Flesh Failure (12 page)

“Atrocities more terrible than stealing the bodies of the dead?”

He collapsed into sobs on his table. I went over to him, more out of curiosity than comfort. He lifted his head, tears pouring from his eyes.

“Agatha, let me kiss you one last time,” he said. My heart beat a little faster and it pained me. He was a nice-looking man and perhaps a kiss from him would be all I'd ever receive from any man in this lifetime. I let him come close to me and kiss me. Our lips met. His were soft and it was like kissing feather pillows. As we kissed, I took the knife that I had hidden in my trousers and plunged it up through his rib cage and into his heart. At the same time, there was a sharp jab of a needle into my neck. I screamed as I tugged at the hypodermic needle. He fell down backwards, knocking over the entire cabinet of beakers. Liquids and glass crashed down on him as he lay gasping his final breaths.

I pulled the needle from my neck and flung it away. I didn't know what it was supposed to do and it worried me.

He groaned and his last breath was spent.

I stared at my creator. Nothing but a bloody mess on the floor now.

There would be no answers to questions.

No happy endings.

I had no urge to eat him as the partial contents of the syringe entered my system. The liquid was cold in my blood.

I wandered through his laboratory and saw his many experiments in yet another room. There were huge jars filled with body parts floating in some kind of solution. Eyeballs watched me as they floated. There were three brains. Two large steel tables were in the middle of the room with large unlit lamps aimed down at them.

The next room gave me chills. It was an office but one wall drew my attention. It was filled with newspaper clippings about Jack the Ripper. I studied them, wondering why he would be collecting such morbid tabloids. I read a few headlines but the pictures of the victims, most of whom I recognized, saddened me.

I set out into the predawn morning before the staff woke. The sky was navy with dots of clouds visible, a light spreading across the horizon with each passing minute. By the time I reached my quarters in Whitechapel, the sun was up and the birds were singing. I entered my quarters and gathered all my money. I changed my clothes and packed only what I could carry. I was exhausted but knew I had to keep moving. My body was weakening and I knew it was related to the serum that he had given me. Although he had injected very little, it was enough to slow me down. As I was changing, I noticed that some of the red scars had burst open and were forming scabs. New scars broke even as I moved my arms to get dressed.

My looking glass told a sad tale. My face was cracked and swollen once more. Angry red lines filled with pus splintered before my very eyes. I didn't have much time.

As I was double-checking my packing, I looked around my room. I knew I would never be returning. It would be a shame to have all these nice clothes go to waste. I opened my door and threw the dresses out into the street. It didn't take long for my belongings to all be gone.

Picking up my travel bags and my satchel of money, I looked around my empty room. It was time to go see what else I could learn about myself.

Walking out into the morning sun was painful. The wounds on my body were festering now. Each step was painful but I made my way to a train station dragging two heavy bags of my possessions.

I bought a ticket and boarded the train.

As I sit here recounting my story before I can no longer hold pen to paper, the sun is beaming into the train and it's very hot. This is causing more deterioration. I'm wearing one of my hats with the nettings and lots of scarves. However, there is no denying the slipping, dripping goo that now leaks from my face. My fingers have become very soft and squishy. My legs feel like lumpy paste.

Although I have blamed my rapid deterioration on the formula that the doctor had injected me with, I remembered how my hand had stuck to the door. Perhaps I had used too much electricity. My joy in the power surges perhaps had gone too far. I kept jump-starting my brain and heart but it was too much for my body.

I should have the doctors put that into their research papers.

The items I found in the laboratory still haunt me. Why did he have all those clippings?

My left eye has now slid from its socket and has landed on the page.

I fear that I may not last the journey to see my parents. I had hoped that it would do their hearts good to see their daughter one last time.

About the Author

Sèphera Girón has been writing since she was a child. She has over twenty published books, and dozens of short stories. As well, as writing, Sèphera is a professional editor, paranormal investigator, and tarot card reader. Sèphera has been the Canadian Chapter Head of Horror Writers Association for over fifteen years.

