Dis-Membered Read online

  They didn’t go far. She blinked as the man turned on a fluorescent light fixture—a buzz sound emanating from it. Her eyes widened at the collections of mannequins in front of her. They were posed and clothed in different ways. A pair sat at a table set up for tea, complete with princess china and plastic scones.

  The man watched her with a keen eye. “You like them? I made them.” Atty was not sure what she was supposed to think or do, not that she could, so she sat there like a log. A useless log. With a pursed expression, he took off the sorting hat to rub at his receding hairline. His gaze caught on her legs, and he dropped the hat behind her. Dropping to his knees, he picked up her leg—his gaze roamed the length. His hand soon followed. “Just like them,” he whispered in a thick voice.

  His eyes darkened. Dropping her leg with no care, he stood abruptly. Atty jerked from the astonishment of his sudden mood change.

  He smoothed a hand down a mannequin leg. Foreboding zipped down her arms resulting in gooseflesh.

  Atty’s eyes caught the peepers of a mannequin after noticing, for the first time, the exact same IV tubes. The mannequin blinked and moaned. Atty screamed, but abruptly choked up as her stomach released thin bile onto her lap.

  She woke up again to the feel of slick hands massaging her. Moaning, she watched as he rubbed a thick oil onto her naked body.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He never looked into her eyes as his gaze followed his hands in only what Atty would call wonderment. Her stomach churned, but nothing ever came up. She supposed by the noise she made he figured it out. “Nausea medicine to keep you from vomiting again,” he stated, meeting her gaze. Displeasure lurked in his eyes as he scrunched his face in revulsion. She supposed he didn’t like cleaning puke. Atty couldn’t describe what it was like to have him rubbing her most intimate parts only to come apart at his fingertips.

  After he finished his game, he worked his way around the room for a while. Upon his return, he held up a bag from her bedside. He grinned as she caught sight of her bright yellow urine. He flicked her toe before changing out the bag. “Healthy woman. Your skin will be glowing in a week’s time.”

  A week? Atty could not help the silent tears rolling down her face.

  This became a routine of sorts. Weeks passed. She didn’t know what time of day he came around, but when he wasn’t, she’d listen to the persistent scratch and the muted moans of the mannequins. They were so soft, the sounds could be mistaken for wood settling.

  Her body grew a body clock around the man. When it was time, the man came in and went straight to the door, going down the stairs. Atty supposed it was a supply closet, or maybe more mannequins, she didn’t know. One time she heard quite a commotion of metallic banging, and the man screaming with rage that vibrated the floor beneath her. It took some time for him to come back up, but when he did, he acted as if nothing had happened.

  What she did know was her fate would be the same of the mannequins. She hoped to deter him with her moans of pleasure and her eyes, but he never relented to her wiles and still seemed gratified in her responses. After he finished moisturizing her skin, he’d all but worship her and bring her to a peak—sometimes quickly, but other times more slow and teasing. She found herself resenting and looking forward to it at the same time. Then he’d move her to a sitting position and go around the room for a time changing catheter and IV bags.

  Even as she grew fond of his veneration, she also started to know the noises of the mannequins and what they meant. This was a strange feeling, almost like they had a language of their own. It grew comforting in the times the man wasn’t there.

  It came to be that time was irrelevant. Atty supposed this was what the man wanted, and as long as he was pleased, she was content for the time being. Atty knew he wouldn’t kill her. He hadn’t hurt her in anyway, hadn’t raped her, and in a sense treated her as if his queen. The only thing that mattered was keeping the man happy while she waited for an opening of some kind. Yes, the little bit of hope was still there, especially at times when the faces of her family flipped through her mind.

  Then everything changed. One day the man came in and set up video equipment. Sounds came from the mannequins all at once as if they knew what was coming. They were muffled sounds of contained excitement. Her lower regions clenched and grew warm in anticipation.

