Hillary_Tail of the Dog (25 page)

Dr. Bentley shrieked nearly as loudly. So much for his theory of ignoring her. He couldn’t help it. He had glanced over when he heard Monica’s sharp outcry. The peroxide had turned her bright red face white as it killed her remaining facial cells. Her face looked like an oversized oozing, gangrenous blister, festering slowly before his eyes. Would he meet the same fate? Perhaps worse. His body shook uncontrollably as he wailed aloud.

Monica’s bulging anguished eyes stared over at Dr. Morrison, begging for him to end the pain. The sight of Monica’s foamy, faceless head stole the breath from his lungs. He squeezed his only eye shut, trying desperately to heed Dr. Bentley’s advice.
Ignore it all, ignore it all,
he chanted to himself. He couldn’t bear to see Monica suffer any longer. He could close his eye, but it did nothing to keep the monstrous image from haunting his mind, and nothing to drown out Monica’s distraught, tortured bellowing. He opened his eye. Tears blurred his vision, but he could see that Monica’s eyes had narrowed. A blank expression seized her face. She was no longer begging for his help...she had given up.

Hillary rocked back and forth, back and forth, humming along to the cacophony of screams and cries, enjoying the symphony of suffering. For her, it was as sweet and melodic as a lullaby.

~16~

After the noise had greatly subsided, Hillary gathered the items she had on the floor and walked back to the shopping bag. She had grown bored with Monica, who kept lapsing in and out of consciousness. It was time to finish her off and turn her attention to Dr. Morrison. She had waited very patiently and was incredibly eager to get started on all of the fun things she had planned for him.

Indecisively, she kept pulling out knives, only to return them to the bag. Finally, she settled on the same knife she had selected before: the one with the large, sharp serrated blade. She placed it on the floor beside her along with a long, thick Phillips-head screwdriver, a straw, the wire hanger, and the tweezers. Hillary picked up the knife and walked over to Monica. Without warning, she plunged it into Monica’s lower abdomen, slicing away madly from side to side.

Monica screamed as the pain assaulted her, awakening her from the catatonic state she had succumbed to just moments before. Hillary didn’t stop at Monica’s abdomen. She slashed her bare arms and shoulder then stabbed her thighs multiple times, pounding the knife deep into the muscles. For good measure, Hillary sliced around what was left of the tissues and membranes covering Monica’s skull.

Monica was in agonizing pain, but she lacked the strength to scream out. Instead, she whimpered and moaned. A shrill, distressed screeching sound escaped from her mouth a few times, but died down quickly.

Hillary dropped the knife on the floor beside her. It made a loud sound as it hit the blood-soaked hardwood floor. Kneeling over Monica, she leaned forward to examine and admire her handiwork. She planted a soft kiss on Monica’s desecrated left cheek. She could feel—and see—Monica’s cheekbone partially jutting out through what little remained of her tissues.

Finding this gesture both odd and disturbing, Monica opened her eyes to look at Hillary. There was blood—her blood—in Hillary’s hair, all over her hands and spattered on her face.

My dress is ruined
, Monica thought as she felt a final pain within her abdomen, a deep cramping feeling followed by the sickening feeling of her innards being ripped out, tugged, pulled and stretched. She was bleeding profusely and barely caught a glimpse of her entrails before slipping into an eternal sleep. Her body convulsed only briefly then lay motionless on the floor beside Hillary.

Dr. Morrison, who had been numb from the atrocities he witnessed, cried out in anguish.

“
Nooooo
,” he sobbed pitifully. He was overcome with sadness and guilt.

“You know,” Hillary said flatly, “the human intestines can stretch about thirty feet or so...I’ve seen it. I bet Monica’s intestine can stretch across this whole room...or at least over to where you are....”

Now Dr. Morrison was overcome with fear, too. His turn had begun.

Hillary held on to Monica’s intestines in both hands as she stood up and walked over to Dr. Morrison, dragging the entrails along behind her.

“
No, no, no,
” Dr. Morrison begged, shaking his head wildly as Hillary approached.

“C’mon Pat, get a grip, you’re a doctor—a
surgeon
—you’ve had your hands in worse things, don’t think about it, Pat, you have to stay strong, just—”

“Shut the hell up!” Hillary screamed, turning to glare at him with menacing eyes.

