Kirk, the Son
I whipped around and then flattened my body against the door.
I froze, mullet stunned. A young man leaned against the wardrobe. He reminded me of a portrait of a medieval youth that I had spied in a Bavarian gallery my father and I had visited when I was twelve. I had always wanted to return to that particular town, but the location eluded me and became buried in the passing of seasons.
In my youth, I had a crush on the young man in that painting and spent hours dreaming of him. I entered the world of the painting—his medieval home with a farmyard of chooks and geese, his school with some crusty old master. I planned meeting him behind the school shed.
Then my father woke me out of my fantasy. I was once more out of the painting and in the real world.
I shook my head. ‘No! You’re not real!’ I forced my mind to centre on the truth. This man before me was not an artist’s portrait of perfection. This man was not a movie star. This creature used my memories to construct a man to whom I might be attracted. He must not trick me—he’s the son of Boris; a cockroach—his real form more like a troll than a stud.
‘What?’ Kirk slid onto a beanbag sized cushion as if he were God’s gift to a galaxy full of females. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
He jumped up, stretched and flexed his muscles. ‘I won’t bite.’
That’s not the story I got from Boris. I imagined his invisible proboscis sucking the blood out of me.
He strolled towards me. The way he rolled his hips, thumbs in belt, so cool, he reminded me of a Western movie hero.
I hung onto the door posts; my knees buckled under me. I avoided his doe brown eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’
I refused to talk. No way would I say one word to him.
He reached out to me. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
I whacked his hand away as hard as I could and glared at him. No man, especially sons of Boris were going anywhere near me.
He rubbed his wrist. ‘What did I do to deserve that?’ He then lunged at me.
Dodging him, I crouched and then crawled across the room.
He paced to where I sat. ‘Ah, I love a good chase,’ he said standing over me. He rubbed his hands together, ogling at me as if I were a piece of meat. ‘Makes the action all the more satisfying.’
I rested on my bottom and raised my foot ready to kick where it hurts. ‘Come any closer and I’ll put you out of action. Understood?’
Kirk pouted. ‘Oh, come on, don’t you find me attractive?’
‘I’m not fooled by the way you look. I know you’re a cockroach underneath.’
‘We’re not cockroaches. Officially, we’re known as Bytrodes.’
‘All the same. Ugly on the inside no matter how you dress up the outside. I won’t be making the same mistake as Minna.’
Kirk smiled and nodded. ‘Ah, Minna, Minna, Minna…yes, now it all makes sense.’
‘What’cha talking about?’
‘Oh, Minna, you know, I never got over her. She was special to me—how did my father know?’
‘So it is true, Minna had an affair with you? She ditched her husband, threw away her career in the IGSF and joined your motley lot?’
Kirk sat down beside me. ‘Yes, she came to her senses. Hmmm. Yes, she joined the winning side.’
I wished I’d had an extra supply of melon virus, right there and then. Kirk wouldn’t feel such a winner then. Oh, well, keep him talking while I figure out how to get out of here. At least he doesn’t know about his father’s latest brush with death, hopefully his final encounter with his maker and then be sent to the fiery furnace for all eternity. Use your counselling skills, Holly.
‘So how did this change come about?’
Kirk touched my knee. ‘Let me refresh your memory.’
I brushed his wandering hand away. ‘Tell me, how could a sensible woman like Minna, fall for a creep like you?’
‘I’m sorry you feel like that. Now, Minna was lonely up there on the hill near the Wend Village—all alone on the Pilgrim Planet and only her bullies as friends. And you see, her dear husband, who was he? They say Fahrer, but I know that wasn’t true—as you know, my precious. They never really married.’
‘See? Told you you’re a sleazy Gollum on the inside.’
Kirk raised an eyebrow. ‘And I think you know, like me, you’re not all you appear to be.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ I shifted, widening the distance between us. I didn’t like that comment. Made my insides flip flop.
‘Shall I continue? Then you may remember,’ he said.
‘Fine then, continue.’ I drew my knees up to my chest whilst sitting, locking my hands over my shins.
[to be continued…]
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019
Feature painting: Father and Son, Lake St. Clair, Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2017
[If you are in Adelaide, come and see my paintings at the Marion Art Group Exhibition at Brighton Central, 525 Brighton Road, Brighton. On until Sunday 27 October, 2019.]
Yearning for adventure? Space adventure?
Click on the links to my novels below and learn how this war on the alien cockroach Boris began and will continue…