I believe I’m a fairly normal person, I reflect as I make my way down the crowded city sidewalk. As I walk, I make a point to smile at people I establish eye contact with. It’s generally believed that one can maintain a high self-image vicariously through others. Smiling at people is an easy way to increase their self-image, and thus maintain my self-image through the concept of vicarious reciprocation. When I smile at people, it brings a brief amount of joy to their life. More importantly, they smile back at me, and I feel more... normal.
I find it mildly humorous that I sometimes feel less than normal among my fellow citizens. I work in public relations, so I obviously have to be quite adept at interacting with people in a meaningful and convincing manner. My skills and abilities are finely honed through experience. My resume is quite impressive.
However, sometimes I feel somewhat different from the average person. Why? Am I merely insecure? No, that can’t be it. I think that my feelings of societal distance stem from the intensity with which I involve myself in my work. I should elaborate - I have to understand the people I work with in order to persuade them effectively, and acting and thinking like these people allows me to better understand them. I sometimes try so hard to be like these people that it leaves me with a sense of being nothing more than an imitator - a seemingly normal enough person, but an imitator nonetheless. Public relations can be a very demanding field, despite what some may say.
That is what I am doing now – working. I have a meeting with some associates in thirty minutes at one of my favorite restaurants in the city. They happen to be curious about some financial information that I am privy to, so I suggested we dine together. I volunteered to make the reservations, because I believe it’s best to meet my clients on familiar territory. I firmly believe the psychological assurances it provides are well worth the monotony of the menu. The wine selection isn’t bad, either.
My usual table is reserved for me. Excellent. I sit and have a few minutes to ponder the earlier activities of my day. As a waitress walks by, I recall seeing her earlier today, when I was shopping for some clothing for this evening at Lord & Taylor. I found it interesting that the salesmen were interested in helping me because of the large amount of currency I possessed. However, she obviously didn’t possess the funds I did, but I suppose she was blessed with other assets. It’s truly amazing how a slightly chilly eighteen year-old girl can make a thirty year-old salesman drool. I thought the entire scene was disgusting. Surely that man had a wife and children to go home to.
Oh, and what luck, she is my waitress this evening. She appears to be perky enough. Her hair possesses a nice golden color; it reminds me of a field of wheat resplendent from the glow of a rising sun. It reminds me of my Mother’s hair.
She has the wine list with her. She smiles, and introduces herself as Karen. I compliment Karen on her name and order the one champagne that is actually genuine champagne. Karen insists that they carry other types of champagne, at which point I feel compelled to inform her that the only drink that may genuinely be called champagne is one that is imported from Champagne. She blushes and remarks on how sophisticated I am.
I begin to wonder what Karen thinks of me, aside from my sophistication and knowledge of champagne. Does she see me as just another man who is here to enjoy fine dinning with friends? Does she think I play golf? Does she wonder if I enjoy sailing? Will she think to herself 'he was a nice gentleman' after I leave? Will she think 'he was normal enough'?
Karen must have continued to make conversation, because when I refocused upon her, I found that we were in an uncomfortable silence. She smiled, very politely, and said that she would return with the champagne.
My business associates arrived shortly. We discussed the matters at hand, and then enjoyed the rest of our dining experience. The champagne was good, although it was not quite chilled at the precise level at which it should be. Nevertheless, it was an excellent dinning experience.
As I walked back to my vehicle, I noticed a family walking in my direction. The mother and father had a young child in a stroller. I could see the smiles on their faces; I could hear the gleeful laughter of their young child. They seemed to be so content, so joyful with their lives. They were happy that they had simply lived long enough to find each other and successfully breed. I believe I could have been a good father.
Her screams stopped a half-hour before, although I can still hear them in my mind. Her body gives off a slight glow from the deathly sweat on her nude form. She hangs delicately, pristinely; like an upside-down ballerina. I sneer at her exposed vaginal maw. I could tell by the way she politely smiled at me that she thought I wasn’t normal. Your assets aren’t so important now, are they, Karen?
I hear the slow, rhythmic dripping of blood into the steel medical pan on the floor. I look down and watch the blood trickle down her face from the slit in her throat. Her hair hangs down into the pan, soaking in the collecting blood. Her beautiful, golden hair. Mother.
I ensure that my surgical mask and medical scrubs are on securely. I carefully remove the blood-soaked surgical gloves. I put on clean surgical gloves and proceed to plug in a rotary medical saw. I feel the warmth of my breath under the surgical mask as I begin to cut open her vagina.
The next few minutes seem like an eternity. As I delicately cut with the saw, I see a drop of blood shoot from an artery that should not have been that close to my incision. The drop flies at me with incredible speed. I try to move out of the way, but it is too sudden. The drop of blood lands squarely on my forehead.
Panic-laced hysteria takes control, as I drop the surgical saw and let forth a scream of diabolical proportions. My fingers clench and lock in a crude claw-like formation as I contemplate how to get this drop of filth off of me without causing it to touch even more of my skin. Some time later, I find myself huddled in the corner, screaming hysterically and shuddering as I stare at the filthy smear of blood on my right surgical glove. I glance over and view her cold, filthy form, slowly rotating on the handcuffs around her ankles. The dim lighting causes her to appear angelic in a sickly way. My breathing quickens as my hysteria turns to loathing.
My cell phone rings. I take note of who is calling me, and begin to calm myself. I know that this call will be important, and that I must be professional. I must answer the phone, identify myself, and listen carefully.
I answer the phone.
"This is Mr. Parker."
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This story © 2002 Seth Horton
This page © 2002 anneke@scarywhitegirl.net