The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

'Suddenly, you were gone, from all the lives you left your mark upon'

Sergio Aaron Martirio passed away suddenly on Wednesday under mysterious circumstances. Born in 1946, Aaron volunteered for the Navy after graduating high school and served with distinction in the Southeast Asian Theater during the Vietnam War. Upon his honorable release, he put himself through engineering college prior to relocating to Mobile, where he met, Charlene, the woman he called the love of his life, and his two stepchildren, Emma and Whitaker.

A respected colleague, cherished friend, beloved stepfather, earnest husband, and once-trusted confidant; Aaron leaves behind a community struggling to come to grips with his tragic passing, and a family now grappling with the grief caused by his sudden absence and the unanswered questions he took to his grave.

The family acknowledges with gratitude the medical staff who cared for him in his final days. In lieu of flowers, the family asks for donations to be made to charities benefiting fatherless children.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

A fitting, if unconventional, tribute for a husband and father gone too soon... except for one crucial fact: Aaron didn't die on the Winter Solstice of 1999 from the illness he hid from his family. He was instead transported to Hell by a most unusual succubus with a desperate plan to do the impossible... and he's her last hope.

Author's note:

All sensuality (on page or otherwise) takes place between characters who are eighteen or older.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

Jake Lazarus

This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a review).

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, business, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

One

"Oh my God, Aaron! That wasamazing!"

Aaron Martirio smiled at his wife Charlene's exuberance as they shuffled toward the subway along with thousands of other fans of the pop/country diva who had just finished a ninety-minute show for a sold-out Georgia Dome. Charlene was practically bouncing with energy despite the crush of the crowd, and she struck up a stream of micro-conversations with their fellow concertgoers about the performance they had just experienced.

He drafted off her enthusiasm, and her undeniable beauty, to help sustain him during their lengthy trek. Just two weeks shy of her forty-second birthday, Charlene remained a strikingly beautiful woman. She kept her light blonde hair short (adopting a fashion she called a curly bob) which, when taken in combination with her pale skin, dark green eyes, and willowy frame; showcased her Scandinavian heritage with breathtaking effect. Even without the designer heels she wore, she was taller than her peers in the upper-class suburb of Mobile, Alabama which they called home. She was dressed in jeans which caused not a few men several decades her junior to do a double-take at her perfectly formed backside, and a snug T-shirt featuring the artist they had just watched perform which emphasized her modest breasts.

Due in part to their fifth-row seats positioning them near the tail end of the retreating crowd, it took nearly an hour for them to reach the train platform. Part of Aaron was glad for the crowd, as it allowed them to move at a sedate pace and relegate the pain (which was his constant companion) somewhat into the background. Even Charlene started to flag somewhat as they arrived at the subway station to find that the trains arriving were already mostly full (thanks to the Atlanta locals who knew the station to the west of the stadium was the better option if one's destination was downtown).

"Tell me again why you didn't want to rent a car," she grumped as they shuffled slowly forward.

"The travel agent said parking around here is insane," he replied lamely. "And that's before you take the crime around here into account."

"At least we'd be out of this crowd."

Aaron made no reply, instead focusing on almost robotically shifting from one foot to the other every fifteen seconds. In truth, shifting his weight did little to attenuate the agony coursing through his lower body, but focusing on constant, repetitive counting served to distract him from the pain, albeit only to a tiny degree.

Charlene pulled her phone from her pocket and flipped it open as she muttered, "What are the odds Emma is actually keeping Whitaker on a leash?"

"They're good kids," he murmured. "I'm sure they're fine."

Their daughter Emma was a freshman at a tiny private women's college in Decatur, just a short drive from their present location. She had agreed to forgo her spring break from the liberal arts school so she could 'babysit' for her brother (himself a junior in high school) while their parents took a trip to Atlanta to celebrate both Charlene's birthday and the couple's fifteenth anniversary.

"If they host a party (or, more accurately, if Emma fucks off with that trollop she ran with in high school, and Whitaker takes advantage of her absence to trash the house), you'll spend every night and weekend for the next month putting everything right."

