by Stuart Keane
Probably.
Closing her eyes was the only thing keeping her sane, keeping her brain from flipping over and producing a psychotic state of shock. One day, she would reveal the experience of her torture in her own home, by a deranged, psychotic husband.
"You like that … huh … huh? You fucking asked for this, had it coming. There's nothing you can do to stop … ow … oh … shit."
The iron like grip on Lisa's head became shoddy, wobbly. She was aware of a sensation, a movement, behind her and suddenly, the weight on his push, on the back of her head was heavier, the force increasing. Lisa buckled, pushing her hands against the wall and counter, but they slipped on the tiling, surfaces ravaged by spitting oil. Her fingers streaked through the filth, slipping and gaining no grip, squeaking, as they yielded no safety. Richard's weight became too much and, resigned to a life of torture and unhappiness, Lisa breathed deep and allowed fate to decide her … well, fate.
No one heard the screams as Lisa's entire head submerged beneath the boiling fat, the skin exploding with the heat, blood and epidermis turning the oil a dark brown colour. Her eyes sizzled and popped, her skin sagged and began to boil. Her tongue expanded, turning the screams into a hoarse gag, her throat scorched as the fat sluiced into her mouth. She tasted the fried dog, her own cooked skin and blood and gagged, vomiting into the fryer. The spasm of the vomit and the oil, combined, choked the poor woman. No one saw her arms buck and flail, her legs bash the side of the fryer until the knees bled beneath her black, semen streaked negligee. As she died, no one would know of her personal hell.
No one saw Richard die of a predictable heart attack, his weight too much for a ragged, beaten wife, one who would never have been able to hold off his thirty-stone bulk. As Lisa died and stopped struggling, his body came to rest on hers, pushing her shoulders against the metal rim of the fryer.
When the house burnt down, it would be recorded as an accident, a result of bad DIY planning, tasteless sex games, and health and safety ignorance. Who would install a kitchen in a bathroom? Why would you cook with two people at one fryer? Why would you have sex in the kitchen with the appliances on? What did the dog do to deserve such mutilation? Was it part of a perverted sex game?
The truth would never be revealed to the outside, proving that marriages have their secrets and some, the darkest, depraved ones especially, should never be revealed.
Falling Apart
All it took was a split second.
A momentary lapse in judgment, a second of weakness, your focus slips and you pay for it for the rest of your life. Your whole life ruined by that one thing you didn't see coming.
Literally.
Abbi swallowed a mouthful of chilled Pepsi. She turned the corner and ambled down the rain-blasted alleyway. Checking the clock on her phone, she realised she had plenty of time. She tucked a strand of charcoal coloured hair behind her ear and carried on.
Time to spare, she thought.
Three stinking dumpsters, and a tabby cat grooming itself became an afterthought as she walked deeper into the alleyway; a destination in mind, the concrete narrow between buildings used as a time saving shortcut to reach it. Abbi noticed a black banana skin on the ground and skirted around it.
"Giz a drink, love."
Abbi stopped and turned. Her eyes glanced around the narrow, dank alleyway, trying to locate the sound of the voice. Her nose twitched at the bitter ammonia smell that surrounded her. She saw no one.
"Giz a drink … love."
Abbi frowned.
"Down here, sugar tits."
Abbi looked down and jumped back, knocking into an overflowing trash can. It rattled against the wall, spilling its rotten contents onto the piss-stained concrete. She ambled around the rotten bag of fruit and away from the man on the floor. Her eyes never left him, cautious.
The tramp sneered at her, baring gray, decaying teeth. His long, scraggly hair became one with his long, unkempt beard, both flecked with white and age, dust and other unidentifiable materials. His long brown coat doubled as a makeshift duvet, his dirty sneakers poked out from underneath. The left one split in half, his filthy toes protruding from the front. The strong smell of feces polluted the air. Abbi covered her face with her sleeve. "Gross."
"Giz a drink love. From the cup or your tits."
"Fuck off, old man."
"Such a dirty mouth … whore. Bet you can suck a golf ball through a fucking garden hose. My … I wouldn’t mind finding out." The man unzipped his fly and fumbled for his penis.
