Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  Monica’s face felt like it was on fire. Hillary seemed to be pulling and tearing even faster, more roughly, while she grinned like a kid working proudly on an art project for her parents. Monica could feel Hillary’s long, bony fingers and rough nails against her cheekbone—under her skin. That’s when it dawned on her. She’s skinning me, she thought, as her body stiffened and she began to hyperventilate. Hillary continued yanking the skin off her face as Monica grew lightheaded. Her eyelids fluttered slowly as her eyes deviated upward. Monica was getting her wish; she was passing out.

  Hillary noticed the increased weight upon her left hand as Monica’s body relaxed completely. She pulled her hand free, ripping a handful of Monica’s hair out in the process. She shook the strands free from her hand as she used her other hand to assist her in tearing off Monica’s face. She would have much preferred Monica to be wide awake and wallowing in misery and agony as she “defaced” her—literally. But she was content with the fact that she had merely passed out, she hadn’t died yet. She would be awake in no time at all for all of the other fun things Hillary had in store for her.

  Hillary worked meticulously, humming quietly with a thin smile on her face as she tugged and pulled at the growing flap of skin she held within her bloody hands. She only had Monica’s forehead left to work on, and that would be a cinch. Hillary picked up the lid and scraped it across the top of Monica’s forehead, along her hairline.

  Monica stirred, starting to wake. Her eyes popped open suddenly as she cried out in pain. Her face felt as if someone had thrown acid at her. Only at some point, those lucky victims felt nothing after their facial nerves died. Monica wasn’t one of those “lucky” ones...her nerves were exposed and more sensitive than ever. Even the breath she exhaled caused her upper lip—or rather, the spot where her upper lip used to be—excruciating pain.

  Monica’s panic-stricken eyes stared over at Dr. Morrison who was sobbing uncontrollably. He had lumpy, orangey-colored vomit smeared on his chin and all over his right shoulder. He regained enough of his composure to see Monica looking frightfully at him. His heavy heart ached for her. He would have done anything in his power to take her place, to spare her from this horror. Yet, he was completely and utterly devoid of the power to do anything but witness her pain and suffering.

  With one careful, firm yank from the left to the right, Hillary peeled off what was left of Monica’s face. Monica cried out sharply as she felt that final piece of flesh rip free from her head. It sent blood spraying on Hillary’s face and the front of Monica’s dress—the dress Hillary took it upon herself to wear. Hillary exultantly held up the bloody patch of Monica’s former facial epidermis. She waved it like a flag in front of Monica’s face. Monica became hysterical.

  “Aww, what are you so upset about? I just helped you...I made you prettier. Maybe now your husband wouldn’t cheat on you anymore,” Hillary said bitterly.

  Holding the wet, dripping scrap of flesh, Hillary walked over to Dr. Morrison. He cringed as she approached, turning his head to face the doorway instead. He could not bear to see what used to be Monica’s face within Hillary’s savage hands.

  “What do think, Doc? Do you want to kiss your blushing bride? Here, kiss her on her cheek.”

  Hillary placed the patch of skin over Dr. Morrison’s lips. He shook his head spastically to get it off of him. It fell just below his left shoulder. He turned his head away, repulsed by the sheer thought of it. Hillary picked it up and placed it over his face, despite his frantic struggle to keep it away from him. He shook his head tempestuously from side to side, trying desperately to dislodge Monica’s face from his own. Hillary held the top of it to his forehead. It flapped against his cheek with each turn of his head, but his new disguise remained in place. He could feel the warm, moist tissues against his own skin and smell the unmistakable scent of blood…metallic, coppery...sickening. As a surgeon, he had never been squeamish about blood. The smell had never fazed him...until now. He gagged and coughed and whimpered like a child.

  “Aww, you’re so welcome!” Hillary exclaimed. “You don’t have to thank me for reuniting you two. I’ll just leave your sweetie right over here for you.”

  Hillary picked up Monica’s face and placed it on Dr. Morrison’s lower abdomen, just above his crotch, facing him. He shifted his hips and moved about as much as he could in an attempt to throw it off. It shifted a bit here and there but stayed in place.

  “Are you getting excited, Doc? She can’t give you head, you’ll have to settle for face!”

