by Tony C. Skye
Tamara ignores her while she continues carving. The bloody girl screams out in agony. Her eyes roll back into her head from the unimaginable pain. The tall girl moves down to the girl's six-pack belly. She carves.
The pale-skin girl cries out, “I beg you, Tamara! Please stop!” Tears mixed with blood flows into the floor, “Please-please-please...”
Tamara open hand hits the girl across her mouth as hard as she can without breaking teeth. Her body rushes with endorphins as the girl's big lips begin to instantly swell with each scream. She slaps her lips two more times before putting her carver's ring back on.
Tamara climbs off of the heavy beat down she has just given. The girl is hysterical within her crying, begging, and breathing. She lies upon the floor for twenty minutes before she attempts to speak.
“Don't break any bones,” she instructs breathlessly, “No hospitals.”
Tamara's head retreats in puzzlement. She walks over and stands over the girl.
“You want more?”, the cheerleader questions with confusion in her voice.
The girl spits out the blood running into her mouth from her lips. She grins and makes a point to stare into Tamara's curious brown eyes, “I told you. I am your last one. Make it count for something. A day to remember, you soft-hearted bitch.”
Tamara blankly watches as the stubborn girl rolls over on her side and struggles to stand. She reaches out and helps to stabilize the shaky girl. The smaller girl looks up questioningly.
Tamara grins, “Who said I was done? I was only using my right hand. I'm a lefty. We still have your back, legs, and ass to play with. You're going to cry all night, little girl. When you pass out, I'll wait until you recover and make you beg some more, you crazy bitch.”
The girl turns her face to offer Tamara a green flag, “What's taking so long? Let's hear some screaming and begging already. Geezus, you talk too much.”
Tamara pauses as the girl's words excite her in a way she has never known. She leans down and gently pecks her badly swollen lips.
“Gawd, you're beautiful,” the tall girl whispers, “Where have you been?”
The torn girl whispers back, “Right here waiting for you.” She winces as she forces her lips to kiss the cheerleader back. The nervous girl feels Tamara's hands begin to explore. She staggers backwards.
“All this chatting has got to stop sooner or later,” the girl dares Tamara with a serious gaze.
Tamara shakes her head in disbelief. What is happening? Her body begs her for more of the girl's tears, but her mind is screaming against the insanity of it all.
The bloody girl drops to the floor as Tamara's left hand makes contact with the girl's right jaw.
* * *
Caroline walks into Dr. Evan's office. The short portly man holds out his right hand,
“You must be Caroline. It's nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Evans.”
The teen shakes his hand as her mother Victoria speaks, “Caroline's a little nervous about talking to a male.”
“Mom!”, Caroline objects.
The man laughs. He looks from Victoria to her daughter, “I'd be upset, too.”
Caroline nervously grins.
Victoria puts her right hand on the girl’s left shoulder, “You know where my office is. I'll be there when you're done.”
“Okay,” Caroline calms her tone.
The two doctors exchange professional nods. Victoria quietly closes the door as she leaves Dr. Evan's office. Caroline looks at the brown leather couch Dr. Evans presents with his outstretched hand.
You can't be serious.
“Or you can sit in the floor if you prefer,” the doctor quickly notices her hesitation. He seats himself on a brown leather chair positioned across from the couch. It faces the couch's center.
“It's fine,” Caroline answers while sitting on the far right side of the couch. She watches the man in his gold pin-striped white button shirt take his position upon the chair. He sits a clipboard upon his black slacks.
“You don't have to say anything if you don't want to,” the doctor speaks, “I'll ask a series of questions. If you don't want to answer there's no pressure. This session is about getting to know each other. And you don't have to worry about any strait jackets.” The man grins knowingly.
Damn it, mom.
“Do you have any questions before we get started?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” she inquires, “How much have you and my mom talked about me?”
