Hillary_Tail of the Dog (24 page)

“
Shhhh,
” she replied, turning her attention back to the squirming, horrified woman. “You look like you’ve aged ten years,” she exclaimed. “Really, you’re a mess. No wonder your husband wanted me instead.”

Monica sobbed loudly. She slumped to the side to bury her face toward the floor. Hillary grabbed a handful of her thick hair and yanked it hard. Monica lifted her head toward Hillary to ease the tension, though it did little to ease the burning within her scalp. She faced Hillary, trembling, trying to hide behind her bound hands.

“
Pleeeaassse
,” she whimpered softly, “
please don’t do this....
”

Her cries went just as ignored as the mournful pleas from the two doctors whose throats were growing raw from their constant yelling. They both knew that there was no way to stop Hillary but they couldn’t bring themselves to wait idly by in silence. They both looked appalled. Monica wasn’t the only one who had aged in mere minutes.

Hillary held the lid tightly between her fingers as she scraped the edge of it against Monica’s jaw line, starting just below her ear lobe. Monica screamed in pain and fought to pull her head away, but Hillary still had her hair clumped within her other hand all the way up to the roots. She had a firm grasp of Monica’s head and the more Monica struggled, the deeper she scraped the sharp, jagged edge of lid into her flesh. She hummed eerily as she finished tracing Monica’s jaw line, blood dripping down Monica’s neck and throat, soaking the front of her blouse.

Monica was crying hysterically, her knees clapping together as much as the duct tape allowed. Her lips trembled and her eyes were closed. Every so often she uttered an inaudible, incomprehensible word. Hillary wondered if she were praying to her God, her maker, whom she would meet soon enough.

Hillary glanced at Dr. Morrison. His fists were clenched and his remaining eye bulged in horror. He was begging Hillary to stop, promising that he wouldn’t turn her in, promising her money, promising her anything she desired, practically promising away his soul.

Dr. Bentley was now silent, having given up his futile attempts to dissuade Hillary’s actions. He, too, looked horrified as he stared at Monica suffering on the floor. His teary eyes were full of both pity and fear.

Hillary was pleased. It was the start of a good day. A very,
very
good day indeed. She turned her attention back to Monica who was half moaning, half whimpering. She dropped the lid and stuck three of her fingers within the open, bleeding wound just under Monica’s chin. Monica screamed, feeling her skin tear as Hillary’s fingers sunk deeper and deeper under her flesh, pulling...tugging...lifting. The pain was so intense, she thought that she would just pass out. She prayed that she would. She broke out in a sweat and felt feverish.

She could hear a sickening wet, smacking sound, the sound of her flesh stretching over Hillary’s fingers, breaking free from nerves and muscles. Hillary pulled her bloody fingers free and lifted Monica’s sagging skin up to her nose, allowed it to fall, then lifted it up again, playing a sick game while Monica moaned steadily. When she grew tired of flapping Monica’s skin, Hillary shoved her fingers back under and pulled even harder, more ferociously.

It might have been the pain or perhaps Monica was too much in shock, but she had not yet realized what Hillary was doing. Dr. Morrison and Dr. Bentley did know, however, as they stared over in sheer disbelief, horror and disgust, unable to utter a word. They watched from where they were, eyes wide open, mouths agape. Hillary was prying the skin off Monica’s face, peeling it off like a mask.

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 chicken 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.