Authors: Christopher C. Payne
I closed the overhead door to the garage so I could do the rest of my activities in privacy. I opened the door to the house and trudged up the stairs with Delilah dancing around my feet, half jumping and half bounding, taking the stairs quickly only to stop and pause at the landing above. I thought it was odd, but with every step I began understanding why she was acting unusual.
Once when I was younger I remember eating a potpie with my cousin and my father for dinner. The three of us sat around the brown, laminated kitchen table on the brown vinyl covered seat cushions. With our utensils we dug into the circular aluminum foil turkey/beef filled crust-encased $1 meal. I can’t believe these things were ever invented and that people actually ate them. For a man with no idea how to cook, my father thought they were a staple in my dietary growth and that of anyone else he needed to feed.
As I brought my fork to my mouth about three-quarters of the way into devouring my tasteless generic bite, I remember seeing a one-inch cylindrical shape. It was a slightly darker color than anything else in the cream-filled wasteland of my plate. I held it out in the middle of the table, and my cousin instantly labeled my current find, screaming, “Oh gross, a worm!” In reality it was only a portion of meat product that had not completely been ground up and was compressed into something that was labeled beef. It must have escaped the processing cycle enough to remain in some semblance of its original shape.
I stared at the lifeless, two-inch worm-shaped object and felt a rumbling in my stomach. I thought about what else I had just begun to digest. The rumbling very quickly rose to a frightening level, and I knew that I was going to be in trouble. I dropped my fork instantly, covered my mouth with both hands, and bolted through the living room. I aimed for the bedroom and the bathroom that was beyond. Unfortunately my 10-year-old body was not quick enough. Midway through the living room the creamy, non-digested substance sprayed through the fingers that covered my mouth in a multi-tiered fountain. I left a trail through both rooms all the way to the bathroom.
By the time I reached the toilet and raised the lid, everything had already evacuated my body. I simply heaved a couple of last gasps. My father, who was disgusted with my inability to contain myself, screamed that my stupidity was beyond childish. He stated that I would be required to clean up every drop of undigested pea, corn, and creamy substance off the walls, floors, and furniture.
There are some memories that remain with you for your entire life. They are formed like hardened concrete into your psyche, and once there, are forever embedded into your foundation as immovable as the concrete forms of a football stadium. The smell from this episode in my childhood was one of those memories. It took me two hours to clean the sprayed chunky mess that was seemingly everywhere. With every wipe and dab, my nostrils filled with the putrid smell of the partially digested remains.
This is what I smelled as I moved upward. With each step, the smell intensified until it was overwhelmingly the only odor that I could consciously recognize: the putrid, decaying smell of rotting death. I opened the closet door and walked through the hidden entrance in the wall in the back, and the gust of rot knocked me to my knees. All of this did nothing to prepare me for the sight that lay on the metal bed.
I have been to funerals and have seen the death of older people. The wrinkled soulless shell of what had once been a person. Nothing I had ever been through could have prepared me for what I saw. I did not even attempt to hold my mouth, as everything I had eaten for the last two days violently spewed into the room and surrounded what at one point I had called Jill. I didn’t stop to be thankful in the moment, but in retrospect I continue to think how lucky I was, yet, again that nobody had rented the house in the last few weeks. How could I have ever explained this smell emanating from inside the walls?
This entire episode took a few short minutes, and I remembered the blonde. As disgusted as I was, I knew I still had to act quickly. I surprisingly felt little remorse. Possibly because the thing I saw held such little resemblance to a person. I filled a bucket with water, kicked Jill’s blackish purple body off the table, and watched it bounce down to the floor like a helium-filled balloon that had lost its ability to maintain flight. I threw the bucket of water on the bed, washing the remaining residue of Jill’s body from the rubber mattress. I then went to retrieve the blonde from the back seat of my SUV.
I threw her over my shoulder and easily carried her up the stairs. I gently placed her on the bed, and fastened her hands and feet in the same fashion as Jill’s. What an improvement the new model was compared to the last. Even in the moment, I felt aroused by the beauty of this girl.
Now I had to address the overinflated monstrosity that was once Jill and how to purge the smell and memory of her current state from this room forever. I luckily remembered that over the summer I had moved eight gallons of muriatic acid that had been at my now ex-wife’s house in El Granada. We had a pool at that house; and when we made our original purchase, the previous owners had left much of their cleaning equipment and supplies behind as part of our house closing gifts. Since I had not needed it for cleaning the pool, I had decided to bring it to Twain Harte. I had thought I might be able to use it to remove the stains off the garage floor from some bad car experience that must have leaked out over the years.
