called Dr. Sears, but hung up the phone, not wanting to sound crazy.
But as she stared at the phone, she felt hot beads roll down her neck. She went to the mirror and saw a long slice of glass protruding from her neck. She tried to remove it with tweezers, but it opened her flesh further and more blood rained.
The phone rang again. She answered it and it was "Polly" from Billings, Montana. Wanda found out that "Polly" was no client and then felt more twinges of pain. She went to the mirror and in horror saw blood dripping down her face. She grabbed for the phone and started to dial.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Sears office?"
She opened her mouth and nothing would come out. Turning to the mirror she saw the longest piece of glass penetrated where her voice box would have been. Trembling, she dropped the phone and went to the door. She put her hand on the knob and stopped at the doorbell's clanging.
Peeking through the eyehole, she saw Beth outside. She started to open the door and then froze.
"Wanda, I need to talk to you," Beth said, her voice muffled. "I know you probably don't want to talk to me. Tim told me this morning that. . ."
Blood coursed down Wanda's thighs, back, stomach, breasts, neck. Little and big pieces of glass poking everywhere. She turned the knob and pulled it inward. HELP ME, she thought
". . . he and I are finished. I'm so sorry I did this to you—" Beth stopped and stared at the shambling, dripping horror. She backpedaled, screaming out of the walkway. She would never share with a soul the ghastliness she viewed that searing August day.
DON'T LEAVE ME, PLEASE! YOURRRR MYYY BESSSSSTTTT FRIIIEEENNND!
The phone rang and Wanda crawled to it, glass digging deeper into her flesh with each movement. She listened to "Anna" from Portland, Oregon on the answering machine tell Tim how much she loved him and couldn't wait for his touch tonight. She saw blackness closing in like a shroud in their bedroom closet door. Glass poked through her eyes.
* * *
Tim arrived home the following Monday, skipping up the driveway. He opened the door and smelled the stinking copper. Blood trails were everywhere. He looked in the bathroom and saw a tub of brown-red water. He walked into the bedroom and heard a crunching glass sound beneath his feet.
Dead Warmed Over
Six hours later, with dawn rising like temperature in a fever-ridden thermometer, Jackie was still dead.
Ben's wife, his beloved, Jackie.
Jackie for rides on hot summer days and cold, snowy nights. Jackie in the park swinging next each other. Jackie at the bowling alley, laughing and crying on those lousy 7-10 splits. Jackie when the day was dim making it bright. Oh, Jackie.
Jackie in the bedroom always so hot, inviting, sweet; the hotel in Heaven. Jackie extending her long open arms, her sensuous fingernails clipped perfectly. "Come to bed, Ben. Take me, please." Ben obediently followed. He licked her tears clean, massaged her sore spots. Jackie made the world not better, but best.
But Jackie wanted more from their sex life.
Jackie wanted experimentation. She wanted the toys. The games. The hot porn movies. The things that made Ben quiver with delight. Jackie loved the computer and finding couples on-line. Yes, Jackie loved them all. The private one-on-ones, the hot phone sex, you name it, and Jackie would indulge. A man's ultimate fantasy.
But Jackie's flesh reeked now.
Grew colder.
Ben shed a tear as he ran her favorite bath. He soaped her paling flesh. He washed her long, blonde hair, lathering jussssst right. That's how she said it, "jussssst right, Ben. Love the feel of your hands through my hair." And Ben's face was wet, droplets skidding from his brown eyes.
Ben had tried everything to revive her: CPR, ice bath, thumping her chest. He'd done everything but 911. Couldn't do that. They'd take her away. Then him. He'd never see her again. They'd race him to trial, convict him of murder, not accidental death.
Just having sex!
But as she stared at the phone, she felt hot beads roll down her neck. She went to the mirror and saw a long slice of glass protruding from her neck. She tried to remove it with tweezers, but it opened her flesh further and more blood rained.
The phone rang again. She answered it and it was "Polly" from Billings, Montana. Wanda found out that "Polly" was no client and then felt more twinges of pain. She went to the mirror and in horror saw blood dripping down her face. She grabbed for the phone and started to dial.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Sears office?"
She opened her mouth and nothing would come out. Turning to the mirror she saw the longest piece of glass penetrated where her voice box would have been. Trembling, she dropped the phone and went to the door. She put her hand on the knob and stopped at the doorbell's clanging.
Peeking through the eyehole, she saw Beth outside. She started to open the door and then froze.
"Wanda, I need to talk to you," Beth said, her voice muffled. "I know you probably don't want to talk to me. Tim told me this morning that. . ."
Blood coursed down Wanda's thighs, back, stomach, breasts, neck. Little and big pieces of glass poking everywhere. She turned the knob and pulled it inward. HELP ME, she thought
". . . he and I are finished. I'm so sorry I did this to you—" Beth stopped and stared at the shambling, dripping horror. She backpedaled, screaming out of the walkway. She would never share with a soul the ghastliness she viewed that searing August day.
DON'T LEAVE ME, PLEASE! YOURRRR MYYY BESSSSSTTTT FRIIIEEENNND!
The phone rang and Wanda crawled to it, glass digging deeper into her flesh with each movement. She listened to "Anna" from Portland, Oregon on the answering machine tell Tim how much she loved him and couldn't wait for his touch tonight. She saw blackness closing in like a shroud in their bedroom closet door. Glass poked through her eyes.
* * *
Tim arrived home the following Monday, skipping up the driveway. He opened the door and smelled the stinking copper. Blood trails were everywhere. He looked in the bathroom and saw a tub of brown-red water. He walked into the bedroom and heard a crunching glass sound beneath his feet.
Dead Warmed Over
Six hours later, with dawn rising like temperature in a fever-ridden thermometer, Jackie was still dead.
Ben's wife, his beloved, Jackie.
Jackie for rides on hot summer days and cold, snowy nights. Jackie in the park swinging next each other. Jackie at the bowling alley, laughing and crying on those lousy 7-10 splits. Jackie when the day was dim making it bright. Oh, Jackie.
Jackie in the bedroom always so hot, inviting, sweet; the hotel in Heaven. Jackie extending her long open arms, her sensuous fingernails clipped perfectly. "Come to bed, Ben. Take me, please." Ben obediently followed. He licked her tears clean, massaged her sore spots. Jackie made the world not better, but best.
But Jackie wanted more from their sex life.
Jackie wanted experimentation. She wanted the toys. The games. The hot porn movies. The things that made Ben quiver with delight. Jackie loved the computer and finding couples on-line. Yes, Jackie loved them all. The private one-on-ones, the hot phone sex, you name it, and Jackie would indulge. A man's ultimate fantasy.
But Jackie's flesh reeked now.
Grew colder.
Ben shed a tear as he ran her favorite bath. He soaped her paling flesh. He washed her long, blonde hair, lathering jussssst right. That's how she said it, "jussssst right, Ben. Love the feel of your hands through my hair." And Ben's face was wet, droplets skidding from his brown eyes.
Ben had tried everything to revive her: CPR, ice bath, thumping her chest. He'd done everything but 911. Couldn't do that. They'd take her away. Then him. He'd never see her again. They'd race him to trial, convict him of murder, not accidental death.
Just having sex!
Similar Books
