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  Something slipped around her right wrist and soon her arm was tightly strapped to the armrest beneath the table. She lifted her left arm, flailing it uselessly in the air. Dr. Grant's firm grasp easily caught hold and secured that wrist to the opposite armrest.

  Tears burned Lorraine's eyes. This couldn't be happening. What kind of doctor strapped his patients unwillingly to a table?

  His hands moved almost lovingly over her spine. "Has the pain subsided?" he asked.

  "I want to get up now." Her words were a plea, rather than a command. She cleared her throat, tried again. "You need to let me off this table now."

  That chuckle again, as his hands traveled up to the back of her neck. "I might have stretched the truth earlier," he said. "Perhaps even told an outright lie."

  Lorraine sucked on her lip in an attempt to staunch the tears. Her nose ran onto the white paper that lined the padded table. She didn't want to hear him say what he'd lied about. By now, she'd figured it out. Hearing the words would make it too real.

  The pressure on her neck increased. He kneaded a spot as he spoke. "My name is not Dr. Grant." He chuckled and pressed harder. "In fact, I am not a doctor at all. Shame on me, I know. Sometimes I simply can't help myself."

  His hand left her. She gasped, sucking in air that refused to fill her lungs. A moment later, she felt something hard against her spine. "My name," the man said, "is Arian Hatch. You can call me Ari."

  The object at her back came to life, slamming her against the table with a series of intense jolts. The sound was like a jackhammer. Or one of those rapid fire guns in the old war movies. The padded leather muffled her screams. A spasm rippled through her body, setting fire to her nerves.

  The sound finally stopped and whatever tool he'd been using pulled away. Again, his fingers glided over her spine in much the way a man would touch his lover. "I'm sorry to tell you," Ari said, "that Dr. Grant is dead. I killed him earlier this morning. He deserved it, you see. He'd been giving me adjustments to ease my headaches. I get these blinding migraines from time to time. Horrible. Truly. He'd sworn he could help me. Sadly, the man's career was built on lies and broken promises. I gained no relief. When I confronted him with this, he attempted to excuse his incompetence by claiming that he'd never promised relief. Some patients, he told me, cannot be helped with his methods. He tried and, so he said, was sorry that I'd experienced no benefits."

  Ari walked around to the other side of the table. His hand smoothed her hair down and he sighed. "Dr. Grant's blatant attempt to deflect his inadequacies by placing the blame on my own inability to heal could not go unpunished. I easily restrained and held him right here, on his own table, for a little taste of his own snake-oil medicine. Initially, I had not intended to kill him. You see, I'm normally much more discriminative in these situations. I don't kill randomly."

  That creepy chuckle filled the room. Ari's hand moved down Lorraine's spine as he continued speaking. "I must admit that I lost control. That seldom happens, mind you. But, goodness, talk about a chamber of horrors! This is an ideal setup. I kept him here for three amazing hours. By that time, the final snap of his neck became a mercy killing. Sadly anticlimactic."

  Lorraine sucked in as much air as her lungs could handle, then let out the longest wail she could manage. Much of the sound got trapped by the thick padded leather. She sobbed and rattled her arms against the restraints.

  Ari bent forward. His breath became a soft breeze in her hair. "No one will hear you," he murmured. "Trust me on that. Now, I hate to be rude but please excuse me a moment."

  Lorraine felt, more than heard, him leave the room. She couldn't move her head at all, could see nothing. Her back ached so badly that even lifting her leg an inch off the table sent her nerves into a spasm. The insanity of the situation left her mind spinning. She was trapped by a madman, all because the doctor she'd sought help from hadn't been able to cure migraines.

  Someone would come and save her. This was, after all, a doctor's office. Other patients had appointments. Regular patients. They would know that this man, Arian Hatch, was not Dr. Grant. Someone would alert the authorities. Lorraine clung to that belief as the pain in her spine radiated into her legs.

  Minutes passed. Lorraine thought she heard voices coming from the waiting room. A surge of hope gave her a brief burst of energy. She kicked against the table and screamed into the padding. Someone would hear her. Someone would save her from this lunatic.

