Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  Smiling, Hillary stared back at her mother, the woman with no ears. Did she know how loud she had been screaming?

  “Hello, Mom...I’m home....”

  Her mother’s hideously scarred face grew pale. She looked as though she was going to either throw up or pass out.

  “Y-y-you’re dead,” she stammered nervously.

  “Nope, alive and well. Don’t you look pretty?” she mocked.

  “I can’t hear so well anymore,” her mother replied. She placed her hand over one of the unsightly remnants of what used to be an ear.

  “Well, no matter, you never listened to me anyhow.”

  Hillary took a step forward, her mother a step back. It continued this way a few steps more before her mother felt the bed on the back of her legs. There was nowhere left to go.

  Hillary threw her arms around her mother and hugged her.

  Her mother stood there, crying, shaking, hands at her side.

  “Did you miss me?” Hillary shouted into the heavily scarred opening of her dismembered left ear.

  Still shaking profusely, her mother nodded nervously.

  “Aww, that’s so sweet,” she said loudly. “Let’s go downstairs and have some tea.”

  Her mother shook her head.

  “What’s wrong? C’mon, let’s go downstairs.”

  Hillary held her mother’s hand and led her downstairs. The terrified woman didn’t dare resist. Hillary led her to one of the chairs at the breakfast nook.

  “Sit,” she ordered, the threatening smile still planted on her face.

  Her mother complied. She began to sob harder.

  The smile left Hillary’s face. She grew angry.

  “What are you crying for? Aren’t you glad I’m home?” she shouted.

  Her mother nodded again nervously, this time, adding, “b-but you shouldn’t be here...”

  “Why not?”

  “Those people...all those people you...your father, your brother, your sister....”

  Her mother broke down into hysterics, burying her face in her hands.

  “What about them?” Hillary challenged.

  “You killed them,” she shouted frantically, “you murdered them!”

  Hillary laughed. It was a disturbingly menacing laugh that made her mother cringe all the more.

  “Why, Hillary, why did you do all those awful things?”

  Hillary became incensed. She took her mother’s wet face into her hands and lifted up her head so that she would look her in the eyes. Her mother’s enlarged tearful, frightened eyes stared back at her crazed daughter.

  “YOU NEVER HEARD ME, YOU NEVER LISTENED TO ME!” Hillary shouted, a tear escaping her own venomous eye. “YOU LET HIM HURT ME...” her voice cracked, painful memories rushed to her mind.

  Her mother stared on in silence.

  “DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY?” Hillary screamed, letting go of her mother’s face and hitting the side of her head hard with her closed-fisted hand.

  Her mother’s head jerked to the left from the force of the blow. Still, she said nothing. She wept silently.

  Hillary delivered punch after punch to her mother’s rapidly swelling and bruising face, alternating a left punch, then a right while chanting, “I hate you Mom, I love you Mom, I hate you Mom, I love you Mom....”

  Hillary continued her vicious attack upon her mother until the woman’s face was barely recognizable, the bloodied, swollen flesh hot against her fractured cheekbones. She had sobbed through it all but did not put up a fight, nor did she beg for mercy. Perhaps she deserved this fate.

  Hillary stepped back from her mother, still enraged.

  “Can you hear me?” she spat, spittle flying from her mouth.

  If the woman heard her, she gave no such indication. She sat there with her head slumped and moaning, waiting for the next blow.

  Hillary turned and walked to the nearby butcher block. It wasn’t the same one she remembered. Then again, why would it be? She had used most of those knives and they were probably being held somewhere as evidence. She pulled out the one with the widest blade—the chef’s knife. It wasn’t serrated, but it would do nicely just the same. It was time to have some fun with her mother.

  Hillary approached her mother slowly, the knife held high up within her fisted grip. When she got close enough to her mother, she plunged the knife into her upper arm at a forty-five degree angle so that the point would penetrate deep through the muscle, all the way to the bone. Her mother screamed out in pain but made no move to pull away. Her pained shrieking was mellifluous to Hillary, her mother’s final lullaby. It encouraged her to inflict even more pain. She pulled down on the knife, slicing deep into her mother’s arm. She stopped just above her elbow and pried the knife out. It make a suction-like pop as though it had been pulled from a thick muck.

