Autonomy: a novel Read online

  AUTONOMY

  by A. R. Braun

  Copyright © 2011 A. R. Braun

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook cannot be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book (not just the sample) and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  OTHER BOOKS BY A. R. BRAUN:

  Only Women in Hell

  The Not

  Horrorbook: Twenty-Two Tales of Terror

  Insanity

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  “But what I do, that I will do, that I may cut off occasion from them which desire occasion; that wherein they glory, they may be found even as we. For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into the apostles of Christ. And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.”

  —2nd Corinthians 11:12-14

  CHAPTER ONE

  Which was worse, being alone, or hanging out with the dangerous people of the modern world?

  Scout Marshall thought the former. Frowning into the mirror at her flat red hair, pale skin and plain features, she wished for a dark-brown tan—she burned instead—and a face and body to make boys drool. Instead, she bore a not-much-more-than-a-thirteen-year-old frame.

  “Scout!” her mom called. “Hurry up!”

  “Get on your horse!” her dad added. “We’re gonna be late!”

  Snake handlers.

  Her family dragged her to the First Baptist Church of Mowquakwa, Illinois a small city seventy miles east of Peoria where all the suburbs had Native-American names also, the whole area cursed because it was built on Indian burial ground. Therefore, anything could happen. Although First Bap’ was Pentecostal with a live band instead of a dead church with just an organ, Scout hated it, but this was her last year. As soon as she graduated from high school and moved off to college, no more showing up on Sunday mornings to keep up appearances, where she pretended to like the boring sermons and those awful worship songs so her parents would pay tuition, books and on-campus rent.

  “Trading my sorrows,” what a joke! I’ve got plenty of sorrows.

  Her chief sorrow was the absence of a boyfriend. Either the cute, thin ones were too chickenshit to ask her out, or the jocks didn’t think she was stacked enough.

  Crusty old men were out of the picture—unless they were rich. She needed to be bribed to touch that cock rot. She’d heard about it from skanky school frenemies online.

  Among the congregation, Scout was willing to do anything to fit in, within reason. Therefore, she strode up to the other members of the youth group to sit with them.

  Her best friend strutted in and took the seat next to her. Lelila Lace was the object of every boy’s—and man’s—affection. Her cute, kewpie-doll face; black just-slightly-curled hair down to her perfect ass, a model’s tan and breasts like honeydew melons slayed.

  Scout waved hello.

  “What up, my nigga?” Lelila slid closer, her ample butt not even making a sound.

  God, I wish I could change places with her for just one day. Hell, a lifetime! She’s so clever, she’d find a way to make my shit work. Whoops! No, fuck it. Yeah, I thought “shit.” And I’ll say it … after church.

  They played WCIJ radio—“We’re Centered in Jesus”—through the speakers, the contemporary Christian “music” the worst kind in the world. Scout reminded herself that keeping up appearances was mandatory, unless she wanted to end up a hooker on the south side. Her dad had driven her down there one rebellious evening, and her disobedience hadn’t lasted after seeing the rock bottom of the pimple on the ass of progress of Mowquakwa. At least she’d be able to dodge the military. Basic training would probably kill her.

  Scout was a coward. She made no bones about it. And being a girl gave her an easy out at not “becoming brave.” Scout didn’t believe people “became” anything. You either were or you weren’t.

  The boy plopping into the seat next to Lelila was bad—as in no good, not badass—and wouldn’t become a better man when he grew up. Abandon all hope anybody who hangs out there. Scout had a vehement hatred for the guy, only putting up with him because Lelila made her laugh and feel better about her loser self, and Mack … well … he was part of the package. Unfortunately, he bore every male stereotype imaginable.

  “How are my girls this morning?” he asked in his bass voice.

  How dare the fucker.

  Scout could’ve let that comment slide. It would’ve been easier. One had to pick one’s battles. “I’m not your girl, she is,” she piped, meaning to yell, but it came out whiney instead. She almost winced at the weak voice.

  The fluorescents bounced off his shaven head, almost blinding her. He pierced her with a look of death while flashing a smirk that would soon turn into a sneer, then a scowl which, allowed to go any further, would probably rot the plaster from the walls.

  “Shut up, Scout. You’re my home girl and you know it.”

  She was about to protest, but Lelila bore down upon her, turning in her direction and dropping her head slyly, her sharp, vampire-like stare awkward, almost putting Scout in a trance. “Girlfriend, chill,” she whispered.

  With that Scout was under her spell.

  Pastor Rickety came to the lectern with boring announcements about how the church’s elderly members were mega-sick and needed prayer.

  Old people sick and dying? No shit, Sherlock.

  The pastor told the congregation to stand up. Scout knew what was expected — holding up hands, singing at full volume, the shouting of praise and bouncing up and down. She’d comply, but it would be lip service and method acting.