  A moment later, Ari chuckled from the doorway. "You're feistier than I expected," he said. "No one is coming to save you, Lorraine. I've placed a sign on the door and locked it tight. You'd be wise to stop struggling. For your own good, mind you. The struggle only intensifies the pain."

  He touched her spine and his next words were a mere whisper. "And it excites me."

  In the next instant, the table jerked up and into her ribs and he slammed a hard object against the middle of her spine. He forced an enormous amount of pressure, twisted her back, not easing up until something snapped. White hot pain stole her breath, the intensity worse than anything she could have imagined. She couldn't move, couldn't even scream. Tears streamed from her eyes, caught in the white paper and leather padding. Her nose ran. She tasted tears and snot as she fought to pull air in through her mouth.

  Lorraine had no idea how much time passed. She gasped and cried until nothing was left inside her. Ari hadn't touched her, hadn't spoken, for what felt like hours. She prayed that he was gone, had gotten his perverse pleasure and had no intention of killing her.

  But he'd told her his name.

  She bit her trembling lip, sucked in another ragged breath. Then she waited, listening. She heard nothing at all. Just as she grasped that sliver of hope that he'd really gone and would not return, a rustling from the corner of the room told her otherwise. He'd been there all along. Listening. Watching.

  "I killed James," Ari said. "The office manager. I don't suppose you knew him, since you are a new patient. I took no pleasure in that killing. You see, James was what one might call collateral damage. He brought me into this room and he would soon bring other patients to the other rooms. I couldn't allow that. I wanted Dr. Grant to myself and needed our time to be free of interruptions. So, yes, James had to be disposed of. Once I had Dr. Grant properly secured, I took care of James. A quick snap of the neck. Disappointing, really. I then locked the front door, ensuring the privacy I required."

  Ari stepped close again, his hand traveling like a feather over Lorraine's spine. "My intention, dear Lorraine, was to leave once I'd finished with Dr. Grant. I'd exceeded my own expectations of the day already. Oh, but killing Dr. Grant had left me both ecstatic and deflated. Ending playtime is always somewhat of a disappointment, no matter how much fun one has during the activities. As I was preparing to leave, I glanced at Dr. Grant's appointments for the day. He died at 1:38, in the midst of his scheduled lunch break. You were his first appointment of the afternoon. A new patient, for which he'd marked off an entire thirty minutes. Given that you were new, I took a chance in assuming that you would not know what Dr. Grant looked like. I do hope that you'll forgive my little deception."

  Lorraine gagged as acidic vomit rose into her throat. "Please," she said. "I've done nothing to you. Please. Let me go."

  Ari found that funny, chuckling heartily. "Ah, but Lorraine, don't you see? Dr. Grant was my main course. You are my dessert."

  Lorraine felt herself deflate. That last shred of hope she'd been clinging to slipped away. His hands touched her spine. Time stopped. The things he did to her brought her close to insanity. She prayed for death, begged for it when able. At one point, she lost consciousness. She could have been out for a minute or a day. She had no way of judging and no longer cared. When awareness trickled its way back to her, she only felt sadness in finding herself alive.

  Her legs were numb, as if they didn't exist. The pain in her back was white hot, searing. She suddenly realized that she could not feel the paper and padding against h
er face. She opened her eyes and the ceiling swam into focus. Bright lights. Someone singing. Was that an angel? Was she dead?

  Then Ari's face swam into her vision. He grinned at her. "Welcome back," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd vacated permanently."

  Lorraine pushed her eyes closed, refusing to look at the devil who wanted to steal her soul. She wouldn't let him have it. That was all she had left and she intended to keep it with her until the end.

  "I must go now," Ari said. "It's getting late and I'm expected elsewhere." His hands caressed her throat. "But I couldn't leave without saying goodbye. That would be rude, don't you think?"

  A feathery touch floated over her cheek. "You've been a wonderful playmate, Lorraine," Ari said. "Don't you want to say goodbye?"

  Lorraine kept her eyes tightly shut. She didn't attempt to speak, wasn't even sure she was able. Regardless, she wouldn't give this madman the satisfaction. She hung on to her soul, keeping it close, not allowing him so much as a glimpse inside.

