Stephan; her friends. All her so-called friends except Kathleen, in fact, who trailed after her like a wide eyed puppy, and had often borne the brunt of her frustration. Anna knows she hadn’t been that much of a sweetheart at all. She’d just been repressed, that was all. Dutiful: that was the word.

Anna had got chatting with this guy, for no reason except that they were both at the bar at the same time, and he was good looking and charming, and she’d liked his nickname. “Call me Doc.” Serendipity; so things go. She’d had a couple of drinks already, that night; no hard liquor, of course.

What did they do, Doc and her? What did they talk about, last Friday? It’s all a little fuzzy now, but she remembers unloading to Doc about her stupid mousy life; and why not, who better to do this with than a complete stranger?

The salient points in summary: Anna was bored, she’d told him. She was boring herself. Everyone thought she was Miss Perfect, but inside she was dissatisfied. She felt her life was heading for a rut of normality. She needed stimulation, she’d said, new things, just something, she didn’t know what. There was something bubbling inside her, unfulfilled. He’d listened, nodded, encouraged.

“Here’s an idea, then,” he’d said. He’d produced a small bottle of tablets from his pocket. “Nothing illegal,” he’d added, “or maybe it is. Anyway, a good buzz.”

Anna’s old, silly barriers went up at once. Drugs really weren’t her thing. Mainly because she was just scared of them, she knew now, like a cringing little schoolgirl. She’d peered nervously at the bottle. It was labelled ‘PCL-R’, but whatever else was written there was illegible medical gobbledegook.

“PCL-R?” She had heard of PCP, but not this. “What is it?”

“Peachy Yellow, it’s called. Just a little wakey-upper, a mood enhancer, a disinhibitor,” he’d said. “All the benefits of all the best highs, they say, all at once. Empowering. Take one. It’s on me.”

“I don’t know,” she remembered saying. “I’ve never really been into drugs. What does it actually do, this Peachy Yellow?”

“Lots. Ever heard of a guy named Doctor Robert Hare?”

“No, I haven’t.” And she hadn’t. “Who is he?”

“He was a serious player, back in the day. Did a lot of work with people with—ah—psychological issues. He had a whole checklist, y’know? That’s what he called it. My people have been working through his list, and that’s where this stuff comes from.”

“What kind of issues?”

Suddenly Kathleen was back at her shoulder, concerned; she was saying something about wanting to get home, and what would Stephan think, and no doubt some other concerns, instantly forgotten. Anna had tuned out, and waved her to be quiet. She’d wanted to hear what Doc had to say. She was unusually intrigued.

* * *

Ping, ping, fucking ping.

Before she’s even managed to get two swigs of the Jack Daniels down her neck, more texts from Stephan. What, did he think he owned her? So what if he wanted her to move in with him and breed like ordinary people? That is his problem, not hers. She’s better than that. Fact! Furthermore, following that weekend with Doc, Anna’s concluded (entirely rationally, as far as she can see) that she is of a superior species entirely—and Stephan is just, well, ordinary. Hardly good enough for the likes of her. She digests his latest pathetic wheedlings:

Stephan: Hello? I miss u. Where have u been all week? X

Stephan: Where are u now? X

Stephan: Call me! X

Bo-ring. Anna decides it’s time to stop him clogging up her inbox with his snivelling.

Anna: Stop texting me. I just need some space. Forever.

She’s pleased with the phrasing. A suitably diplomatic and perfectly amicable way to get him off her back once and for all, she thinks. Anna’s sure he’ll feel better for a bit of real honesty, although who cares, really, what he feels?

Ping.

What the fuck does he want now? Is he as stupid as he looks? Does he not get the message? Anna’s beginning to see red. She makes a mental note to buy a gun, or maybe a big fat knife, in case he gets really annoying. She swipes the screen and prepares to go into thermonuclear bitch-rant mode—but she sees it isn’t Stephan at all, but her Peachy Yellow connection, and a very timely text it is too.

Doc: Long time no see. Meet at the club tonight?”

Anna: Yo Doc. Remind me.

Doc: Haha. At #here. 9pm. Dress appropriately. Your name’s on the door.

Anna: Done. L8rz.

Good. It’s all starting to come back to her.

Clicking on #here takes her to a googlemaps link, across town, and she recognises the place at once, because that’s where she’d met Doc two weeks back, and that’s where she’d had her first taste of the Yellow. As for ‘dress appropriately’, well, if there was a party to be had, and more Peachy Yellow, Anna was in, and she decides to err on the side of complete lack of caution. She’s in the mood, and Doc will have the Yellow, so why not.

Heads turn as Anna walks down the street, and not all of them male. Perhaps she should have worn a bra, she thinks, or panties, or both, and maybe a top that wasn’t two sizes too small, but then again, whatever. She could always get some later. Or not. What do the little people matter, with their so-called opinions?

Are they even people, really?

THE CHANGING ROOM by Daphne

Doll

Tammy Anne

Genevieve Fox