Frankenstein In Love

by Temple Madison

  When Tiffany opened it, he was leaning casually against the frame. “Tiffany, I’ve been such a fool. I’d like to say that I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted and wish you and Kirk a long and happy life together. Before you go to bed, would you come down and have a cup of tea with me to sort of bury the hatchet, so to speak?”

  “I’m not going to bed, I’m getting ready to go to the hospital. Can’t we do this another night?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Do you realize what time it is? Kirk will be asleep.”

  “I know it’s late, but I’ve decided to make arrangements to stay at the hospital with Kirk instead of going back and forth all the time.”

  “I see. Well, before you go, please come down and have a cup of tea with me. As a good will gesture.”

  “All right, but it’ll have to be quick.”

  He extended his hand out to take hers. “Let’s go down in front of the fireplace, it’s so much nicer there.”

  “You go ahead, I need to put on—”

  “No!” he said, a little too abruptly, and smiled and shrugged. “The tea will get cold.”

  “Whatever,” she said, a note of impatience in her voice. “Anything to save time. But remember, Quinn, I’m in an awful hurry.” Together, they made their way downstairs to the couch where the tray of tea sat waiting.

  With one veiled glance at the grandfather clock, and another at the clear liquid in both cups, Quinn picked up the teapot and poured. Almost as soon as it splashed into their cups, the old clock began bonging out the midnight hour. Turning to her, Quinn lifted his cup, and touched hers with a clinking toast. “To a long and happy life to you and Kirk with my blessing.” He watched her closely as she put the cup to her lips. She took a small sip, and put the cup back in the saucer. “No, you have to drink it all, or it won’t mean anything.”

  “Quinn, that’s stupid, of course it will. Besides it’s the gesture, not the tea that matters.”

  “Tiffany, I’m trying my best to be happy about the fact that you were cruelly snatched from my arms by my brother. Now, won’t you please just do me this one small favor?”

  *

  Feeling annoyed with Quinn, she lifted the cup and put it to her lips. She was just about to drink it down when she realized she might not be drinking tea. She stared down into the colored water, wondering. He was awfully anxious for her to drink it, had he put something in it? She turned back to him, and saw the teacup hovering in front of his lips, waiting for her. “Quinn, if you think I’m going to drink—” Her words faded when she was interrupted by the old widow’s message—her words hissing a command—

  Drink it! The evil that he points toward you will…backfire!

  While those words reverberated in her mind she lifted the cup and drank the tea down.

  Synchronizing his movements with hers, Quinn drank his down as well. A heavy silence immediately followed with only the muffled clatter of teacups and the last bong of the midnight hour. As it faded eerily away, Quinn threw his head back and laughed. “You’ve just drunk a witch’s brew, my dear.”

  Tiffany gazed down at the empty cup, and said, “What?”

  “A witch’s brew,” he repeated, the words still carrying a lilting jest. “I said, you just drank a witch’s brew.”

  Tiffany jumped up. “You are without a doubt the most disgusting monster on the face of this earth. No witch’s brew, no magic, no device yet known to man would make me love you, so get it out of your mind, Quinn, it just won’t happen!”

  She turned to leave, but Quinn grabbed her arm and said, “It won’t, huh? Well, that sounds like a challenge to me, you filth-writing little tramp. By the next full moon, you’ll be burning for me. For me, you slut, not that scarred up monster you think you’re going to call your husband.”

  Tiffany struggled with him. “I knew you were up to something, but I couldn’t have even guessed you would go to such lengths to get me in your bed.”

  “You don’t have to come to my bed, Tiffany. Right here will do fine.” While he had her in his grasp he brutally jerked on her belt and pulled her robe apart. With a look of pure pleasure on his face, his eyes drank in her exposed body. She turned to run, but he caught her, crushed her to him and brutally kissed her neck again and again.

  “Let me go, you bastard!”

  As she struggled, he grabbed her wrists and painfully pinned them behind her. His strength was unbelievable as he pressed his mouth against her ear, his words low and guttural. “You like it rough, huh? I should have known…a woman like you.” He wrenched her arm and she cried out with pain.