Abbi screamed. "No, don't." She threw her Pepsi at him. The cup flew through the air, upending. The lid popped off and the drink doused the man on the floor with a loud splatter. His eyes closed and he moaned; the cold drink and ice doing a number on his clothes and skin. Abbi noticed dirt running down his now wet face and giggled.
"You stupid bitch. Fuck you."
With that, the tramp spat at her. Abbi, still laughing, didn’t see it coming. The glob of sputum flew through the air and landed in her open, joyful mouth.
Her lips shut. The warm, phlegmy sensation of the man's spit rolled around her tongue and slipped over her front teeth. A miniscule amount oozed down her throat. She gagged, spitting it out. Abbi had the terrible urge to vomit.
It came hard and fast, splattering the concrete at her feet. Her cheeseburger, fries and onion rings hit her shoes and pattered her trouser legs. She gasped for air and wretched. "You … fuck you, old man."
"Any time, darlin', any time!"
Abbi turned and walked out of the alleyway, coughing in disgust. As she went, the old man scratched behind his ear and the lobe slipped off the side of his head. It slapped the wet concrete with a sickly splat. Blood and pink pus pooled around it. He laughed manically.
"You're kidding, right?"
Dr. Stevens shook his head. Pushing his glasses onto his nose with a forefinger, he looked down at the notes on his beaten clipboard. He reread the words, just to check, still not believing the words he'd uttered. "I'm afraid not."
"Leprosy?"
"Yes."
"I have leprosy?" Abbi squealed, petrified and disbelieving all at once. She crossed her arms and uncrossed them, shuffling in the leather seat. The material squeaked beneath her rump.
"Kind of?"
"Kind of? What sort of a fucking diagnosis is that?"
"An approximate one," the doctor said, flatly. "We can't be a hundred percent sure. Yet."
"What?"
"It means you inhibit all the symptoms of leprosy. But, it's … not leprosy."
"That doesn’t make any sense, doctor. And I don’t believe you. I want a second opinion."
"I've checked the tests. I've obtained three different opinions, from three of the best doctors in the country. I spent several hours on the phone checking and rechecking and it can't be anything else. I mean it can …"
"Doctor, with all due respect, I don't believe you. What's the diagnosis? Skip the ifs and the buts and give it to me straight. Please." Abbi was shaking. After three habitual attempts, she managed to tuck a strand of charcoal hair behind her ear.
Dr. Stevens exhaled, gathering his wits. The protective glass before him steamed up. After a second, the steam disappeared, and his patient's face reappeared.
Her face contorted with the bad news. A tear rolled down her cheek. "Please …" Her voice broke and her head lowered, the stress of the past three weeks catching up to her. Weeks of tests and injections and CAT scans sagged the young woman's shoulders.
He looked at Abbi, his eyes stoic, his stomach doing cartwheels. In his thirty years as a medical practitioner, he'd never seen this disease before. He took a step back, as per protocol. Abbi scratched her forearm and he noticed a red patch of sores. No more than a penny in size, but the three bunched together like a strange tattoo. Abbi rubbed the sores with her fingertips and a piece of skin fell to the floor. Pink ooze seeped from the broken scab.
Dr. Stevens took another step back. The protective quarantine r
oom before him would keep him safe. He felt sorry for his patient though. He fought back tears.
He breathed in.
"You have a disease known as necrotizing fasciitis. You also have leprosy, AKA Hansen's disease. I've never seen this before but we believe you've picked up a mutated strain of the virus. One that's somehow combined the two and created a super disease. You … um …"
Abbi rubbed her eyes ferociously. Her hands wiped away rivulets of tears that now stained her cheeks and turned them red. Her eyes returned to the doctor, silently pleading.
"Leprosy attacks the nerve endings in certain parts of the body. Toes and fingers and the face. Your sensory functions will also be affected, so in worst case scenarios … you could lose your hearing or eyesight. The incubation period is normally five to twenty years."
"That's good right?" Her eyes lit up.
Dr. Stevens gulped and immediately felt guilty about the ray of hope that suddenly shone through Abbi. "Not really."