“That's a fair question,” the man states, “Not much actually. She mentioned your dad, your recent night terrors, your reluctance to talk with a male just now, and then that episode you had at school yesterday.”
“So my mommy told you I had daddy-issues,” the girl condescendingly mocks.
Dr. Evans laughs. He finishes the information spill, “She also said you would be one tough customer. And bragged about how bright and intelligent you are.” The man grins, “I am starting to believe she undersold you.”
Caroline doesn't smile back. But she reasons the man's words and sort of likes the way he thinks. She relaxes her stiff frame slightly as her back leans against the couch. But she doesn't allow the leather to wrap around her either. She uses her right arm to shift the unbalance of weight over to the arm's rest.
“Okay, doc. Let's do this. But if I don't like what you have to say, I'm outta here,” Caroline throws out her conditions.
“Fair enough,” Dr. Evans nods.
Caroline answers each question honestly as per her promise to her worrisome mother. Some of the questions are just plain silly. Questions like: What is your favorite color?; Favorite number?; Have you ever contemplated suicide?; Have you ever wished one of your parents were hurt or dead?; Have you ever had violent fantasies about hurting someone other than yourself?; and Have you ever cheated on a test exam? Maybe for some patients, these questions have some kind of relevance. But to Caroline, they are outright stupid.
The other questions are just nosy. Questions like: Have you ever kissed a boy?; A girl?; And if so, how old were the two of you?; Where did you kiss?; How long was the kiss?; Did you want to do it again?, and Have you ever had intercourse?
Dr. Evans looks at his watch. He begins writing on a small tablet and rips the page off before handing it to Caroline.
“This is to help you sleep at night. Take one every night before you go to bed. I do apologize, but we are only halfway through all of the questions. I would like to see you every day for the rest of the week. After that, we can cut it back to once a week,” the doctor notifies Caroline of his scheduled plan. He pauses while she considers his offer.
“Okay,” she says with a monotone.
Her words tell the doctor she is not pleased with the idea. But the good news is that she is going to give him a real chance. And this is all he needs – a chance to help her.
“See you tomorrow, Caroline. It has been a real pleasure meeting you,” the doctor dismisses her.
She gets up with her prescription and makes her way to the office's door. Caroline turns, “Hey, doc. The stuff I say is private, right?”
Dr. Evans looks up from his clipboard. He grins, “Yes, Caroline. Not even your mother is allowed to read anything.”
She answers without giving away any signs of emotion, “Good enough. Thanks doc.”
“Dr. Evans,” the man politely corrects.
“Right. Thanks, Dr. Evans,” Caroline plays along.
“You're welcome, Caroline. See you tomorrow,” he says.
Caroline turns and opens the door.
“See you tomorrow,” the girl pauses for effect, “doc.” She steps out into the hall and closes the door behind her.
Dr. Evans shakes his head while staring at the closed door. He smiles, “Undersold by a mile.”
* * *
Tamara jerks. Her head droops waking her out of her power nap. She sits outside on the top step of the porch. The bleach blond glances over to her Corvette. It hasn't been moved since she first arrived.
The last time she checked, it was 11:00 p.m. and that was about an hour ago – six hours from the time she first stepped out of the driver's side seat.
The teen sighs. She is exhausted unlike any other time in her life, both physically and mentally. Most of her fights last around five to twenty seconds. One even lasted for about three minutes. But never has she beaten anyone for this long.
Inside of the first thirty minutes, the girl inside of the house had been knocked out twice, passed out once, carved on, spit on, and punched. Tamara held back no power with her ringed fingers either. And these first thirty minutes were nothing in comparison to the coming insanity. For reasons she cannot grasp, Tamara Hillary Stilliard could not stop herself from wanting to do more. Crazier even yet, the girl inside of the house never stopped desiring more.