  She pushed, twisted, and tried to escape, but his strength was too much, and he was as hard as a rock. She turned her face, trying to avoid his kisses while she continued to grapple in his arms. Finally, he grabbed her hair and turned her head toward him. Covering her mouth with his, he whispered, “You want it, you slut, you know you do.”

  A sobbing whimper escaped her throat, and fear infused her with desperation. She tried to turn her head but when she couldn’t, she bit his lower lip while still trying to pull away.

  “Why, you little bitch!” he yelled, lifting his hand to his mouth and wiping blood.

  She took advantage of his momentary pain and turned to run, but he grabbed her by the waist and bodily threw her down on the couch. You’ll pay for that, and pay plenty!”

  Tiffany felt herself hit the couch, but before she could make a move to get up, he grabbed her wrists and held them above her.

  Fear crawled up her spine as she saw the leaping flames from the fireplace flickering on his evil face, and felt that fear rise higher and higher as she watched him gradually lowering himself over her.

  It was now or never, she thought as she lifted her knee and slammed it into his genitals.

  He immediately doubled up. “Owwww, God!” he shouted.

  But Tiffany wasn’t through with him yet. Before he got away, she brought her foot up and gave him a second kick, thrusting him backward. Finding herself free, she jumped up. “You black-hearted beast, when I tell Kirk about this, he’ll kill you.”

  “Tell him what you please, my little blonde spitfire, it won’t do you any good.”

  She turned, wincing at the soreness of her body, and lunged for the phone.

  He immediately reached out and caught her by the arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You tried to rape me, you bastard, and I’m calling the police.”

  Quinn’s eyes had death in them as they gazed deeply into hers, and the tone of his voice was low and threatening. “I wouldn’t do that. Not if you want Kirk to stay healthy.”

  “Your brother? You’re making a threat against your own brother?”

  “Where you’re concerned, he’s not my brother, he’s my enemy.”

  She gazed closely at his flashing eyes. He was insane, she was sure of it now. She pulled away, watching as his long dark shadow moved in her direction. She turned and began running toward the stairs to her room. When she got there she slammed the door closed, and locked it. Still feeling vulnerable, she looked around wildly and found a heavy chair. She dragged it along the floor and pushed it up under the doorknob. She sat cringing on the bed for a while until everything got quiet. Finally, she got up, hoping Quinn had gone to bed. She walked out onto the veranda and drank in the cool air in large gulps. After a few minutes she began feeling better. She was about to go back in when something caught her eye. She looked down and saw Quinn standing in a shadow gazing up at her—the light of the full moon exposing a glint of madness in his eyes.

  Chapter 18

  DR. Vincent Wilder’s expert hands cut, scraped, peeled, and shaped Kirk’s face for five solid hours. The doctor knew it would be an exhausting job, a rigorous job, but he met the challenge head-on, and dug in, brought out, built up, and smoothed over until he began to see the results he was hoping for. When he had explained to Kirk that the surgery would have to be done in stages, and his
hospital stay would be longer than he thought, Kirk almost changed his mind, and the doctor had to counsel him every step of the way.

  It was touch and go for a while, but because of the doctor’s excellent skill, the impossible became possible, and now as he closely studied the perfectly formed face, he knew it was a masterpiece. He had successfully taken the deep wounds that had ruined a man’s life and scraped and cleansed them with his scalpel. He had cut out the ruined, the dead, the deformed, and restored and built up the good, solid, living, healthy tissue upon which this prisoner of darkness could rebuild his life. Instead of burying himself deep, he could rise up and live again. It was at times like this that Dr. Wilder felt like a god, and took great pride in knowing that with a few little additional cosmetic touches here and there, his skilled, trained hands had made Kirk Kessler’s face better than it had ever been.