  Hillary laughed out loud as Dr. Morrison turned his face away and wept. She turned to face Dr. Bentley. His head hung down and his eyes were glazed over. He was pale and sickly-looking. He looked as though he were about to hurl his breakfast at any second.

  “Are you getting all this Jake?” she asked, “you’ll have to document it for my biography.”

  Dr. Bentley was silent, his eyes transfixed on some spot in the room between Monica and the wall. He just stared out at the empty space.

  “That’s okay, handsome, I didn’t buy that lie. Really, how dumb do you think I am? But I’m glad you thought of it, it worked perfectly to get you to help me!”

  Hillary walked back to Monica who was slumped on the floor, silent and motionless. Hillary feared that she was dead. She stopped laughing and kicked Monica’s leg. Monica gasped, startled. She had been lost in a daze, trying desperately not to cry. Her wet, salty tears stung her fresh, bloody facial wounds and only added to the already-intolerable pain she was in. She had to be strong. She had to ignore the pain. She had to get back to her place of solace, the place she forced her mind to dwell to escape this torture. It was a place of happy memories, where Dr. Morrison was...and Hillary wasn’t.

  Hillary sighed, relieved that Monica was still alive and alert. She stepped over her on her way to the shopping bag full of toys. She began to hum again as she put the items that were left on the floor back into the bag and pulled out a different knife with a serrated blade, the salt and a bottle of peroxide. She carried them over to Monica and dropped down beside the faceless woman.

  Monica’s skinless, bloody, exposed “face” was the deep brownish-red color of a raw steak. It was a darker rust color at her chin, where the blood had been exposed to oxygen for a longer period of time. Hillary studied her as if she were a sculpture she had just sculpted. Monica no longer had lips, which made the wide area of her mouth and enclosed rows of teeth look like a permanent smile.

  “I wish you could see how nice you look now, Monica,” Hillary exclaimed as her stomach growled loudly. “Good enough to eat!” she added with a chuckle.

  Dr. Bentley contorted his face as he imagined Hillary bending forward and biting a huge chunk out of Monica’s cheek. He knew he would lose it if that happened. He could stomach quite a bit, including the many disgusting situations he encountered during med school. But there was no way he could watch Hillary eating someone that he cared about. He shuddered as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, as if that would somehow block out the gruesome imagery from his mind’s eye.

  “Now to clean the wound...you wouldn’t want a nasty infection,” Hillary said facetiously as she held up the canister of salt. Monica lifted her eyes to see the smirk on Hillary’s delirious face. Her eyes drifted to the salt and focused on them in a horrified trance. With the skin off her face, her eyes seem to bulge right out of their sockets. She began to tremble fiercely as she moaned softly in anticipation of the pain. Her tears had added excruciating pain to her exposed wounds; she could not imagine the pain of—

  Monica’s thought was interrupted by an intense pain that was worse than anything she had dared to imagine. She shrieked and writhed in pain as her vision blurred then flashed bright white for several long seconds. She heard a gut-wrenching, ear-piercing wailing. It took her a few seconds to realize the horrific sound was coming from her. Her body convulsed and her bladder emptied. She imagined her face—her newly skinned, tender and sensitive face—as a piece of chick
en tossed into a fryer. That’s what it felt like to her—as if her face had been lowered into a vat of hot oil and was being fried. She just wanted to die.

  It took nearly ten minutes for Monica’s shrieking to subside, transforming into a rhythmic series of pants and mournful groans. All the while, Hillary sat across from her, laughing merrily, with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them as she rocked back and forth on her rear end. It was a moment of glory for her, seeing Monica suffering this way, suffering because of her.

  Monica’s face was now a bright beet red color with splotches of salt crystals slowly dissolving into her membranes. Hillary hollered in glee, cackling incessantly as if it were the funniest thing she had ever seen.

  “For God’s sake, just kill her already,” Dr. Morrison begged, “just kill her, please....” his voice becoming stifled by his sobs.

  “Just ignore her, Pat,” Dr. Bentley urged, though he, himself had a difficult time following his own advice. “She’s doing this more to hurt you than to hurt Monica.”

