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Forbidden Love (A Boy and His Cadaver)This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Brian W Callaghan | |
| Wednesday, 06 August 2008 | |
Forbidden Love
(A Boy and His Cadaver)
By Brian W Callaghan
1
The worst thing about my brother getting caught ******* a corpse is that now the subject has to dominate every conversation. And of course, I know that people are wondering as they speak to me if I too indulge in the occasional necro-pump. It’s not so much that I am ashamed of what he did. I am sure he had his reasons. Honestly, I haven’t asked him what he was thinking or how it came to happen. What bothers me about it is that now, no matter what I do in life, I will be remembered and recognized for his actions and not my own. If he had done something positive for example, I may have had the chance to out shine his deeds. If he had invented a handy device that cleans the toilet for you once a week or a pill that helps you lose those extra holiday pounds quickly, I would stand a chance. I could just strive to invent something better and more useful. But now I could discover the cure for AIDS and it wouldn’t matter. The headline would read, “BROTHER OF CORPSE ****** CURES AIDS OUT OF SHAME FOR HIS BROTHER’S CADAVER RAPING EXPLOITS.” I liked him better when people just asked me why he chose to be an undertaker. Now they know why he chose that profession, to meet easy chicks. Perhaps I should back up a little and help you understand the predicament better. Maybe it would help if you knew who we are and where this all comes from.
2
My brother and I had relatively normal formative years. No molestations by some slippery uncle, no savage beatings by a drunken, coked up father, no trauma other than the normal tragedies that occur in any child’s life. We were ****** up, but we were normal ****** up. I mean, let’s face it. Everyone has a ****** up family. Everyone is a little twisted up as a kid. Everyone has those dark memories that they don’t discuss. The fact is that we are all just crossing our fingers and hoping that we aren’t the next one to snap and bang a dead body or kill a hooker or storm through the office with a semi-automatic weapon. Face it; you don’t KNOW that you are sane. You assume that you are sane because you have most likely never been told that you are not. That is what’s scary. There are millions of people walking around thinking about doing some ******* sick **** and they assume that they are completely normal. I suppose that they ARE normal until they act on their impulses and **** a corpse or something of the sort. Is it really after all, so strange to think about twisted, violent, deviant and darkly sexual behavior given the type of entertainment that we are offered? You can’t turn on the television anymore without seeing some witty detective with a black light revealing gallons of incognito semen and blood spattered all over a hotel room or a newlywed couple’s happy home or a preschool. We all watch this stuff. We all take it in. We all think about it and picture it and imagine being in the situation. We see ourselves as the victim or as the perpetrator. We just don’t talk about this stuff. We talk about how awful it is that the murder rate is so high, how terrible it is that so many young people have died in the war, how civilized and perfect our little lives are. Then we go watch a 15-year-old girl get raped and disemboweled on TV.
3
My brother, Bill and I grew up in a small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Population 11,000. School was the usual patchwork of cliques and tribes. We had the rednecks and the jocks and the punks and the hippies and the freaks, just like your school. Bill kept to himself a lot. He was intelligent, but quiet, friendly, but shy. He didn’t indulge in drugs or alcohol, save for a few rare occasions where he was attempting to connect with his classmates or get laid at a party. He’s 2 years older than me and my parents were always more strict with him than they were with me. Maybe that is why he was always so straight laced and I was a total pothead. He studied for his biology test. I took bong hits. He went on the class trip to Italy to study art. I took acid trips. It’s not that I did poorly in school. My grades were fine. I just didn’t care if they were or not. I got by on as little effort as possible. Bill was obsessed with school, science in particular. We all thought he was headed for med school. I think he was for a while. He has never really told us what made him decide to make a living trying to make the dead look like they were still alive. To spend his days replacing blood with chemicals, replacing gaping head wounds with latex or whatever the hell he uses to putty up someone’s bullet hole or blunt force trauma or the such, to trade saving lives for ushering bodies off to hell or heaven or nothing. To trade meaningful relationships with sticking his dick in the rigor tightened vaginas of recently deceased women.
