MARK OF THE AMAZON, part IV
By smitty



Randi Turnbull strained as she reached to the top shelf of the closet, a wisp
of dust swirling and forcing her to wrinkle her nose.

She brought down the battered shoebox, its top barely fitting and one side
partially crushed. A quick burst of breath sent another plume of dust into the
air.

Randi shuddered momentarily as she gingerly removed the top. Inside were
strips of newspaper wedged in virtually every corner. She removed one, held it
down with one hand and tried to straighten it with the other. 2nd Student
Attacked on Campus was the headline.

Randi closed her eyes for a moment, hoping vainly the memory would go away.
She pulled another clipping from the box - Police Hunt Full Moon Attacker. A
shiver ran down Randi's spine. Again, she closed her eyes.

Sixth Victim Found Near Fraternity. Police: No Suspects in Full Moon Case. Six
Months Since Last Full Moon Attack.

Mixed in with the newspapers was one wallet-size photograph of a young woman
wearing a cap and gown.

Randi turned away, fixing her gaze on the dying daylight through the window of
her third-floor apartment. The sun was disappearing below the skyline, though
it did little to ease the intensity of an eighth straight 90-degree day.

Randi returned the clippings to the box, then returned the box to the closet.

"So naïve," she thought as she closed the closet door. "So young."

The phone brought Randi back to the present, but she let it ring four times as
she made her way toward the answering machine.

"Hi, this is Randi, you know what to do."

"Hey, Ran, it's Denise. I know you're out of town, but give me a ring when you
get back. Let's go out Friday night. I'm sooooooo bored."

"Boredom. What a wonderful thing," Randi thought. "Not tonight."

She made her way to the bathroom, splashed some water on her face and tossed
back a couple of Advil. The reflection that met her in the mirror was not much
different from the one in the graduation photo. The hair was still short,
maybe a bit longer. The features etched a bit more firmly, but that was to be
expected after 11 years.

Most strikingly, the eyes were the same - still intensely green, though sadder
than the ones that belonged to the 18-year-old co-ed.

Randi again shook herself from the past, thinking it accomplishes nothing.

More importantly, she had work to do, preparations to make. She made her way
to the bedroom and, with a sense of dread, removed her watch and placed it
atop the dresser. Off came her shoes, then the blue jeans. She peeled off her
panties, then pulled the T-shirt over her head.

Looking into the mirror atop the dresser, she eyed her bra before tossing that
into the heap of clothing at the foot of the bed. Ever-modest, Randi folded
her arms over her smallish breasts. She hated the process, but it was the
sensible thing to do.

With one arm still trying to maintain a degree of modesty, she reached into
the third drawer and pulled out a T-shirt and shorts. Holding them in one
hand, she slowly removed the other arm and moved zombie-like to the
full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door.

She focused intently on a spot just above her left breast.

"Not there," she thought. But it was never there, at least not this early.

She tossed on the gray heather T-shirt, which obviously was several sizes too
large. It was too big even for a nightshirt, a fact confirmed by the "Property
of N.J. State Athletic Dept. XXXL."

The shorts were a little smaller but plainly the wrong size for someone so
thin, so lithe.

Wearing only the T-shirt and shorts, Randi made her way through the shadows
created by the setting sun to the elevator that opened into her apartment.

Her job at the magazine had more than a few benefits, not the least of which
was this building - four floors to herself, cherished privacy and, of course,
the basement. It was what sealed the deal nearly three years earlier, after
she was promoted to managing editor.

And there was the freedom of setting her own hours and being able to
"disappear" one week a month. Getaways, she told friends and associates.

The steel gray door of the antique elevator opened ponderously and Randi slid
open the grating. Closing the grating took much of Randi's strength, and she
did it with a growing sense of dread.

"Out of town, yeah, right," she thought. "More like out of body."

* * *

The heirloom elevator descended slowly. To Randi, it seemed to get darker and
darker with each passing floor. But she knew what that was all about.

Finally, with a thud and a shudder, the elevator hit bottom, the door opened
and Randi strained to slide open the grating.

Unlike the apartment, and most everywhere else in the city, it was cool in the
basement - cool, damp and musty. And it was dark, almost pitch black. But
Randi knew the layout with her eyes closed.

As she stepped out of the elevator, she made sure to press the button for the
third floor, then another on a separate panel, watching the car ascend up the
shaft.

This part took a little help from the technical support department at the
magazine. The remote control feature - more like a timer - was to make her
feel safer in the building. Her safety, she thought for a moment, was the last
thing she had to worry about.

Her preparations complete, Randi made her way through the darkness, then slid
dejectedly against a wall until she was seated on the clammy floor. It could
not be more than 50 or 55 degrees in the basement, but Randi again wiped sweat
from her brow and flicked a droplet or two away from her eyes.

She knew it was starting, just like it had every month since that October
night in college. As she dabbed her forehead, she brushed away a lock of hair
that wasn't there a moment earlier.

The pain started at the base of her neck, a dull ache at first. That was what
the Advil was for. She knew, however, that no amount of Advil could kill the
pain that was just beginning.

Rand fell forward, onto all fours, then grunted.

The ache spread to other joints - elbows, knees, ankles, even fingers - and
then to her muscles. Randi never cared to learn about the physics of what was
happening to her, she just knew that in mere moments, others in the city would
be glad she was trapped in the basement.

Her muscles began their familiar burning, like 1,000 workouts happening at
once. Randi remained on all fours, the T-shirt not nearly as baggy as it had
been when she put it on.