"They're not going to have a party," he groaned. "Wes has exactly four friends. Even if they decided to get together, I'd be willing to bet large sums of money they'd do nothing beyond playing roll-playing games while binging on pizza and soda."

"Wes is a simpleton's name," she snapped. "His name isWhitaker."

"Understood," he murmured as he turned his attention back to the crowd in hopes that his wife would be content to let the matter drop.

As he scanned across the crowded platform, his eyes fell upon a man who was dressed far too warmly for the balmy early April evening. A voluminous hoodie, soiled jeans and a bedraggled bucket hat made it nearly impossible to tell his ethnicity (much less discern his features), but Aaron could not quell the sense thatsomethingwas amiss.

Releasing Charlene's hand, Aaron began weaving through the crowd toward the man. When he was just a few paces away, the crowd shifted as though in response to an unseen disturbance. The man in question craned his neck toward the aforementioned commotion. This caused his focus on the humans surrounding him to waver, leaving him unprepared for yet another shift in the crowd. As Aaron watched in horror, the man was forced backwards toward the tracks, and his attempt to take a step back to regain his balance resulted in his foot finding nothing but empty space. Almost too quick to notice, the man disappeared from sight.

Aaron redoubled his efforts to reach the edge of the platform, earning him not a few angry glares in the process. When he arrived at his destination, he found the unfortunate commuter lying dazed on the track, his outstretched hand less than a handsbreadth from the feared third rail.

Without hesitation, Aaron hopped off the platform. He heard a scream behind him as he landed painfully between the tracks, but his attention was entirely focused on preventing the man lying at his feet from electrocuting either himself, or both of them. He managed to snag the loose sleeve of the man's hoodie just before he reached the electrified rail, but this was just the start of their troubles.

Over the intensifying screaming coming from the platform above, Aaron could feel the rumble of an approaching train. He looked to the west and found a pair of headlights worryingly close, and getting closer far quicker than he would have preferred. He looked around anxiously for salvation, but all he found was a small space the size of a phone booth knocked on its side which ran the length of the platform and resided immediately beneath where the train's doors would open in mere seconds.

Left with no alternative, Aaron grabbed the man by the scruff of his shirt and his belt buckle to hurl him beneath the overhang. He took the briefest of moments to ensure none of the man's appendages were in danger before himself seeking refuge.

No sooner had he slammed to the trash laden concrete than the train slid into the station. As the conveyance came to a halt, the commotion up on the platform rose to prominence in his hearing. There was no shortage of people screaming, but above it all he could hear the clear sound of Charlene's panicked shouting for someone to find her husband.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

"What were you thinking!" Charlene hissed as they entered their hotel room two hours later.

"He was going to die, Charlene!" Aaron snapped as he hastened to close the door behind him. "What'd you expect me to do?"

"I still don't even know what you were doing by the edge of the platform."

"It's hard to explain. We were standing in the middle of the crowd, and then, for whatever reason, he caught my eye. Maybe it was because he was dressed so warmly."

"Because he's fuckinghomeless!"

"So, he deserved to get bifurcated by a passenger train because he can't afford an apartment?"

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe he fell onto the tracks because he was drunk?"

"And?" Aaron countered angrily as he tried to surreptitiously lean against the entertainment center to ease the pain in his feet.

"You could have been killed," she sobbed with emotions that seemed to have finally broken containment to overwhelm her. "Sue me if the idea of my husbanddyingto save a complete stranger, whose peril was as likely as not self-inflicted, upsets me a little bit." She sat on the bed and took several deep breaths before looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. "You could have died, Aaron. I just don't know what I'd have done if that happened."

He felt the lurking specter of his own emotions threatening to break loose, but he managed to force those thoughts back where they belonged before replying. "I was fine. I just got a little dirty. Speaking of which, I should get cleaned up so we can go to dinner."

Regretfully abandoning the paltry relief leaning against the piece of sturdy furniture provided, he collected a few items from his open suitcase and headed for the bathroom. He made quick work of washing the grime from his face and arms before changing into a fresh outfit.