I went down to the garage and retrieved a large plastic bucket. After a couple of trips I also lugged up four gallons of the acid. I carefully poured all four gallons into the orange Home Depot all-purpose bucket and then turned to Jill. Since my house was surrounded by trees—like a mini-forest in the middle of my small town—I had a nice serrated hand-saw for cutting limbs. This seemed logically like a good tool to start dismantling Jill to a size that would fit in the bucket. I did not want to try and move her in this condition, and I was definitely scared to touch her. She seemed like she might burst with any prodding.
I went down to the garage yet again for what seemed like my 20
th
trip and retrieved the saw. I, then, began the dismantling, cleaning, and slow disintegration of Jill. The initial cut was quite interesting as a fountain of yellowish puss squirted from her body in a never-ending spray. I literally saw her start to shrink as the liquid pooled around her and headed in a rippling stream down the drain in the middle of the room.
I carefully removed parts of her body by cutting the joints as you would when you carve a baked chicken, yet this was easier as the sections were barely fastened together. I felt like a surgeon must feel, but instead of trying to configure pieces, I was the maker of the puzzle deciding where and how to cut each slice. Creation comes in many forms, and I honestly felt whole for the first time in a long while. After placing each apportionment in the muriatic acid and watching the skin dissolve, I realized I would not have enough to do the entire body. I did feel I could get it down to a manageable level.
About halfway through the process, I went down below to the fireplace and stoked an inferno from the wood set off to the side. Next, I prepared to place what was left of Jill (which would not dissolve in my container) into the fire. I attempted to break her down into an even smaller pile of remains.
It took me around five hours to stuff the entire contents of Jill into the fireplace, and then I started the painstaking task of cleaning the room. Her bones were burning rather quickly as the few weeks of deterioration and the acid seemed to have softened them, making them more susceptible to the flames. I used a gallon of bleach trying to remove the smell of my past meals and the leftovers of Jill. They had mixed together in different spots, forming a bond of pools throughout the room. Through all of this, my new addition had remained still, slowly breathing in broken gasps but not moving nor showing any signs of realization to her new situation.
After everything was completed, I shut off the light, closed the door, letting the last trickle of evidence sift down the receptacle in the center of the room and went to shower off. The glass enclosure was a relaxing solitude where my thoughts seemed to drift away, and as always I felt calm and secure. I toweled off and fell into the large king-sized bed and was asleep in less than five minutes.
Nothing during the day had gone as planned, and my mental instability seemed to be growing with every 24 hour interval that clicked like the timer on a bomb, waiting to explode. I was confused and unsure of what I was becoming. I wondered in half conscious, half subconscious thought if this is how a caterpillar must feel. It wraps itself tightly into a cocoon and drifts off to sleep, not fully aware that when it awakens it will be to an entirely new world. Its life will have forever changed. How can you begin to understand with a rational mind the transformation of turning into a creature that can fly after having a simple, relaxing slumber? It’s like waking up as if you’ve just been born as a new being who can now, and forever will, see the world from an entirely new perspective. I felt as if this would be my last night as a caterpillar. Tomorrow would be the awakening of a butterfly that would have the abilities, both mental and physical, to conquer this world.
I awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and opened my eyes to the brilliant light flowing through the windows. I felt exhilarated and renewed and wondered what I should do first. I thought about the beautiful blonde girl awaiting me in the next room. I was overtaken by the feeling of an early morning rise of energetic manhood become taut with the anticipation of the wonderful treat of which it was about to partake.
I reflected on the previous evening and wondered why my activities no longer bothered me. I could no longer deny that I had dealt a fatal blow to a human being that had meant no harm to me or anyone. She was innocent to the extent that an adult can be and had a child that would be at home, wondering where her mother was and why she would never see her again. How would it feel going to bed every night without a comforting warm hug or a kiss goodnight from mother? “Please, read to me, mommy,” would be words that the child would never again speak, or even if she did would remain unanswered as her mother would never again utter a single phrase.
How would her soon-to-be ex-husband handle the responsibility of being burdened with an autistic child? Would he consider her an albatross, or would he relish in the ability to be the sole comforter in the child’s life forever? Jill’s mom and dad would still play a role, I am sure. There is a huge leap from parental love and affection to grandparents who at this stage assumed their direct child-rearing days were beyond them.
How would they all react to the knowledge that there was not even a remnant of Jill left on this planet? A few decaying bones that were half-dissolved from liquid acid and the ferocious heat from the furnace in the TV room downstairs. Nothing left. What must that feel like to be completely removed from the world in the short span of a few hours? I am not sure what to think of the sadness to lose somebody forever and have the gnawing feeling of not knowing what happened. No ability to say good-bye to your loved ones or have them say good-bye to you would be an eerie feeling.
I again felt the tenacious clawing feeling of despair creeping back into my conscious thought, threatening to gain control and cloud what had started out to be a gorgeous, warm sunny day. I had plans to implement, and I was not going to let myself be swayed from having fun and letting loose.
