The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page B

the incandescent bulbs in
the walkway overhang were spilling illumination inward through the
open door at my back. The light edged in past my form, revealing
random bits of the room in narrow swaths, making it appear far more
eerie than I suppose it would have under less horrific
circumstances. Of course, it didn’t help that my own distorted
shadow fell along the floor down the center of the oblique display
and then disappeared into the otherwise blue-black darkness, adding
an urgent sense of foreboding to the overall picture.
    Of everything permeating the unmoving air, to
me, sex was the most palpable. But, it wasn’t the same stale funk
of peddled intercourse and spent prophylactics that oozed
throughout my lodging back at the Airline Courts. In fact, sweet
watermelon, cigarette smoke, and what might have been a hint of
burnt flesh were actually what formed the base of the obvious
olfactory signature here. However, raw, uninhibited sex was
definitely the high note, and in that way, it rose above everything
else.
    Simply being the accent, however, wasn’t good
enough for it where I was concerned. It hit me hard and didn’t let
up. Even at a week old, the assaulting pheromones seemed fresh
enough to have been released into the atmosphere only a moment
before. Unfortunately for me, my awareness of things ethereal
served only to amplify their effects several fold, and no amount of
grounding could stop them.
    But, even then it went deeper still.
Intertwined with the base physicality were two very distinct
emotions—love and fear. And, even given the opposite natures of the
two, it was obvious to me that they were not mutually exclusive.
Though starkly different, the feelings wrapped around one another
and then wove themselves tightly into the sex itself. On the
surface, they seemed symbiotic, feeding on one another in an
endlessly growing spiral of depravity.
    I blinked hard in the darkness then forced
myself to relax and simply observe. I didn’t know how long I would
be able to actually accomplish that feat, but for now it worked,
and that was enough to allow me to move once again. Taking a pair
of steps farther inward, I twisted in place, carefully shut the
door, and then flipped on the light switch before turning back to
scan the interior.
    It looked much as I had imagined it would.
Cheap paneling covered the walls, leading upward from dark
institutional grade carpeting and ending at an off-white
acoustically textured ceiling. A single light fixture clung to the
center of that light-colored plane, spreading luminance downward
from a pair of medium wattage bulbs.
    A full bed all but dominated the narrow room,
jutting out from the wall to my left. It had already been stripped
of linens, but the vinyl mattress cover showed several rusted
smears of varying size and shape that I suspected were the product
of blood that had soaked through the sheets. Along the wall to my
right was a low dresser with a television perched on its marred
top.
    Also to the right of center, on the back wall
was a doorway leading into a small room housing a vanity-style sink
and dressing mirror; left of that, on the perpendicular wall I
could see what was most likely the door to the shower and toilet.
Oddly, in the far left corner of the main room, a table lamp and
telephone sat on the floor between two outdated chairs. A small,
round table that looked like it might have originally made a home
beneath them was sidled up close to the head of the bed.
    I stepped slowly through the space,
negotiating the tight area between the foot of the mattress and the
short bureau. All the while I was fighting against feelings of
arousal. Under different circumstances I am sure I would have
considered it a pleasant sensation, but at the moment it seemed
sick and twisted. It kept hammering at me, gaining ground with each
shuffling step I took.
    I paused again and took a deep breath,
focusing instead on the pounding headache I’d been trying so hard
to forget. The