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Chapter 28

Saturday (FINALLY! WOO!), 9:45 AM


Ellen Meredith Holt-Wright was a stuffy, stupid, picky woman. But she was an excellent lay, and that was all Jonathon cared about. Or, at least, that was what he told his friends. He did feel something for the poor woman, and was terribly sad about the horrible loss of their children.

At the request of Special Agent Pendergast, the two had temporarily left their home in Manhattan to live his Jon’s best friend’s flat. It was there that he kissed his wife and left for work.

Ellen sighed as the door closed, glad that annoying wuss of a death sentence was gone. She was so sick of pretending to love him, to enjoy the sad attempt at sex. Timidly the blonde picked up the phone, having made sure her husband was gone. She slowly, carefully dialed his number, the number of her newest lover.

“Hello?” God she loved his voice. It made her feel so... good.

“Hey,” she replied, her voice husky. “He’s gone.”

“Good.” Something about the way he said this made Ellen shiver, and she wondered if it was the good kind of shiver. Reluctantly she decided it was, though something was screaming at her from the back of her mind to beware. “I’ll be over momentarily.”

The line went dead, as it usually did after one of their short correspondences. He wasn’t much of a talker, and he did have some strange blood fetish, but he was rich, he was sexy, and the things he could do with his hands..!

Ellen laid the phone back upon the cradle, slipping into the tiny bedroom and throwing open the closet door. She eyed the small closet with distaste, eager to return to her enormous walk-in closet at home. It was spectacular, filled with little niches and drawers scattered here and there that only she knew about. Rather handy. Pursing her lips, she pulled out a silky red nightgown with black spaghetti straps — his favourite (and hers as well). The light fabric was almost nonexistant, it was so thin. She quickly took off her everyday, plain, complete-coverage nightgown and slipped into the new selection. The fabric was freezing cold and ended just two inches below her crotch.

Foxy, Ellen though with an amused smile as she looked herself over in the mirror. She released her long, dirty-blonde hair from its boring captor bun and was about to begin finding the best style in which to tie it up when she heard the flat, yawning door bell.

Quickly she fliped her hair over her bare shoulders seductively and half-ran to the door, happily excited. She stopped before the door, calming herself with a deep breath, and opened the thin wooden barrier that seperated her from a tall, beautiful incarnation of pleasure.

“Pleasure” was standing there patiently, nonchalantly pulling off a pair of bloody latex gloves with a black briefcase under his arm. Ellen could faintly see a small bit of red in the hallway behind him and down the hall (is that blood? What on earth was he doing?!) before he stepped in, closing te door and locking it briskly behind himself.

“Hello, darling,” he said distractedly, pocketing the mysterious (and now inside-out) gloves.

She replied by pushing him against the door and attaching her lips to his. Her leg wrapped itself around his waist and she smiled into the kiss as she felt his briefcase fell to the floor. Her tounge forced itself into his mouth ferociously and he replied, reluctant at first, then hungrily. His hands slid up her waist, the nightgown tickiling her skin as it followed his touch.

Ellen moaned into his mouth and thrust her hips against his, pressing him roughly into the door. But, suddenly, his mouth broke away and he steadied his breathing after pushing her from him.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked in a whiny, seductive whisper. She walked back up to him, her hands on his arms. For a moment she was worried he had suddenly grown a conscience, but the soft smile proved otherwise, alleviating her unrealistic fear. His mixed eyes met her nasty, offal brown.

“Not yet, darling. I have to do something first. Come,” he instructed, and she followed him loyally into the bedroom. Playfully she leapt onto the bed, crawling up to the pillows and resting her back against the headboard. He, on the other hand, walked into the room reservedly, walking beside the bed and sliding his breifcase onto the mattress while he sat by her.

“I’ve got a new toy,” he whispered coyly, winking.

“Oh? What is—?”

“I think you’ll like it. I know I will.”

There was that strange tone again. She frowned momentarily, but smiled eagerly again. “Well, what is it?”

Her lover snapped open the locks on the briefcase, opening it. Inside lay scalpels that she had thought only existed in horror movies, along with vials, syringes, a leather-bound, blood red notebook, and a beautiful box. It was this he pulled out, snapping the case shut again. Ellen swallowed nervously but he ignored her scared glances and she brushed aside her (sadly misguided) fear, replacing it with curiousity.

Long white fingers pulled a strange silver tool from the box. It had a scoop-like bit on the end, but the scoop was long and pointy. The handle had a black grip and was interestingly scary.

Ellen tilted her head. “What the hell does that do?” she asked, feeling annoyed she could not figure it out on her own.

He crawled to her, taking her and laying her on the bed, his knees at her hips, and held her hands abover her head with one of his own. An evil, knowing smile graced his lips and he held it to her throat.

“Why, my dear!” he replied. “Can’t you see? It does — this.”

And he gouged out her eye with one quick scoop.



Author’s notes:
Mrs. Wright is actually a real person: Madam Ellen Meredith Holt. She’s a terrible bitch with quite an attitude and always tried to make me unhappy with her stupid, fourth-grade taunts until I found out what her middle name was. That made her scurry off real quick. I barely saw her afterwards... Immature, but effective. I hate her with a passion, that smoking, snail-for-a-brain 16-year-old slut from the deepest pits of hell. That’s why I love being a writer. It allows me to brutally kill. Kinda scary, no? It’s better to take one’s frustrations out on words, though, right?

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