  “Save your psychoanalysis crap, Jake, I’m doing this for all of us,” Hillary responded, as she reached for the bottle of peroxide and slowly twisted the cap off.

  Oh, God, no, please no, Dr. Morrison prayed to himself as he watched Hillary. He wished he could just turn his head and ignore what was happening, but like a deer caught in the headlights, his gaze was unwaveringly transfixed upon Hillary and Monica and the horrors unfolding before him.

  Monica’s eyes had been closed but opened abruptly when she felt the splash of first warm, then boiling hot, liquid hit her face. Her shrill, agonized cries resonated throughout the room louder than ever. She felt the liquid fizz and bubble over her skinless face. She thought Hillary had thrown acid on her. More than ever she prayed for death to rescue her. Each tingling sensation renewed and intensified her pain. She felt like her face was shifting somehow—crawling upon itself—like whatever skin or membrane remained was slithering free from her skull. Is that what her face would be reduced to, she wondered, a skull? The thought caused her to shriek even louder.

  Dr. Bentley shrieked nearly as loudly. So much for his theory of ignoring her. He couldn’t help it. He had glanced over when he heard Monica’s sharp outcry. The peroxide had turned her bright red face white as it killed her remaining facial cells. Her face looked like an oversized oozing, gangrenous blister, festering slowly before his eyes. Would he meet the same fate? Perhaps worse. His body shook uncontrollably as he wailed aloud.

  Monica’s bulging anguished eyes stared over at Dr. Morrison, begging for him to end the pain. The sight of Monica’s foamy, faceless head stole the breath from his lungs. He squeezed his only eye shut, trying desperately to heed Dr. Bentley’s advice. Ignore it all, ignore it all, he chanted to himself. He couldn’t bear to see Monica suffer any longer. He could close his eye, but it did nothing to keep the monstrous image from haunting his mind, and nothing to drown out Monica’s distraught, tortured bellowing. He opened his eye. Tears blurred his vision, but he could see that Monica’s eyes had narrowed. A blank expression seized her face. She was no longer begging for his help...she had given up.

  Hillary rocked back and forth, back and forth, humming along to the cacophony of screams and cries, enjoying the symphony of suffering. For her, it was as sweet and melodic as a lullaby.

  ~16~

  After the noise had greatly subsided, Hillary gathered the items she had on the floor and walked back to the shopping bag. She had grown bored with Monica, who kept lapsing in and out of consciousness. It was time to finish her off and turn her attention to Dr. Morrison. She had waited very patiently and was incredibly eager to get started on all of the fun things she had planned for him.

  Indecisively, she kept pulling out knives, only to return them to the bag. Finally, she settled on the same knife she had selected before: the one with the large, sharp serrated blade. She placed it on the floor beside her along with a long, thick Phillips-head screwdriver, a straw, the wire hanger, and the tweezers. Hillary picked up the knife and walked over to Monica. Without warning, she plunged it into Monica’s lower abdomen, slicing away madly from side to side.

  Monica screamed as the pain assaulted her, awakening her from the catatonic state she had succumbed to just moments before. Hillary didn’t stop at Monica’s abdomen. She slashed her bare arms and shoulder then stabbed her thighs multiple times, pounding the knife deep into the muscles. For good measure, Hillary sliced around what was left of the tissues and membranes covering Monica’s skull.

  Monica was in agonizing pain, but she lacked the strength to scream out. Instead, she whimpered and moaned. A shrill, distressed screeching sound escaped from her mouth a few times, but died down quickly.

  Hillary dropped the knife on the floor beside her. It made a loud sound as it hit the blood-soaked hardwood floor. Kneeling over Monica, she leaned forward to examine and admire her handiwork. She planted a soft kiss on Monica’s desecrated left cheek. She could feel—and see—Monica’s cheekbone partially jutting out through what little remained of her tissues.

  Finding this gesture both odd and disturbing, Monica opened her eyes to look at Hillary. There was blood—her blood—in Hillary’s hair, all over her hands and spattered on her face.

  My dress is ruined, Monica thought as she felt a final pain within her abdomen, a deep cramping feeling followed by the sickening feeling of her innards being ripped out, tugged, pulled and stretched. She was bleeding profusely and barely caught a glimpse of her entrails before slipping into an eternal sleep. Her body convulsed only briefly then lay motionless on the floor beside Hillary.

