Faceless

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Two women, one virtuous, the other murderous, tear their friendship apart.

Submitted: September 08, 2016

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Submitted: September 08, 2016

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Faceless

By Joseph Logsdon

The image in the photograph, that image of sadness and grief, stared back at Cheryl, undeniably the only person who actually cared about the many tragedies of the past. The image was of a woman, one who remained dead and without justice. Cheryl’s eyes, her face, her smile, transcended beyond the boundaries of actual existence, all the way to a place of morbid curiosity, somewhere where there could be no peace, kindness, or rest. She looked into the mirror, her blonde hair glowing bright, and thought about all of her regrets, mainly the ones that forced her to think about the morality of her actions. Her skin, weak and gaunt, just barely managed to provoke a response from the eye. She leaned against the wall, not quite satisfied with her body, and even less satisfied with her life, which had been far from a fairy tale, with every moment seemingly another exercise in misery.

Without warning, a pair of hands wrapped themselves around her shoulder, pleasurable sensations throughout, with no pain even remotely present. There was a whisper in one ear, almost instantly followed by the other, cold air quickly reaching her skin, finally to the point of pure exhilaration, closely related to the excitement and pure ecstasy within her mind, behind which lurked despair and loneliness. There was a tingling in her heart, calm at the very start, accelerated by the passion between the two women, the sight of which truly captivated the shared passion.

“Outside of some miracle, I don’t see things getting better, at least not within the next few months, when things are predicted to get really bad, worse than the way things were before, with people standing in the street, shouting things like, ‘Give us a job,’ or stuff like, ‘Enough talk, more action.’ What’s wrong with me? Am I not beautiful? I’m in a burlesque show, basically the equivalent of a whorehouse, only without the carnal nature that exists within all of us,” she complained, sighing heavily.

“Just a little longer, a month at the most, and you’ll be free of all of this,” Helen said, doubt in her voice.

“What makes you think so?”

“A girl like you, who wouldn’t want to give you a job?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Helen smiled, almost sinister with the way she stroked Cheryl’s neck, completely aroused by the perfume in the air, a sensation that blinded her ability to see any type of reason. The two women stood in the dimly lit room, one full of fear and uncertainty, the other full of desire and aggression, with almost no emotional distance between them. Helen continued to breathe against her neck, more concerned with desire than being a good friend.

“You are, if you don’t mind me saying so, one of the most spectacular, I would even say wondrous, really wondrous, women I’ve ever met. I just look at you, the way you dress, how you carry yourself, and just think to myself, often quite stupidly, ‘Just for one day, no more than that, I would like to be you.’ This sounds foolish, ignorant even, but I can’t help it,” she cried.

“Is this true?”

“It’s true, all of what I have told you,” she answered.

“I’m just a regular woman, living a normal life, in a common world, desperate for love and acceptance, specific to my own needs and wants, requited and true, so as to be happy and content, never lonely or unsatisfied. I go from place to place, consistent over my failures, rather than a slave to them. Helen, as much as I like you, we’re very different people, with different goals and ambitions, quite a few of which need not be spoken,” she uttered.

“What differences, may I ask? We have the same friends, and that’s not including all of our similarities, such as the way we dress, think, feel, one and the same,” she said, her voice unsteady and shaken.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s not enough to just be with you, I have to be you,” she remarked.

Quite startled and surprised, Cheryl pulled away from Helen, backing into the corner, very confused by her friend’s demeanor. She looked down at the photograph, the one in the newspaper, a realization finally reaching her brain. The woman had brown hair, blue eyes, pale skin, every feature Helen possessed, with the exception of emotion or feeling. Helen glided towards her, virtually no sentiment even remotely present. Cheryl felt her lips quiver, defenseless against Helen’s powerful embrace, a lovely precision that left her speechless, incapable of resisting even the slightest touch.

“She was so lovely, that girl in the photograph, just as you are lovely. I’ve worn her face for two, maybe three weeks, as carefully and as convincing as any other face, but not unlike other moments in my life, I was disappointed. I think your face, yours, not any other, is the perfect mix of virtue, softness, sweetness, a little touch of allure, all brought together by those lovely eyes and ears, quite possibly the most important features out of all of them. They’ll be mine, mine alone,” she remarked, a crazed expression on her face.

“It’s not possible, any of what you say,” she cried, lowering her head.

“Not only possible, it’s practically already done,” Helen said, pulling a knife out of her pocket.

The End

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2017 JL reaper. All rights reserved.

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