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As always, everything included on my blog and posts are © Lisa Vasquez and may not be reposted or used anywhere without my written consent. 

 

“Your Mistress says I may have my way with you,” Fay tucked the letter back into the envelope. Letting her eyes take in the solid frame of the man standing in front of her, she tossed her invitation onto the side table. The man stood there, unmoving, obedient and loyal. Let’s test the extent of his loyalty, she thought to herself. He towered over her by at least a foot, and the wingspan of his “V” shaped lats, tapered into aslim waist making him quite appealing.

“Turn around,” she whispered, shrugging her robe off one shoulder.

The man complied. His face gave nothing away, but she could see the subtle flare of his nostrils, taking in the scent of her. His pupils expanded, and his thousand-yard stare came into focus.

“Take me.”

His rigid, military posture crumbled, and he lunged forward until his body was pressed against hers. Scooping her up, he pulled Fay’s legs around his waist and threw her against the wall. The lamp teetered on top of the dresser next to them as they assaulted one another with unbridled lust.

Hours later, she was staring into his eyes, pupils fixed and dilated.

“It’s time for Cinderella to get ready for the ball.”

Rolling across him, she let her fingers lace with his. As she slid off the bed, she pulled him toward the edge until he fell. When his skull hit the cement floor beneath the five-star carpet, there was a crunch as the bone fractured. Fay continued to pull until she had him splayed across the plastic. Standing over him, she pressed her hands to her hips. The image of her naked body staring back at her in the mirror, she contemplated how to dispose of the body. Glancing at the watch on the messenger’s wrist, she could see she had less than five hours before she would meet up with the woman who called herself, “O”.

Madrigals, Book 10

The door to Fay’s room opened and she hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign from the handle outside. Shutting it, she reached up and engaged the hotel lock to deter anyone from interrupting her work. She walked back to the bed and stared down at the tools set out against a black latex blanket. It was time to tune the world out and begin.

Pinching the earbud which dangled from around her neck, she placed them into her ear canals. Reaching into her belt, she pulled out her IPod and selected a piece. Thumbing her finger over the touchscreen, she raised the volume to max. When the first note began, she closed her eyes, allowing her head to tilt back. This was her safe place.

Lowering her chin, her eyes opened again. She opened up her black medical bag and removed a syringe along with a small vial. Sinking the needle into the tiny bottle, she tipped both upward and pulled on the plunger until it was full. Replacing the vial, she set the syringe on a tray. She needed to select her tools. Gloved fingers passed over each stainless steel piece until she came to the bone cutter. Lifting the twelve inch blade, she examined it for balance as she would any of her daggers or knives. They say, “diamonds are a girl’s best friend” but nothing compared to the glint of light off steel, for her.

Fay smiled.

“This will do, nicely.”

To the sound of the soprano’s gentle song in her ears, she continued to select her tools: a scalpel, toothed forceps, spinal cord remover, and scissors. She would have to work fast, now. The smell of ammonia would cause alarm in the neighboring rooms. With a flip of the exhaust fan switch, Fay slid her mask on with the 3M filters and protective eyewear.

With her tray in hand, she stood at the bathroom door and smiled at the messenger who was upside down, rigged over the shower. The incision to his jugular drained the blood from his body, and he was a beautiful shade of death. The top of his skull had already been removed, and his brain, along with several other organs, were neatly sliced. Each was individually sealed and placed into the cooler, which was sitting on the bathroom counter.

As the music carried through the earbuds, a chorus signaled it was her cue to begin:

Languisce al fin chi dalla vita parte
e di morte il dolore
l’affligge sì che in crude pene more.
Ahi, che quello son io,
dolcissimo cor mio,
che da voi parto e, per mia crudel sorte,
la vita lascio e me ne vado a morte.

Yes, she thought between the slow, melody of words, He who is departing this life now languishes. The translation of the words touched a deep part of her. Someplace buried in the halls of her psyche where empathy went to die.

Fay placed the tray next to the cooler, and faced the shower with the hanging messenger. Bending over, she popped the cap off of the ammonia bottle and picked up the sponge next to it. Tipping the bottle, she saturated the sponge and began to wipe down the body until he was clean. It was at this stage she allowed herself to envision the finale. Killing was not only a duty, it was an honor. An honor she took as serious as every art form she was forced to master. Arranging the bodies was no different to her than arranging her orchids or shaping her bonsai trees.

“The instruction shows the way and the method,” her handler would say to her, reciting an old Proverb, “The vision is the work of one who has wished to see.”

With her scalpel in hand, Fay’s vision came. With a well-trained hand, she pressed the tip of the butterfly scalpel into the skin and slid it into a downward curve, peeling a piece of the back away from the fascia.  Using only wire and twine, she attached the flap into the position of a wing and sewed it to the messenger’s arm. She moved to the other side and repeated the flaying of skin, careful to keep the same length and thickness. Symmetry needed to be achieved for this piece to be acceptable. What blood was left in the male’s body trickled down creating its own natural pattern. Beautiful chaos, she mused as her hand slid the second flap of skin into place.

Fay took a step back and tipped her head. A few steps to the left, then to the right, and she began again. This time, she brought her scalpel to the outer thigh. She needed to be more careful with this area, so the skin did not tear.

“It’s ok,” she whispered, “I’m patient.”

Sliding her other hand underneath the skin as she cut, she felt the sticky pull as it was separated. The messenger was physically fit, so part of the challenge was knowing there was only a small layer of subcutaneous fat to work with. When she worked the skin apart from the thigh, she used the twine again. The wing she created from his back, was stretched gently until she was able to fasten it to the left thigh.

“Beautiful,” she said, standing back, again.