I had now gone further down the path of darkness, as I was sure dismembering and disposing of a person was evil. It was an act worse than simply killing somebody. I don’t really understand why this is; but in the grand scheme of commandments, the slow disintegration of a human being must be pretty close to shutting all light out of my current psyche.
I finally rolled out of bed, no longer content to reflect on my actions, and I had no energy left to decipher who I was or in what direction I was headed. I jumped into the shower, quickly washed, wrapped my towel around me and headed into the closet. With every step closer to the door, I felt the familiar rise of manhood growing tense with anticipation.
My beautiful blonde girl was awake when I opened the door and turned on the light. Her face was still swollen and now contained the familiar streaks of blackness, running down in streams of tears from her near perfect green eyes. Even with her makeup smeared and splotchy, she was a gorgeous specimen of the human race. I seemed to have renewed her anxiety upon entering the room and felt that my being naked was probably causing her great concern.
I slowly started removing her clothes and had to use a pair of sharp silver scissors to cut through her skin-tight jeans. I was not able to pull them over the metal handcuffs that firmly held her small, perfectly smooth-skinned ankles in place. She remained still during the surgical procedure of being undressed and continued to sniffle and whimper as her layers of protection were removed.
The naked body is an amazing thing. The skin is the single largest organ that a human being has–a living, protective layer that acts as a barrier to so many different intruders over the span of a lifetime. My current blonde fascination had a milky white complexion, and I admired the small moles and marks that sparsely covered her near-perfect body. Her breasts were amazingly spherical, again leading me to believe that she must have purchased them at some point in her life. Nobody could possibly have two masterfully aligned breasts that were firmly implanted in exactly the right location.
I decided that I would try an experiment. I was curious as to what level the human body overrides the mind and takes control away from logical thinking. She was obviously very distraught, and in no way was thinking sexually, I imagined. Having an orgasm at this point was one of the last things that she could possibly be dreaming of. I wondered if I stimulated her long enough would her body allow her to feel pleasure?
I slowly kneeled down, gently spread her legs, and kissed her on each inner thigh delicately running my tongue up, circling until I zeroed in on my target—teasing and attempting to please her. I rhythmically used my tongue and fingers and began to taste the familiar moistness that comes with the excitement of arousal from every woman’s inner sanctum. I felt her begin the rhythmic rocking as her body started keeping time with my fingers as they probed deeper and more forcefully. My tongue, fingers, and her body flowed together in unison like an orchestra, and we reached the crescendo of a wonderful symphony.
She came in an explosion bursting forth, going in all directions as natural as spring water being shot from a tube at point-blank range. Apparently a woman’s body can reach orgasm even in the worst situations—our sexual drives seem to have a mind of their own. Her body began to relax, as her butt and legs settled back into the black rubber mattress that felt somewhat more like plastic.
My own excitement had been building with each thrust of her hips, as I was also ready to explode from the 15-minute episode of satisfying such a beautiful creature. I moved into position, and with a few short strokes, reached my own apex of happiness as I burst forth and shot all of my pleasure inside her, filling her with a part of me. It seems that once you make love to somebody you will always have a part of that person. Joining somebody in this intimate contact is more giving than anything else physically you can do.
I looked into her light-green eyes as I removed myself from our recent connection and saw the sadness welling up within her. She had a blank far-off stare that seemed to be saying she was disconnected from what was occurring; and although her physical being was participating, the rest of her was in another land far away where life was simple and without pain. I rolled over to the side of her—letting my right leg straddle hers—and rested my head on my hand, propping it up with my elbow. I looked into her eyes and pondered her vacant expression. I wondered what her thoughts were and why she did not utter a single word.
The sadness was coming back to me, and I now hypothesized that the blood flow from making love, once completed, reversed back, and the emptiness left a hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. As boys go through those teenage years, the guilt of masturbation must be the byproduct of this same scenario. I hypothesized that prostitution is not the sole source of man’s physical affection because a woman’s true love has the ability to make you feel good in those moments after climax when men are most vulnerable.
I felt sorry for this girl with no name. She was just standing by the road, not bothering anyone. She was stranded by sheer bad luck that drove circumstances in a direction that she could not control. Where would she be now, and what would she be doing if I had not happened along and taken control away from her and now forced her down the path that I chose. Is that what God must feel like, with the ability to force things and events, shaping them in whatever form he chose?
Did this make me a god of some sort? Knowing that I held all of the power to destroy or reshape the life of this person? I was now all that she would ever know. I was her sole source of sustenance and interaction. She would never again hear anyone else’s voice or talk to anyone other than me. I was her beginning, middle, and end from now and for all of her future, as short as that might be. I felt like a god with the power to grant or end life. I could do anything I wanted.
