(no subject)
Olivia awoke with a terrible headache. She had barely opened her eyes when a flash of white pain struck directly between them. She squinted, creasing her mahogany brow, trying to drive the pain away. Whorls and splatters of neon lights danced in the darkness under her lids, like chanting pagans around the white bonfire of her migraine. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She wanted to massage her temples, but found that she was unable to move them, as warmed metal bit into the flesh of her thin wrists. Her ankles were manacled as well. She knew she was lying on her back, and judging by the texture of the stratum, she felt she must be on a bed.
This did not alarm her. In her profession, waking up with a blinding headache and finding yourself tied to a bed was not an uncommon occurrence. The accompanying sensations of dry mouth, aching muscles, and sore openings, however, were not present. She lay there, thinking in the dark of her head, unknowingly wrapped in the crepuscule, trying to recollect the last thing she remembered.
The migraine ebbed, and she opened her eyes. Her vision swam in the waning light, but she could make out the contents of her apartment. The dying sun cast scarlet rays through the window over her bed, coloring her naked skin vermillion, highlighting the floral prints on her sheets. The handcuffs that bound her legs to the bedposts glinted, reflecting patches of light on the ceiling. The fan, directly above her abdomen, spun lazily in the mild heat. Her head was propped up on the pillows at an angle that allowed her to survey the room with ease. She turned her head this way and that, looking for clues to explain how she ended up fettered to her bed. Everything looked normal. The TV was still across the room, on top of her dresser. The modest bookcase still stood to the right of the dresser, crammed with books she would never read because she never had the patience. She turned her head to her left to look at the door. Closed, still shining with a fresh coat of red paint.
She then noticed the sound of voices, reverberating about in the hall outside her door. She strained her ears, and could make out two voices, one adenoidal and whiny, the other low and honey-deep, their cadence suggestive of a bickering couple, all the while getting progressively louder as the speakers came closer towards her door. Like a picture coming into focus, the conversation began to take shape.
She listened.
“Look, man, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. She’s my best. There ain’t no way I’m giving her up” said the whiny voice.
“I’m prepared to offer you compensation for your loss” replied the low voice.
“Yeah, but unless you’re gonna give me twenty years’ worth of earnings, which I doubt, then your offer is no good. Besides, I like her. She’s got class to go with that face and body. Not alotta class left these days. So I still say no” said the whiny voice, whom Olivia recognized as belonging to her Papa, Julius.
“I’m afraid my superiors cannot be persuaded otherwise. It would be wise for you to accept my offer and leave.”
There was a long pause.
“Listen, shit-for-brains, you best get the fuck outta my face before I cut you a second smile. Nobody threatens me, you piece a’ shit. And you know what? Yer fuckin’ lyin’ anyways. Don’t know anyone of you sick fucks that work for anybody, wit’ anybody. It’s always one and one and one with yous, never three. So don’t give me that higher-orders bullshit. Yer warped. Yer-“
He was broken off by the sound of a gunshot. Olivia screamed. She thrashed about in her bed, vainly trying to wriggle out of her restraints. She began screaming, a continuous loop of piercing ejaculations, hoping that someone would hear. Cold flashes of fear ran up and down her body, a trembling wire, humming with jolts and chills.
The sounds of footsteps quickly approached her door. She began screaming louder, but could still hear the jangle of keys, envisioning sweaty hands fumbling with the many held on the ring, through her noise. She was pretty sure The Low Voice had shot her Papa and was coming for her to do God knows what. She instinctively clamped her thighs together. When she discerned the sound of a key turning the lock, she stopped her caterwauling to hold her head up and stare at the door.
The door swung open, and a man rushed in. She barely had time to take in his dark clothes and pale face, his visage a blur of rage and worry, before she felt a blow to her left temple. Her vision went black for a second and she barely registered the rag being stuffed into her mouth before her sight returned. When it did, she saw the man draw the curtains over the window, shutting out the twilight, before rushing out the open door. She felt something warm and sticky sliding down the side of her face.