  Her stomach and heart plummeted when the man completely ignored her. Not even looking at her. Not one word of admiration. She gave out a sound of dissatisfaction at the abrupt change in schedule, but when he didn’t respond, she quieted down to wait. He’d get to her eventually.

  She watched as he had tea with the tea party, talking to them in a one-sided conversation, but paused as if they were speaking back to him. He turned on music and danced with the standing mannequins that stood on rolling stands, whispering in their ears as if they were lovers. He’d chuckle seductively as if they whispered something naughty and funny at the same time. Holding a camera, he recorded them as he brought them all to peak one by one while Atty watched with open fury and agony.

  After a time, he paused and gazed lovingly at Atty. “You’ll be the best yet.”

  After his praise, a series of groans ensued. Atty soared to a new height she didn’t think possible of this situation, even though he did not come near her. He smiled at her and returned his attention to the other mannequins.

  With revelation, Atty realized the women trapped in this hell loved his attention and couldn’t bear having him admire her. Her stomach churned and she convinced herself she would not come to love him, but from her own reactions, maybe she already did. She couldn’t believe it. No. Not possible. She was only trying to find a way to escape, wasn’t she? Biding her time?

  With certain apprehension and despair, she watched them for hours. He finally drew near, only to change her bags and leave.

  ***

  The next day, after a long night of silence with the exception of the scratch, which she now believed was a rat, the man was attentive to her and only her.

  “I believe you’re ready, Atty.” The mannequins let out soft wails almost like mockery. “Shh!” he hushed them. “She’ll be better than you all.” Even her heart constricted at the scorn. With that statement, he wheeled in a massive stainless pot. Stream rose from the contents. The man fiddled with her IVs, and she felt a huge fog pull her over. He began to arrange her legs as if she was sitting and placed two-by-fours underneath her like a chair. He then moved one of her arms—one behind her neck, the other placed across her stomach.

  Of course, she could do nothing as he paced, his gaze never leaving the positioning of her limbs. He stopped and blew out a breath, “This is going to be a challenge. I’ll need to save that arm for last.”

  He sat on his wheeled stool, wiggling his fingers in latex gloves. She felt herself cringe at the snap they made on his wrists. “This will be warm, but I promise to make you as comfortable as possible.” His gloved hand caressed her bent knees. “The first coat will be the worst.”

  She stared at the ceiling as he rubbed hot liquid into her skin, starting at her feet. It was more like a scrubbing motion. Thick saliva caught in her throat like a bubble as tears streamed from her eyes. It was happening and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  After a few hours, he was at her thighs when the fog began to lift and she could feel the tautness of her skin on her toes, feet, and calves. The stiffness grew worse by the minute almost crawling up her knees and thighs as the concoction dried. Her breathing picked up and came out in harsh pants as her pulse pounded in her ears. It took the man a few moments, but he noticed, rolling to the IV machine. In a second, her lids grew heavy and nothing.

  ***

  Atty woke to harsh sobbing. Now, she was in a standing position and could look about the whole room without moving her head. She supposed he did this on purpose. Her body felt as if contained in a thick body cast, but the look of her skin glowed with a sheen. Just like the mannequins. She was wrapped around a pole of so
me type. The sobbing grew louder and she found the man on his knees in front of the tea party. His face was in the lap of a mannequin as his shoulders wracked his entire body. Mournful sounds came from the others. Atty herself felt mournful as she watched the man in his grief.

  Days came to pass and the man seemed lost. He did nothing but change bags once a day, give Atty another coat of clear wax and leave again. No going downstairs. No words. No admiration. No pleasure. His eyes were in a faraway place. Atty’s body ached, not only from the newness of her stiff posture, but from the lack of attention she’d grown used to. Only one thing remained the same—that goddamned rat.

  Atty was in a state of nothing. Nothing remained. Not one shred of hope. Not even hope of attention from the man as he came and went—until a screeching noise brought her attention to the downstairs door. It crashed open, and Atty could not believe what she was seeing. The others made noises of astonishment as well.