Another idea popped into my head that seemed to perk me up. I had recently gotten a tattoo in the form of a cross that was composed of intricate loops weaving their way around my bicep. The process of getting a tattoo hurt like hell, and I vowed that the next time I got one I would ensure it was in the middle of a lot of alcoholic drinks.
I decided it would be fun to brand my new-found toy much like you would a cow to ensure that everyone knew it was my property. This seems to be the same concept that vampires have in most movies, as they talk about their human helpers and in some cases mark them somehow. This would give me a fun project for the day. I quickly kissed my blonde Barbie doll on the forehead and headed out to look for something that would do the trick.
I bounded upstairs with new-found energy, letting my manliness dangle and flop around like a balloon blowing in the wind. There was no need to put on clothes or clean off, as I wanted to spend the rest of the day completely devoted to playing with my toy. I looked for something metal with my name on it, or my initials, or something that would just be cool to imprint on her perfect soft, white skin. I pulled open the top drawer of my dresser and luckily found one of those small, toy license plates with “Duncan” emblazed across its perpendicular blue background. Lucky, again, that should be my nick-name. I decided as I was really having a good run of events going my way.
I turned on the gas stove, got a pair of salad tongs, and held the license plate directly over the heat. I don’t think the metal was made for this kind of temperature. It very quickly started to soften and bend and was well on its way to liquefying. I ran through the closet door, and held my new branding equipment in front of me.
My blonde prize was lying still, staring into the ceiling, and did not seem aware that I had again entered. I quickly lowered the license plate directly on her stomach, firmly holding it in place with a towel that had been lying nearby. Wherever this girl had been for the past several hours, she quickly returned with a shrill, high-pitched scream that resonated off the walls and threatened to shake them like a miniature earthquake. Her legs and arms rocked against her bindings, and her movements reminded me of
The Exorcist
where Linda Blair violently vibrated on the bed when the demon took control of her small body. The only difference was I did not get to see the blonde’s head turn a full 360 degrees, but it appeared at times to come close.
At least, if nothing else, she was now going to be a part of the rest of the day. She had a frightened, panicked look in her eyes as if she were just now starting to comprehend what position she was in. Her screaming continued until I took a rolled up piece of duct tape and forced the ball into her mouth. I, then, took additional pieces and tightly closed it into position. I enjoyed her joining the party, but I was in no mood to listen to the screaming banter of a girl who understood far less about the world than she would ever comprehend.
I put down the tongs. Carefully, using a corner of the towel, I pried up the license plate. It had embedded itself into several layers of skin on her stomach. The detachment was like trying to separate one of the grocery store tags from a pear. You always end up removing 1/8 of an inch of pear during the separation. . I don’t know how far in the new opening went, but the letters of my name seemed to be rising from her stomach surrounded now with a slowly forming pool of blood. Wow, this was truly amazing. I was again getting aroused, but I knew that I would very quickly tire of this game. I was already starting to think of what the next girl would look like and how I would get her into my new fun land.
For my final treat of the day, I decided it would be interesting to find out if I could possibly time my climax with the exact moment that this young girl’s life ended. She seemed somewhat lethargic right now, as the pain from the branding experience must have been too much for her, and she was soundly passed out. Isn’t it odd how your body shuts down when it comes to the realization that it cannot tolerate the level of pain that it is being forced to endure.
I again jumped up, ran to the bedroom, and grabbed my pocketknife from my pants that had landed on the floor next to my bed the night before. I ran back to the blonde, and again my stiffness began protruding upward with each step closer. I took the blade and slashed a nice two-inch cut on the wrist of her right hand and watched as the blood started a steady stream to the floor below as her hand dangled over the edge of the bed.
I, then, entered her and began to feel her squirm beneath me as she slowly awoke from her pain-induced nap. She looked at her wrist and watched me as I moved back and forth. Her newly found panic only further enticed the building of my excitement as the realization of what occurred flowed into her facial expressions. She was flailing her arms, but could not reach me to do any physical harm. This had the added effect of spraying me with her blood. I bathed in the thick red liquid while continuing to thrust in my methodic action.
Her arms began to lose energy, and you could sense that she was literally being drained of her life force. Her eyes began to lose any kind of light. At this time I was fully covered in her blood and exploded inside her like a shotgun blast rips into the flesh of a deer at point-blank range. It felt like I was in an orgasmic state for hours while the sheer pleasure of the moment seemed to be never-ending. When I did finally look down into the face of my little blonde Barbie doll, it was only to see the life at its final stages. Although my timing was off by a few minutes I had, indeed, reached my goal and realized that from this point on I would have to kill everyone in this very fashion. I could only hope that the second time around continued to hold the same level of pleasure as this.