  Scout’s thoughts turned to the annual church picnic. My, Lelila had been bouncy when she’d met Mack. He’d made sick jokes, forcing soda to shoot out of Lelila’s nose. Scout had thought him disgusting. She’d made I-hate-you-creep-so-go-away comments like “Is that right” and “I see.”

  What a guy.

  Thank God there had been a tennis game going on. She’d endured Alex, the comic-book character who went to her church, so she could escape from Mack as Lelila sold her soul, taking a walk with the beast.

  The cartoon character was eyeba
lling her now, the stereotypical “Christian death metal” guy who went to her church—God knew why—because he wasn’t going to get what he wanted: a hot, young chick.

  I mean, the bastard forty.

  He was the kind who’d gone to that Christian rock festival which had mostly death-metal bands in Bushnell every year until it ended because of lack of interest. Scout never had an interest. She’d been required to show up at that festival of fuckery as a little girl, even if it was 110 degrees in the shade with—gawk!—public showers. She’d had enough of that in school, seeing all the better tits.

  Now, he stared Scout down, probably not caring if she looked thirteen, probably liking her looking thirteen, a smirk between what long hair he had left—his greys colored an obvious black—his crown covered by a Chicago White Sox hat, which he probably liked just because it was black. She bet he actually used the non-word, “ChiSox.” Who’d root for them? It was suicidal. The White Sox would never learn that Robin Ventura couldn’t manage. I mean, fire him, for fucking out loud. But that probably wouldn’t even help.

  And what was with his creepy concert shirt with a green demon on it?

  The nerve of the man to wear a Kreator shirt to church.

  He rocked the dad jeans, refusing to conform to anything that would get him a date—like spacious stonewashed jeans—probably thinking chicks his age were ugly, since he always came alone. How shallow.

  Then her eyes found Willie, the George Costanza lookalike, who always bugged not only under-eighteen girls, but also under-eighteen guys. Not that the former was any better, but this church housed some real winners.

  Only God loves losers, I guess.

  Mack stuck his hand up to get the death rocker’s attention. “Hey, wing man!”

  Dr. Death smiled and made the sign of the goat back at him.

  Scout shook her head.

  The girly-looking long-haired boys in the front row, along with the computer nerds—the ones that actually knew how to format HTML—were jumping up and down to the “Yes, Lord,” part of “Trading my Sorrows.” Lelila elbowed Scout and giggled wildly. Yet they were soon jumping and holding their hands up, Scout thought, as surrendering, like to an armed gunman.

  Mom and Dad, show me the college money.

  Unreal how the church band broke into “Amazing Grace.” Talk about a cliché.

  Was that drool on the death guy’s chin as he forked her a lusty look?

  Scout did her best to scowl, then stuck out her tongue. He turned away.

  Wow, I can face my fears when I wanna.

  Typically, the pastor preached about bravery.

  What a dumb concept. Instead of lying on the floor and enduring the bank robbery, be a hero and end up dead. Nope. Not me, no mutha, piss off, so there!

  ***

  The service finally ended, thank fuck. Scout hadn’t been so glad something was over since the death of her alcoholic uncle. The crazy bastard had tried to rape her, but she’d kicked him in the nuts. Anything but cock rot. Scout walked out of the church and turned a corner where no one would find her except her bestie. She lit a cigarette and held up the church.

  Lelila and Mack swooped down on her like buzzards hungry for a carcass. They stood close enough for her to smell their roadkill breath.

  “Guess what?” Lelila preened. “Mack got kicked out of his dad’s house. But he got a job and rented his own crib.”

  To say Scout wasn’t stunned would’ve been an understatement. “No shit.”

  Mack put his dirty hand on Scout’s shoulder, staining her new white blouse, and she cringed. “You’re comin’ to the house-warming party.”

  Lelila said, “Sweet, huh?”

  This has danger written all over it. And not the safe kind, like a roller coaster or a scary movie. He’ll probably pass out crack and absinthe

  Usually, Scout had her mother and her father, Lelila’s responsible friends or the people at the mall to hide behind if Mack got too crazy. Not now. “Uh, I dunno.”

  Mack hissed, throwing his trucker hat on sideways. “Shit, you beeotches are partyin’ with me or I’ll kick you both in the ass.”

  Lelila stared, looking daggers at Scout. “You my best friend or what?”

  Scout sighed. “When?”

  Lelila smiled, showing her perfectly-square pearly whites, snaking out from between her glossy lips like the angel of light eager for seduction. Scout was often tempted to try swinging both ways.

  Being too much of a coward wasn’t good for your health, but God, Lelila was beautiful.

  “I’ll call you with the address,” her bestie said. “Be there, say, sevenish, on Friday night.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  And, just like that, it was settled, her life upended.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday night came, and Scout sat at the kitchen counter with an unfinished cup of yogurt when her mother came crashing through the entry door. She was struggling to hold two bags of groceries.

