Masters Of Horror Part 19

"No. I want to do it."

"What?" Peter smiled.

The stench of human feces mixed with other odors. In addition to the blistering welt in his arm, Hadley had c.r.a.pped himself.

"If I let you go, will you take this blowtorch and shove it where ever I tell you?"

I didn't try to stop my grin. "I like the smell. You know-the smell of burning flesh."

"You share my pa.s.sion!" A raw excitement filled Peter's eyes. He stepped closer. "How do I know you won't try to burn me?"

"Because I love you," I glanced at Hadley, "And I despise him."

Peter released my restraints and handed me the means in which to regain control over my life. Another boost of adrenaline restored my energy. I placed the fire against Hadley's thigh, enjoying his girlish screams. Peter and I basked in the smells of burning flesh.

While I gave Hadley time to settle down, Peter put his arm around me and whispered, "You'll find it's easy to replace one addiction with another. I will help you beat crack. Tomorrow night, we'll cook my wife and eat pieces of her flesh while she's still alive." His eyes gleamed with pure joy. "Tonight, we'll practice...on Hadley."

Hadley's screams were replaced by my moans, as I'd never seen this side of Peter. I felt his fingers stroking me below, and I felt wetness surging through me. I gasped as he entered me from behind, thrusting to his limit inside me. Our flesh merged as we moved as one, panting like wolves on the scent of a kill. My free hand gripped the edge of the table tightly so I could thrust back to meet him, and all the while I swept the blowtorch over Hadley like a witch with a wand. Entranced, I watched his body hair flare up, crisp and singe, then watched his flesh blacken, bubble and burst. I fantasized opera music was playing and I was the conductor, urging on my orchestra with gestures of flame. Hadley's screams of agony reached a crescendo that clashed horribly with my fantasy music...so I shoved the blowtorch into his open, screaming mouth, frying his tongue and cauterizing his lungs as Peter came inside me with a b.e.s.t.i.a.l gasp. Hadley died within moments, but I was more alive than I'd ever known. Crack wasn't even a memory. I'd been reborn...but as what, I wasn't sure. It was something powerful and horrifying at the same time.

The examination table I thought would be my final resting place became the solidifier of our undying love. The combination of sweat, burnt flesh, Peter's scent and his enduring hardness brought me to multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms. Peter finally withdrew from me, so he could begin slicing choice cuts of Hadley onto the dinner plates. Afterward, my lover held me in his arms with the promise of making me his bride. He interrupted my thoughts when he whispered, "I love you."

Tears rolled down my cheeks...for I knew nothing would separate us again, not even h.e.l.l.

Back to TOC.

Although most every narcotic wreaks its own particular brand of havoc, heroin is widely imagined to be the worst of the worst. Somewhere there's someone on meth, crack, weed, acid, booze and pills thinking (or at least trying to think) "Well, at least I'm not a junkie." For a real-life account of a heroin user's tribulations, read THE ALCOHOLISM AND ADDICTION CURE, by Chris Prentiss.

For a thankfully UNREAL account, read Marissa Farrar's tale.

The Tortured Room.

By Marissa Farrar.

The street lamp above her flickered and a frigid wind lifted her hair from her face. An old crisp packet blew around her feet. It spun and danced, as playfully as autumn leaves.

s.h.i.+vering, she pulled at the small amounts of material covering her almost child-like frame.

The sound of an approaching engine made her look up. A car pulled alongside her and she bent to the driver's open window.

"How much for a..." the driver started to say, but then he saw the bruises and scabs on the inside of her arms. Quickly, he pressed the b.u.t.ton to close the car window and pulled away. Even he wasn't as desperate as that.

Stacey's shoulders sagged and she jabbed her middle finger at the retreating vehicle, its red brake lights now small and distant. She needed that job. Without it she would have to use her last penny to score. Her pimp wasn't going to be happy not to get his cut that night.

Still, her habit was more important than getting a beating. A few more bruises weren't going to make much of a difference to her, but a night of DT's filled her with terror.

Stacey shoved her hands into the shallow pockets of her denim mini-skirt and started to walk down the street. The heels of her f.u.c.k-me boots click-clacked on the pavement, the sound echoing around the empty street. It was quiet tonight; as though the rest of the world knew something she didn't, and had hidden inside their homes.

A payphone stood on the corner-one of the few still around and in working order-and it was to this she headed.

She needed to call her dealer.