Sèphera lives in Toronto and is mom to two adult sons.

You can find Sèphera online:

www.twitter.com/sephera

www.sepheragiron.com

tarotpaths.blogspot.ca

sephwriter.blospot.ca

www.instagram/sepheragiron

Look for these titles by Sèphera Girón

Now Available:

Captured Souls

Can science create the perfect lover? Or only a living hell?

Captured Souls

© 2014 Sèphera Girón

Dr. Miriam Frederick is a brilliant professor at a large university. But her latest experiments are decidedly unsanctioned and far more chilling than anyone could imagine. She is determined to answer questions that have plagued mankind for millennia. What is love? What is lust?

Her first specimen is an author with a gift for language. Specimen Two is an athlete with amazing endurance. Specimen Three provides physical beauty. But once she has trapped her subjects, her twisted attempt to create the perfect lover will have unexpected—and nightmarish—results, not just for her captives, but for her as well.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Captured Souls:

Notes and Journals of Dr. Miriam Frederick re: Experiment 698

Journal

In examining the human experience, one realizes that perfection appears in many forms for many people. What is perfection for one may not be perfection for another.

Beauty. Brains. Brawn.

Honesty. Loyalty. Intelligence.

Flawless flesh. Physical symmetry. Sexual stamina.

Quick wit. Compassion. Lust.

What are the qualities that define perfection?

Perspective?

In the end, if there were a type of mate one could have, one could choose, perhaps create, that human being would likely encompass enhanced qualities of intelligence, beauty and physical stamina.

Almost any human has a wish list and I think we all have the same one. How we view the potential candidates on our wish lists is somewhat subjective, although intelligence and stamina are measurable. Physical beauty or handsomeness is a more subjective commodity.

Is it even possible to find one human being with enhanced qualities of intelligence, beauty and stamina?

What lengths would I go through to find such a mate?

Would it ever be possible to create one mate out of three or more? Or would it be more preferable to have a polygamous arrangement to satisfy each facet of desire as it arises?

What would I provide in return? After all, there needs to be an exchange to keep the universal laws of equilibrium in balance.

My undying love and loyalty, a home, financial stability and endless nights of ecstasy would be part of their own personal paradise. I think it could be an equal trade if I find the right specimens.

My journals and observations will record the emotional and physical progress of my latest experiments.

This journal will contain my more subjective observations. There is another book filled with my detailed calculations, charts and formulas. The two books remain separate in case of damage or theft.

So my new quest begins.

Experiment Number 698

Specimen 1

When I first spied him across the room, I suspected he would indeed be a worthy candidate for experiment number 698. It was indicated by a punch in my solar plexus. The visuals were perfection, no question. Until I met him, exchanged verbiage with him and interacted with him, I couldn't quite be certain if he would be as intelligent as I anticipated. There he stood, long and lanky, in the doorframe that connected the party room to the hallway, his shoulders slightly slouched as he drew on a cigarette, blue eyes staring directly at me.

He watched me, hypnotic, glittering eyes observing my every movement. Calculating. Predatory. The idea of it amused me. His youth was intoxicating. The fact that anyone dared to smoke inside at a party anymore was also an indication that this rebel with a pen could be just what the doctor ordered.

The chattering noises and laughter of our mutual academic friends drinking around us faded from my consciousness as I saw only him.

Lion to prey. Tony to Maria. Dr. Frank-N-Furter to his Rocky. Dr. Miriam Frederick to Author Scott Gravenhurst.

I walked towards the honored guest, prim in my three-piece, grey skirt suit and sky-high stilettos, a predatory slink in my gait. He kept his stance in the doorframe as I stepped past him, lightly brushing his chest with my elbow on the way through to the patio.

Summer air was warm on my face. A light breeze rippled through the mature trees that lined the gardens of the faculty building.

He followed me.