  * * * *

  Tiffany turned when she heard the door open and a gurney, with Kirk lying on it, roll in. She gasped when she saw his head swathed in bandages. Dr. Wilder walked in behind the cart and put his arms around her shoulders. Tiffany couldn’t help it, but the sight of Kirk lying helpless, covered with bandages, brought tears to her eyes. She turned and buried her head in Dr. Wilder’s chest, trying to muffle her sobs.

  The doctor spoke very softly. “He’s going to be all right, Tiffany. The operation was an absolute success. If everything heals the way it should, and I have no reason to think it won’t, he’ll be just fine.”

  “What do you mean ‘if’?”

  The doctor shrugged. “If Kirk doesn’t get mad and start pulling his bandages off before the healing is complete. You have to understand, he’s been through a lot, and living in bandages can be frustrating. Almost like suffocating gradually. He’ll have an irresistible urge to tear them off, believe me.”

  Tiffany watched as the orderlies strapped Kirk’s hands down. “What are they doing?”

  “His hands have to be strapped down while he’s unconscious, otherwise he could pull them off in his sleep. It’s just a precaution until he becomes used to them.”

  “It seems so cruel.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already warned him about it, so he’s prepared.”

  “How long will it be, Doctor?”

  “To be honest, this is new territory for me. So much of what I have to tell you is not based on experience, but merely upon medical knowledge, which can vary in each case. First of all you have to keep in mind this was not just simple cosmetic surgery where a few laser cuts here and there takes ten years off someone’s face. I’ve had to cut so deep that the damaged side of his face has been practically reshaped. Under normal circumstances bandages come off after a very brief time, but in Kirk’s case they’ll come off in stages. The scarring was very deep, and the whole bandage will have to stay on as long as the healing is intense. During that time his face will burn, so we have to keep his bandages changed, put a special oil on his face, and controlled doses of pain medication have to be given to him so he stays comfortable, but doesn’t build up a dependence. As he heals, in time he’ll graduate to a lighter bandage, and so on. He’s young and very healthy, so we should be seeing some marked improvement after about ten to fourteen days.”

  Tiffany frowned.

  “I know it sounds like a long time, but if he does better than we expect, it could be shorter. You’ve got to understand, to a person who has their head wrapped up continuously day in and day out, even a few hours can seem endless. And sleeping will be difficult at first. If Kirk does lose his temper and tries to tear them off, I won’t be at all surprised. Believe it or not, it has happened, and to someone wearing them for a much shorter period of time.”

  “When can he go home?”

  “Unfortunately, that, we’ll have to play by ear. It will all depend on how well Kirk heals up. Aside from his pain, he’s weak right now, so we have to build up his energy level, pump him full of good, potent vitamins to give the healing process a good start. But we’ll keep watch on him, and if he seems to be doing well, he’ll be home before you know it.”

  “I’m just so worried about him, Doctor.”

  The doctor smiled down at her. “As long as Kirk knows you’re waiting for him I don’t see how he can keep from bouncing back.” He chuckled. “Do you know what he said just before he went under?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t touch the dimple, Doc, Tiffany likes it.”

  Tiffany laughed and cried at the same time. “Oh, Doctor, I love him so much.”

  “I know, and as long as Kirk knows that, he’ll be fine. Keep in mind the healing process works better when the patient is in a good frame of mind. You know, not worrying about anything. It’ll be important for you to be here as often as you can to let Kirk know everything is okay between you two. Talk to him about your future together. Tell him you love him. You’ll be surprised what that’ll do for his morale. It’s probably the best medicine he’ll receive. I wouldn’t be surprised if in no time at all he’ll be jumping out of that bed, ready to get started.”

  Tiffany smiled up at him. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  The doctor frowned. “You look tired, Tiffany. He’s going to be out for some time. You should think about getting some rest.”

  “I wish I could, but a friend of mine died, and I have to hop a plane for New York. The funeral is tomorrow.”

  Tiffany went over to Kirk’s bed and gazed down at him. Her heart ached. He seemed so helpless. She smiled at the funny-looking eye holes, and leaned down and kissed his bandage, leaving a red lip print on it. She went back over to the doctor and asked him to show it to Kirk when he woke, and then left—on a long, heartbreaking journey.