Abbi said nothing, the ray of hope diminished.
"Normally, the incubation period is five to twenty. However, that’s where the strain has thrown us for a loop. Necrotizing fasciitis is a flesh eating disease. So, not only will you … lose feeling in your nerves but you'll start to lose parts … it's a flesh eating bacteria so you'll start to …" Dr. Stevens couldn’t finish his sentence.
Abbi looked up. "Lose body parts?"
"No, no. Well, yes. In theory. We've never seen this before."
"But, if I have what you think I have, what will happen to me?"
Dr. Stevens said nothing.
"For fuck sake, Doctor, tell me."
"You'll lose your body parts. At which rate, we don’t know …"
Abbi narrowed her wet eyes. "There's more, isn't there?"
Dr. Stevens nodded. "Not only will you lose body parts … you won't feel it when it happens. The damaged nerve endings, amplified by the flesh eating disease, a two-pronged attack on the nervous system, will inhibit any pain. It also rapidly accelerates the incubation period … well, it's so fast you skipped the incubation period and you’re already showing symptoms." Dr. Stevens pointed to Abbi's arm and she stopped scratching. She turned her fingertips upwards, checking the pink ooze that coated them.
Dr. Stevens continued. "Not only will you die, but there's a slim chance you'll die in no pain, which means you won’t see shock coming. Or feel it if you lose a finger or your nose drops off … your body has a high risk of seizure or a stroke before shutting down."
Abbi withheld a howl. After a long minute, she managed to let the words escape her mouth. "How long do I have?"
Dr. Stevens looked down at the floor. "I can't be accurate."
"How long?" She closed her eyes, awaiting her verdict.
"On my calculation … less than three weeks."
*****
Abbi sat on the cold, marble floor. Her legs crossed before her, her weakened arms leaning in her lap. Her left forearm was a dark pink, the colour of sunburn. Yellow, brittle scabs were starting to form on her flesh. She brushed at them with her fingertips, knocking off flecks of dead skin. They floated silently to the floor beside her. Her tear ravaged face didn’t move, didn’t show any hint of emotion. The past week has taken its toll on her body. She didn’t feel any pain or any discomfort, not even when she'd cracked her knuckles and snapped her pinkie finger off. She'd held it up, admiring it in the light above, before curling up on her bed and crying herself to sleep. She should have vomited or fainted, but nothing surprised her anymore, nothing scared her.
She was dying. What could be worse than that?
The pinkie was no more, sat in a petri dish on her makeshift bedside cabinet – a metal chair with no comfort at all – and all that remained was a small, pinkish-white knob of bone. The skin was long gone, eaten away as the doctor had advised her. For a long hour, she'd watched it change and rot before her exhausted, disbelieving eyes. She vowed never to do that again, in the short timeframe she had left.
It was at that moment Abbi knew how she wanted to see out her days.
For the first time in a fortnight, a smile etched her chapped lips. She didn’t feel the skin cracking and tearing on her cheeks. She wasn’t aware until the blood dripped onto her hoodie.
She pushed the buzzer. After a second, Nurse Jade answered it. "Yes, Abbi?"
"I want to speak to Dr. Stevens."
*****
"I don’t condone this, not one bit."
"It's not your choice … to make." Abbi coughed, a wad of red sputum dribbled from between her lips, smearing her blue jumpsuit. "I want to do this."
"Just because I don’t condone it, that doesn’t mean I will stop you. It's your choice."
Abbi nodded, deep in thought.
"Is Sarah okay with this?" Dr. Stevens pushed his glasses onto his nose.
Abbi scratched her cheek, breaking the skin. A small sliver stuck to her fingertip, itself devoid of a nail. "I'm not sure."
Dr. Stevens cleared his throat. "We did some tests. Despite your advanced condition, we understand the disease isn't as lethal as it was. You're talking about actual contact with your partner. We can't guarantee she won't contract the disease. Are you okay with doing that?"
"I'm fine with it."
