Role: Writer
Illustration by Louay Daoust
Short story written me for the 2017 Halloween Horror Festival in Beirut. I read the story on stage while Louay Daoust drew his illustration of my story live during the event.
I shook the bottle restlessly. There was only one tool left to sterilize but the disinfectant was down to its last drop and I was already scrubbed up. It would have been too much of a hassle to go out to the pharmacy next door and buy some more. The timer had already started and I was racing against the clock. After having performed this so many times, I had finally gotten the steps of the procedure down to perfection. The only challenge left was beating the time it took me last time.
Everything was in place. The tools were organized on the aluminum tray, arranged in the order I would need them. The television was on in the background, full volume, set to the ‘Captivity’ channel, a 24–7 show that reported on all the missing people in the country. After the turnout of the last presidential election, the number of murders, kidnappings, and serial killer ramps had gone up considerably across the country and, as they would, the liberal media had decided to capitalize on the situation.
Today’s program was following the investigation over yet another dead body found in the woods. The victim, a Caucasian female in her early twenties, had been found naked, a leather strap tightly wound around her throat, bite marks on her hips, shoulders, and breasts that had bruised and turned blue, and nail scratches all over her back and her stomach. All flesh.
The news lady was following the police officers around, asking them a bunch of idiotic questions about the details of the case, what incriminating evidence they had uncovered so far and if they felt useless, given that this was the fourth dead woman they had found in the past two months. All found naked, asphyxiated, abused. All flesh. I muted the television just as the news lady happily reported the latest news pieces about the investigation, which amounted to less than nothing. The police were pursuing several lines of inquiry and have compiled a list of possible suspects, she said with a smile on her face. This is what passed as entertainment these days. They were all cunts.
A banging sound coming from the basements interrupted my thoughts. Megan, my next patient was having the usual pre-surgery jitters. The day before each procedure, I would spend a full hour reassuring my patients that there would be nothing to worry about. The surgery had no risks and little to no side effects if they followed the post-surgery protocol I recommended. The sedative I administered them would allow their muscles to relax during, so they wouldn’t feel the pain, sending them in a state of complete paralysis and blissfulness. And as an added bonus, I had found it therapeutic to narrate and describe in detail the steps of the procedure as I was performing them, so they would get the full visual experience.
I slowly made my way down to the basement. Each step had its own individual creak, a piercing wooden shriek, harmonizing with my patients’ bangs on the basement wall. I tried to think of conversation topics before reaching the door, hoping that some light small talk would help take her mind off the surgery and calm her down. Talking about the weather wasn’t really an option; there were no windows in her room. Maybe she would be happy to know that she had made it on the ‘Captivity’ show the night before. The news lady had spent a full hour covering the recent incidents of her past and had interviewed her friends and family, asking them to remember every tiny detail of the events that led to her departure, ending the segment wishing her well and hoping she was safe. Of course, she was well, I had made sure of that. Even with surgery as minor as this one, it is recommended for patients to be in the best health possible before going under the knife. That is why I had made sure that for the past week, Megan received three full meals a day and got a minimum of eight hours of sleep. The clatter she made at night this past week had made me realize that she wasn’t sleeping much, so I would have to take that into consideration when dosing her anesthesia.
Once I started fumbling for my keys, the banging stopped. I opened the door to find her curled up in one of the corners of the room, sobbing with her hands hiding her face, the room in shambles.
I had modeled each room of the basement based on the bedroom I had as a child. Walls covered in white and peach colored stripes; a sofa bed placed in the middle of the room, with a framed poster of ‘The Mikado’, my favorite opera of all-time, hanging on the wall above it; and a small bookcase filled with my favorite books and comics that I used to read as a kid. The rest of the setting didn’t matter.