4
I guess it makes sense, after the tragic death of his girlfriend in college. I don’t know that it would have had the same effect on me, but I can see where this could happen. It was 1992. Bill was 19 and I was 17. At this point in life Bill was not the quiet, pale introvert that we have all come to know him as. He was actually a pretty popular guy in school at this point. He had lots of friends, he was in some bullshit frat and he played on the soccer team and all that good kid bullshit. I had just started into my “I don’t give a ****” phase and smoked pot all day. I kind of hated everything that Bill stood for back then. I mean, he is my brother and I loved him and all, we just didn’t have anything in common. Bill was dating this girl named Sophie. She was a beautiful girl. She had long fire red hair and emerald green eyes, both accented by her pale skin. Her legs were incredible and she had the kind of breasts that you would cut off your right hand to be able to suck on, just once. He was totally in love with her. It was the storybook kind of romance that you wish you could find a flaw in, just out of spite and jealousy, but it is perfect and you cannot. She was a good girl. Not the slutty, “daddy fingered me in my car seat so now I can’t keep my legs closed” type. One strange Friday night in February, Bill and I were attempting hang out with each other. I was trying to get him to smoke a joint with me while he was telling me that if I just tried a little harder in school, I could be a great success at blah, blah, blah. Neither of us had any luck. It was then that Bill confided in me that he and Sophie were going to have sex for the first time the next day. Mom and Dad were going out of town for the day and wouldn’t be home until late. He wanted me to go somewhere else and leave them alone. I fully respected and understood his request, but I gave him a hard time just for the hell of it. I made sure to remind him that even if I left the house and mom and dad were gone, Jesus would be watching his every move. I asked him if he thought Jesus would be jacking off while they ****** and that bought me a very painful punch in the arm. Saturday, February 19, 1992. I went to my friend Danny’s place. His parents were at the same shindig as mine. We got some mushrooms from a friend of Danny’s, a giant pile of super-dank weed and our buddy Joe brought over a small tank of nitrous oxide. The three of us spent the day on another planet. The chemicals started to give way to reality around 9 or 10 that night and I started to feel like ****. I was still hallucinating a little from the mushrooms, but I wanted to walk home and get some rest. I figured that if Bill and Sophie were *******, they wouldn’t notice me come in the door. They would most likely be in Bill’s room on the second floor. My room was the third floor, so we should be straight. If they are done, they shouldn’t care either way. As I walked up to my street I saw the lights of the cop cars and ambulances. My first instinct was to bolt. I thought some ******* kid must have told his parents I sold him drugs and they were here to take me away. Then I saw Bill. He had a blanket wrapped around him and he was just staring off into space. He looked stoned. He was completely ignoring the paramedics and cops that were patting him on the back and saying that everything would be OK. He has had that blank expression on his face ever since. I don’t think he even noticed when they carried Sophie’s body out of the house and drove her off.
5
Bill and Sophie had waited until the perfect moment. They had saved themselves as long as their teenage hearts could bear. They wanted everything to be perfect. Bill opened up one night and told me enough of what had happened for me to get the picture, the ****** up picture. I had gathered that Sofie had some kind of undiagnosed heart condition. She had never shown any symptoms, or seemed weak at all. It was a total shock to everyone. I couldn’t take not knowing all the details any longer. Bill had been locked in his room in utter silence for 3 weeks. I had to pry. If that makes me a bad person, I don’t care. You try dealing with the strain of not knowing what had happened in a situation so close to you. One Friday after school, I stormed into Bill’s room with a bottle of Jameson and demanded that he let me help him mourn like a real man, at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. I said to him, “Bill, you are ******* Irish. Your body cannot physically allow you to move on unless you get drunk. If you don’t get ******* pissed to the gills with me you will have to change your name to something British.” He still didn’t speak, but he took the glass from my hand and swilled it down. He made an awful face, gagged a little and then motioned for me to pour another. “Thas’ me laddy!” I exclaimed as I poured a second round for us. Time was moving slowly as we became more and more inebriated. For at least 2 hours I was doing all the talking until out of nowhere, Bill started crying and yelling at me. “It’s my fault!” he screamed. “I wanted to have sex. She did too, but I really wanted it. I told her we had been together longer than anyone we knew and we were too old to still be virgins.” I just sat there staring at him, taking tiny sips from the bottle every minute or so as if my life depended on it. He continued, ”She seemed to be having a good time. She started gasping and making a bunch of noise. I thought she was having an orgasm. All I could think was how good she felt and how wonderful it was. Then I came in her, hard. It felt amazing. And as soon as I did I realized that she wasn’t moving or breathing. I came in her dead body! The coroner said that she had climaxed and her heart couldn’t take the strain. I