Dr. Stevens breathed out. Before him sat Sarah, Abbi's long-term partner. Her long blonde hair caressed her shoulders, curling at the bottom, which accentuated her perfect bone structure. Her ocean blue eyes, flanked by deft, dark eyelashes, were stark in the midday sun, shining with hope and love. Dr. Stevens could see a burning passion behind them. Just by setting eyes on her, he could tell this woman was active, adventurous, carefree and a risk taker. Loyalty is a rare trait but Sarah had it oozing from her pores. Her eyes were taking in the situation, assessing it, glimmering with tears for her tragic, dying lover. She was a beautiful woman, the type who could grace Vogue in a heartbeat. He scribbled something on the pad before him. "You're fine with it?"
"Trying to cover your backs?" Sarah spat the words without averting her eyes from Abbi, who lay on a bed within her protective cell. "All you doctors are the same."
"No, no … we're just confirming some details. Abbi wants this. We advise against it, but we shan't deny a dying woman her final wish. She wants this and it was her idea. In all honesty, I'm not going to stop her. Only you can make that decision."
"That's very noble of you, Doctor." Sarah wiped her eyes for the first time, slowly, not afraid to show rare weakness. Dr. Stevens wondered if this was the first time she'd ever shed tears. He kept his wondering to himself. "I'm just doing my job," he said, guilt wracking every inch of his body.
"If you did your job, she wouldn’t be here. She'd be at home, in my arms, well and rested. Instead, she's rotting in this box you call a home. Pathetic."
Dr. Stevens said nothing.
Finally, Sarah moved her gaze to Dr. Stevens. "I'm fine with it."
"Good. We'll make some preparations."
"Please do." A faint smile flickered across her supermodel lips. "Please do."
*****
"Okay, Sarah, on the count of three, open the door."
Sarah smoothed her jeans with the palms of her hands and pulled at her shirt. She'd never felt nerves like this before. She'd scaled Everest, driven an F1 car and even volunteered in the Navy, but nothing was more daunting than what lay ahead for the next hour.
She checked her hair, patted it in place. She wiped her glossed lips and breathed out. She could feel the slippery perspiration in her armpits, the slight twitch of nerves in her lower back. Her legs wouldn’t move. A slight hissing filled the room as an unknown machine sucked the bacteria from the small box that surrounded her, purifying the air.
What lay ahead was a mystery. As far as she knew – not that she'd researched it in any great detail – she was the first woman to ever attempt or even proceed with this.
Whatever this might be, she doubted there was a name for it.
A solid clunk filled the
room and the door before her opened inwards. Sarah breathed out, feeling the warmth of dread rise deep inside her. Dr. Stevens, watching from his safe position behind the safety glass, flickered a button on the microphone. "Sarah, please step into the room."
Sarah closed her eyes and did it, without hesitation. After all, hanging from a snowy precipice thirteen thousand feet in the air was much more daunting than taking three relatively safe steps. Wasn’t it?
The smell of mustiness and clean air, a strange combination, snaked up her nostrils, freezing her on the spot. The door clunked shut behind her and she knew, then, that she wasn’t coming out of this. Too late. No turning back.
When her focus returned, Sarah noticed Abbi standing before her. Sarah gasped and covered her mouth with a trembling hand.
Abbi was a mess.
Knotted hair, un-brushed and greasy, bunched up in several places across her flaking scalp. She'd not worn makeup for a few weeks; her skin was heavily blemished with the limited diet she was adhering too. Cracked lips made Abbi flinch when she licked them, her eyes sunken behind dark rings caused by lack of sleep. She wore a blue jumpsuit, basic and uncomfortable, her clothes long since removed. Sarah ran her eyes over her lovers clothing and sighed. Faint smears of blood and various bodily fluids were still visible.
"Those bastards," she said and stepped forward. Abbi smiled, opening the cracks in her cheeks, revealing slick muscle below. Her grin was like a grotesque clown smile that stretched a crescent moon of red, bloody muscle from ear to ear. The skin creaked as the muscles went to work. Sarah groaned and felt burning vomit rising from her empty stomach. She refused to turn away from Abbi, to show any signs of rejection. The doctors had pretty much exhausted that avenue in the past months.
"Hey," Abbi said. She stopped smiling, aware of Sarah's discomfort.
