Little Deaths
by Roy Peak

copyright 2002

“Is this your first time?”

“Yes, yes it is,” I stammered out without thinking. I had meant to lie, to seem cool, self-assured, but I’d just blown that one. And truth was, I was scared as hell.

“How charming. We have a discount for all first-timers.” Madame George was cadaver thin, her wrinkles and folds buried under layers of make-up, her skeletal body hidden beneath a velvet robe. Her voice was thin, yet gravelly. Too many cigs, too much whisky. Perils of the trade, I reckoned.

“That would be nice.” Not that money was an issue. I slid my credit card across the counter and looked around more closely at the room while she ran it. Heavy drapes over the hall entrance, large non-descriptive pictures in blocky frames obscuring the walls.

“Now you do realize that for reasons of privacy your statement will show a bogus charge. We do that for all of our business clients as a courtesy.”

“Yes, that’s fine. I understand.” Not that anything was illegal here. Madame George’s was a full and legal establishment since the Bourne Act was enacted back in ’09. Legal--but frowned upon by certain people.

“Now if you’ll come with me I’ll round up the available girls for you to choose from.”

I sat in a high-backed chair and waited. She was back in less than a minute with nearly a dozen girls. All pretty, most of them were young, barely out of their teens or early twenties. College girls, I assumed, or young drug addicts who couldn’t do any better. I stood and walked from one to the other, looking them over. But none of them looked right. I was beginning to have second doubts. Could I go through with this?

The Madame, sensing my hesitation and the possible loss of a sale said to the others, “Where’s Denise? She should be here.” She turned and shouted down a long hallway, “Denise!” As she did the curtains to the side parted and a young girl walked out.

“Sorry, Madame. I was changing.” Our eyes met.

“Oh, yes. She will do. She will do nicely.”

#

“Madame said this is your first time.” Not that again.

“Yes. Yes it is. I had been thinking about it a lot lately. You know, movies and all.”

She nodded. “Oh yes, that’s how I got interested. The drama, the mystique.”

We walked along the corridor, her arm in mine. “Don’t be nervous, I’ve done this plenty of times. I can help you along.”

“I think I can manage. It is human nature, after all.” I tried to sound strong, confident. We came to a room, she led me in and closed the door.

”This room’s my fave. We call it the Red Room.”

She sat prettily on the bed. I stood across the room from her, drinking in her beauty. Petite, jet black hair cut short and left spiky. She wore a fringed dress, cut low and high. Sharp stiletto heels on her delicate feet. Eyes the color of a brilliant, cloudless sky.

“There are toys in the chest behind you if you need them.”

“I think I want to use my hands.”

She smiled like a naïve seductress. “That’s my favorite, too. Do you want me to struggle? I can be very vocal if you wish.”

“Just be yourself.”

“Okay. We can start whenever you like.”

I had been preternaturally calm up until this point. But now all of a sudden, my heart raced, beating in my throat. I began to sweat; I got a chill up my spine. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to perform. I swallowed hard, looked her up and down again. She was so beautiful. An angel. If I was going to go through with it, it had to be now.

I ran for her and as I closed she got a frightened look in her eye. I didn’t know if she was acting or not, nor did I care. But she didn’t run and I easily caught her, her white throat suddenly in my now capable hands. I squeezed. Harder. She fought back not a bit; made a few soft noises but nothing more. Her body lost its strength and fell to the floor yet I continued choking, squeezing until my fingers ached and her face lost all color. Pale, but for her decorated lips, the soft colors painted around her now closed eyes.

It was done. She was gone. I left her on the floor and sat on the bed for a long time. Guilt was only one of the emotions I was feeling. She didn’t move and after a while I left the Red Room and made my way back down the hall to the waiting room. The Madame was there, and one of the other girls I had passed over. A redhead, younger than Denise, yet with a harsher look.

“Is she dead?” asked Madame George.

“Yes, yes she is.”

“Good. She has another appointment in an hour.” She turned to an intercom on the wall next to her, “Max? Clean up and revival in the Red Room.” She turned to go, but saw me still standing there. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked.

“Oh yes. Better than I expected. A thrill. Is it possible to reserve Denise for tomorrow? In the afternoon?”

The Madame glanced at an appointment book on her desk. “She has a one o’clock open.”

“Yes, thank you. That would do very nicely.”

#

Two weeks later and I had killed Denise a total of eleven times. Strangled her; stabbed her in the back; sliced her jugular; knifed her in the stomach; beat her to death with my fists, it took hours and I had to pay extra as Denise missed her next appointment but it was well worth it. Nearly every afternoon I was there, at Madame George’s, killing Denise. Work was a breeze now. Long meetings and deadlines? No problem. I had my Denise to make it all better.

#

“Does it hurt?”

“Does what?”

“When I-- when you die.”

“Of course.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Money. Short hours. Are you married?”