If Dr. Morrison heard any of Dr. Bentley’s pep talk he gave no indication of it. He continued falling apart, shaking like a leaf as he stared at Monica’s moist, bloodied, thick intestines less than two feet away from him in Hillary’s arms. It trailed along the foot of the bed, snaking over his right leg.

“Pat, don’t think about it, don’t think—”

Before Dr. Bentley could finish his sentence, Hillary had Monica’s intestines wrapped around his neck. She walked behind him to tighten the slack around his neck. Dr. Bentley coughed then gagged as he struggled for air. He was completely helpless. Within seconds he grew lightheaded. He thought about Amber Skye, her beautiful bright blue eyes and golden curls, her sweet little voice calling out to him. He would never see her again, hold her, hug her, witness her milestones.

Hillary released her hold on him just as he was about to pass out. His eyes were full of tears as he went into a coughing fit. It took a few minutes for him to recover

“I like you,” Hillary said stoically, “and I always save the best for last. But if you interfere one more time, it’ll be your turn instead.”

Dr. Bentley heeded her warning, putting his head down as if his pride had been wounded. He knew it was only a matter of time before he became Hillary’s target. He cherished every second of life that remained. The thought of dying was too much to face. If there was any way to fight, he would do so fiercely, yet he couldn’t move his arms at all. He was entirely at Hillary’s mercy...which meant, of course, that he was doomed. There was no hope.

Dr. Morrison was still sobbing when Hillary walked back to his side, dragging along Monica’s entrails like a pet snake. There was a rank smell in the air, a cross between the pungent smell of slaughtered game and a filthy gas station restroom. Hillary held Monica’s intestines over Dr. Morrison’s face, tauntingly. He held his breath and shut his eye.

Dr. Morrison could feel the moist, slimy, membranous coiled mass upon his face. It took every ounce of concentration to keep from going mad. He convinced himself it wasn’t real, that it was just a fraternity gag. That’s all it was, a sick joke, using raw sausage links and...and...and, oh God, the
smell
.... He couldn’t hold his breath indefinitely. The revolting smell made his stomach lurch. His head jerked forward as he made a choked retching sound.

Hillary thought for sure he would vomit again, but nothing emerged from his mouth. His dry heaves continued a while longer as Hillary moved the viscera along his face, over his cheeks and forehead, then rested it over his mouth. This seemed to have the opposite effect that Hillary intended; it forced Dr. Morrison to calm down, as he didn’t want that
thing
in his mouth. He turned his head to the side. He could feel the weight of it on his cheek. All the while, Dr. Morrison’s eye remained tightly shut.

Then he grew angry. He knew that Hillary was just toying with him. She had killed—tortured—his wife in front of him and this was just an extension of that emotional persecution. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He owed it to Monica. Why should he scorn her? She had been so brave to the very end. He would not strip her death of dignity as Hillary had stripped her life of it.

Dr. Morrison opened his eye, turned his head to stare directly into Hillary’s eyes, opened his mouth wide and ran his tongue along the section of Monica’s intestines that was within its reach. After he withdrew his tongue, he smiled despite the overwhelming urge he had to throw up the lining of his stomach. His gesture had the desired effect.

Hillary looked shocked and bewildered. Though bound to the bed and completely immobilized, Dr. Morrison had managed to strike back at her. It was a harsh slap in the face. Hillary’s reaction made Dr. Morrison laugh aloud, just briefly though, until her face contorted with fury. Then his forlorn attempt at bravery came to an abrupt end. Hillary glared at him with cold, relentless eyes, letting him know that he would soon regret his actions.

Leaving Monica’s intestines sprawled across Dr. Morrison’s face, Hillary took a step back, turned and quickly walked over to the knife near Monica’s body. She snatched it up in a single wide sweeping motion and turned to walk back to Dr. Morrison. Dark crimson drops trailed behind her as she returned to his side.

Without saying a word, Hillary shoved the blade deep into Monica’s bulbous colon and sliced lengthwise down the serpentine mass to her rectum. Dr. Morrison held his breath, afraid to breathe for fear of being lanced by the knife. His first thought, when he saw her approaching with the knife, was that she was going to plunge it into his chest. Now, realizing what she intended to do, he preferred his first thought.

