Happy is he who...writes from the love of imparting certain thoughts and not from the necessity of sale-who writes always to the unknown friend.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)





Friday, September 28, 2012

Entry # 7


The Job
By
Ellie Potts

            May you walk through the raining pools of blood, and dance on the guts of your victims.
            The words floated to the top of her head. She had been given a job, a good job, a job she knew she could really do. A job she had been dreaming for since she could remember. Remember since when? Lucifer had explained her duties, and she planned on doing her very best. To show not only Lucifer, but his other head-honchos that he chose well.
            Raining pools of blood.
            She shivered as his words caressed down her spine, building the anticipation. The freedom of the job set her free. She smiled a small smile as she thought of all the possibilities. She opted to stay here in hell. Oh she could have done this on top-side, but her life on top side had been full of bland dull painful memories, and feelings. All so close to the surface, but yet her mind could not grasp them. Her hand ran over the small scar on her forehead.
            She entered the room, and looked at all the frightened souls; her toys, her victims, her vices. She would do as she pleased with them. They were there to be tortured, to fulfill their heavy dirty souls. Would the doctors who touched her come soon? Would the guards who held her down and had their many ways with her come too? She remembered some of them, but where had she been? Would Lucifer let her have them? She would have to ask.
            Her tight black corset made her already snow white skin glow in a sick yellow way under the florescent lights. Her very long black hair, no longer having to be kept in the tight braid they had made her keep it in, fell around her shoulders in a black cloak. She saw that her appearance made the souls quiver in fear. She could almost taste heavy copper on her tongue with the anticipation of what would soon happen.
            But what scared them were her eyes. Oh sure she had a cute small nose, a bit sharp for her. Her mouth also small, but had perfect pink pouty lips. But it was the eyes. The doctors had talked about them.
            The eyes of a psychopath.
            Her eyes had scared anyone around her, including some of her new colleagues. They hid it, but she could sense their nervousness. Like that of her parents, until they had just stopped visiting her. Even her nurses they felt nervous and pity for her. What had she done to deserve what had happened to her? The thought made her stop briefly, head tilted as she tried to remember something, a fleeting memory. Shaking her head, she thought of Lucifer, he did not fear her dark brown orbs when she looked at him with childish curiosity.
            There she had stood. In front of the very man, her parents had said she would meet with pain and torture, and he had accepted her with a hug and a job. There was no fright, nervousness, or pity in him. He knew what she wanted, deep down, and the job had fit.
            She walked along the wall holding her instruments. Her toys. They looked sharp, deadly and damn fun. Her hand ran lightly over knives of all different shapes and sizes, her favorite were the serrated blades. Their bites the victims felt. Again that memory that was so close to touch came back like a small nagging pain, she tried to grab at it, but it escaped through her hands like liquid, like blood.
            She grabbed the cat o’ nine tails. Nine thongs of strong cords, but with her own twist added to the ends. Small razor blades were added to the tips. Why torture them with whipping, she wanted to pass the foreplay and get straight to the blood.
            She turned to her scared victims, already her wrist snapping the cat o’ nines hitting there marks. The souls cried out and screamed for mercies. The blood flowed in small cuts. She moved and circled, humming a favorite childhood song, as her wrist snapped over and over. And the screams spiraled louder echoing on themselves. They could not pass out, so they would stay awake for everything she threw at them.
            She went to pick another torture item from the wall, something bigger that would get the blood flying. Homemade devices, she had no name for, but would work. She turned to the red eyed, snot sniffling souls. Fear and pleading in their eyes. Her body heated with something close to lust. She released her new toy on them. The blood flew coating her like velvet wet new skin. She licked her lips, rolling the thick copperness on her tongue.
            She sang and twisted. The blood ran, splattering the walls, coating the ground. But still the souls screamed as there was no escape for them. No unconsciousness for them. And in her blood rage glee, that nagging thought finally came close enough to grasp. She stopped as the memories flooded her.
            Her first kill, the feel of the life going out of the small animal, its lifeless glass eyes staring at nothing and how it made her feel. And then the evil older boy who had tried to make her take off her dress, and would that didn’t work he tried to rip it off her body. How it had felt to shove the garden shears into his stomach. How his small whimpers of pain thrilled her as she straddled his body and used the blades to make the cut bigger enough to place her hands inside. How she explored the inside of his warm body, the bloody tissue and organs slippery to her touch. She had discovered the almost long wormy thing, and started to pull out the thick corded stuff. Later she would discover it had been the intestines.
            They had locked her up. She had been punished, she had been beat, she had been electrocuted, and then finally she had been lobotomized. She had lived a horrible life of nothingness, living stuck inside her head, while the world went on around her. She was nothing but a drooling feeble body, until she lost her will to live, and her life just went out, and she was glad for the darkness. And when she awoke she had found herself, now able to function, sitting in the reception room in hell. The secretary, the bitch she was, actually offered her a magazine to read. The man next to her, shocked, said the cold hearted bitch offered nothing, just an evil look on her face.
            She came back to herself. That little memory had done nothing to her, and nothing to change her feelings of the task at hand. Instead it fuelled the spark for the job. And the anticipation that her religious go happy parents would soon be there to enjoy the pain she will inflict on them. She will torture them until they confessed to their own evil. She would torture all who had done wrong to her. Maybe Lucifer could find the boy who had tried to rip her dress off, maybe she could gut him again. Oh yes, she will dance on the guts of her victims.

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