(FAIR WARNING: This is the third installment of my graphic short horror series. It is by far the goriest piece I’ve ever written. If gore and depravity disturb you, do not read it. Stephen King once said that when he writes, he goes down into his own mental “basement” to create horror. In writing this, his meaning has become exceptionally clear to me. I think I need a shower and a shot after writing this.)
3.
Clarissa was restless.
Her superiority complex had increased in the past month. Too many thoughts, too much interest and not enough outlets left Clarissa in a state of aching impatience.
It seemed that any effort to alleviate her mood lead only to annoyance. Conversation exhausted her. If people weren’t shocked by Clarissa, then they were in awe of her, and neither was satisfactory. She craved a match to her presence, a mutual intelligence or shared experience that might somehow excite her.
She found only endless prattle and a lack of common sense that made it far too easy to bend people to her will. But mental manipulation held limited amusement to her now, and consequently, Clarissa spent much of her time in silence.
And that was why the girl on the table before her now was mostly unconscious.
Clarissa was disgusted at how easy it was. The girl had responded to Clarissa’s online advertisement for a partner in “blood play” and shown up at the agreed meeting place wearing fangs and a cape. Clarissa ingested her laughter.
She believed that anyone who would meet a stranger in a dark bar earned their fate, and felt no remorse about stirring crushed Rohypnol into the girl’s drink. Her research proved accurate, and Clarissa was ready to escort the wannabe vampire home when her head lolled to the side 20 minutes later.
The restraints probably weren’t necessary, Clarissa realized. Her plaything was agreeable and limp, fazing in and out of consciousness. She didn’t even seem to register the blade of Clarissa’s scalpel biting into the flesh of her right breast, which was a slight disappointment, but made tracing the rings she’d outlined somewhat easier.
Scarification is indeed a labor of love, and Clarissa made a concentrated effort to open the skin shallowly at first. She had opted to scar each of the girl’s breasts with a bullseye, leaving the nipples intact at the center. Her breasts were large enough for Clarissa to cut two circular rings around each. She especially enjoyed the initial cutting of each circle; liked the smooth sensation of her scalpel tearing into the curve and underside of the breast.
It was curious to her how there was such a distinction to each layer of skin. It was all the more obvious when she started to peel small sections of it away from the circles she’d traced. Methodically, Clarissa used the blade of her scalpel to separate the layer of tissue, then lift a corner with her hemostats to peel the flesh away. She developed a rhythm to it: cut, lift, pull, cut, lift, pull, cut, lift pull. There was a catharsis to it, and she paused only to blot the bright red blood that ran from the wounds.
She worked to remove small strips of flesh at a time; she knew that if she tried to remove too large a section, the wound would be too deep and would heal unevenly. Though she doubted that when awake the girl would treat the open wounds with the correct care to ensure a perfect scar, she felt obliged to work meticulously nonetheless.
Clarissa quickly built a small pile of removed, bloody flesh on the tray beside her. Had she more time, she would have been tempted to dip her fingers into it, maybe squeeze pieces of skin between her fingertips. She admitted to herself that she might even like to place a piece between her teeth – not to eat, but to experience the texture, discover its resistance and consistency.
It was unfortunate when Clarissa completed her designs. Her sense of accomplishment was so strong she could practically hear it. The fresh wounds were vibrant and shiny red, the product of intelligent attention and skill. They were perfect, and Clarissa was proud. It was only too bad she didn’t have more time to decorate her girl further.
Clarissa encased the girl’s breasts and chest with Vaseline-coated plastic wrap. It was a simple way to keep the wounds clean and reasonably moist, without affecting the design. She dressed the girl again, dropped her into a wheelchair, and rolled her out to her car. Clarissa knew she had limited time to return the girl to their initial meeting place.
The bright light of the sun woke the girl later. She found herself seated in the front seat of her own car with an uneasy recollection of a strong bright light, similar to the blinding light over an operating table. A thick fog clouded her senses; she wasn’t sure where she was, what had happened, or what was real.
It wasn’t until she took a deep breath that the pain gripped her. Stinging, burning pain ripped through her like evil. She tore off her clothing, revealing her wrapped chest, bulging with blood like a vicious blister. The open weal s around each breast throbbed and oozed, and the girl began to scream.
Clarissa, miles away and cleaning her Room, paused in her work for a moment. She bristled, smiled, and for a moment, felt satisfied.