“No. Engaged once, but it didn’t work out.”

“What did she look like?”

“Tall. Blonde hair. Green eyes.”

“I thought she might look like me. Some guys are like that.”

“You?”

“Boyfriend. He knows what I do and appreciates the money I bring in.”

“Do you love him?”

“I’m willing to meet his parents, so that must mean something.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Long enough. I used to work for an insurance company in their main office. Dreadful hours, low pay, mandatory overtime. Ugh.”

“I bet you see a lot of strange ones.”

“I had this one guy, once, who couldn’t go through with it. He dropped his knife and started crying. I yelled at him, called him all sorts of names, beat on his back with my fists and screamed ‘til I was hoarse but he couldn’t perform. Didn’t even ask Madame for a refund.”

“How does it work?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you die. How do they bring you back?”

“They tried explaining it to me but it’s over my head. I don’t know the technology of it, but as along as I’m within these walls, if I’m killed, they can bring me back whole, unharmed, free of pain.”

“Do you remember each and every time you die?”

“Yeah, but it’s foggy, like a dream. It fades away if I try to think about it too much. How will you kill me today?”

“I haven’t decided. Do you have a preference?”

“No knives. Makes me itch all over when I come back. Oh, look at the time. I’ve got another in half an hour.”

“Can I strangle you?”

“I don’t care. Just do me, old man, do me! Ha ha!”

#

I missed her the next day. Business out of town. Then the next and then she wasn’t there. Madame said she had taken the day off for personal reasons. She offered me two other girls at a discount but I declined.

“We have a special this week on sexual assault; buy one, get one free.”

“No, no thanks. Just pencil me in for same time tomorrow with Denise.”

“Suit yourself.”

The next day Denise was in a foul mood.

“Bastard!” She slammed the door and dropped onto the bed.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry. Not you. My stupid boyfriend’s dad showed up here this morning.”

“Did he--?“

“No,” she shook her head. “He didn’t even see me, but I heard his voice and peeked into the room and saw him with that slut, Elise. He is so busted when I get off work.”

I just stood there, not knowing what to say. She was wearing tight jeans, a pink sweater, sneakers. Very soft today, besides her mood.

“Well, let’s get started.” She said and looked up at me.

“I... I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“Oh no.” Her hand went to her forehead, she rolled her eyes.

“It’s just that I like you.”

“I like you, too, but as a customer,” she stressed that last word. “This is my job; how I make my living.”

“I want to see you away from this place.”

“I’m not allowed to socialize with my clients.”

“But this is different. We see a lot of one another.”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.”

“We could be good together.”

“You would get jealous; want me to quit my job.”

“I make more than enough to support both of us. You wouldn’t have to work anymore.”

“I like doing this. I don’t do it for the money. I like it, get that?”

She came to me, placed her hands on mine, my hands on her neck.

“Kill me. Kill me now! This is as close as we’ll ever be. Got that?”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I want-- I want to make love with you.”

“Stop that! Stop that right now! Or--“ She glared at me. “Stop or I’ll kill you!”

She ran to the toy chest, slung it open and pulled out a knife. Most likely the same one I had used to kill her many times. She clumsily swung at me; I easily deflected it, knocking the knife from her hand. She tried to kick me in the groin but missed. I backed up to the wall and she ran in, pounding my chest with her fists and screaming. I knocked her down with a backhanded slap. I saw blood fly through the air. I forced myself down upon her, grabbed her wrists with one hand, pulling them over her head, grabbed her hair with the other and yanked hard enough to make her cry. I forced my lips upon hers. But she spurned me, biting my mouth, chomping down until it split and blood was all over both of us. I was angry. I grabbed her by both shoulders and slammed her head against the hardwood floor. Again. And again. She became limp. I didn’t stop. Blood poured out of the back of her head like water from an overturned bucket. I didn’t stop for a long time.

#

A week later. I returned to Madame George’s. I requested Denise, expecting to be turned away, surprised when I was told she was wondering when I was coming back.

I waited in the Red Room for her. She entered, looking very pretty in a dress much like a schoolgirl would wear, her hair tied up in ribbons.

“I didn’t think you’d see me,” I said.

She shrugged. “I need the money. Marc broke up with me. His dad said I was a liar. I have to find somewhere to live.” She looked at me with doe eyes lined in heavy black makeup. “Thanks for the extra tip last time.”

“Yeah, well, considering the circumstances I thought that...”

“John...” It was the first time she had called me by my name. “I don’t love you.”

“I know.”

“I never will.”

“I know.”

We were quiet, side-by-side on the bed. I stared at the floor where I had killed her the last time. There was a mark on the floor right where I had crushed her skull. They had tried to refinish it, but I could tell.

She laid back on the bed, her arms raised over her head, one knee up so I could see partway up her dress.

“Could you? I have a one o’clock.”

Written March 2002

Copyright D.R.Peak 2002