“Dr. Miriam Frederick,” I said as I held out my hand to him. He took it and instead of shaking it, he lightly brushed his lips to it.

“Charmed,” he said and released my hand. “Scott Gravenhurst.”

“Ah, yes. Our visiting guest,” I said, pretending to stare around for someone more important. I waved towards a nobody and turned my attention back towards Specimen 1.

“Yes, I'm here for a few days,” he said. His gaze traveled from my carefully slicked-back bobbed hair, my full red lips and then down my sleek figure.

When his attention returned to my eyes, he stammered. Very slightly. My green contacts were working their ethereal magic.

“Mmm…Ms. Frederick,” he said.

I licked my lips, breathing in the sweetness of the nervous sweat underneath his Jimmy Dean persona.

“Yes, Scott,” I smiled, coyly.

“Isn't the moonlight lovely tonight?” he led me out farther onto the patio.

“Toronto is beautiful this time of year,” I told him. “We have the most beautiful summers. Can you hear the leaves whisper?”

“Yes, they're telling me that there are many secrets to be shared.”

He smoked his cigarette as we both stared at the stars and the moon. The murmurs of people farther in the gardens mingled with the light classical soundtrack that filled the ancient halls of the old faculty building.

He began to recite a poem. I joined in and we laughed together.

After several poems, we stopped and the distant murmuring and tinkling of glasses became backdrop ambiance once more.

“I guess another drink is in order,” he said, noting my empty glass.

“Most definitely,” I said and slipped my hand through his as we navigated through the clumps of people. I was as tall as he was, my shoes were so high. The view of people giving me darting glances was easier to see elevated above most.

There were a few raised eyebrows aimed in my direction but I didn't mind. My nights with various colleagues left different imprints, even years later. I stopped mingling with my cohorts long ago as it became apparent that some people can't split their alliances to the different compartments of their lives. Complications and emotional drama only waste time that can be better focused on making progress in one's field.

Even wives can't seem to forgive me, even though I never wanted their spineless wonders for more than a few hours. But my importance to the university is incalculable, so the disenchanted put up with my idiosyncrasies. If not for me and most of the people in this room, there wouldn't be grant money for parties, studies, renovations and home laboratories. Behavior Systematic Neurological Studies is in big demand in these times of psychopaths and terrorists. So we all keep our secrets and each other's.

I smiled at my conquests as I let Specimen 1 order me another glass of wine and we found a nook in the room to stare out at the party. University bigwigs gossiped in little cliques, whispering, no doubt mostly about me, likely seeing the innocent act of Specimen 1 bringing me a glass of wine as me luring him into my lair. Which I am, of course, but it's not seemly to be gossiping right in front of my face.

“Your peers?” Specimen 1 asked as he caught me frowning.

“Colleagues, perhaps,” I said, drinking deeply from the wine he gave me. “However, most of my friends aren't from the university. And my colleagues rarely see me. I do the majority of my work in my home laboratory. More convenient.”

“Oh,” he said. “What do you do?”

“I'm a scientist but I love to read, which is why I'm here tonight,” I started to walk so that we weren't trapped in a corner. “I love to mingle with authors and publishers. I also love to go dancing. Clubs. Parties. Probably not really the run-of-the-mill geek you conjured up in your mind.”

“You're too beautiful to be a scientist,” he said. His youthful earnestness slipped out for a moment from the too-cool-for-school author pose.

“You're very kind,” I said.

“I've always been intrigued by mature women,” he said.

My dear writer boy did not disappoint. He was indeed the classic womanizer.

My heart raced as he spoke; he had a wonderfully crisp accent that I could have listened to for hours. He was only in town for a few days, a special guest-author speaker at the university as part of a seminar series. We easily bantered about books. His face was lean and he had an air of sadness about him. He writes about dark things, maybe because he's lived them or maybe now that he's drawn such ideas in with his fantasies, they haunt his reality. It will be interesting to find out.

I will find out.