Sure, she screamed bloody murder – cried like she was in some kind of B-rated horror flick. She begged Tamara to stop. But soon as the girl could find her breath again, she would wipe her eyes and say something like: “Why did you stop?”; or “I thought you wanted me to beg”; or “Don't you want to remember this?”; or “At this rate, I'll forget about you in the morning”; and the ever so cute “Okay, Tamara. I'm done. You win.” Then she put on a wild-looking grin and said, “Yeah, Tamara. You win. And I'm done being played with by an amateur.” The girl then made a moaning-kissing sound through her swollen bloody lips and said invitingly, “Unless of course, you were just getting warmed up?”
As morbid as it sounds, the girl in the house kept intentionally raising Tamara's desire to keep punishing. But it goes much deeper than this. It seems the girl only showed signs of contentment within her moments of mercy given by Tamara. Every time Tamara began contemplating that it was all too much, the girl would counter with one of her provoking statements; thereby, instantly rousing Tamara back to a violent status.
For the first time in Tamara's existence as a fighter, she is truly thankful for her professional training. If she didn't know the human body as well as she does, the girl in the house would have probably died hours ago. But Tamara’s skills have made it possible for her to remain on the offensive for the past seven hours without cracking or breaking a single bone. She has not ruptured any vital organs or cut any artery veins. And with her knowledge concerning bleeding, she has still been able to slice and dice the girl enough to draw blood, but not enough to cause a medical emergency. Anyone else would have taken the trip to the hospital hours ago. But not this girl.
Now, however, it is time to stop. Any more would be way too much. The girl in the house lost control of her bowels and passed out in her own mess. And all she could say about it was, “I'm sorry, Tama...,” then it was lights out.
This was over an hour ago. The girl is still sleeping in the same spot. And Tamara, herself, has been outside here on the porch dozing off. She debated getting into her car and driving away – never to look back again. But for whatever reasons, Tamara Hillary Stilliard cannot stop herself from wanting to do more. The girl inside of the house won't let her.
Tamara forces herself to her feet. She walks over to her car and opens the driver's side door. She takes off all of her rings and holds them in her right hand. The eighteen-year-old drops them carelessly on the floorboard as she gets behind the wheel. She picks up her phone with the same dried-bloody hand and cycles to her bff's number.
Ring. Ring.
“Come on, Jenny.”
Ring.
“Wow! Where have you been?”, Jennifer answers her phone, “Your parents freakin' called here. I told them you ran to the store. That was like three hours ago. I've been avoiding them ever since.”
“I'm fine, Jenny. Look, I need you and Rebecca to do something for me. No questions, k?”, the exhausted girl requests.
“Whatcha need?”, Tamara's bff offers her help.
“I need some clothes and an alibi,” the girl frightens her friend.
“Crap! I knew you were going to...”
“Relax, Jenny. I'm kidding,” Tamara interrupts, “That's payback for David Snow.”
“Oh, that is so not funny,” Jennifer answers.
“Seriously, I need some clothes. But I need some other stuff, too. I'll meet you at the park down from your house at six in the morning,” Tamara clarifies.
“Six in the morning? What about your parents? And school?”, Jennifer questions.
“Tell Rebecca I need her to call in and act like my mom again. I need you to write all of the stuff down I'm going to need. And I'll take care of mom and dad,” Tamara explains.
The tired girl gives Jennifer a list of things to pick up. She hangs up and dials her parent's house. After they hear her voice, they calm down and have no care about her coming home. She is eighteen and they know if she doesn't want to come home, she won't. Their only standing rule is a phone call to eliminate any parental fears. Tamara ends the call after an exchange of 'I love yous' and tosses the phone on the passenger-side seat.
The girl glances to the house and then down to the ignition on her steering column. The car's keys hang invitingly. She looks back towards the house and lets out an exaggerated breath.
Tamara, what are you doing?
The senior gets out, closes the door, walks to the porch, and steps up the four creaky stairs. Tamara takes a deep breath and opens the screen door before stepping inside of the house. She makes the quick left into the living room from the small hallway. She stops.