  Hillary dropped the knife on the floor beside her and stuck her thumbs into the bleeding, gaping wound. She dug in deep as her mother groaned in pain. Then, as if deboning a chicken, she forced open the oozing laceration, exposing the bone.

  With both hands deep within the lesion, she ripped the woman’s tattered flesh, tugging on tendons and ligaments, throwing blood-soaked bits of her mother to the floor. Her mother’s agonizing wailing pleased her greatly, encouraging her to work faster. She continued shredding her mother’s arm until there was little more than a section of bone, arteries and veins between her upper arm and elbow.

  Laughing maniacally, Hillary ran her blood-stained fingers over her mother’s tear-streaked face, painting her swollen, purple cheeks red.

  “Are you having as much fun as I am?” Hillary leaned over and shouted into her mother’s “ear.”

  “P-p-pleaasseee,” her mother sobbed, her body trembling so much, it looked almost like one of those bizarre tribal dances.

  “What’s that? Please continue? No problem!”

  Hillary picked up the knife and walked to the other side of her mother. She held her mother’s hand as she plunged the blade into her upper right arm, just as she had done with her left arm. The woman impulsively squeezed Hillary’s hand as a sharp, shrill cry escaped her bruised lips. Hillary ran the knife down, slicing into her right arm, just as she had to done to her left one. She dropped the knife and repeated the process of ravaging her mother’s flesh, tearing at it bit by bit with her fingernails until there was little left on the arm.

  Her mother’s head lolled as she moaned piteously. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t dare look at her ravaged arms. She knew she couldn’t stomach seeing her mangled limbs. She just wanted to die, just as she had wanted to die the first time Hillary attacked her. Her mistake was begging Hillary to let her die...that’s why Hillary let her live. And every day since, she had relived the nightmare. Now, she had new horrors to face, new nightmares to endure for the rest of her miserable days. She knew Hillary wouldn’t let her die. She had already disfigured her once, now, limb by limb, she would be further disfigured.

  It was difficult to think of Hillary as her daughter—the girl who had once worn golden pigtails and planted kisses on her cheek; the girl who always loved to give and receive hugs, always happy to cuddle; the girl who love to sing; the girl who always said “I love you.” No, this girl—this monster—was not her daughter anymore.

  “I’m starving!” Hillary proclaimed excitedly. “Aren’t you?”

  Her mother remained silent.

  “I said,” Hillary repeated, loudly, “aren’t you hungry?”

  Her mother nervously shook her head.

  “Well I’m going to fix us a nice mother-daughter meal.”

  Hillary began humming as she walked over to the kettle on the stove top. She filled it with water, set it upon the burner and turned on the range.

  Hillary’s mother wanted to make a run for it, but she knew better. She had tried running last time and it only made Hillary angrier. What horrors did she have in store for her now?

  While the water boiled, Hillary looked through one of the cabinets and pulle
d out a large bowl. With the bowl in her hand, she walked back to her shivering, suffering mother. Her eyes were still close, but the woman could sense Hillary near her. Though she was just a foot away, her mother could barely hear her humming.

  Hillary squatted down near her mother’s feet. She began shoveling the pieces of flesh and the bloodied tidbits of her mother’s arms from the floor into the bowl. As she stood up, Hillary grabbed at some of the remains that had fallen upon her mother’s lap.

  Feeling Hillary’s bony fingers on her lap, her mother gasped. Involuntarily, her eyes flew open. She saw the bowl full of, well, herself, the bloodied bits and pieces darkening to a sickening reddish-brown color. She turned her head, lunged forward and threw up all over the floor.

  “Oh, good!” Hillary exclaimed, “you’ll have more room for my special dish!”

  Her mother continued to puke until dry heaves racked her body. She shook even more violently as she shook her head wildly.

  “No, no, I won’t do it...I won’t do it,” she protested hysterically.