  Tonight’s the night. I don’t like the idea of this “party” one red bit. That guy’s not right.

  “Don’t bother getting up,” her mother said, obviously winded. With her long flaxen hair, barely-visible wrinkles and sagging skin, someone would have to look twice to discern her age. “It’s two heavy bags of groceries, that’s all—just heat stroke.”

  “Oh,” Scout answered. “Sorry, Mom.” She pushed herself up and grabbed one of the bags, then set it on the counter.

  Her mother plopped the other bag down and put a hand over her heart, breathing deeply. “I bitched about winter all season, begging for summer. Now I feel like it’s gonna kill me.”

  Scout was back in her chair, stirring the yogurt but not touching it.

  Her mother caught her breath and began putting groceries away. “Still don’t know what you’re gonna major in at Loyola?”

  Scout shook her head. “I’m really unmotivated.”

  Her mom finally got all the groceries put away, and she placed the sacks in a garbage bag, which she hefted out to the can outside, probably so the cockroach eggs wouldn’t hatch. Then she was back in the door with her hand on her forehead, again struggling to catch her breath. Scout looked up and saw her mom’s brow furrowed.

  Her mother moved toward her and stood over her. “What’s on your mind, Camp Fire Girl?”

  Her mom’s pet name for her since she’d flunked out of Camp Fire. It was a private joke. “Nothin’.”

  Her mother put her hands on her own hips. “C’mon, spill your guts.”

  Scout met her eyes. “Oh, Lelila’s nutty boyfriend’s got his own place, and they want me to hang out with them.”

  “Are they gonna be doing drugs?”

  Scout shook her head and gave a nervous laugh. “They want to have a housewarming party.”

  Her mom took the seat next to her. “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  Scout stared at her yogurt. “I dunno. Her boyfriend, Mack, he’s a jerk.”

  “Oh. Well, then don’t go.”

  “She’s my bestie. I have to go.”

  The phone rang. Her mother answered it and held it out to her. “It’s Lelila.”

  Scout dragged her feet to the phone. “Hi, Lel’.”

  “Hey girl. You ready to par-tay tonight?”

  Scout turned and found her mom sitting by the yogurt cup. She had squinty eyes.

  “Yeah, I guess. I was just talking to my mom.”

  “Forget your mom, loser. We’re gonna party like rock stars! We’ve got lava lamps and rap posters all over.”

  Scout found the words hard to spit out. “What’s he gonna want to do, anyway?”

  “Your mom’s not listening in, is she?”

  “No.” Scout glanced at her mother’s furrowed brow.

  “You know, we’re just gonna drink a little, smoke a few blunts. Chin up.”

  “Well … I guess it’s okay.”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Not yet. And the key word is ‘yet�
�.”

  Lelila giggled. “Listen, party pooper, be at 1297 Buena Vista at seven. Or do I have to pick your ass up?” Her goofy high voice had an even denser edge to it.

  “I’ll be there, beeotch.”

  Her mom laughed.

  “Don’t be late.” Lelila giggled again, as if Mack was nibbling on her ear—probably worse. “I’m outie.”

  “Peace out.” Scout hung up and stared at her mom.

  She and her mother shared a nervous laugh.

  Little did she know, her turn-eighteen dream was going to become a nightmare.

  ***

  Scout showed up at the door of a house with a decent enough exterior, compared to their neighbors, the single and double-wide trailers, plus the small white-trash houses, all with cars up on blocks. Of course, Lelila and Mack had to live on the south side. The heat was enough to make Scout want to faint, and a thunderstorm brewed in the distance, the lightning flashes ripe for a power-up of a modern-day Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. It was an unseasonably-warm early June. Scout wore a halter top and a short skirt, plus a new pair of Skechers.

  A couple cars drove by blasting rap. Another car sped by cranking heavy-metal music.

  “Welcome to the dungeon … you think it’s just a party … until the party’s over … and you’re over, too….”

  Scout hoped that screaming shit wasn’t a portend of doom.

  The door ripped open, almost off its hinges, and Lelila stood before her in short shorts and a sports bra, holding a bottle of malt liquor. Scout couldn’t believe she didn’t wear a shirt. Someone driving by could’ve leered at her.

  Lelila squealed. “It’s Scout,” she yelled over her shoulder. When she hugged her, Scout had to try not to be aroused as Lelila’s tan breasts and shoulders rubbed hers, soft flesh on soft flesh, overcooked skin endeavoring to rub a sinful invisible tattoo into her freckles. “Get in here!”

  Scout put her head down and moved through the threshold. The carpet was green and dingy. The interior seemed cozy—white walls covered with, as promised, posters of gangbanger bands, and lava lamps threw ink blots onto the walls.

  Smoking a blunt, Mack sat on the black leather sofa. He squinted his eyes and looked Scout over, head to toe.