He found Charlene still seated on the bed, yet when she looked up to meet his gaze, he found that her demeanor had shifted dramatically.

"Why did you do that?" she asked primly.

"Do what?" he replied in genuine befuddlement as he took a careful seat on the couch.

"Change in the bathroom."

"I also had to clean up. That outfit I was wearing might be toast."

"That wasn't my point, and you know it. When did you reach the conclusion that you were no longer comfortable undressing in my presence?"

"What are you even talking about?" he huffed.

"It's a simple question, Aaron. When did you stop desiring me? Not only that but decide I wasn't even worth the barest hint of your attraction."

"Now that's just not true!"

"Oh, really!" she snapped heatedly. "Then why haven't we had sex in almost four months?"

"Where is this even coming from?"

"I'm a woman, Aaron. I used to think I was an attractive woman, but now I'm not so sure."

"The last time I tried to initiate something; you told me the fact that I had the temerity to bring up the subject nearly cost you to lose your dinner."

"And?" she growled.

"That's the kind of thing that sticks with a guy, Charlene. What would you have done if our roles had been reversed?"

"That's not the point."

"The last time we actually had sex, you told me to keep my shirt on next time."

"What'd you expect?" she fired back. "It was just after the holidays, and you were all doughy and gross."

"Are you even listening to yourself?" he exclaimed. "You're questioning why I'm not pestering you for sex while proudly admitting to both hurtfully rejecting, and body shaming, me. And, oh by the way, you're not even pretending to deny the fact that you'd have lost your God damn mind if I did anything like that to you."

"Do you still desire me, or don't you?" she seethed.

"Of course, I still desire you. I love you."

"I didn't ask if you loved me, Aaron. I asked if you desire me."

"You act like those are completely unrelated."

"You can love someone and still be repulsed by them."

"Is that what happened to you?" he muttered quickly, both to prevent himself from thinking better of his reply, and to keep her from making the same accusation.

"Fuck you, Aaron. That was uncalled for. I'm the one who's dealing with a spouse who isn't attracted to me anymore."

"Untrue. Completely, totally, and utterly, false. What's more, you have no basis to make such a wild accusation."

"Oh, so you do?"

"I didn't say that," he grunted.

"But you wanted to."

He sighed wearily as crystal clear memories of each of the interactions they had discussed flitted through his mind. Along with each remembered moment came the very real humiliation he had experienced in the wake of her abrupt rejections. Her accusation of his weight had landed the hardest, due in large part to it being unquestionably accurate. The fact that he had lost quite a bit of weight since the incident in question (albeit for reasons which he wished he could blame on her dismissal) had done nothing to attenuate the sting of her cruel words.

Never a man overburdened with vanity, Aaron had greeted middle age with a whimper rather than as a long-feared malignancy. The son of proud lower-middle-class parents, he had been working every possible moment since enlisting in the Navy at seventeen immediately following his graduation from high school. His lifelong struggle with his waistline began shortly following the end of his enlistment when he entered university to seek a degree in engineering with the benefit of the GI Bill. What began as a bit of puffiness following his transition from building runways throughout Southeast Asia as a Seabee to working desk jobs in between classes soon became a steadily worsening issue which would plague him for the next three decades. Then, adding insult to injury, any whisper of self-confidence he might have retained with respect to his appearance vanished apace with his receding hairline.

"No," he groaned through gritted teeth. "I really didn't. Listen, Charlene. I meant what I said. Idolove you. I always will. I'm also intensely attracted to you, as much today as the day we met. Does it hurt when you refuse me? Absolutely. Does it make me less inclined to try to initiate the next time? Maybe? Probably. Every single emotion you're talking about right now? I know exactly what you're describing... because I'm feeling the same things. But I've never stopped wanting you, Char. Never."

"Well... good," Charlene replied at length. "But, right now, I think we're likely both starving. Especially you. You basically didn't touch your lunch. Why don't we see if they held our reservation downstairs? Then, we can see what happens afterward."