  “Nonsense,” Hillary yelled, “don’t you remember what you used to tell me when I was little? How I’d have to clean my plate. You have to practice what you preach.”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” she begged frantically. She couldn’t, wouldn’t...Hillary would just have to kill her.

  “It’s not like you’ve never eaten—”

  “SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” she demanded. She was hysterical. Lightheaded from the blood loss, she attempted to stand up. Hillary placed a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down violently.

  “SIT DOWN!” she yelled sternly.

  If her mother wanted to, she could have stood up, she might have even been able to run. But she didn’t resist. She didn’t stand and she certainly didn’t run. She knew all too well. Hillary was angry enough. And now she was going to prepare a special meal for them.

  She knew better than to cry out, better than to beg for even a modicum of mercy. She thought about using reverse psychology like she used to use when Hillary was a small child: oh, yes, dear...what a scrumptious meal you’ve prepared. Mmmm, mmmm...I’m going to have seconds.... Somehow she doubted that would work. Her stomach lurched again and she leaned over as if she would throw up again, but nothing came up.

  “It’ll be ready soon,” Hillary said cheerfully. “Don’t get up!” She glared malignantly at her mother.

  Like a grounded child, her mother stayed put on the chair, dreading her life and the moments that would follow. She sat, shaking in terror, resigned to her destiny.

  Hillary took the bowl over to the refrigerator, opened the door and pulled out the mayonnaise and an onion. She set everything down on the kitchen counter then grabbed another knife from the butcher block. She pulled out a cutting board and chopped the onion. She scraped them off the board and into the bowl of blood and flesh. She added two heaping spoonfuls of mayonnaise and stirred up her concoction. She sniffed the bowl and smiled. She added a dash of salt and a sprinkle of pepper. Mmmmm, mmmm. There was tuna salad, chicken salad, and now, Kathy salad, named in honor of her dear old mother. Her stomach rumbled quietly. She couldn’t wait to dig in.

  Hillary walked over to the other side of the kitchen where the breadbox was. There were some rolls, some bagels and a loaf of honey wheat bread.

  “What d’ya want your salad on? Wheat bread or a roll?” she called out loudly.

  Her mother heard her, faintly, but did not reply.

  “Wheat bread or a roll?” Hillary shouted angrily.

  Again, her mother remained silent.

  “Fine…I’ll decide for you. Wheat bread it is.”

  Hillary pulled out four slices of bread and proceeded to make two sandwiches, one for her mother and one for herself. She placed them on dishes and carried them over to where her mother was sitting, careful not to step in the vomit. She set the dishes upon the table.

  Hillary walked back to the stove, turned it off and prepared two cups of tea using the boiling water from the kettle. She carefully carried the teacups over to the table and set them down by the dishes.

  “Now isn’t this nice?” she said loudly.

  More silence.

  “Dig in, Mom...you wouldn’t want to offend me.”

  Her mother sat quietly, trembling hard.

  Hillary could feel her patience dwindling and her anger growing. She shoved one of the plates in front of her mother.

  “You’re going to drink your tea and eat your sandwich!” she ordered.

  Her mother began sobbing louder, but said nothing.

  Hillary grabbed her face within her hands and shouted, “IT’S TIME TO EAT NOW.”

  “Nooooo,” her mother muttered, shutting her eyes tightly.

  Hillary released her mother’s head, grabbed the sandwich and yelled, “OPEN YOUR MOUTH....”

  Her mother shook her head wildly, her eyes still tightly closed. Her lips were tucked within her sealed mouth.

  Hillary shoved the sandwich to her mother’s mouth. The horrified woman continued to shake her head. Her mouth remained tightly shut, her lips hidden…safe from touching Hillary’s special meal.

  “You wanna do this the hard way then?” she shouted.

  Hillary paused a moment, waiting for her mother’s cooperation. Her mother steadfastly refused to eat.

  “Fine! If you want to act like a spoiled child, the hard way it is, then.”

  Hillary slammed the sandwich down on the plate and walked back to the butcher block. She pulled out the long carving knife and the kitchen shears, with its razor-sharp alloy steel blades. Enraged, she walked back to her weeping, shivering, pathetic mother.