I suppose I’ve had a normal childhood. But I guess you would have to go pretty far to find something abnormal these days. My parents got divorced when I was four and my mother had boyfriends, plural. This was true of most of the kids at my school, so I didn’t think much of it at the time. In the months leading to their separation, my parents had spent most of their days yelling at each other. They fought in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in the yard. Even on the phone after they had separated. I never paid much attention to what they were yelling about, but their arguments always seemed to revolve around the same idea. I found out a few years later that my mother had worked as a prostitute in her earlier life before she had met my dad. And it seemed like she had resumed her profession after he had left her. And so I had spent most of my childhood confined in the four walls of my bedroom, listening to hate spew from their mouths.
Everything was in order. The curtains had been drawn, the fluorescent lights hung above the operating table were turned on, and the aluminum tray was positioned five inches to my right. I stripped down my clothes and put on my white coat and surgical gloves.
Strapped to the table, I watched Megan’s body slowly go limp from the anesthesia, making it harder for her to fight the cuffs at her hands. I never understood the resistance my patients had put up. All I wanted was to make them pure again.
I’m on the verge of tears by the time I walk up to the operating table. I had performed this surgery so many times that I should be numb to it by now, but something was different this time; I couldn’t really put my finger on it. I once read somewhere that a man of true taste ultimately became indifferent to his work, as his taste became more purified and his attraction eventually became everything that good taste couldn’t but condemn. Maybe that is what was happening, I thought, as Megan stared at me lifelessly, her blue eyes droopy from the sedative.
I take my place under the spotlight of the fluorescents, opening up her legs and coming face to face with her cunt. Megan appeared to have soiled herself in the time it took me to drag her from her room and strap her to the table, so I start off with a little suction around the edges of her hymen. I grab the scalpel and start taking off the edges, cutting out the old scars that had formed. They are now freshened up; all that remains are the sutures, the most crucial part. If not done properly, they could lead to infections but, most importantly, the result wouldn’t be aesthetically pleasing for me. Nothing more arousing than the postoperative portrait of a beautifully designed closure. The final step is the suture on the outskirts of the hymeneal walls, which allows me to tighten them to perfection, which will eventually make it all the more enjoyable for me afterward. All done.
I place a cushion under her, raising her ass from the table, and dip my index and my middle finger in the bowl of warm water located on the tray. As the drops start trickling down to her now restored clit, I start rubbing the sutures gently. Using this wetness, I start sliding my fingers faster in circular motions, contouring each perfectly executed suture.
Jerking myself to an erection, I push her legs behind her head, towering over her bare breasts, and spit on my cock before jamming it inside her. The anesthesia is starting to wear off, right on schedule. As every nerve in her being is waking up, I start thrusting harder and harder. This here is my favorite part.
My whole body feels like an erection. I am reminded of my first patient. I had completely botched the surgery and had done every mistake in the book. But once I had raped my first victim, I couldn’t quite stop raping her. This time was different. This one was my masterpiece. And when you work hard to do something right, you don’t want to forget it. So I took my time.
The sedation had worn off completely and Megan started fighting the cuffs around her hands. I had stuffed her underwear deep in her mouth so she could taste the mistakes of her past. She began moving her head frantically, looking around the room, before setting her eyes on mine. For a moment, she wavers as if undecided about something. Her gaze is still locked on mine and everything starts feeling like it is happening in slow motion, my thrusts harmonizing with my heavy breathing. I slowly lift my arms and place my hands around her neck. The more I am building up, the tighter I squeeze, feeling her entire body submitting to me, our eyes locked. Suddenly, she breaks our impenetrable connection, slowly lowers her eyes to my thumb pressing on the nape of her neck and kisses my hand. I tighten my grip on her throat, feeling her bones slowly crush, watching her face turn purple. And in perfect synchronicity, I remove my cock from her cunt, spraying her now bloated face with spit and cum.
I wake up this morning with a pulsating migraine. I switch on the coffeemaker and watch the pot, waiting for the first drops to fall. I make my way to the living room and turn on the television, full volume. The room is in complete shambles and I’m not sure why. I surf the channels until I get to the ‘Captivity’ show. It seems like they found yet another dead body found in the woods. The victim, a Caucasian female with brown hair, is found naked in the woods, her face bloated and purple. Another found abused, asphyxiated and raped. All flesh. They were all cunts anyways.
Helene Abi Assi 