The Sanguinarian

The Sanguinarian

Friday, 29 August 2014

Project 52- Week 4- Fidelity

"I hate you, Mark! I hate you so, so much!"
"What the hell have I done now?"
"Who is she?”
“Who the hell are you talking about?”
“The woman you’re sleeping with! Behind my back! Who the hell is the bitch?”
“For god’s sake, Lydia! I’m not having an affair!”
“Yes you are, liar ! You think I’m an idiot? That I don’t notice what’s going on?”
“Really? What is it that you don’t notice?”
“The lipstick stains on the collar of your shirt! Plus the smell of a woman’s perfume that comes from your clothes!”
“Seriously? That was just one time, Lydia! I told you, a colleague of mind, who happens to be shorter than me, bumped into me in the corridor and so I got her lipstick on my shirt. And I don’t smell any feminine perfume on my clothes, for the record.”
“So you think I’m crazy, huh?”
“Yes! Yes, definitely. You’re stir crazy, Lydia! All you ever do is doubt me. You have never, ever placed an iota of trust in me. I don’t know why you do this. I love you, and all I get for that is your suspicion and your acerbic remarks. You have never said a good thing to me as a spouse, and treat me as if I’m some low-life lecher. I don’t even know why I’m married to you anymore!”
“Don’t you dare pile on me, you pervert! All you men are the same. First you treat women as objects and cheat on them, then you accuse them of being crazy!”
“Enough! I’m done with you, Lydia! I’m really, really done. I agreed to stay trapped with you in this shit-hole of a marriage because I thought that someday, you will see my love for you and we can relive our relationship again. But you refuse to change. Alright, it’s over. I’m getting a divorce.”
“What? You’re…divorcing me?”
“Yes. Neither of us are happy in this marriage, so it’s best to end it. I want to marry someone who puts some faith in me as a husband.”
“But…but…I go all psycho on you only because I want to see how much you love me, Mark! How much you can put up with to stay in this marriage!”

“Oh God! You need a psychiatrist, Lydia!”

Sunday, 24 August 2014

The Face-Off Killer #9

Gina Coleman tried to contain her panic, which rose in her throat like bile after the chilling vision of the life-like painted faces of women. Goosebumps rose on her skin as she couldn't suppress the feeling that the women were staring at her- through their dead eyes- as if envying her for being alive while they had to face the horrible fate of an untimely, painful death at the hands of a psychopath.

My mind is playing tricks on me, she decided.

She remembered a fact she had once learnt in class- whenever one feels the oncoming of a possible panic attack, the solution is to take deep breaths and tell oneself to calm down- which works both psychologically and physiologically.
"Come on Gina! Don't be can do it! Come on!" she told herself, taking deep, quick breaths, while another part of her brain continued to look for a way out of the hell-hole.
Then it came to her, as a bright flash of epiphany. Her hands, which were tied behind her back. They both went all around the back of the chair, where they were bound together by a rope at the wrist. But I'm not bound to the chair, she realized.
Which means that if I try to move my bound hands in an upward direction, I can pull them over the backrest, and subsequently manage to at least stand up, she mused.
Her ears first strained themselves for any sound of footsteps on the other side of the basement door, which faced her. It was dead silence.
Gina started to try and move her tied hands upwards, at the same time trying to stand up, moving her body and hands in the same rhythm. She grimaced in pain as the exercise ensured maximum stretching of her shoulder muscles. She was sure she was going to sprain her scapula in the process.
Try, try, try again, she mentally kept on repeating to herself, as she pulled and pushed and continually readjusted her movements.
After about ten minutes, she finally managed to get her hands out from behind the chair, to now right behind her back and managed to stand up. Then she almost fell forwards, realizing her legs were bound to the legs of the chair. She sat back, wondering what to do next.
Remember not to despair, honey, you got a plan now. You're gonna get out of here alive, she told herself mentally.
It was only then that she remembered that, beside the stand where those hideous faces were kept, she has seen a tray full of bright, shiny stuff. She stood up again, and looked left. Trying to ignore the faces, she saw that the ' bright, shiny' stuff was actually a tray of instruments. Instruments she'd seen, actually worked with in  the neurobiology lab.
Yes!, she mumbled, and came up with a new plan to untie her hands and legs. She sat back on the chair again.
Using the chair as a battering ram and her legs as pivot, she slowly dragged her body forwards, the chair along with it, towards the huge table on which the tray was kept.
On finally having reached the table, which wasn't that far, she stood again and turned her upper body sideways. Even with her hands bound, she managed to lift a scalpel off the tray with her fingers.
Fortunately, there was a huge mirror above the table. Her torso still turned sideways, she tried to cut through the rope. It was a difficult exercise, due to the thickness of the rope, but because the scalpel was new, it managed to slice part of the rope in half within five minutes. That was enough for her to quickly untie her hands.
She then used the scalpel to untie her legs.
Trying to suppress her joy and relief, she reminded herself there was still the problem of getting out- of the basement and of the house.
She took the scalpel, and a few other instruments, and kept them in the pocket of her jeans.
Suddenly, her ears picked up a sound. She instinctively turned to the basement door, and made out footsteps coming down the stairs. Panic rose inside her, again, but she decided to contain it. She remembered that the table which had the tray of instruments was covered with a large blue table cloth, the hem of which touched the ground.
Gina ran to the table, fell to her knees, and quickly ducked under the table, remembering not to keep her legs sticking out- a stupid mistake she'd seen being committed by abduction victims in thriller movies.
Seconds after her legs disappeared under the hem of the tablecloth, the basement door opened and he stepped inside.
"Hey Azalea...see what I got for you..." he stopped speaking when he noticed the empty chair, and the rope lying in pieces on the ground.
Gina put a hand on her moth and nose, trying to breath as noiselessly as possible, the scalpel poised in her hand, which she kept behind her back. She tried not to freak out at the cold, creepy voice of the kidnapper, which sent a chill down her spine.
" bitch! Where did you run off to, Azalea!" he cried.