Henry nuzzled her neck and nodded. He held her close, closer, even closer, and promised her the world.
There was nothing but limitless, unending black save for the weak, white pallor of Heather’s skin. It was eerily luminescent, glowing ghostly, casting a deathly ring of light about her. She was stark naked, bound to a table with leather restraints keeping her arms at her sides and her feet awkwardly pinned in place, legs slightly spread. The table was metal and nearly undefined except for where her lovely skin glinted it into being.
Ashley stood over her dearest friend and looked on befuddled.
Where were they?
Why was Heather strapped to a metal table like a cadaver?
Her bright blue eyes were open and her lips, red and full even without lipstick, were smiling.
“Heather?”
Ashley approached the table. There was no way to process her surroundings such was the depth of darkness. Walking toward the table felt odd, inertia going haywire, equilibrium warring with the lack of definition.
Again, “Heather?”
Her friend just lay there, smiling, naked, clearly conscious, but strangely unresponsive. It was all a bit disturbing. Heather was as lovely as ever – her body looking incredibly fit and toned in all of the right places (probably a little too toned, the lack of light making her look like a supermodel when in actuality she would likely pass for a mere model). Ashley had seen Heather naked plenty of times throughout the years. They practically grew up together and they did all of the dumb girl stuff when they were teenagers like comparing breast sizes and such. But this was different. She was tied down, the epitome of vulnerability and yet she wasn’t whimpering or crying or screaming bloody murder (like Ashley figured she would), instead she was just lying there with a plastic, creepy smile plastered on her face. It sent chills sputtering up and down Ashley’s spine.
She tried a third time, “Heather?” and without waiting for a response jumped into action and began to unfasten the leather straps that held her left wrist in place.
As she moved around the table to do the other wrist, Ashley felt something catch her arm. Panic welled, but quickly cooled when she noticed it was Heather’s free hand. The weird smile was gone and she looked at Ashley with a familiar expression, one that said, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ She had seen this look thousands of times over the course of their friendship.
One time, pre-Henry, at a rock show, Ashley hit on a guy Heather was trying to cozy up to. Why? To be a bitch. Because she could. To get under Heather’s skin. Take your pick. Ashley didn’t know why, they just liked to screw each other up and got a smug sense of satisfaction watching the other lose. It was a best friend/sister thing and she and Heather were masters at tearing one another down.
In any case, here was the same look she gave that night, that oft repeated expression of distaste and hatred which was presently turning Heather’s creep-o smile upside down.
“Heather? I’m untying you,” Ashley explained the obvious.
Heather seethed in a low whisper, “Leave me alone. Get out of here.”
“But… but…” This was all very perplexing; Ashley didn’t think she should have to explain the situation. “You’re naked! You’re –”
“Get out of here; you’re going to mess things up!” Still seething, still whispering, but a little louder.
Ashley didn’t know what to make of it.
Did she really want her to go?
Was this planned?
Maybe a kinky sex game that she accidentally stumbled upon?
“So, you’re okay?” Ashley found herself whispering as well.
“Yes. Hurry.” Heather gestured with her eyes for Ashley to take off. A semblance of normalcy returned. This felt natural: Heather and her arguing about some thing that made no sense, but arguing as they always had just the same.
Ashley was about to turn and go when a thought struck her. “Do you want me to tie your arm back down?” She didn’t want to ruin whatever freaky game her friend was playing.
“Yes.” Heather gestured with her head at her left arm. The motion made her breasts jiggle and parts of her body undulate.
Stifling a laugh, Ashley re-strapped the left wrist into place. “Are you sure? This is pretty… perv-o?”
“Go on, nosey!” Whisper yelling.
“Be careful.” Ashley turned to leave but stopped dead. The infinite blackness loomed impenetrably. There was nowhere to go. She turned back to her friend, but Heather and the table were no longer there, only darkness.
A tiny light, somewhere in the un-chartable distance began to swell. It grew and grew until it shifted Ashley’s entire state of being. Instantly she was seated in an operating theater, one of those old structures commonly used in medical schools from the late 1500s up through the mid 1800s. Ashley loved to sketch them. Henry bought her a book entitled Anatomical Theatre and she studied the drawings regularly.
The seat she perched upon was made from a dark oiled wood as was the entirety of the theater. The growing light shifted and beamed down from somewhere overhead, illuminating the center of the theater. Heather, strapped to her metal table, still naked, still oblivious to the creepy shit surrounding her, reappeared positioned within the circle of light.
The theater pews were empty save for Ashley and she couldn’t see anybody on the operating floor except for Heather and her metal table. Regardless of what her friend wanted or demanded, Ashley had enough. She was going to find her way down to ground level and free Heather whether she liked it or not. This was simply too fucking ridiculous. “I’m coming to get you!” Despite her echoing shout, Heather didn’t seem to notice that she was there. Was she ignoring her? Ashley tried again, but still no acknowledgement.
She began hopping pews until she made her way to a balcony railing that overlooked the operating area. It was quite a ways down, at least twenty feet and Ashley wasn’t sure if she could survive such a fall intact or unbroken. While debating gravity and momentum and the proper physics of things she heard a series of voices approaching. She crouched down behind the railing and tried to hide within the shadows. Through slats carved into the balcony, she saw several figures approach and stand over Heather’s exposed form.
