The ticking of the old grandfather clock and its chime at half past, reminded him he’d have to wrap this up quickly. Pity. Just when it was getting good too.
He sighed. Well, that is the way of this modern day world. Rush, rush, rush.
It felt good to run his sticky hands under hot water. The cream colored bar of soap became a deep burgundy. Vanilla scented bubbles took on a pinkish hue as he lathered his skin; almost lovingly. A ritual he couldn’t help in keeping.
Shaking off the liquid, he reached for one of the towels hanging nearby. He paused, unable to resist to admire his handiwork.
Bath curtain rustled its plastic sound as it was pulled open.
There she lay, his chef-d'œuvre. Well, most of her. The rest could be found randomly placed around the house. A wry grin played upon his usually serious face. He wasn’t as artistic as his peers. No need to make a statement of ridiculous gaudiness. Being gauche, just wasn’t for him.
He closed the curtain, turning from it. Almost painfully. It was always hard leaving. All that hard work. But what needed to be done, was finished.
Just then, his cell vibrated against his leg. He reached in jean pocket and pressed the accept button. His face softened immediately. “Yes hun, I am on my way now. The meeting ran late. Is there anything I can pick up for you?” He waited and then chuckled, “Yes babe, I can bring that to you once Ioetta either goes out with her friends or falls asleep.” Another silence. “I love you too. See you soon.” The call ended. The joy of talking to his wife and of his daughter, was perhaps the one true good emotion he could ever feel. They were his world.
Walking through to the living room, he picked up his coat, laying it over his arm. A last sweeping glance to make sure nothing had been forgotten and then he was gone into the night, settling back comfortably in his black sedan.
The ride home was soothing. Light posts oscillating past him like old movie reels.
He stopped at an intersection, briefly examining his face in the car mirror. She was there! The one he just finished butchering. Bloodied mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Her mutilated head wobbling precariously upon a severed neck. “Why?! Why did you do this to me?!” Disembodied voice bouncing off of the windows, slithering into his mind with chittering bug sounds.
A horn blared, pulling him painfully back into the moment. Cold sweat slicked his white fingers which gripped the steering wheel desperately. He needed to feel something physical, something real. Damp palm attempted to wipe away the beads of nervous liquid dotting his brow. Heart pounded madly, like it was trying to jump out of his chest.
The car inched forward slowly. More horns blasted in his direction but he could only move just so fast. He was lost in a surreal daze.
It took till he reached his driveway, that the butcher could even think of calming somewhat. He shook off the illusion that had haunted him till now.
‘Must be tired. Absolutely worn out.’ For the one he’d slashed and dashed, lay still for all eternity.
He made his way to the house, shuffling like an old man. Though he was only in his 40’s and usually carried his tall frame with ease. This episode had shaken him badly. And nothing ever moved him. He was a killer by trade, after all.
As the door opened and the beautiful face of his wife, Penelope appeared, it was only then he finally began to relax.
“Frank,” she smiled, beaming. Her open arms welcoming him into them. “Oh how I have missed you today!” Her soft warm lips melted like sugar against his. Frank felt renewed. His spirit bouncing back to its former pride. The ghost and all of its remaining humanity, faded into the distance.
“Is our Ioetta still home?” he asked, his voice low and husky.
“Mmmm for another hour.” Penelope sighed longingly. “I’ll go get her for you. So you can see her before she leaves. Maybe shoo her on her way sooner too?” His wife chuckled teasingly. He nudged her gently and swatted her ass.
“Of you go then. I wouldn’t mind saying goodnight to her.”
Penelope kissed his cheek and whispered soft promises in his ear. Then she made her way up the stairs to their daughter.
Frank adjusted his shirt sleeves, grinning and chuckling to himself.
“Hello daddy.” Ioetta spoke softly.
He jumped slightly. Startled by her presence and somewhat unsettled she may have witnessed the exchange between her mother and himself.
“Ioetta! Your mother is looking for you.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I’d wanted to say goodbye before you left tonight.”
“Why did you do it daddy?” Ioetta’s voice wavered. “Why did you kill me?”
A frown creased her father’s usually calm features. “Ioetta? What are you talking about?” He began to walk towards her, in halting steps.
“You know daddy. WHY DID YOU KILL ME?!” she shrieked. Her voice rising, becoming a desperate plea. The solid image of his beloved daughter melted. Pattering over her form, was the tortured, butchered young woman he had killed.
