Poor Eliza

girl blood bath“This is your place?” I could sense a hint of sarcastic excitement in her voice as she chugged away at the fifth of vodka.

“Yes, this is it.”

I lead her inside, playing the role of the gentlemen and letting her go first. I just wanted a chance to admire the gothic beauty from behind. The tattoo on her back was showing above and under the tight corset she was wearing, it looked as if it covered her entire torso.

“Eh, I’ve seen worse,” her pixie cut black hair barely moved as she swung her head side to side in a drunken haze. She took another swig from the bottle.

I’m surprised such a pasty skinned angel would follow me so easily. All it took was a bottle of vodka, a handful of painkillers, condoms, and a little sweet talk. Usually the girls I approach in the bars are a bit more reluctant; especially the one’s as young as Eliza. Her name was Eliza, a name she unknowingly shares with grandmother. She is perfect.

Eliza sat down on the couch and stretched herself out. She lifted up her legs, exposing black lace panties underneath the short, tight skirt. It seemed that in her intoxication, she had lost all sense of shame. I notice a tattoo of an eel swimming down her inner thigh.

“So, when are we going to get to it?” She yawned.

“Get to what?” I ask, steadying my hands from shaking.

Eliza rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed.

“Look man, I’ve been in this business long enough to know fake modesty when I see it. You already have me here, what else are you waiting for?”

I stare at her, I’m honestly confused at this point. Wait, she couldn’t be?…

“I’m not cheap though, I can tell you that much,” she slurs her words, “it’s four hundred up front, and another four hundred after you cum. I time it too, it’s an hour tops. If you don’t get your rocks off by then, you better start jerkin’, because I’m out the door by that point, no compromises.”

That’s when it hits me like a brick wall. Of course! How could I have been so damn naïve!? In the throes of my anxiety, I asked her to follow me as calmly as possible.

“Finally,” she threw herself off the couch and followed me to the back of the house.

We stop at a door bearing two carvings, a distorted smiley face next to a crucifix.

“Oh god, you‘re not a damn Jesus freak, are you?”

I ignore her and push open the door. We both step inside, it takes about five seconds for her to let out a shriek of terror.

I act fast and grab the crowbar next to the door. I bring it down on the back of her head as hard as I can. Eliza falls to the ground; I bring the crowbar down six more times. When I’m finished, hear head is split in half, exposing chunks of splintered bone and pink brain matter which clings to her pretty hair. A pool of blood is quickly forming itself under her face.

Mother stares down at me from the tall stake I had fashioned myself. Her hair is white and stringy, there are maggots falling out of her eye sockets, and her skin has turned a wrinkly blackish-blue.

“Don’t look at me like that!” I scream in my defense.

Mother doesn’t respond, there’s only the noise of the flies buzzing around her and the pile of rotting organs I’ve placed at the foot of her stake from previous offerings. She doesn’t say anything but I know what she’s thinking.

“How was I supposed to know!? She had tattoos, just like you said you wanted! Her name was Eliza for Christ’s sake! HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW!?”

Poor Eliza, she wasn’t good enough for Mother. No, Mother demanded pure women, the kind that held respectable jobs and came from respectable families, just like she had. Sometimes her demands were specific, sometimes she wanted a woman with blonde hair, or thin lips, or full figured, or super skinny. This time she demanded tattoos, I thought I had delivered.

Now it was time to be punished.

“No, no, mom, please,” but I knew my begging is useless.

I swat away flies as I make my way over to the closet. I open the door to be greeted by Father, whose sitting slumped against the wall in his usual position. His body appears more bloated than usual in his white work shirt with his black tie. The sticks I’ve attached to the stumps where his limbs used to be seem to be holding up fine, and the burlap sack over his head sends me chills just like it did when he could still walk.

There are flies buzzing around him too. The dried blood stains on his cloths remind me of shit, which reminds me that I’m going to have to clean up after Eliza later. Shame, I really wanted to skin her tattoos off to feed to Mother.

I undo my pants and close the closet door behind me. Father was always the one to punish me; it’s been like this for as long as I can remember. Next time I’ll be sure to please mother, though I’m finding it increasingly difficult to do so.

I take out the small gold crucifix from my front pocket and hold it tight as I accept my punishment.

By Erick Ulrich

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