"Teresa...Teresa...Teresa..." It became a smear of a word, spoken as he pressed his lips to hers. His world was all soft skin and full lips, the intoxication of Teresa’s perfume, a world of sensations dominated by the urgency of his desire. God, he wanted her! More than anything he’d ever wanted in his life! Her embrace was heaven.
Abruptly she pushed him away and retreated into the darkness of the room. "Want me?" she purred to him, a ghost of a voice in the shadows. "Come on then. My bedroom."
George nodded his head, an unthinking gesture in the darkness, and watched as Teresa’s dark silhouette passed through a door to the sanctum on the other side.
He anticipated pleasure as he went through the door after her but it was shock and pain that greeted him instead. Immediately, as he walked into the shadows of the bedroom, Teresa, his beautiful angel with the Audrey Hepburn face, struck him across the temple with a truncheon. The blow stunned him as a red panorama of light filled his screaming skull, a flare flashing and lighting up like a spotlight in Dante’s Hell for an instant, then fading to blackness. The blow turned him around and had him reeling against the wall, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. A two-inch long gash was opened at the edge of his hairline, spilling blood down the side of his face. Through the haze he heard her voice, filled with facetious concern: "Poor dear, did you hurt yourself? Come over here. Lay down." He felt his hand being pulled and he followed the tug without resistance. She led him to the bed and pushed him down upon it, the mattress creaking with his weight. In moments, without him even realizing what was happening to him, she had him handcuffed to the headboard. Then, to silence his inevitable future protests, she pushed a ping pong ball into his mouth and dragged a strip of duct tape over his lips to hold it in place. Only then, all preparations completed, did she turn on the lamp that was by the bed to light up the room.
He’ll have his protests. Oh, how he would have them...
Although he wasn’t yet aware of it, he lay on a sheet of plastic, a tarpaulin to protect the bed from the spills of red to come.
"Welcome back, Georgie," she whispered to him as she saw his eyes beginning to clear. His arms tugged lightly at the handcuffs binding him to the headboard of the bed and confusion began to curl itself onto his face. Why can’t I move my arms? What’s happening?
From under the bed, beautiful Teresa produced a small medical bag that she placed beside his waist on the tarpaulin. "Know what I do for a living, Georgie? I’m a surgeon, a good one. I make lots of money cutting into people and saving them. I’m very careful. Very precise. But I’ve always had a dream, Georgie, of cutting into people not to save them, of cutting into them...for fun. For fun, Georgie. You know, living outside the lines a bit. Letting myself go a little crazy!" Out of the bag she produced a medium sized scalpel and waved it in front of his horrified eyes, his body became rigid with terror at the sight of it, with the realization of her intent. His breath hissed in and out of his straining nostrils as the blade of the scalpel, catching the lamplight, winked down at him. She smiled at him, a radiant joyful smile, the curve of which was matched by the curve of the scalpel’s blade. Two smiles, both made of cutting steel.
"You’ve been a bad boy, Georgie, haven’t you? Yes you have. Stealing all that money from your bank. You’ve been a very bad boy."
Georgie screamed, a shriek of terror muffled by the ping pong ball and duct tape. His arms tugged again at the handcuffs, now frantically. Fifty-three years old, and he suddenly wanted his mommy. His heartbeat whipped itself into a frenzy. She’s crazy. Oh God, she’s crazy!
"It’s not nice to take things that belong to others, is it, Georgie?" said Teresa as she used the scalpel’s blade to pop off the buttons of his shirt, one by one. "Not a nice thing to do at all. Now I’m going to begin cutting, Georgie. I’m going to be very precise, and not cut anything really important, not at first. I want you to stay alive for a while. Remember, it’s through pain that we’re exonerated, that our sins are purged, Georgie, oui? Now, relax, we have the whole night ahead of us..."
As the cold steel of the blade touched his skin, George began kicking, his legs the only part of him free to move, trashing about on the bed like a child throwing a tantrum. Oh God! oh God oh God...
"Misbehaving, George? We’ll have to put a stop that," she scolded him, her voice turning stern. "I’ll cut the tendons of your legs first, Georgie. That’ll put an end to your nonsense."
After another hour, he no longer prayed for life but recognized the wisdom, the peace, the comfort, in finally being allowed to perish instead. Death could be an escape, and, in this instance, it was exactly that.
...Teresa quickly buttoned her blouse after he died. The last few cuts on Georgie she’d performed bare chested. Why she did this, she couldn’t say precisely. It certainly wasn’t to give George a view of her beauty before he departed for the next world. No, there was another reason, although she couldn’t give it exact words. Maybe something to do with being closer to the pleasure of her holiday distraction, like reclining on a beach topless to enjoy the feel of the sun as much as possible.
A quick call to the League as scheduled. They’d come and clean house and in an hour no one would know George was even there in the room. She quickly retrieved all her belongings (there were few) and exited the room. The hotel bill was already paid for. Everything was paid for in cash and in advance. There was no reason to stop at the desk in the lobby...
...If the League did its work, and she knew it would, no one would ever know a man had died here tonight. So it made no difference. In an hour she’d be on a plane returning to the States, retrieving the use of her real name, Lori Moore, Doctor Lori Moore if you please, and her very respectable life.