killed her with my dick!” This last statement would have sounded terribly conceited if it weren’t partially true. That was all he could get out before he started sobbing. I put my arm around him and said that it wasn’t his fault in a halfhearted attempt to hide my shock. I mean, holy ****! My brother ****** his girlfriend to death and then came inside her corpse. As irreverent as I am, a thousand inappropriate jokes came to mind. If it had been anyone other than my own brother I wouldn’t have been able to hold back the urge to say something out loud. I repeated to my self, “Do not ask him if part of him feels like a super-stud. Do not ask him if dead girls queef. Definitely DO NOT ask him if her body (as all dead bodies do) released bowel and bladder onto his terrified but somehow relieved balls.” This was the first time I realized that my sense of humor was inappropriate. I resolved to save this comedic gold for an audience that wouldn’t commit suicide immediately upon hearing it. Bill looked up at me through his squinted eyes and the veil of tears. He could tell what I was thinking and he shouted at me to leave him alone. I couldn’t protest. As much as I knew he needed support, I had to go process this new information. It’s not every day that someone shouts in your face that they shot their first load into their girlfriend’s dead body. I grabbed the bottle and went straight to my room to roll a big phat one and numb my brain before I said something that would get me punched in the face or kicked out of the family. Goddamn. How he must feel. I don’t know what must have been worse, the fact that she died or the fact that she died as he was coming and probably thinking that this was the greatest moment in his life. A 19-year-old boy wants nothing more than to come. Sofie was ******* hot too. I bet that until he realized that she was dead, he was in absolute ecstasy.
6
That is when Bill turned into a complete introvert. He isolated himself from all of his friends. He never spoke to me or to our parents unless it was completely unavoidable. He never showed the slightest interest in girls again. We all knew the incident had ****** him up. No one ever suspected that it would have made him a necrophiliac, but we knew it changed something in him. As the years progressed we got used to the new Bill. He was still a pretty smart guy. He still got good grades, graduated with honors from the local University. He took care of business, but he did it with so much less enthusiasm. He became dark and shy. His desire to become a doctor faded. When my mother told me he had decided to take classes and seek an apprenticeship as an undertaker, I was slightly surprised, but a part of me expected something of the sort. He had become the type of person who would not be able to handle a job in which he would have to interact with people too much. Still no one suspected that he wanted this career to get laid. My assumption was that he had become asexual. There were two brief relationships in college. Both lasted under a month. My guess was that the girls wanted to get intimate and Bill retracted into his troglodytic shell. Sophie was the only living girl he ever had sex with. He was a 23-year-old hermit, friendly and kind, but meek and completely introverted. He sat in his tiny apartment all alone, save for my monthly to bi-monthly visits and attempts to drag him out into the light. Perhaps if I had been a little more attentive, I could have at least seen this coming.
7
Supposedly, the mid-twenties are a common time for serious mental illness to begin. My brother showed no signs of madness at all until the necrophilia was discovered. He was as normal as anyone that works as an undertaker can expect to be. It seems like a weird career choice, but there are perks. You usually get to live for free in an apartment above the funeral home. It is usually a pretty nice place too. There are a lot of attractive women in the field for some reason also. I mean live ones, of course. If you go to a convention or something, you can get laid left and right. These girls are for the most part sex starved and have low self-esteem, which means that it’s pretty much a guarantee. You also don’t have to deal with living people too much so you can get high all day as long as the corpses don’t look ****** up. Bill didn’t become schizophrenic or have some blatantly crazy delusion. What happened to him is much scarier. He went quietly crazy. No one knew what he was doing, so he was never told that it is completely insane. He became accustomed to his ritual, his way of dating, his way of connecting with women. He couldn’t talk to a living girl. He was terrified of sex as you and I know it. But being a young man, he had natural urges that could not be denied. I don’t know how it started, or how long it went on. I guess if you really think about it, it isn’t much more strange than a sex doll. I guess it depends on your beliefs. If you believe that we die and that is the end of it, as I do, then what does it really matter? The corpse is not your Aunt Edna. It is an inanimate object, a lifeless hunk of meat. It isn’t considered rape if you stick your dick in a chocolate cake, so why is it wrong to **** a corpse. I am sure this wasn’t the thought process, but I am trying to play devil’s advocate here. There are other things to consider when judging the severity of such actions. The people who were close to the deceased will undoubtedly be upset by the thought of their sister or daughter or mother being turned into a perishable sex toy. I guess the chocolate cake comparison is not exactly correct in that the chocolate cake was never alive and never had relationships with people who would be mortified to see someone with a little frosting on their pants.
