Masters Of Horror Part 16

Lucinda sat in her-father's-now-her-car on Level B of the hospital's underground parking garage and stared into s.p.a.ce. I finally got my face and neck looking perfect. There nothing more that has to be done for another five years, and now I could get cancer and die? I don't think so! I've invested too much money in this perfect face to be dying anytime soon.

Lucinda firmly believed that there is a way out of every problem, and so she reclined her seat a bit and thought.

And it didn't take long before she had a solution.

A perfect solution.

As it turned out, her mother didn't have three days left to live, much less three months. She pa.s.sed peacefully, or so they told Lucinda. Her mother's body met the same fate as her father's even though she had specifically requested embalming and burial in her will. Lucinda rationalized that she'd want to be with her husband, and so it was the pine box and the pond for her, as well.

Between her mother's insurance policy and what was left of her father's, Lucinda had $65,000 to her name, as well as a house and a car. It was time to put her plan into action. She picked up the phone and dialed.

The next day, she met with a surgeon to discuss a double radical mastectomy.

"May I ask why you want this procedure if you don't have cancer? You're very young and this operation is most disfiguring."

"I have a predisposition to breast cancer, so I figure no b.r.e.a.s.t.s, no cancer. It's one less thing to worry about," Lucinda explained.

"Here, let me show you some photographs of post-mastectomy patients. You should know what you're asking for." He rolled open a file drawer, extracted a folder and handed it to her.

They didn't have the desired effect. The mutilated chests moved her not at all. "This doesn't bother me, doctor. I still want the procedure."

"May I ask why you are so worried about this at your age?"

"I have, over recent years, paid out approximately $150,000 in facial cosmetic surgery. I have no intention of dying of cancer now or for a long, long time and losing that investment."

"If that is your reason, then I must respectfully decline to perform this surgery."

"Okay. I'll keep looking until I find a doctor who will. You're certainly not the only one on my list. Good day."

Lucinda met with four more doctors before she found one who was glad to help her. The surgery was scheduled for that weekend, and went off without a hitch. Lucinda Parker, at age nineteen, had traded in her 34C b.r.e.a.s.t.s for two flat round ma.s.ses of b.u.mpy scar tissue.

And she was satisfied.

While recovering at home, she received the final bill for services rendered. This bill, added to the partial invoices already delivered, came to just over forty thousand dollars. That left her with fifteen thousand, a house, and a car. It also left her with two more procedures that had to be done ASAP.

While recovering, she applied for a second mortgage on the house. She was happy to discover that it was closer to being fully paid off than she had realized, and so had little trouble securing a six-figure equity line of credit, and no sooner was she fully recovered from the breast surgery than she was doctor-shopping the next.

"I understand that you want to schedule a complete hysterectomy. And it says here on your paperwork that you're, what, twenty years old?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Are you having problems with heavy bleeding? Cramping?"

"No, not at all. I have a predisposition for cancer, and if I have a complete hysterectomy, that eliminates three cancer possibilities. No uterus, no ovaries, no cervix, no cancer. It's three less things to worry about."

"That may be true, but do you realize that you will never be able to bear children after this operation?"

Lucinda sighed. "Doctor, with a face like this, do you really think I want to spend my time chasing children around? All kids give you is wrinkles and gray hair."

The doctor looked astonished. "My dear, you will not be able to avoid either of those things forever."

"With hair dye and plastic surgery, I'm d.a.m.ned well going to try. Now, will you be doing this procedure, or not?"

"'Not', young lady. I'm sure you know the way out."

This time it took twelve turn-downs before she located a willing surgeon, and the bills were much higher and the recovery time much longer and much harder. It took most of her loan to pay for the hysterectomy, and she still had one more expensive procedure to go.

What to do, what to do?

Well, she'd think about it-she had a month or two of convalescing to go through. She was sure to come up with something.

A knock at the door roused her from her thoughts. It was Charlie Foley, fifteen now and working at Harkin's Market delivering groceries to shut-ins.

"Hi, Lu. Here's your groceries." He strode in and set the box on the table. "See you."

"Hey, wait a minute! Where you off to in such a rush? I haven't seen you in ages."

"I've been around. Not my fault you haven't seen me. Though every time you come back from the hospital, you look and act so much less like you that I don't know who you are anymore."