  A woman stood there. Frozen, wide-eyed, gagged—deranged. Her long, dark hair was nothing but a tuff of tangles. She bled from her red wrists. Filth covered her feet and clothing—a yellow sundress that hung from her bones. Bruises marred her sunken cheeks and kneecaps that shook as the young woman took in the scene before her. Finally, the woman unbuckled the gag around her face. It dropped to the floor as she neared the closest mannequin, which happened to be Atty. The woman’s trembling hand reached out and touched Atty’s arm secured around the pole. Atty groaned, and the woman jumped back.

  “Shit!” Her voice was hoarse. Resentment flowed through Atty. The man kept this woman? What was he doing with her? How long was she down there? And now that Atty thought about it, the man hadn’t been to see her in days. Atty stared at the preconceived rat and wanted nothing more than to throttle her as jealousy took over her emotions.

  Upon gazing at the other mannequins, the woman moved into action. One by one, looking at them all closely. She stopped at the dead one, bending to have a closer look. When she reached out to touch it, the plastic arm holding its position gave way and the mannequin fell forward. The woman startled backwards, wrapping her hand over her nose and mouth as if she could smell the death. The woman gagged, throwing up yellow fluid.

  An enraged sound filled the air, coming from somewhere near. Atty watched as the woman panicked, looking around. Atty’s own heart was in her throat, threatening to bust out of the casing she was enclosed in.

  The woman rummaged through drawers quickly as heavy stomps came closer to the outer door. She hunched behind where the door would open in a squat. The door slammed open, momentarily stealing Atty’s view of the woman. The man looked around. His gaze took in the open downstairs door, the fallen mannequin and then the rest of them.

  “Annnnie ... You’re not where you’re supposed to be,” he said, talking calmly, but emotion brought out his accent thicker. “You’ll have to forgive me for being neglectful. You hungry?” His tone was consoling and regretful. Atty knew she’d do whatever he wanted if she was the woman.

  He took a tentative step forward, and the woman dove at his feet slashing at him. Blood spurted from the backs of his ankles. He cried out, falling to the floor. The woman didn’t waste time, pouncing, rolling him over and straddling him. She grabbed his throat with one hand and raised the other. Atty noticed a scalpel in it and let out a sound of agony even as a bit of satisfaction flowed through her.

  The man let out a choke and grabbed at the woman—grabbing her face, her hair, but she ignored it. She slashed down one arm and then the other, but his flailing made her attempts harder. Eventually, his arms rendered useless at his sides—sliced up—as blood pooled around them both. The man grew weak with blood loss and the woman tossed the scalpel, wrapping both her hands around his neck. Tears of sorrow streamed down Atty’s face, even though she could not feel them. With a purple face, the man gagged for air. The woman hocked a spit into his face and let him take a ragged breath, bringing a little color back into his face. Then her shoulder blades shifted as she put more pressure on his air passage. As the man let out a silent open-mouthed gag, the woman laughed and leaned back a little. He coughed, “Please.”

  The woman cackled again. “Go to hell.” Her hands grabbed his neck, and the next sound that burst from him was his last.

  Silence became thick in the room before muffled sobs came from the mannequins, including Atty. The woman stayed straddled across the man, staring down at him as if to commit the sight to memory.

  After an eternity, she stood, glancing around the room in a shock-like state. She walked out and Atty could only hope help was coming.

  She waited.

  They waited in quiet.

  Minutes passed. A half hour. Then she smelled it—smoke. It started to fill the room rapidly as flames licked inside the doorway at the ceiling.

  Atty knew what was coming. She could only hope the wax didn’t prolong the pain she would endure. As more tears leaked from her eyes, she knew she was going to hell right along with him.