  Dr. Morrison, who had been numb from the atrocities he witnessed, cried out in anguish.

  “Nooooo,” he sobbed pitifully. He was overcome with sadness and guilt.

  “You know,” Hillary said flatly, “the human intestines can stretch about thirty feet or so...I’ve seen it. I bet Monica’s intestine can stretch across this whole room...or at least over to where you are....”

  Now Dr. Morrison was overcome with fear, too. His turn had begun.

  Hillary held on to Monica’s intestines in both hands as she stood up and walked over to Dr. Morrison, dragging the entrails along behind her.

  “No, no, no,” Dr. Morrison begged, shaking his head wildly as Hillary approached.

  “C’mon Pat, get a grip, you’re a doctor—a surgeon—you’ve had your hands in worse things, don’t think about it, Pat, you have to stay strong, just—”

  “Shut the hell up!” Hillary screamed, turning to glare at him with menacing eyes.

  If Dr. Morrison heard any of Dr. Bentley’s pep talk he gave no indication of it. He continued falling apart, shaking like a leaf as he stared at Monica’s moist, bloodied, thick intestines less than two feet away from him in Hillary’s arms. It trailed along the foot of the bed, snaking over his right leg.

  “Pat, don’t think about it, don’t think—”

  Before Dr. Bentley could finish his sentence, Hillary had Monica’s intestines wrapped around his neck. She walked behind him to tighten the slack around his neck. Dr. Bentley coughed then gagged as he struggled for air. He was completely helpless. Within seconds he grew lightheaded. He thought about Amber Skye, her beautiful bright blue eyes and golden curls, her sweet little voice calling out to him. He would never see her again, hold her, hug her, witness her milestones.

  Hillary released her hold on him just as he was about to pass out. His eyes were full of tears as he went into a coughing fit. It took a few minutes for him to recover

  “I like you,” Hillary said stoically, “and I always save the best for last. But if you interfere one more time, it’ll be your turn instead.”

  Dr. Bentley heeded her warning, putting his head down as if his pride had been wounded. He knew it was only a matter of time before he became Hillary’s target. He cherished every second of life that remained. The thought of dying was too much to face. If there was any way to fight, he would do so fiercely, yet h
e couldn’t move his arms at all. He was entirely at Hillary’s mercy...which meant, of course, that he was doomed. There was no hope.

  Dr. Morrison was still sobbing when Hillary walked back to his side, dragging along Monica’s entrails like a pet snake. There was a rank smell in the air, a cross between the pungent smell of slaughtered game and a filthy gas station restroom. Hillary held Monica’s intestines over Dr. Morrison’s face, tauntingly. He held his breath and shut his eye.

  Dr. Morrison could feel the moist, slimy, membranous coiled mass upon his face. It took every ounce of concentration to keep from going mad. He convinced himself it wasn’t real, that it was just a fraternity gag. That’s all it was, a sick joke, using raw sausage links and...and...and, oh God, the smell.... He couldn’t hold his breath indefinitely. The revolting smell made his stomach lurch. His head jerked forward as he made a choked retching sound.

  Hillary thought for sure he would vomit again, but nothing emerged from his mouth. His dry heaves continued a while longer as Hillary moved the viscera along his face, over his cheeks and forehead, then rested it over his mouth. This seemed to have the opposite effect that Hillary intended; it forced Dr. Morrison to calm down, as he didn’t want that thing in his mouth. He turned his head to the side. He could feel the weight of it on his cheek. All the while, Dr. Morrison’s eye remained tightly shut.

  Then he grew angry. He knew that Hillary was just toying with him. She had killed—tortured—his wife in front of him and this was just an extension of that emotional persecution. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He owed it to Monica. Why should he scorn her? She had been so brave to the very end. He would not strip her death of dignity as Hillary had stripped her life of it.

  Dr. Morrison opened his eye, turned his head to stare directly into Hillary’s eyes, opened his mouth wide and ran his tongue along the section of Monica’s intestines that was within its reach. After he withdrew his tongue, he smiled despite the overwhelming urge he had to throw up the lining of his stomach. His gesture had the desired effect.