A chill worked her over from the inside out. One of the shapes, the one taking center stage standing over Heather’s unclothed body, was none other than Montgomery, the (possible) abductor. He was wearing his cook uniform and held a mean looking meat cleaver in his right hand. Ashley squinted and strained for a good look at his face. Shadows, light, the trippy interplay of atmosphere, something, was distorting his face. His features looked off, elongated and heavily shadowed. The other forms receded into the darkness beyond the theater as the overhead spotlight focused in tighter, dissolving surroundings, wiping everything away but Heather and the cook.
The meat cleaver caught the light and glinted in such a way that Ashley had to shield her eyes from the strong glare. By the time her vision readjusted, Montgomery was making a slicing motion and driving a deep, thick incision into Heather’s smooth abdomen with the meat cleaver.
Though Heather’s expression remained void, the emptiest of smiles, blood began to well in rivers from the ongoing evisceration. It poured from her internals in messy swells, spilling down her sides, splattering her placid face, running south, trailing down her legs and clotting through, then mashing down the hair of her pubis.
Ashley put her hand over her mouth to subdue the gathering screams and gagging
Rather than try to cheer herself up, Ashley opted to wallow in the depression clouding her brain. She filled a playlist with the dreariest stuff she could think of and then kicked things off with The End by The Doors. Henry’s favorite. He told her that when he was a kid, eleven, twelve, thirteen, he used to pretend he was Jim Morrison for days at a time, pouting, preening, spewing endtime poetry and acting like a little freak. He could still do a pretty good impression and thinking about it brought on a teeny smile. Ashley was a fairly recent
convert and had to admit, when feeling down there was nothing like Morrison’s baritone croon and murder poetry to accompany misery.
To make matters even worse (perfect) a rash of customers came shuffling in as soon as she unlocked the doors. Though Errol would disapprove, Ashley kept her sunglasses on for the first few hours of her shift.
After lunch – a glass of lukewarm water – this really together looking woman came in to the store and began browsing the sticker laden CD bins of CHAOS’ expansive used section. She was wearing a business style suit – sensible skirt, sensible jacket, sensible blouse, sensible shoes – and her hair was swept back in a very stylish cut. Her skin was smooth and impeccably enhanced with just the right amount of makeup. Ashley tried not to stare too hard, too obviously, but the woman was captivatingly beautiful and was extremely out of place amongst the filth and fury of this shitty little record shop. Though she looked very professional, like she was poised to rule the world or something, she couldn’t be any older than Ashley and this is what drew the eye and engaged the brain the most.
What did she do for a living?
How did she successfully breach the frivolity of teen-dom and emerge so exquisitely adult?
What the hell was she doing in a trashy store like this?
Not that Ashley was one of those stuck up weirdo elitist types that thought she was better than the pop music loving masses. Not that they weren’t welcome in her crappy workplace. Yes, she had a particular style and followed a doctrine, a kind of lifestyle code ascribed by the tenements of dress and ideals as outlined by her favorite recording artists, but she wasn’t the kind to make others feel like they didn’t belong or weren’t wanted. On the contrary, she worked extra hard at helping customers and the new people (when in a decent mood anyway) she met see past her exterior and realize that she was as normal as the next person. Her political, religious and commercial views might differ dramatically from the general public, but she could still be civil and appropriately interactive.
As the business woman continued to shop Ashley daydreamed about Heather. No nightmare shit – tables and meat cleavers and her friend sans clothes, but nice stuff, fond memories, anything to detract from the fact that there was still no word about her whereabouts.
Reality was settling in and the situation was nothing but grim. It was all so surreal. She had known Heather forever. They hadn’t ever gone a day (or two) without talking since the sixth grade. That she hadn’t tried to contact her made no sense and only stood to reinforce the notion that Heather had to be dead or hurt or drugged up. Ashley wanted to call the cops or Mrs. Palmer, she wanted to do something to help, but the heroin flowing though her veins and Henry’s warnings kept her at bay. She just couldn’t believe that there was the real possibility she would never see her again.
The business woman kept looking, flipping through the racks, pulling a CD here a CD there. In a weird way she reminded Ashley of Heather. Hell, in a parallel universe Heather could be this woman. If she had only went to college like she wanted to instead of hanging with Ashley and Henry and the subsequent succession of losers they associated with at punk shows. She already almost looked the part what with her mom refusing to let her dye her hair or pierce or tattoo anything. Not that Heather really bought into the whole punk rock persona like the rest of them. She listened to the music and loved the shows just as much as Ashley did, but she preferred her natural hair color and shopping at GAP or any of the other over-priced mall stores where she bought her trendy clothes. Though she had no more education than the rest of them, Ashley could totally see Heather wearing business suits and working for The Man. The day before she vanished she was even talking about getting a job in an office or somewhere with career advancement potential. Something in fashion perhaps.