  Ari waited. She knew what he wanted. Her soul. He wanted to own her, every piece of her.

  "Lorraine," Ari whispered. "Sweet Lorraine. Do you not wish to look at me?"

  She didn't answer, didn't open her eyes.

  His breath was against her ear. "Remember I told you that I don't kill randomly? I meant that, my dear. I will not kill you today, though you might wish that I had. I want you to remember me always. My name is Arian Hatch. But you can call me Ari."

  ***

  About the Author:

  Darcia Helle writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative. When she gives life to their stories, they live happily within the pages and stop chattering in her head. To date, she has published six novels and three short stories.

  You can learn more about Darcia and her writing on her website: https://www.QuietFuryBooks.com or https://www.DarciaHelle.com

  ###

  Flames

  by Maria Savva

  Copyright © 2011

  She’s pretty, thought Robert, looking at the girl who had just sat next to him on the park bench. Looks a bit like a young Cindy Crawford. She had originally sat quite close to him, but was now shuffling along to the other end of the bench. Blushing, Robert realised that he’d been staring. Averting his eyes, he pretended to read the novel he held in his hand, whilst thinking what a beautiful shade of green her eyes were and how her emerald earrings complemented them.

  When he felt brave enough to look at her again, he saw that she was sitting at the far edge of the bench, almost sideways, as if to avoid his gaze. He couldn’t blame her, after all it was a big city; for all she knew, he could be a mass murderer. Then, he became concerned that perhaps she’d moved away from him because he was suffering from a body odour problem that no one had told him about. I’m sure I used my antiperspirant this morning. As much as he wanted to have a sniff of his armpits, just to check, he felt too self conscious. Shrugging, he carried on eating his sandwich.

  Robert had just started working for a new company and hadn’t been out in this part of town before, so he was now secretly hoping that this girl would be someone he’d see every day. Perhaps she works close by. Maybe we’ll bump into each other every lunchtime and become friends, and then... He was getting carried away with his dreams as he stared blankly at his novel whilst finishing off his sandwich. He stole a glance at her again, from the corner of his eye, and noticed that she was fiddling with one of her earrings. What should I say? he thought, desperate to talk to her; but he couldn’t think of anything to initiate a conversation. And anyway, he reasoned, she probably wouldn’t want to talk to me, judging by the way she’s moved to the other end of the bench.

  Feeling the need to look at her again, but not wanting to make it obvious, Robert twisted around to face her and held up his book in front of him. Now, he was able to watch her from behind the pages. I wonder what her name is? She must have a beautiful name, something to suit her face... Elizabeth, perhaps, or Angela... No, something unusual like... Eloise, or... Amelia. Her perfume fragranced the air around him, a floral, feminine scent, that captivated his senses.

  When she’d finished her sandwich, she reached into her handbag. As she did so, their eyes met, snapping Robert out of his daydream. He saw that his book was now on his lap, and realised that he’d been staring at her again. Looking at his watch—a universal embarrassment cover-up—he felt the colour rise in his cheeks. She’d smiled at him, and he was finding it hard to meet her eyes.

  He took a deep breath, and once he’d recovered his composure, he saw that the girl was facing away from him. How am I supposed to talk to her now? he thought. The small window of opportunity that had been offered to him was now closed. It seemed so unfair. Back at square one, he could do nothing but stare at her long brown hair falling in soft curls over the back of her cream-coloured blouse. The sun caught a few golden highlights in her hair and he imagined running his fingers through it. Aware he was almost gawping, he withdrew his gaze and watched people rushing through the park, noticing it was very noisy. In wonder, he recollected that while he’d been staring at the mysterious girl who sat beside him, he’d hardly known that there was anything else going on around them.

  Just then, her mobile phone began to ring, rousing him from his awestruck thoughts. She didn’t have a silly ring tone on her phone, Robert noticed, just a traditional ringing sound. Then he remembered his own Star Trek ring-tone and, feeling embarrassed, prayed his phone wouldn’t ring. He thought about switching it off.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, and for a moment he dared to dream that she was talking to him, but when he turned towards her, he saw her holding the phone to her ear. She appeared more relaxed as she spoke on the phone, and sat back on the bench, so now he was able to see one side of her face. Oh, what a perfect profile, he thought. Like an angel.