She looked out into the hallway, and saw the encroaching puddle of blood on the hardwood floor. Man, she thought, it had better not make it to my brand-new, turquoise carpet. When she considered the integrity of that thought in lieu of her developing situation, she tried to scream. The rag would not permit it.
The man trudged back into the room, holding a battered red trunk in front of him. He set it down with a grunt in front of her dresser. He stood up, his back to her, scratched his greasy black hair with a latex-gloved hand, and then walked out of her apartment again. In a few moments he was back, carrying the limp body of her Papa Julius, his blood dripping on her carpet (just as she feared). His olive green suit was stained darkly over his breast, and his brown eyes were transfixed on the ceiling. The man laid Papa Julius to rest temporarily in front of her bookcase. Then he walked over to the door and shut it gently. He stood there a moment, his hand resting on the knob, his back to her, breathing quietly. Slowly, he turned his head to allow one blue eye to rest on her. She felt a little squirt of urine spurt into the wedge of her thighs.
The man turned, and began sauntering towards her. He had gripping baby-blue eyes, set back deep into his skull, surrounded by flaccid pockets of purple skin, making it look as if he were wearing kohl. He was lithe and pallid, with a high forehead, a long, sharp nose, and a flat, tiny mouth. He pulled back on the wrist of his right latex glove and snapped it back against his skin in a mockingly surgical manner, slightly smiling all the while.
“Now, I think we are ready to begin. And before you get your hopes up, I figure it is fair to warn you that, regardless of all the racket we have been making, that no one will have heard us. I only gagged you out of annoyance, not caution. Everything has been arranged. So lay your head back and relish the pain while it lasts. It means you are living. It means you are a part of something. And when it fades, know that you still will be a part of something. Something different, yet beautiful in its own right. Your vessel will not be wasted - only your life. Indeed, much like a fossil, your shell will endure long after you have gone” he said in his mellifluous baritone.
It was then that she noticed the instrument in his hand. It resembled a speculum, although its drill-bit projection in the interior suggested a far more sinister application.
The rag muffled her screams, blending her terror and anguish into a unified sound of mortality, and it was not long before the darkness claimed her. Tom carried on with his work.
This did not alarm her. In her profession, waking up with a blinding headache and finding yourself tied to a bed was not an uncommon occurrence. The accompanying sensations of dry mouth, aching muscles, and sore openings, however, were not present. She lay there, thinking in the dark of her head, unknowingly wrapped in the crepuscule, trying to recollect the last thing she remembered.
The migraine ebbed, and she opened her eyes. Her vision swam in the waning light, but she could make out the contents of her apartment. The dying sun cast scarlet rays through the window over her bed, coloring her naked skin vermillion, highlighting the floral prints on her sheets. The handcuffs that bound her legs to the bedposts glinted, reflecting patches of light on the ceiling. The fan, directly above her abdomen, spun lazily in the mild heat. Her head was propped up on the pillows at an angle that allowed her to survey the room with ease. She turned her head this way and that, looking for clues to explain how she ended up fettered to her bed. Everything looked normal. The TV was still across the room, on top of her dresser. The modest bookcase still stood to the right of the dresser, crammed with books she would never read because she never had the patience. She turned her head to her left to look at the door. Closed, still shining with a fresh coat of red paint.
She then noticed the sound of voices, reverberating about in the hall outside her door. She strained her ears, and could make out two voices, one adenoidal and whiny, the other low and honey-deep, their cadence suggestive of a bickering couple, all the while getting progressively louder as the speakers came closer towards her door. Like a picture coming into focus, the conversation began to take shape.
She listened.
“Look, man, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. She’s my best. There ain’t no way I’m giving her up” said the whiny voice.
“I’m prepared to offer you compensation for your loss” replied the low voice.