  * * * *

  Tiffany was on a plane that same day to New York. She slept from the time she registered in the hotel until seven the next morning. After she had breakfast in her room, she hailed a cab to Reyna’s funeral. When Tiffany walked in she sat in the back, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Unavoidable tears formed in her eyes as she heard the elderly, gray-haired minister speaking words of comfort. She tried, but couldn’t keep the tears from flowing, and finally, when it was over and she stepped up to view the body, she thought she was going to faint.

  When she gazed down into the lovely face of her former agent and friend, a flurry of happy, smiling faces paraded before her. She saw Reyna’s raven hair blowing in the wind as they walked down Broadway, chattering endlessly about men. And Reyna’s wild movements as she danced the twist at a 50s club in celebration of one of Tiffany’s books. It had hit the bestseller list. She would never forget Reyna’s laughing face when they jogged through Central Park, and played in a spewing fire hydrant with a bunch of kids. Later that same day they had bought a hot dog from a street vendor, and Reyna laughingly threatened to put a bib on Tiffany when she dribbled mustard down her chin.

  Her gaze briefly shifted to Reyna’s hands, and noticed the long cuffs of the tailored blouse she was wearing. It was the kind she would have worn to the office. Her mind flashed backward to the day she had seen blood dripping from those wrists. Now they were clean, and covered just so. Even in death she appeared to be tailored and business-like, as if she were going to rise up any minute and go to the office. Her eyes clouded over when she remembered the crumpled picture of herself smudged with Reyna’s blood. Yes, she loved Reyna. Perhaps not in the same way that Reyna loved her, but still, she did love her.

  Tears trailed down Tiffany’s face as she reached out, her hand moving lovingly along the smooth line of Reyna’s face. But when she felt the cold, stiff skin she abruptly jerked it back, realizing in odd relief that the painted up body in the coffin wasn’t Reyna. They were burying an empty shell. Reyna was really gone.

  Later, when the chapel was completely empty, an older woman came up behind Tiffany and led her to an empty pew. “I’m sorry to intrude, but the press is outside. Will you be able to talk to them?”

  “If I had
gotten there just a little sooner, maybe I could have saved her.”

  “Now, now, don’t start blaming yourself, dear. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”

  At that moment someone walked up with a glass of water.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to the bearer and pushed it into Tiffany’s hand. “Here, drink this, it’ll help. By the way, my name is Hilda Thurston. I work here, and I’m a great fan of yours.”

  Tiffany smiled, and drank the water down. When the glass was empty, she held it, gazing at it curiously, her thoughts a jumbled mess of memories.

  “What about the press? Can you handle them?” Mrs. Thurston asked, intruding on her thoughts.

  “Reyna always told me to honor the press, so I know she would want me to.”

  The two women sat there a little longer while Tiffany tried to get herself together. When she was ready, she nodded to Mrs. Thurston who led her out to the front where microphones of all shapes and sizes were pushed in her face. Tiffany was dreading answering questions about Reyna, but for some reason the reporters seemed to be avoiding it. Could it be that the unthinking, cruel press was actually trying to spare her feelings?

  “Ms. Lovelace, do you have another book coming out soon?” Before she could answer one question, another would be yelled out.

  “Ms. Lovelace, what was the mystery surrounding your disappearance for a while?”

  “Ms. Lovelace, there are rumors that you’ve met someone, but he seems to be a man of mystery always staying in the background. Is there anything you can tell us about him?”

  Tiffany just naturally thought that all the questions she was asked would be about Reyna and their friendship. When it wasn’t she was relieved and took a deep breath while she smiled into the cameras. No sooner had she felt that flood of relief course through her than the question came that stood out among all the rest.

  “Ms. Lovelace, can you tell us what Reyna Phillip’s deep dark secret was? Everyone knows that you two were close. Was it mere coincidence that she died right after learning you were involved with a man? Ms. Lovelace,” the reporter continued, “do you know why Reyna Phillips committed suicide?”