METAMORPHOSIS
19
Pulsating pain radiated from his tail bone to the bridge of his nose tearing him from sleep. Catapulting himself from bed he curls himself inward wrapping his arms around his torso and rocks on the balls of his feet. In the embrace, he can trace the ribs beneath his stretched skin. When had that happened?
Shifting his position, his left arm supports him against his bed frame and with the right uses his fingers to gently massage the tension from his temples. Rubbing his eyes, he tries to open them but cries out in anguish. The pain moves forward, resonating through his skull every time he attempts to opens them.
He lets his body collapse, the added weight of the pain too unbearable to support. Tears pool in the corner of his eyes.
He lets himself cry.
"It is the final touch. The transition complete." The voice is soothing and calm.
And with that all the pain is lifted.
When he awoke some hours later he is still sprawled on the ground covered in a cool layer of his own perspiration. His right arm tingled from the loss of circulation caused by resting it beneath his head. Sitting up, he stretches out his body, reaching above his head, feeling the bones between his shoulder twist and crack in response. He lets his mind focus on what has been preoccupying him as he continues his stretch.
In the last few days, he has heard some of the new developments they have been making on the case. Developments that would impact - his plans.
The frustration building inside feels like ice cubes melting all over his skin. The sensation at first cool and numbing, turns to a slow burn with the ache of pinpricks and numbness, until his whole body becomes ablaze, itching uncontrollably.
Every bloody Elizabeth and Catherine who sold their wares were already on high alert. Choosing his victims as he had been doing previously would add to the 'complication'. The files that he had previous compiled, lay strewn across his coffee table untouched. Sliding onto his couch, he lay there scratching at the incessant itch on his arm.
"Trust yourself. You've done this before," the voice is now clearer and more distinct then it has ever been previously. The voice speaks with confidence. It is male, with an accent, yet there is something more than that, the attenuation sounded...dated, if that is at all possible. He finds the tone soothing - commanding - as if every word came from the very bellows of the stomach, reverberating up the esophagus and commanding it be heard with each precise pronunciation. A calmness washes over him.
The irritation dissipates.
He moves forward with his plan.
***
He opens the door to find a breathtaking silhouette. Her legs wrapped in a tasteful dark stalking, the slight shimmer accentuating their length. Her skirt falls just above her knees, with a slit that rides high stopping just short of her curved backside. The royal blue shirt, low cut and fitted, highlights her ample cleavage and narrow waist. With crossed legs, she leans against the door frame with her gloved hands.
Her makeup has been applied thick and pale, he can tell that it is not quite blended to the tone of her skin by the powdery line tracing on her jaw. Her lips are plump yet small at the same time, stuck in a constant pucker. Her eyes are dark, trimmed in a cat eye fashion with mascara thickly applied to her lashes - perhaps even false lashes.
She resembled one of the porcelain dolls his grandmother had collected and displayed in a glass cabinet in her sitting room. It was a ballerina.
She looks younger in person, something he had not expected - in fact he had hoped for the opposite.
"Please come in Beth," he moves the mass of his body off to the side, allowing her entrance into the dimly lit room.
"Call me Lizzie," She smiles up at him as she passes by and inspects her surroundings.
A single lamp on a side table off to the side of the room illuminates the space. The decor is dated, a pink and green flower landscape with matching couch and bedspread. The wallpaper yellowed, stained from the sun and cigarettes - adding to the stale aroma of the room.
"Quaint," the distaste rolling off her tongue. "Now about my payment..." Lizzie let the sentence trail, as she turns to face him and extends her hand in an expecting fashion.
"You will get yours - once he gets his."