"I'm still me, Charlie. Still the same old Lu who used to take you to the movies."

"I really miss the old Lu. The old Lu cared about people. The old Lu loved her parents and honored their wishes," Charlie said. "You're not her-not anymore."

"Oh, sure I am, Charlie. Please stay a while and talk. I get so lonely."

"How could you possibly be lonely, Lu? What happened? Your mirror break?" With that, her former knight in red sneakers shook his head and took his leave.

"How could he treat me like that? After all I did for him! Who the h.e.l.l does he think he is to say things like that to me? Me! Well, if that's the way he feels, good riddance, I say." Unconsciously, she reached for her hand mirror.

After a few weeks of weighing financial options, Lucinda finally came up with a foolproof way to cover her surgery costs, and get back at Charlie and his att.i.tude at the same time.

Once she was fully recovered, one Monday morning she walked to the end of the lane where the mailboxes were and waited in the tall gra.s.s.

It wasn't long before she heard Mr. Foley's pickup truck roaring down the narrow road. The final turn out of the lane was blind, so Lucinda stepped out into the road just before Mr. Foley rounded the corner.

When he appeared, she looked fearful and stepped slightly off to the left. The fender clipped her just where she had planned for it to-the right hip. She also didn't see any harm if some of her previous st.i.tches pulled out and added a little more blood to the mix.

She never expected a broken hip to hurt quite as much as it did, but as her father used to say, "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

Police and an ambulance were summoned and Lucinda played the incident for all it was worth.

And to make matters worse, poor Mr. Foley had whiskey on his breath. He had downed a shot that morning to treat a heavy cold. Back home in Ireland, that was how it was done, and had always worked well for him.

This time, it worked well for Lucinda. She sued him for everything he had, and by the time the case was settled, she owned his joint bank account, his truck, his wife's car, and their house and everything in it. Oh, also Charlie's savings that he planned to use for college.

When she was being wheeled out of court that day, Charlie Foley walked up to her and spit on the ground at her feet.

She never saw him again after that.

But she'd won, and soon she'd have plenty of cash to get that final procedure done, once the Foley a.s.sets were liquidated, and that was the whole point, wasn't it?

By the time she'd recovered from her "accident" and sold off everything the Foleys had, there was more than enough money to cover the next procedure.

"You want a colostomy? Why?"

"I have a predisposition for colon cancer. It runs in my family. So, no colon, no colon cancer. It's one less thing to worry about."

"Are you aware that you'll have to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of your life?"

Lucinda flashed her perfect white teeth at the man. "I understand. I still want it done. Will you do it?"

"I'm afraid not."

This time, it took months before she found a willing doctor. He seemed a little sketchy and his credentials weren't the best, but he was ready to operate the next day, so the deal was sealed.

This surgery took everything she had to pay for-or, rather, everything the Foley's had had. Lucinda heard that they were living in a shelter downtown, and that Charlie's job at the grocery store was all that was feeding and clothing them. But, Lucinda reasoned, they had a roof, a bed, and food, so what more could they ask for?

Lucinda was finally happy, finally satisfied. She had eliminated all the cancer risks that ran in her family and threatened her to take her life and therefore, her beauty, away from her. She stared into the mirror for hours on end, secure in the knowledge that, with regular surgical maintenance, she would be looking this way for a long, long time to come.

The food stamps, social security, and disability checks she was now collecting from the government covered food, her new mortgage, and miscellaneous other bills.

She never left the house.

Why should she? Who out there would appreciate her beauty as much as she did? Better to stay home.

Things were wonderful for many months-until the phone call.

Her father's last remaining brother had died.

Lucinda panicked.

She had no more money left.

The 9-1-1 call came in later that afternoon from Charlie Foley, who had come by to deliver Lucinda's groceries.

The police found her on her bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood.

"She peeled off her skin. Got as far as her waist before she died of shock and blood loss," the M.E. said. "But her face and neck are untouched. She'll be a good looking corpse once she's dressed."

"d.a.m.nedest suicide I ever saw in my whole life," Officer Donnelly said to the M.E. "Was there a note or anything?"

"Yeah. She's looking right at it. It's a weird one. All I can figure is that it was supposed to remind her about something while she was...doing this." The M.E., who had seen more horror in his professional life than he cared to talk about, shuddered over this latest one.