She knew if she could fight the pain just a few seconds more, there would be a
reward, a pleasure so intense that only once had she been able to match it
with a purely sexual experience.

And so, it started. The pain was fierce as her petite body stopped being
petite, as fabric embraced skin, then clung to it as if they were one. Soon,
she could feel every sensation - nipple against fabric, her shorts caressing
her most intense pleasure center. The pain was worth it, she thought, as she
began to straighten.

In the dark, the new form rose.

Soon, Randi knew, her mind struggling to focus, would come the hunger, the
reason she had locked herself in the basement

* * *

Randi hated the morning after, almost as much as the night before, sometimes
more. She hated to admit it amid the pain and the anguish of the night, but
there was pleasure. There was no pleasure in the morning, just aches and
soreness, soreness that brought a sense of embarrassment because - ever since
she devised the makeshift prison - she was the only one who could come close
to satisfying her other self.

So there was a mental as well as a physical price she paid each month. But, as
she gingerly picked herself off the cold floor, she could draw comfort from
the fact that only she paid that price now.

The elevator was there, as always, and Randi rode it back to the third floor.
As she passed the mirror in the foyer, she took stock - as large as the
T-shirt was, it had been stretched slightly at the shoulders and upper back.
At least it can be used again, she thought.

The hot water of the shower felt good, therapeutic, even if it did conjure
memories of the first time. Randi almost did not want to leave, but she was
hungry, always hungry the morning after.

Randi, less modest than she was some 12 hours earlier, strode nude to the
bedroom, shaking her head at the pile of clothes strewn about the foot of the
bed.

"I can't keep cutting it so close," she thought.

After gathering the clothes, her attention was caught by the blinking red
light of the answering machine.

Anyone important knew not to call while she was "out of town," so chances are,
it was some telemarketer or a wrong number. She let the light blink while she
threw on a pair of denim shorts and a much more normal-sized T-shirt.

Three bowls of cereal later, Randi approached the answering machine with a
degree of skepticism. The readout said there were two messages, and she pushed
the button.

"First message, 8:47 a.m."

But there was no message, just a couple of seconds of silence followed by a
click.

"Second message, 10:02 a.m."

Randi thought it was another mistake. But after a few more seconds of silence,
a female voice said, "I can help you." Then, click.

Randi's eyes widened, her mouth dropped. Quickly, she pushed rewind and
listened again.

"I can help you."

Randi was rendered motionless, except to push the "play" button again.

"I can help you."

After hearing the message a third time, Randi felt a chill race down her
spine.

Once the shock wore off, competing thoughts careened through her mind - who is
this; does she really know; how could she really know; how did she find me;
what did she mean. And there were the big questions - could it be true, was
there really hope?

Randi did not want o let herself ponder that last one. Since the day she
returned to Chinatown and had that quixotic meeting with the shaman, she had
not pursued the cause of her monthly transformations.

As weeks became months and months years, she grew to accept her fate and
developed methods of "dealing" with it. Now could there be hope? No, she would
not let herself fall into the trap.

* * *

The next message came four days later, a day after the last transformation of
the month. Randi returned to work and discovered it on her voice mail.

"Do you want my help?"

Again, she played it over and over, almost willing herself into disbelief. But
there it was - same emotionless voice that tapped a reservoir of emotions. No
telephone number, no hint of another communication, no kernel of information
that might indicate the identity of the caller.

There was no chance of getting anything done the rest of the day, her thoughts
swirled exclusively around this mystery. But she could not go home, not right
after returning from another of her "getaways."

So lost in her thoughts was she that she did not hear the other voice.

"How's it going, Ran?"

"Ran, you OK? Earth to Randi?"

Randi blanked, then turned trance-like to the voice.

"I think you left your brain wherever it is you spent the last four days."

"I, I'm sorry, Den. Got a little lost there."

"Yeah, a little. I missed ya, Ran. I got so bored I changed the shelf paper in
the kitchen. And that was one of the more exciting nights."

"A real 'Looking for Mr. Goodbar' existence, huh?" Randi said, still a little
distant.

"You must have had some break."

"Oh, no, no. I just got lost thinking about something else. You know how it
is. Sometimes you forget what you're thinking about."

Randi had not forgotten. She could make small talk, but the voice and the
messages preoccupied her thoughts for days.

The one word that kept echoing through Randi's mind was "help." It had not
taken long to abandon hope that someone could help, whether it was explaining
why she was cursed with this phenomenon or, more importantly, how the curse
could be lifted.

Priding herself on independence and self-reliance, she devised methods to keep
herself from acting on the overpowering urges. She did not want to harm
anyone, so she did what no one else could - imprison her "other self."

But now, suddenly and cryptically, there was the possibility of help. She
willed herself not to hope, but the fact that it was a woman's voice reaching
out to her made it difficult, almost impossible.

"I can help you."

"Do you want my help?"

Over and over, those phrases resonated: while staring at her computer
terminal, reading the back of a cereal box, jogging through the park, even
when talking to a co-worker.

"I can help you. Do you want my help?"

And as the days passed, the answer to that question grew inside Randi. She
tried to block it out without success.

"Yes."

As simple as that, an admission to herself that after all this time, yes, she
wanted her double life to end. Yes, she wanted the lies to stop. Yes, she
wanted the pain and the yearning to go away. Yes, she wanted her life back -
her whole life.

"Yes, yes, yes, goddamn it, yes," she finally cried out one night in her
bedroom. "Yes, I want your help. Whoever the hell you are, I need your help."

* * *