The Deed
We were lounging at the warehouse the other night... Actually more like Zillah was humoring me after I had drank more than my share of wine. It was the night that this whole fiasco was supposed to end. The past week had been a nightmare, and I was ready for it to be over. After being kicked out, disengaged, held hostage, and then practically begged to stay, I sobered up while we waited for the Professor and his surgeon to arrive. When we heard the familiar knock on the door, he looked with his mismatched eyes glinting in the glow of the twinkle lights and kissed me.
It was time.
I was repulsed instantly by being in the same room as the Professor. But I directed my sights to Mrs. Westcott, who had curious bruises and cuts about her body, as she tightened manacles around my lover's body to a surgical table. She ignored the world around her as she set forth to slicing and dicing. I couldn't watch for fear of a weak stomach, but stayed in the huddled in the pile of pillows, trying to ignore the piercing screams and wails that escaped from his lips. It seemed like forever, every moment feeling like an eternity, vicariously feeling like every slice was upon my skin. When his screams, which had turned into a voice not his own, finally stopped, I realized I had been humming to myself to block out the noise.
This is when Mrs. Westcott gathered her things and practically ran out the door. I glanced at the table, seeing his withered form laying there practically lifeless. His breathing was shallow and his eyes were closed. The Professor approached him and tenderly wiped a wet dreadlock from his face before leaning down to whisper in his ear. Before I knew it, the familiar rhythm of spellwords filled the air and it felt like electricity was tingling my skin. The Professor leaned down and kissed him for a moment, and the world went still. Jolts ran through the Professor's body and a loud gasp filled the air as my lover took a large intake of breath.
Fast forward to me running from the London docks, hoping no one saw the fresh token of flesh that was donated to the Thames. They can't track fingerprints yet, can they?
It was time.
I was repulsed instantly by being in the same room as the Professor. But I directed my sights to Mrs. Westcott, who had curious bruises and cuts about her body, as she tightened manacles around my lover's body to a surgical table. She ignored the world around her as she set forth to slicing and dicing. I couldn't watch for fear of a weak stomach, but stayed in the huddled in the pile of pillows, trying to ignore the piercing screams and wails that escaped from his lips. It seemed like forever, every moment feeling like an eternity, vicariously feeling like every slice was upon my skin. When his screams, which had turned into a voice not his own, finally stopped, I realized I had been humming to myself to block out the noise.
This is when Mrs. Westcott gathered her things and practically ran out the door. I glanced at the table, seeing his withered form laying there practically lifeless. His breathing was shallow and his eyes were closed. The Professor approached him and tenderly wiped a wet dreadlock from his face before leaning down to whisper in his ear. Before I knew it, the familiar rhythm of spellwords filled the air and it felt like electricity was tingling my skin. The Professor leaned down and kissed him for a moment, and the world went still. Jolts ran through the Professor's body and a loud gasp filled the air as my lover took a large intake of breath.
Fast forward to me running from the London docks, hoping no one saw the fresh token of flesh that was donated to the Thames. They can't track fingerprints yet, can they?
Comments