Donnelly followed the body's vacant gaze. Indeed, there was a note, of sorts, that she'd taped up to the tiles directly opposite her line of sight. She must have been looking at it right up until the moment she died.

One less thing to worry about!

Liked Carson's Story? Check out her latest t.i.tle: Home.

Following the deaths of her mother and beloved aunt, Kate Kavanagh inherits the family homestead in the Irish enclave of Three Oaks, Connecticut; but the house has changed since she visited a year ago-no more windows on the first floor and gaslights and a wood burning stove in place of the modern appliances. It also appears to be haunted. And that's just for starters. Once she moves into the house, Kate herself begins a gradual but terrifying biological transformation that is part of her inheritance, too; though not mentioned in the Will. With the help of a Rottweiler that's more human than animal, a new friend whose farm stand is only open dusk to dawn, and the "Rat Boys," Kate will get some answers or die trying.

Back to TOC.

As it happens, there are addictions that are somewhat positive...at least when compared to most others. Even though obsession almost radiates from this particular protagonist, this one made me want to jump back into a gym...and get...

Shredded.

By Blaze McRob.

It is time. The iron calls me.

The digital clock next to my bed spells out 1:59 in bright red letters. Perfect. Once again, I wake before the alarm goes off.

I can't remember the last time it sounded. Probably, there would be no need to set it, but the fear of oversleeping, of missing my encounter with the destiny of the day, forces me to continue with the ritual.

Except for the alarm clock numbers, my bedroom is completely dark: just the way I like it. This is my house. I live alone and don't have to cater to anyone else's needs or wants. My sense of purpose, compulsion, and desires, preclude me from allowing anyone else to venture into my world. It is mine and mine alone.

I dress in the dark, pulling my clothing from its allotted s.p.a.ce on top of the ottoman adjacent to the lone chair in the room, a weathered, brown Lazy Boy. There is no need for unnecessary furniture to clutter up my existence. Books and magazines go on bookshelves and my furniture sits in a neat, orderly fas.h.i.+on against the walls, allowing an open expansiveness to my environment.

As usual, I made coffee last night and I plop it into the microwave to heat it up as I finish my preparations. From the refrigerator, I withdraw two bottles of a thirty-two gram protein drink; thirty-two grams is the maximum amount of protein the body can absorb at a time. Fully dressed, my thick drink in hand, I walk out my front door into the quiet morning, enjoying the bite in the air. It helps to prepare me for what's coming, and I smile in antic.i.p.ation of what lies ahead.

It doesn't take long to walk the four blocks to the gym. I stare at the unique design of the building: the right side roof, extending forty feet into the sky, has a steep pitch before blending into the flattened design of the remainder of the structure.

No one else is here: the parking lot is empty. The place is all mine.

I slide my access card into the slot and enter, allowing me time to soak up the ambiance and bask in the glow of my surroundings. This is my gym: I own it and I'm proud of it. It's my 24 hour-access piece of heaven.

The treadmills, steppers, and bikes, are all up front by the big windows. I walk past them. My warm-up is a little different: 400 bent knee sit ups at a moderate pace. Why 400? No reason. That's the number I've been doing for years. This way, I get well developed abs without the bulk. I slide my toes under one of the benches and go to town.

My waist might be trim, but the rest...the rest is not. Thirty years of pus.h.i.+ng the iron around has made me huge. If you slammed an oak plank across my back, said plank would break...and I'd just think it was raining.

Today is my big day: the day of my total body workout. Every muscle in my body, worked as hard as is possible to push a muscle to the very brink, to the precipice of maximum potential usage versus the possibility of exceeding what should be attainable. Go too far, and danger reaches out to grab you, snapping your tendons as if they are overstretched rubber bands, tearing away muscle fibers like stringy pieces of overcooked corned beef removing themselves from the main brisket, and destroying cartilage around the knees, perhaps for life. And every so often, there is the specter of bone pus.h.i.+ng through the skin, the popping sound echoing throughout the gym, followed by cries of agony.

The gym talks to me, daring me to reach my ultimate maximum.

Are you man enough today? Do you dare touch the heavy iron?

I laugh at the challenge. "I am the master. The iron is mine."