“Yeah, but unless you’re gonna give me twenty years’ worth of earnings, which I doubt, then your offer is no good. Besides, I like her. She’s got class to go with that face and body. Not alotta class left these days. So I still say no” said the whiny voice, whom Olivia recognized as belonging to her Papa, Julius.
“I’m afraid my superiors cannot be persuaded otherwise. It would be wise for you to accept my offer and leave.”
There was a long pause.
“Listen, shit-for-brains, you best get the fuck outta my face before I cut you a second smile. Nobody threatens me, you piece a’ shit. And you know what? Yer fuckin’ lyin’ anyways. Don’t know anyone of you sick fucks that work for anybody, wit’ anybody. It’s always one and one and one with yous, never three. So don’t give me that higher-orders bullshit. Yer warped. Yer-“
He was broken off by the sound of a gunshot. Olivia screamed. She thrashed about in her bed, vainly trying to wriggle out of her restraints. She began screaming, a continuous loop of piercing ejaculations, hoping that someone would hear. Cold flashes of fear ran up and down her body, a trembling wire, humming with jolts and chills.
The sounds of footsteps quickly approached her door. She began screaming louder, but could still hear the jangle of keys, envisioning sweaty hands fumbling with the many held on the ring, through her noise. She was pretty sure The Low Voice had shot her Papa and was coming for her to do God knows what. She instinctively clamped her thighs together. When she discerned the sound of a key turning the lock, she stopped her caterwauling to hold her head up and stare at the door.
The door swung open, and a man rushed in. She barely had time to take in his dark clothes and pale face, his visage a blur of rage and worry, before she felt a blow to her left temple. Her vision went black for a second and she barely registered the rag being stuffed into her mouth before her sight returned. When it did, she saw the man draw the curtains over the window, shutting out the twilight, before rushing out the open door. She felt something warm and sticky sliding down the side of her face.
She looked out into the hallway, and saw the encroaching puddle of blood on the hardwood floor. Man, she thought, it had better not make it to my brand-new, turquoise carpet. When she considered the integrity of that thought in lieu of her developing situation, she tried to scream. The rag would not permit it.
The man trudged back into the room, holding a battered red trunk in front of him. He set it down with a grunt in front of her dresser. He stood up, his back to her, scratched his greasy black hair with a latex-gloved hand, and then walked out of her apartment again. In a few moments he was back, carrying the limp body of her Papa Julius, his blood dripping on her carpet (just as she feared). His olive green suit was stained darkly over his breast, and his brown eyes were transfixed on the ceiling. The man laid Papa Julius to rest temporarily in front of her bookcase. Then he walked over to the door and shut it gently. He stood there a moment, his hand resting on the knob, his back to her, breathing quietly. Slowly, he turned his head to allow one blue eye to rest on her. She felt a little squirt of urine spurt into the wedge of her thighs.
The man turned, and began sauntering towards her. He had gripping baby-blue eyes, set back deep into his skull, surrounded by flaccid pockets of purple skin, making it look as if he were wearing kohl. He was lithe and pallid, with a high forehead, a long, sharp nose, and a flat, tiny mouth. He pulled back on the wrist of his right latex glove and snapped it back against his skin in a mockingly surgical manner, slightly smiling all the while.
“Now, I think we are ready to begin. And before you get your hopes up, I figure it is fair to warn you that, regardless of all the racket we have been making, that no one will have heard us. I only gagged you out of annoyance, not caution. Everything has been arranged. So lay your head back and relish the pain while it lasts. It means you are living. It means you are a part of something. And when it fades, know that you still will be a part of something. Something different, yet beautiful in its own right. Your vessel will not be wasted - only your life. Indeed, much like a fossil, your shell will endure long after you have gone” he said in his mellifluous baritone.
It was then that she noticed the instrument in his hand. It resembled a speculum, although its drill-bit projection in the interior suggested a far more sinister application.
The rag muffled her screams, blending her terror and anguish into a unified sound of mortality, and it was not long before the darkness claimed her. Tom carried on with his work.