Graffiti smeared the phone box and the inside stank of p.i.s.s. She ignored it, hoping only that the phone still worked and some a.s.shole hadn't come along and disconnected it. Lifting the receiver, a dial tone met her ear. She fed the small box coins and then dialed a number she had committed to memory.

But the phone didn't ring.

"Hey, this is Kenny" the tinny sounding message said. "You know what to do."

"f.u.c.k it!" she swore, slamming down the receiver. She didn't have time to wait for callbacks.

She chewed on the corner of her thumbnail, considering her options. There were plenty of other dealers around, but she never knew what she was going to get when she bought from someone new.

But she was anxious. Already she could feel the need creeping up, like thousands of tiny insects were scuttling through her blood. Within an hour she would be desperate, and the insects would feel more like knives. The thought of the pain terrified her. She didn't have the strength to fight it.

Unconsciously she rubbed at the needle marks trailing up her arm. She gritted her teeth. Her heart was already doing that skipping beat-part need, part antic.i.p.ation-of getting her next fix.

She tugged her crop-top down over her stomach, the thin material doing nothing to shelter her against the cold bite of the night. Her nipples pressed painfully against the coa.r.s.e material of her cheap nylon bra.

Walking again, she turned down a narrow alley, planning to try a local place she had heard rumors that sell.

With her hands in her pockets and her head down, she didn't notice the approaching person until they were almost upon her. She started in surprise as a woman's voice spoke out of the darkness.

"You looking to buy, love?"

The words were spoken under her breath, and Stacey only just caught it.

Part of her hesitated. She didn't make a habit out of scoring off of strangers, but no one else was around tonight and her desperation always over ruled her common sense. Even if the woman didn't have any smack, she might have something else that could take off the edge until she can get hold of Kenny.

A small nod of her head told the woman she was interested.

Immediately, Stacey recognized that the woman was strange. She was older, in her forties at least. Dressed in long skirts and boots, with flowing white hair, she didn't look like a typical dealer. Her eyes settled on Stacey for too long, her stare uncomfortably direct. The pupils of her eyes look iridescent, like spilt oil on the road, and Stacey was sure she could see colors floating across the black, even in the bad light.

The woman knew what Stacey needed without her even having to say it. All good dealers recognize their punter's addiction.

With a sleight of hand she slid a twenty into the woman's soft palm, just as the woman slipped the small, folded, cardboard wrap into her own hand.

"It's your medicine," the woman said.

"What?"

"It will make you better."

Stacey gave a wry smile, wondering if this was supposed to some kind of sales talk.

"Yes," Stacey said, without any hint of sarcasm. "I'm sure it will."

She had everything she needed-lighter, tin-foil, syringe-wrapped within a cloth and stuffed down the side of her knee high boot. She was getting shaky, her brain was throbbing. Too desperate to wait to get back to her bedsit, she stopped at the end of the alley. She'd shoot up there. She had done it in worse places.

Commercial bins lined the bottom of the alley. A pile of cardboard boxes were stacked beside them and it was on these she squatted. It took her only moments to cook the smack and draw it up inside the much used needle.

With the tourniquet tight around her arm, her veins bulged. The strip of material was gripped between her teeth and, with her free hand, she tapped her arm, encouraging the vein to pop. Skillfully as an ER doctor, she slid the needle into the vein. She'd not reached the stage of injecting into her groin yet, though the veins were getting weaker and she knew it would not be long.

Stacey sank into the relief as she was injecting, riding on the wave of pleasure and calm. And everything was right again.

Her cheek was pressed against scratchy nylon. The smell of cigarette smoke and old vomit turned her stomach in a lazy flip. She had yet to open her eyes, but her gritty eyelids and pounding head told her it would not be a pleasant experience when she did.

But she needed to wake up, so she forced her eyes open. In front of her, an expanse of dirty beige carpet stretched ahead. She closed her eyes again, waiting for her world to stop spinning.

Where was she?

The last thing she remembered was being in the alley. After that there was nothing. She wasn't in her bedsit, she knew that much. Had she picked up a John and collapsed? Was she even alone?

Stacey opened her eyes again and lifted her throbbing head.

The room was empty. That, at least, was a relief, and she let her forehead fall back to the floor.

She groaned, remembering something. The wrap had cost her last score. She was broke and would have to turn another trick before she could get another fix.

Her heart sunk. It was always like this. From the moment she woke she was either scoring, getting high, or turning tricks to make the money to get high.

Her life wasn't supposed to be like this. It was empty.

She was empty.