  “Now, you’re sure you wanna do this the hard way?” Hillary shouted, offering her mother one last chance to cooperate—showing unprecedented patience and compassion. She, herself, was taken aback by her hesitation. Her mother’s stubbornness dissipated any lingering traces of humanity she was at least temporarily willing to bestow.

  Placing the carving knife on the table near the dish, Hillary placed her fingers within the handle of the scissor and parted the blades. She pulled her mother’s left hand over to her. Her mother gasped through her tightly shut mouth. Her eyes remained closed. She could feel the sharpness of the steel blade on her frail, little pinky finger. The next moment was sheer agony.

  Her eyes and mouth no longer closed, she screamed out in pain as she glanced down at her severed finger. Hillary had clipped the tip of it completely off, right at the base of the nail. The pain was intolerable, excruciating—far worse than what she had experienced having her arms shredded.

  Hillary grabbed the next finger. Before her mother could beg for her to stop or attempt to pull her hand away, she began clipping the tip off. Being quite a bit thicker than the pinky, it took a greater effort to break through. Each twist and snip made her mother shriek, the intense pain registering in her brain like a hot, burning lightning storm. She wouldn’t be able to tolerate much more.

  With her wailing mouth wide open, Hillary grabbed the sandwich and shoved it into her mother’s mouth.

  “Bite it,” she demanded loudly, through gritted teeth. It sounded like a baneful, raspy whisper to her mother who was in such pain she complied, hoping that Hillary would stop hurting her. She tried not to think about what was in her mouth. The pain provided a good distraction.

  “Now chew!” Hillary commanded.

  It was hard enough having the vile meat in her mouth, but now she had to chew it. She couldn’t...she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. It brought back too many horrid memories of when...of when....

  Her mother hurled up the remains of her stomach along with the small piece of sandwich that had been housed over her tongue.

  “You idiot!” Hillary shouted, grabbing the carving knife from the table. All humanity was lost.

  Her mother didn’t feel the first stab, but felt the sharp, piercing pain of the subsequent fourteen. The fifteenth through twenty-second jabs penetrated her mother’s dead,
desecrated body.

  When she was done, Hillary did something she never did after a kill: she cried. She dropped the knife to the floor, flung her body upon her mother’s bloody mass and sobbed and sobbed.

  “You never said sorry…” she wept, “you never even said soorrrrry....”

  A few minutes later, she pulled herself together. She walked upstairs to what used to be her old room. She suppressed the urge to cry again, seeing everything just the way she remembered it. Her once beloved teddy bear was slumped over her pillow, smiling up at her as if greeting an old friend. Hillary pulled off the blood-stained cotton dress she was wearing and flung it over the bear, covering it up. There was no time for nostalgia, no time for regrets.

  She walked into the bathroom and took a nice, long shower. The warm water felt good running down her body. She massaged the shampoo in her hair, spreading the lather to the tips of her long hair. She took her time cleaning every inch of her body, as if trying to wash away her sins. At last, she rinsed off and pulled on a robe that was hanging on a hook—her mother’s robe. She wrapped herself in the plush material and used a towel to dry her face and wrap her hair.

  She walked to her bedroom to find some clothes to wear. In her closet and dresser drawers her clothes were neatly hung and folded. She wondered why her mother had saved all of her belongings. She had dried her face, yet it was wet again...with her tears.

  Angrily, she pulled the towel off her hair and wiped up her tears, swearing to herself that it would be the last time she cried. Why should she be upset? No one ever gave a damn about her.

  She chose some clothes, dressed quickly and ran downstairs, straight to the shopping bag in the foyer. She turned it over, spilling the contents onto the floor and sorting through them until she found what she was looking for.

  A smile joining the crazed expression on her face, she studied the piece of paper, reading it over and over again:

  Lt. Alan Langford

  4238 Washington Ave.

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Hillary didn’t know whether this was his home address or a business address, but it didn’t matter. She also had his phone number on Dr. Morrison’s phone. One way or another, she would find him. She would find him and repay his kindness.