  She laughed, and an unwelcome thought struck Robert: perhaps she was talking to her boyfriend, or husband. An irrational jealousy took over his mind. He had never believed in love at first sight, and had laughed at his sister just the other night when she’d told him how much she’d enjoyed the movie, While You Were Sleeping. He remembered telling her, in no uncertain terms, that if she believed all those romantic comedies she watched she would end up very lonely and disappointed. His feelings were now completely alien to him.

  The girl on the bench laughed and flicked her hair back from her face, then continued speaking on the phone. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, and longed to be able to hear her voice without the sounds of traffic, voices, and general city noise that was drowning it out. Tempted to move closer to her on the bench, he thought better of it; she already seemed a bit nervous of him.

  In a few minutes, she stood up, brushing off a bread crumb from her pink skirt, and picking up her handbag. Her eyes met his briefly and he wondered whether she also felt something; an unexplained connection. But then she walked away, disappearing into the crowd, gone as quickly as she had arrived.

  Robert watched her leave, unable to stop her, wanting to follow her. He looked at the bench where she’d been sitting—an empty space. Why didn’t I say something to her? Her perfume still lingered in the air around him. He breathed in deeply and recalled how she’d smiled at him. Regret tugged at his heart.

  Looking back at the far edge of the bench, his soul screaming for her to reappear for just an instant so he could talk to her, he noticed something small and shiny where she’d been sitting. It glimmered in the sunlight as he moved closer. His mouth fell open in wonder when he saw it was one of her emerald earrings that so matched her eyes. He reached to pick it up, excitement coursing through his being; now, he would have an excuse to talk to her. Gathering his belongings from the bench, he began to walk briskly in the direction she had been headed. She’ll be easy to spot, he thought, long brown hair, pink skirt—she can’t have got very far.

  He moved quickly through the lunchtime
crowd, bumping into a couple of people along the way. After a few minutes he came to a crossroads and stopped walking. It became clear that he would not catch up with her. She’d probably turned a corner somewhere. Sighing, he realised the futility of his search among the hoards of city dwellers going about their busy lives like swarms of bees.

  Robert returned to the bench at lunchtime the next day, and the next day, and the day after that, always taking the earring with him; hopeful. She will return, he told himself. She never did.

  The earring became a symbol of this woman, a kind of charm that he carried around with him everywhere. When he looked at it, he remembered her face, the golden highlights in her hair, her perfume, the green of her eyes, the way her skirt hugged her hips, the sound of her laugh, and the way she had smiled at him.

  Two years later, Robert lost the earring. He used to carry it around in his wallet. One day, as he was taking out a ten pound note, the earring slipped out onto the ground, unseen by Robert. He was at a music festival with a girl he had been dating for a couple of months. They were queuing at a food stall. The ground was soggy from rain, a mush of grass and soil. The earring made no sound as it fell. Robert and his girlfriend, Sally, walked away from the food stall carrying their fish and chips. Sally stepped on the earring with her wellington boot, lodging it firmly into the ground; following her were a few other festival goers, so the earring became completely buried in the soil.

  Later that evening, Robert was about to place his wallet under his pillow for safekeeping.

  ‘How much cash do we have left?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Um,’ Robert opened the wallet and began to finger through the notes, ‘ten, twenty—’ then he stopped, his mouth wide open.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sally looked at him. Even in the half darkness of the tent, she could see his face had fallen; he appeared distraught. ‘Have we been robbed?’

  ‘I’ve lost—’ he stopped, thinking better of it. How could he say “I’ve lost an earring”? It would sound absurd. Then he had a flash of inspiration: ‘I’ve lost an earring that my nan gave me on her deathbed. I used to carry it with me everywhere; it reminded me of her.’ The words ‘reminded me of her’ resounded in his head as he recalled long brown hair falling in curls down the back of the girl of his dreams, as she walked away from him two years before.