Aaron got to his feet, only managing to quell the sigh of pain through the application of supreme force of will. He took a calming breath before crossing to where his wife was seated and offering her his hand. "That sounds great. Shall we?"

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Two

"Dr. Grant will be with you in just a moment, Mr. Martirio," the bored-looking nurse announced after taking Aaron's vitals and making her notations on the ubiquitous clipboard.

Aaron began the excruciating task of preparing for the arrival of the man who had been his primary care doctor for the preceding eleven months. He had just finished the job of removing his compression socks and sinking, coated in sweat, back into his seat when the youthful practitioner entered the room.

Dr. Grant took a single look at Aaron's face before glumly remarking, "Five out of ten on the pain scale, huh?"

"No point in exciting her," Aaron sighed.

"What's the real number?"

Aaron snatched a tissue from the box next to him and wiped his face dry before replying, "What do you think?"

"Let me ask another way, then. How does your pain compare to when I saw you a month ago?"

"The pins and needles sensation is becoming less prevalent. I typically only feel it for about an hour after I get up."

"That's good."

"It would be if the numbness hadn't been replaced by the sensation of either broken glass or hot lava just beneath my skin. But at least I can usually manage to get those damn socks on before the numbness wears off."

"And how long has that more intense pain been happening?"

"I've been experiencing both sensations on and off for the last six months, but it's becoming much more common since the weather started heating up."

"And how effective has the medication been at controlling your pain?"

"It works for about an hour, maybe two. After that? It's just waiting another four or five hours until I can take it again."

"I really can't go higher on these narcotics, Aaron. You're already taking above the maximum recommended amount of morphine equivalent units per day."

"I'm not asking for more drugs, just answering your question."

"And the paralysis attacks?"

"Last one was the day before yesterday. One before that was, um, three weeks ago. Right after we got back from Atlanta. I've been trying to time them like you recommended. The one after Atlanta was six minutes from first onset until I could move again. But for the one that happened Tuesday, it came on so quick that I couldn't find a clock before I froze up."

"Please tell me you're not driving."

"Only when I can't help it. Fortunately, Charlene doesn't mind driving and Wes absolutelylovesto drive, so it hasn't been an issue when I'm around the family. I've got a car service I use to go to work, or come here. I manage."

"Don't make me reach out to the department of driver's services to get your license suspended. You don't need to be behind the wheel for any reason if these attacks are coming on this quickly now."

"You don't have to tell on me. I'll be good."

"I mean it, Aaron. I'm uncomfortable enough with this arrangement as it is, I won't be party to you taking out a family headed to church because you had an attack behind the wheel and couldn't get your car stopped before you T-boned a minivan."

"I get it. I said I wouldn't drive anymore, and I won't."

Dr. Grant looked down at his clipboard before continuing. "Under the 'sexually active' prompt, the nurse just put a question mark."

"I told her to put yes."

"But..."

"Last time I was here, I believe I mentioned that we were going to Atlanta for Charlene's birthday and our anniversary. Well, we had sex that night. Sort of."

"How do you sort of have sex?"

"Like I said, technically we had sex," Aaron replied wearily. "But, I guess you could say, I'm feeling my age a bit. It was, um, a bit of a challenge to, you know, stay, um, hard?"

"You're not really a candidate for erectile dysfunction drugs, Aaron," Dr. Grant interrupted with embarrassment. "Not with the mix of anticonvulsants and narcotics you're taking."

"I wasn't asking for more drugs. Just explaining why this is a more complicated question than it might appear. Like I said, we tried to give it a go. But it was a constant battle to keep it up. We had a big fight about our sex life before dinner, but when we got back to the hotel it seemed like we were good to go. Things started encouragingly enough, but as soon as we were ready for the main event, the pain flared up and I couldn't even keep it hard enough for her to feel anything. Charlene tried to take the lead, but by that point I was up in my head and just couldn't make myself stay hard even though I was thankfully laying down at the time. I helped her get off, literally the least I could do. Then, to her credit, she insisted on helping me out. I ended up jerking off on her tits, since that was literally all I could manage by that point."

The Fell Clutch of Circumstance - 1

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