Where did you go?
Tamara follows the disgusting smell-trail of smeared blood, urine, and feces. The stench path leads into the room on the right. She walks into the kitchen and sees the path leading into another room on the left.
Bathroom. Too bad you didn't ask before you made this mess.
She steps around the mess and peers inside.
Damn.
The eighteen-year-old girl with matted black hair moans while she attempts to turn the tub's water into the on position. Her shaky left hand falls off of the star-shaped silver knob. A defeated whimper follows. She lies her head on the tub’s side and passes back out with tears streaming down her face. Tamara, herself, can feel the stinging sensation of water within her own eyes.
Oh, hell no. No one makes me cry, bitch.
The taller girl notices a stack of bath towels stacked neatly upon a wire-grate shelf attached to the wall to her left. She uses her long legs to straddle the mess and reaches for the towels. She sits the entire stack on the bathroom sink below the shelf and grabs the two top ones. Tamara unfolds them and spreads them out in an overlapping fashion over the grueling mess.
Now what, Tamara? Got any bright ideas?
She looks at the girl slumped over the bathtub.
“How about you?”, she questions quietly, “No? Didn't think so.”
Perfect.
Tamara looks at her bloody clothes. She glances into the mirror hanging over the sink. Blood is matted into her shoulder-length hair. And her face is streaked with red from wiping at the sweat during each physical bout. She rolls her eyes and begins stripping off her clothes.
The cheerleader watches the other girl breathe like a rabbit in quick short bursts. She pops the clasp on her 34-b sized white bra and drops it onto the pile of clothes which is now garbage. Tamara slips off her matching panties and points at the unconscious girl.
“You tell anybody about this and I'll make you eat it next time,” she quietly threatens.
The fighter softly walks and maneuvers herself over the girl.
Squeak. Squeak.
Tamara turns both water knobs on. She adjusts each one until the water is lukewarm. She finds the tub's plug and seats it into place. Stepping back with both hands on her hips, the cheerleader continues her one-sided conversation.
“You're lucky my mom's a surgeon. I like my showers hot. But that's a bad idea for you. Come on.”
The strong girl cradles and lifts the eighteen-year-old. Her unconscious head falls against Tamara's chest. She grunts as lucidity begins arousing her from her slumber.
Tamara kneels and gently places the messy girl into the water. When her body touches the water, she whimpers.
“Shh...”, Tamara comforts. The cheerleader looks at the discolored water and gags with the combining smell of odor.
“We both are going to have to do this a couple of times.”
She gently props the girl's head up on the back of the tub, “Forgot something. Be right back.”
Tamara leaves the bathroom and quickly returns. She kneels by the tub,
“At least your kitchen isn't empty.”
Placing a pan underneath the streaming water, Tamara gently pours water over the girl's body each time it fills up.
“Ahh!”, the beaten girl screams out and begins sobbing.
“Oops sorry,” Tamara cringes. She forgot about how deep she had stuck her fingers into the gashes across the girl's chest.
“Yeah,” Tamara confirms as the water begins clearing away the old blood, “Those are pretty bad. We’re gonna need butterfly band-aids. ”
The eighteen-year-old works to wash and rinse the soiled female. She leaves her in the bathtub while she fills the pot, drains out the water, rinses the tub with the pot's water, and then starts over with a fresh tub of lukewarm water.
Tamara sponge bathes herself on the bathroom's floor so she won't recontaminate the broken girl's tattered body. She, then, gently washes the girl with a soapy washcloth found where the towels were. The cheerleader cringes, grits her teeth, and bites on her lower lip every time the torn girl screams out, whimpers, or sobs within her agony.
When she is satisfied the girl is completely bathed, Tamara double-checks herself for cleanliness before she cradles and lifts the girl out of the tub. The girl with dark hair yells out nearly causing Tamara to drop her. She notices the wounds on the girl's chest are beginning to drip fresh blood.