8
It went down like this. Bill had been working at the Thompson’s Funeral Home in Cambridge for about 3 years. He was very good at what he did. He could make a body look exactly as it did in lie, regardless of the level of injury to the head. He had settled into his life quite nicely, or so it seemed. He was still pretty quiet and awkward, but he seemed at ease. He was generally friendly and cordial with anyone who spoke with him. He even went out with a friend every once in a while. There were still no women though. Bill was asleep in his apartment above the funeral parlor when he got a call from the coroner that he was bringing a body over to him. It was late at night as it usually is when he got these calls. The girl was 19 and had been in a car accident. She wasn’t too messed up physically. Apparently she had died due to a neck fracture and a blocked windpipe. She was a lovely girl. She had worked at a café that my family had frequented for years. Her name was Ellen Tyler. She was tall and slender with light brown hair and hazel eyes. She wasn’t drop dead gorgeous (no pun intended), but she was pleasant to look at. Bill and the coroner did the usual paperwork and jumped through the appropriate hoops to get the legal matters sorted out. The coroner left and Bill began his work of embalming and prettying up the body. About 15 minutes later the coroner realized that he had forgotten to grab his copies of the paperwork. This was something that Bill couldn’t have foreseen. The coroner popped back in to grab the paperwork from the front desk and would have just left again, but he heard a crashing sound from the back. He decided to go make sure everything was OK. He had barely opened his mouth to ask if Bill was all right when his eyes met the sight of my naked brother mounting the fully nude corpse and sucking on its breasts. Yes, he was caught mid penetration folks. Caught with the preverbal hand in the cookie jar, except the hand was his dick and the cookie jar was the vagina of a dead 19-year-old girl. I don’t know how many times Bill did this. I don’t know when it all started. The lawyers have been telling him not to say a word. They will handle everything. They say that if he keeps his mouth shut they will get him into a hospital where he can get the help he needs. He won’t do a single day of time in a prison, they say. Meanwhile, the families of every woman buried by the funeral home my brother worked at are gathered outside our house and the funeral parlor and the hospital Bill is being held at en masse. The shouting becomes little more than an annoyance after a while. What really bother me are the projectiles. If I get hit with one more bottle or rock or bag of dog feces on my way out of the house in the morning, I am going to go on a killing spree that will wipe all recollection of Bill’s capers from the memory. This is a prime example of what I was saying before. I am the one that gets pelted with feces and food. I am the one that gets all the stares. I am the one who deals with all of the angry remarks and hate mail and death threats. No one messes with our parents. They feel sorry for them. No one messes with Bill. He is in an institution. When he gets out, they will talk about him behind his back, but they will stay the hell away from him. I had nothing to do with this; yet, I face all of the blowback. I answer the questions. I talk to the reporters. I slowly lose my mind. Sure, I know you are thinking that this is very selfish of me. You think that I have taken a tragic circumstance that my brother has been dealt and that my whole family is trying to make sense of, and made it all about me. What an inconvenience to me that my brother is completely bat-shit crazy. Well, it is quite inconvenient. I fear I will have to move to Thailand to get away from the infamy that this has created. I will have to change my name. I may even need to have plastic surgery to change my appearance.
9
What is to be learned from this? Be careful of those around you. No one is truly sane. Sanity may not even exist. The guy that brings donuts to the office for everyone a couple times a week may also go a couple times a week to buy a kitten and set it on fire to relieve his stress. Your father may secretly enjoy burning his genitals with a cigar. You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. You never will unless you look. Do we really want to know? I for one wish I didn’t. Copyright 2008 Brian W Callaghan |
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| Last Updated ( Wednesday, 06 August 2008 ) |
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