Master of Creation

The rain had just fallen. She was running, breathing hard, panting. Bleeding from the side of her head, there was little vision from her right eye. The blood pooled from the large gash above her brow. The pain in her left temple was unbearable; the adjacent eyelid was split and stretched over the ball that protruded from its socket.

It was raining lightly again. Simone’s feet dragged through the underbrush. She had to find someone, she had to.

Moving towards the light peeking through the surrounding trees she stumbled and careened towards the road.  A vehicle was approaching. Instinctively she knew this was it. Strangely, the pain disappeared. She felt numb.

The glare of the headlights was blinding. Eyes wide with fear she turned her head but lost consciousness. In the middle of the road she fell, battered and broken. The bruises on her torso were large and bloody. Her perfectly sculpted breasts were now askew and oozing the translucent silicone that had filled them. Her face was pulped, unrecognizable.

The tall man in the grey sweats emerged from the black SUV. He held a long black object in his left hand. Approaching the crumpled form on the shiny tarred road he swung the metal back and forth like a metronome. The soles of his sneakers made a soft squishy sound with every step. Perfectly timed with the black pendulum.

He stopped and stooped, bending his head forward to the spot where an ear was once attached. He kissed her.

Throwing his head backwards and feeling the drizzles fall on his face, watching the blood mix and run away from the now betrayed forehead, he laughed. A blood curdling sound that echoed off the cut-rock that bordered both sides of the deserted roadway.

He raised his arm in a wide arc above his head. The reflection of the headlights of his vehicle on the ground walls bounced onto his face and caused a virtual phasing, a shape shifting of his features. The black metal crowbar came down on the cranium of its victim with a mushy crunch. Blood spattered the assailant.

" I told you not to fuck with me!"

He knelt over the mangled face. His fingers delicately lifted the blond hair now matted with blood and tissue. “My sweet Simone. I told you. I told you.” He repeated to know one in particular, at least no one that could hear him.

The night remained still, the on and off again rain kept most of the traffic off this secondary road, and so he theorized that he had just enough time to enjoy his latest masterpiece.
He had made her, sculpted her; her teeth, the breasts - filled with the most realistic and advanced silicone implants, her hair- coloured, fused, strand by strand and woven into the perfect coiffure to frame her pixie-like bone structure - structure sculpted by a Master.

Yes! He was the Master. Even God had to take a back seat. And when his creations got out-of-hand and had the audacity to rebel and do what they wanted, he became the Destroyer. He brought them into this world and he damn well had the right to take them out.

Over a year of watching and planning. Scoping the two university campuses in the area, taking pictures. He sniggered to himself how innocent and naive some of the young girls were. All he needed was a suit - black, blue tie, white shirt, a badge, an Ee-pad and a phone. He walked the campus grounds, approached the young women, talked to them, laughed with them - they all thought he was from a specialist security firm. He laughed loudly again, “Stupid bitches!

But Simone, she was his prize. There was no comparison. The three that came before paled in their existence to his beautiful,  perfect Simone. Now, she lay in the trunk of the SUV in pieces. He would now be forced to initiate his Discard Protocol. He hated this part. Why didn’t they just keep in line? His procedures were sophisticated; the electro-shocks, the sedative-hallucinogenic cocktails - he had done his research. He used the finest materials money could buy. No problem there, he had plenty of that. His Papa made sure he was covered, even though he hadn’t realized it. Medical school, business school, you learnt a lot from the unsavory types, his chosen alliances.

He had become conscious at an early age that he had a taste for ‘creation’. An only child, much time alone was put to good use. The castle he had built in the gardens of the family home, and forbade everyone to enter, was his laboratory. He paid the grounds men handsomely to keep all intruders away and to provide him with all he needed from the town. The small town that was pretty much owned by his family. He could do what the fuck he felt like. And he did.
His sense of smell was heightened. He could taste her blood. The gooey fluid would be oozing into the corners of the spacious trunk, mixing and re-hydrating the stains laid before hers. 

Even though it was not too cold outside, he had the windows up, the heater was on. The warmth in the cabin intensified the smell of fresh kill in the trunk. He inhaled deeply and immediately became bone hard. His member was bursting, fighting against the jersey material to get out. He touched it with his left hand, holding fast to the steering wheel with the right, he was breaking 100 km/hr. He was also spilling his seed down the leg of his track pants. This and only this, was the most pleasurable part of the Discard Protocol.

It was 7.30 am. The campus was already teeming with the new students seeking matriculation. His breathing was rapid but shallow, he needed to remain in control. All of these potential beauties just waiting for him, ripe for the picking.

He exited the Range Rover. His new purchase had a certain glamour all of its own. He grabbed his tablet and took another look in the mirror before he closed the door. The hunt was on.
Walking through the maze of students, he nodded at them and salutations were returned. They were totally oblivious to his mission. Crossing the triangle a young beautiful black woman came running towards him.

“Excuse me, Sir, excuse me, can you help me please!”

He stopped, and flashed her a smile that he knew would make her comfortable and trusting. “Yes of course.  What can I do to help?”

“I am a little embarrassed, but I think I am lost,” she was fumbling in her haversack for a pamphlet. “Can you tell me where the Science Office is? I think it is across the other side but I am already late and I was wondering if you knew the most direct route?” Her Caribbean twang was enthralling.

For just a moment, he stopped breathing. She was a perfect specimen. She was virginal. Caramel toffee skin, short natural hair and a slight gap between her front teeth. He would fix that. She looked athletic and fit. Here was a chance to re-shape an almost perfect form; create a goddess - a black goddess. He felt himself rising. He inhaled and spoke calmly.

“Of course I  know where it is. About two blocks over to the left, but,” he paused, “ why don’t I make it a little easier for you.  I am early for my meeting, for once, and I can give you a lift over there. Would that help?”

Her smile widened and he almost thought she squealed a bit as she rose on tip-toe. Would she squeal again when he was working on her? His temperature rose higher.
“That would be great!”

She kept on chattering as they walked towards the vehicle and he started the engine.  As the powerful motor purred he no longer heard her. His face was calm, smiling, fixed.
The Master was about to conduct his finest work.



----------

Cher Corbin is a mother of two, a scientist and a silver award winner in Photography at the National Independence Festival of Creative Arts (NIFCA). In 2011, she received two silver medals in Literary Arts in NIFCA for her prose pieces, “Intervention” and “The Pink Slip”. In 2012, she won NIFCA awards for her writing and in the Fine Arts category for her watercolour, “Bridge at the Hole”.

1 comment:

TamBrann said...

Intriguing. This is a wicked tease that left me wanting more.

Copyright 2010-2013 St. Somewhere Press All rights reserved.
Copyright of individual works contained in St. Somewhere Journal remain the property of their respective authors.