Dr. Bentley gagged on the smell that was released into the room. He fought hard to keep from vomiting. He tried to hold his breath, but inevitably had to inhale. The thought of inhaling, especially through his mouth, disgusted him, so he took short, shallow breaths through his nose. It didn’t help much at all.

Hillary, unbothered by either the smell or feel of Monica’s entrails and the contents therein, squeezed vigorously as if freeing sausage from its encasing. A foul smelling mixture of dark fecal matter, mucous and blood oozed out onto her fingers and settled upon Dr. Morrison’s chest. The repugnant stench became overpowering. Even Hillary scrunched up her nose, but still, she didn’t flinch as she scooped up the dark sludge and proceeded to smear it all over Dr. Morrison’s face. He shut his eyes and mouth as he shook his head from side to side in a vain attempt to thwart Hillary’s effort.

“Not so eager anymore, huh?” she asked sarcastically, as she continued masking his face with the vile, mud-like excrement.

The stench of Monica’s waste grew tenfold as it impacted his nostrils. He blew his nose fiercely, clearing his nasal passages. The stench remained nonetheless. He could feel the warm, thick substance clinging to his face, covering his lips...causing his stomach to lurch.

Dr. Bentley leaned his head forward and threw up noisily. Hearing him retch, Dr. Morrison could no longer contain himself. He, too, began throwing up what was left in him. The sour-tasting bile and stomach acid dripped down side of his mouth, over the fecal-blood clay that remained plastered to his face. Worse, the sudden movement of his head as he spewed caused a small amount of Monica’s waste to slip down into his mouth from above. Though he quickly shook his head to expel it, he caught a taste of the bitter, fetid substance, inducing violent heaves as he fought to rid his body of Monica’s waste.

Hillary smiled, pleased that she could reduce two grown men—two doctors, no less—to feeble, puking weaklings. The day was proceeding very nicely...very nicely, indeed. She had waited so long to exact her revenge on that creep, Dr. Morrison. He had tried his best to put up a brave front, but she knew it would be as brief as the amount of time he had left to live. She had fantasized about this day for so long and now her dream was being realized.

While Dr. Morrison was still heaving, Hillary shoved a handful of the bloody, mucous-covered stool deep into his mouth. Without thinking, he immediately shut his mouth, clamping his teeth down on her hand. She quickly wrenched her fingers free from his jaw and slapped him hard across his face. Her dirty hand left a dark brownish streak of smelly slime across his face.

“You bit me, you jerk!” Hillary shouted. He neither heard her nor felt the sting of her slap. Nor did he see her walk back to her bag full of toys. He was too busy gagging and ridding his mouth of its foul contents. He trembled as he thought of all the atrocities he had endured and wondered what else Hillary had in store for him.

When Hillary returned, she was brandishing the long screwdriver. She had a wicked smirk on her face. After Dr. Morrison had spit up every last trace of Monica’s waste from his mouth, he gathered his senses and faced Hillary, who was standing at the side of the bed looking down at him. The grin on her face warned him of impending pain and torture. His heart raced as new beads of sweat lined his hairline. He had always thought of himself as highly intelligent and imaginative, but never in his wildest dream could he fathom the horrors that awaited him. He eyed Hillary with immense revulsion. Her tangled hair was streaked with blood, as was Monica’s once-white dress. Her eyes raged with insanity. Seeing his fear made her smile spread wider.

“I was thinking about stabbing this screwdriver into your remaining eye and prying out that big, round eyeball of yours,” she said tauntingly, the latter part in a playful southern accent. Dr. Morrison cringed as the painful memories of losing his eye rushed to his mind.

“I might do that,” she said, “but not yet. I have something else in mind first.”

Dr. Morrison was visibly trembling, sweat dripping from his brows like misplaced tears. Hillary held the big screwdriver out over his head for him to see. Holding the handle with her thumb and index finger, Hillary ran the long shaft of the screwdriver along Dr. Morrison’s face, gently tracing the curves of his nose, cheeks, and jaw line as he held his breath anticipating the stabbing pain. She teased him this way for nearly a full minute, toying with him, knowing full-well that he expected to he stabbed. She could feel the stress radiating from his pores, from each labored breath he begrudgingly took.