When they were kids that was all Heather talked about. Ashley supposed it was why she tried to sketch fashion designs rather than maintain her focus on architecture. She wanted to be passionate about something and Heather’s something was better than nothing. Besides, other than her pipe dreams, she knew nothing about architecture, she knew no one involved in the field, she had never taken a course, nor did she scour the internet for information as she tended to do with any other thing she was marginally interested in. When Henry compared her to Seinfeld, more specifically the George Costanza character whom often lied about being an architect to impress people, he was more right than he had any right to be. She felt like a phony of the highest order.
Watch this:
SELF ASSESSMENT
What is your favorite kind of music, Ashley?
Punk Rock!
What got you interested in “Punk Rock?”
Um. Um. I would have to say Henry.
Your boyfriend?
Yes.
What did you listen to before?
I don’t know. Nothing really. The radio I guess. I went to a few punk shows on my own.
Why?
Boys.
Okay. What do you want to be? You know, for a living?
An architect.
Really. Why?
I like to draw.
You like buildings?
Kind of.
Do you understand the dynamics of structural integrity?
Huh?
Who is Frank Lloyd Wright?
An architect.
Can you name one of his famous works?
No.
Repeat. Rinse. Put out to dry. Ashley was about two more internal questions away from crying and puking at the same time.
The business woman bought a Pixies CD, Doolittle, and a Maroon 5 CD (which Ashley failed to note the name of). Half cool, half brainwashed. Well, it was better than being a complete tool. The woman smiled pretty and paid for her purchases with a black credit card. Ashley couldn’t look her in the eyes.
She was feeling down and Henry couldn’t help but notice. He rubbed her back and mumbled consolatory sentiments. They had just gotten high. MTV’s The Real World was just about to start. All should be right with the world. Even heroin, her crutch, her rock, failed to fully bolster her up. Ashley felt like doing nothing but crying ad nausem.
“Heather is smart, Ash. She’ll be back around soon.” The look in his eyes didn’t do much in the way of convincing.
“You know something is wrong here.”
Henry sighed loudly. Defeat. “But what can we do but hope for the best?”
Fire eclipsed the doldrums. “Try and find her! It’s the cook! I know it’s him.”
“You said he seemed okay. You told me he asked you if you were all right, remember?”
“That doesn’t mean anything. He was probably worried about getting caught.”
Henry stared off.
“You know I’m right, Henry. Maybe not about the cook, but about something being wrong. We haven’t seen her or heard from her or anything. Are we supposed to just wait around forever? When are we supposed to take action?”
“I don’t know.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Finally Henry let out another large sigh and then coalesced, “Okay. We can go and talk to this guy… but that’s it. No police, no parents or associates that might get the police involved. This guy may even–”
Ashley felt a million times better, as if the clouds inside were breaking and the sun returning. She cut him off, hugging him, thanking him for understanding.
Henry recovered from the affection and continued, “This guy, the cook, might bring in the cops himself.”
“He won’t. We’ll be cool.”
More intense silence until Henry spilled a few more thoughts. “What if he is responsible for her disappearance? What are we going to do about it? We can’t turn him in without being investigated ourselves. I guess we could leave an anonymous tip or something.”
Ashley stared Henry in the eyes. “Or we could kill the fucker.” The words came easy.
“Kill him?” Henry looked at her like she was loony.
“I’m dead serious. If we find out that he h
as hurt Heather in any way, if we find that he killed her or did something sick, fuck turning him in, we’re going to make him pay.”
V
The Fine Art of Compunction
If Montgomery wanted every single living being in the entire universe to know just one thing about him, it was that he didn’t enjoy killing.
He wasn’t a psycho or a masochist or partial to cruelty or suffering or debasement.
When he eventually shuffled off of this mortal coil and faced whatever cosmic reward awaited him at the end of the line, he didn’t want the murders to count against him or to be the sole basis for judgment.
That being said, the first murder was both the worst and the best.
Ideas had been charging through his mind for some time. Michel’s sudden, violent death hit him harder than he would have expected and triggered something odd inside. They were only shallow acquaintances, linked a little more intimately by the damning information Montgomery knew about the Frenchman and the oddly affecting meals they (forcefully) shared, yet these perverse bonds ran deeper than expected. Remembrances of forbidden food twisted around memory and altered Montgomery’s brain chemistry, honing desire to a fine point that prodded and pushed in hopes of puncturing and deflating restrictive moral expectation.
When the levee finally broke it wasn’t like Montgomery just decided he was going to up and murder someone and then eat their flesh; it wasn’t like he just woke up one day and got to it. Instead the idea and subsequent action crept about his systems gradually, slowly unfurling within and gaining dark definition like a mass of gathering storm clouds. There were accompanying factors – odd dreams and odder cravings that kept him awake and compelled him to act, that kept him searching his brain for impossible replacements.
In addition to these internal struggles, there were a host of outside stimuli to consider. There was Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, one of Montgomery’s favorite books, and then a short story by Clive Barker about knots and demons from one of his Books of Blood volumes. These two literary works really gunked up Montgomery’s stream of thought and nudged him that much closer to crossing the forbidden line because they both featured the beating and killing of the homeless. Both were disturbing. Both set light bulbs off within his fracturing mind.
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