Stacey forced herself to sit up and take in her surroundings. She had to sort her s.h.i.+t out if she was going to get back on the street and earn some cash.

The room was spa.r.s.e. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, with no shade to subdue its glare. A single, metal-framed bed was pushed up against the back wall behind her, its mattress thin and soiled. No sheets covered it. The top of the plywood bedside table was empty and an ancient, thread-bare easy chair sat beneath the window. Heavy brown curtains, hanging from floor to ceiling, covered the windows. They were thick and Stacey couldn't even tell if it was day or night.

Her legs trembled beneath her as she used the side of the metal bed frame to pull herself to her feet. For a moment her head swam and the nausea flooded back. She bit down on it, steadying herself.

Taking a deep breath, she went to the door and twisted the handle. Nothing happened. Her brow creased in confusion. She tugged on the handle, then pushed. Her heart beat faster, the adrenaline firing through her veins. Was it locked? Has someone locked her in here?

For the first time, the thought that she might have got herself into something bad hit her. Her stomach tightened in fear. She had come across some Johns who had been violent before, leaving her with a black eye or bruised ribs, but it was only to be expected. It was practically part of the job. No one had taken it this far before.

She remembered the window. Crossing the room, she pulled back the thick material of the curtains.

A thin whine of fear escaped her throat and she stumbled back.

The tall window was completely bricked up.

Her hand was at her mouth.

Her fix. She was going to need her next fix.

That was the absurdity of her addiction. She could have been kidnapped by a ma.s.s-murdering psychopath, and the first thing that worried her was where she was going to get her next hit from.

Panicked, she ran back to the door.

"Hey!" She slammed her small fists up against the door. "Hey! Whoever is out there-this isn't f.u.c.king funny!"

She listened intently, hoping to hear something, but there was only silence. Suddenly she realized she couldn't even here the constant drone of traffic that was always so present.

Could someone have taken her out of the city?

She thundered her fists against the door again. "Open the f.u.c.king door!"

Tears p.r.i.c.ked the backs of her eyes. She didn't want to cry-it felt too much like giving up, like admitting that she was in some serious s.h.i.+t. Despite her admonitions, her eyes flooded with tears and she swiped at them, angrily.

How long would it be before the shakes start? Before every muscle in her body felt as though it was being torn from her body? Before she started vomiting so violently it felt as if her stomach was going to explode from her throat?

The thoughts terrified her. The prospect of going into detox was far worse than anything some psychopath could do to her. All she wanted was to get out of there. At least if she knew there was someone else around then there was also the possibility of getting out. Right now she thought she would rather be murdered than face going without her next hit.

"Hey!" She banged on the door again. "You got to let me out. I need to take a p.i.s.s."

She listened again, desperately hoping to hear something anything! But it was like a void out there. The silence was absolute.

Her hands went to her face and she wiped at her mouth. Already they were shaking, but surely that was from the fear and adrenaline? It was too soon to start withdrawing.

Turning, her back against the door, she surveyed the room. Her prison.

Something caught her eye; a book was sitting on the bedside table. Her nose wrinkled. Was that there before? Her memory flicked back over and she was sure the table was empty. But she must be wrong, she just must have missed it.

Curious, Stacey walked up to the table and picked up the book. It was heavy in her hand. The cross on the front cover told her that the book was a bible even before she had a chance to read the words. She flicked open the pages and frowned. Every page, except for the cover, was bare.

A s.h.i.+ver crept over her, trembling its way across her shoulders and down her spine, like the hands of a lover. She dropped the book and it landed on the floor, split open in the middle, its naked pages exposed.

It felt as though the book was mocking her and she kicked at it, pus.h.i.+ng it under the bed and out of sight.

Her mouth was dry, her lips stuck together. Her tongue snuck out, trying to wet them, but it was thick and furry against her parched skin. Suddenly her desire for a gla.s.s of cold water was almost as strong as her desire for smack.

Could someone have left a bottle of water in here somewhere? It was an unlikely hope, but still possible. She pulled open the drawer of the side-table, checked beside the bed, but there was nothing. Turning, she scanned the rest of the room.

She noticed something and her heart picked up a notch.

The curtains were drawn again.

Immediately she spun back round. Someone must be in the room with her, someone who was hiding? But the spa.r.s.e room left no place for someone to hide.

It wasn't possible. There was no way she closed the curtains behind her-why would she? On seeing the bricked up window she had run straight to the door. There was no chance she had taken the time to close the curtains again.