Frank stopped his strides. He shook, unsure of whatever the reality was in front of him. “Sweetie? It’s Daddy. I didn’t hurt you. Now stop this silliness and come give me a hug.” His smile was tremulous, arms outstretched shakily.
Ioetta’s mouth yawned wide and a shriek of the damned was released. She was no longer his daughter but a haunted demon of the one Frank had murdered.
As she floated towards him in the fluid motions of a ghost, he searched desperately for some sort of weapon. Anything to stop this pinch of regretful conscience he was experiencing. Ioetta, who was not Ioetta, continued her approach. Head tilting, almost sliding off of her neck. Her graceful arms twisting into gnarled bloodied limbs. “Daddy.” she whispered in broken whispers. “Oh Daddy, what have you done?”
Frank ran, scrambling to the kitchen. He pulled a chef’s knife from its snug wooden block. It’s familiar sing-song hum, calling to his soul. The tug and temptation, irresistible. With clouded red desire, he turned slowly to face Ioetta, who was not Ioetta.
With every inch of hate and disgust, he plunged the steel blade into her heart. Over and over again, releasing the rage inside of his being. As he had done, so many times before.
When at last he had exhausted his muscles and the cells that created him, he stepped back. Chest heaved with the labored inhalations and exhalations of spent energy.
Frank blinked, trying to right himself and the reality swarming over him. Instead, he saw the beautiful face of his daughter wrinkle in pain. Her rag-doll body stained in every color of burgundy the rainbow of death spewed. It crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
His lips silently mouthed, “ No!”
“Frank! My god, what did you do?!” The scream that came from Penelope was an anguished tortured sound.
But as Frank turned to face her, he once more only saw the victim. “Why won’t you fucking stay dead?!” Perspiration dotted his forehead and ran down in red streaks. Blood mixed in with the liquid so that he looked completely soaked in his own daughter’s essence.
“It’s me Frank. It’s Penelope! Please baby! No, dont!” His fist smashed into her face, breaking her tender bones. He couldn’t stop himself and soon Penelope’s head had become a squishy mush. She no longer spoke nor moved.
“Frank. Look what you have done. It was never me but the monster you are inside.” The ghost wavered in watery air. “You aren’t even worth this life we were all given. The life you took from us.”
With wild eyes and chest heaving from gasping breaths, Frank stood, unable to move. His gaze transfixed on the being in front of him, seeing a place somewhere far from the world he had just created.
“Take your knife. Yes, that’s it. Time to end the beast you have become.”
His hand shook but slowly he raised the knife to his throat.
“Do it.” She hissed coldly.
The movement across his flesh was not smooth. In jerky cutting strokes, the blade sawed away at the cords of his neck. He felt excruciating pain and with each slice, the dead souls of his hidden conscience flashed in front of him; the lives they had never been able to complete, the families that had grieved and mourned.
Blackness mercifully swam like ink in water, butterflying within his mind and time became lost to him.
Later, dull hums whispered into Frank’s ear. His eyelids fluttered. Bright lights piercing into the momentary peaceful quiet he’d experienced.
A face leaned over him. Then a mouth spoke in a muffled drone. He tried to speak but his tongue was so dry and swollen. Soon the blurry pictures began to right themselves; audio became clarified again.
Machines beeped and antiseptic assaulted his nostrils. A hospital room. ‘What am I doing here?’ His brain tried to rewind but it stilted and stalled. Nothing made sense to him.
“Frank, do you understand me? Do you know where you are?” The Doctor flashed a pinpoint of light into his pupils. Something about that flash brought a change into Frank’s memory. The face peering down at him distorted, transforming flesh into disconnected reality. The murdered young woman sneered with needle sharp teeth.
“Why wont you die?!” she wailed shrilly.
A cry of disbelief tried to escape his throat but all that could be uttered was a liquid gurgle. As he inhaled to take a breath, her disembodied form wriggled its way into his body. Thick like tar, weaving its way sluggishly through his veins. When she had settled inside, his body lay deathly still.
“Now I’m with you till the end of your days.” her laugh echoed inside his hollowed-out mind.
And it was within this understanding, in the silence of it all, that Frank screamed.
“The Master of Pieces” Written by ©®™ Atusha Avarus, Serial Writer