  *~*~*

  Author of dark fantasy and sub-genres of horror. Voracious Reader and Googler. Lover of Dark Humor. Horror Buff. Zombie Apocalypse Enthusiast. Amateur Photographer and Graphic Designer. Artist. Cake baker and decorator. Earning a BA in English concentrating in writing. Mommy. Wife. Friend. Well, yeah, I'm one crafty bitch.

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  Sing Me the Blues

  Julie Watts

  How did we get to this place? Anabelle wondered as she sprinkled the crystals, sifting them through her fingertips, so they evenly covered the pizza slice—Papa John’s, double bacon and cheese pizza, with onions and roma tomatoes. Woody’s favorite. She loved Woody, loved him enough to do this.

  Standing at the sink, she scrubbed her hands, washing away all traces of the poison. She let the warm water run over her fingers, arthritic fingers that only yesterday fumbled with her front door key while the phone inside rang …

  ~*~

  As she tried to insert the key into the lock, the phone rang for the third time. Darn that Woody, if he would just give a little. She watched other people on their cell phones, taking calls, anywhere and everywhere. He didn’t even want an answering machine. He said he liked his privacy. Finally, the key slipped in and she twisted the lock open, just as the phone finished the fifth ring. Most people didn’t wait beyond six rings, and the thought made her hurry just a little, not bothering to remove her snow boots, before trudging down the hall. She picked up just before the eighth ring, hoping ‘whoever it was’ would still be there.

  “Hello.” It came out in a rush. She half listened to the voice at the other end as a hot flash kicked in full force and she worked at the buttons of her coat with gloved fingers. “Yes, Doctor Cummings, this is Annabelle. “ Unable to get the first button undone, she dropped her purse to the floor and pulled off the gloves. “Yes, I’m here,” she settled the handset between her ear and shoulder as she worked at the buttons. “Yes, I’ve been anxious about the test results since I saw you … They were all ok? Just menopause?” … Only a man could refer to it as ‘just menopause’, she thought, as she pulled the coat open. “But, it’s been going on for four years now… Yes, that’s a relief, I was sure it was something more serious.” Her voice warmed a little as some of the tension left it. “Thank you so much for calling.”

  She started back down the entry, hoping to get her boots off before she made too big of mess from the clinging snow. After three steps, she sighed and turned back to answer the phone a second time. “Hello? Yes, this is Annabelle, Woodrow’s wife. Oh, hello, Doctor Hornbeck. I’m sorry, Woody’s still at the station. Were you calling about the results of his last tests?” She picked up her gloves from the table and fanned herself. “Has the chemo done any good?” She stopped fanning. “I see,” the corners of her mouth drooped as her face paled
and went slack. “I see… yes, I understand. You went over that possibility when we were there. And there is no chance … no chance of a mistake?” She dropped down onto the edge of the chair and slumped against the back. “I see … yes, if you’d like to call back later and discuss this with Woody, I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Thank you. Yes, goodbye.” Annabelle missed twice before she got the handset back into place.

  She was still sitting by the phone, when she heard the jingle of Woody’s keys, and the sound of the front door opening. Straightening up in the chair, she wiped at her eyes and sucked air deep into her lungs. She tried to smile, but the result was not convincing.

  “Hey, Sugar.” Woody strolled up the hall, slowing as he neared. “Annabelle, what’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” she asked, then followed his gaze to her boots. They were swimming in a puddle of melted snow. “Oh, dear. I ran in to catch the phone. The doctor called …”

  “What did he say?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Woody. It’s not good.”

  He supported himself with a hand on the table, his knees creaking as he knelt beside her. “Ah, my sweet Annabelle.” He pulled her against him and held her tight. “We’ll get through this. We always do, don’t we?” Placing a finger under her chin, he lifted her face to his, leaning a little to look into her eyes. I love you, baby. I always have, always will.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “No matter what.”

  “I know,” she sniffed and tried to smile as she caressed his lips with her fingertip.

  Woodrow covered her hand and kissed her finger. “Now, why don’t you go take off those boots. I’ll get the mop.”