Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

DEAR DIARY Elsa Rutherford

August 3

This afternoon when I went for my visit with Dr. Fill-more, we prayed for the dauphin and the future of France. Dr. Fillmore understands that I must follow the visions God has given me. I said ten Hail Mary's, and Dr. Fillmore just listened. He isn't Catholic, but I can tell he's a very spiritual person.

I go on my own now. They trust me. I'm sure it's because Dr. Fillmore has told them how trustworthy I am.

After Nurse Samuels unlocks the door behind her cubicle and walks with me to the elevator, I go down to the main floor by myself. The elevator creaks and chugs; this place is old, but I don't mind. Dr. Fillmore's office is at the end of the hallway to the right of the elevator.

When I came into Dr. Fillmore's office this afternoon he smiled and said, "Good afternoon. I'm Dr. Fillmore, and who are you?" We've been having these little visits for some time now, but Dr. Fillmore seems to think it appropriate to reintroduce ourselves each time we meet. He's very courtly and proper, except when he brings up the subject of my parents. I'd rather not talk about my parents. May they rest in eternal peace.

When I go to visit Dr. Fillmore, I never stop or dawdle along the way. I don't understand people who waste time; it's as though they have no sense of who they are, no purpose in life. Unfortunately, so many of the guests here seem to have nothing better to do than stand around staring off into space. When I have places to go and things to do, which I always have, I get on with it. On my way to see Dr. Fillmore I never even pause to talk with the doorman who stands guard at his post beside the front door. I give him a courteous nod and continue on about my business.

Of course, I sometimes stop by the water fountain in the hall. People do have to quench their thirst. And I have been known to take a moment or two to admire the giant potted ferns that sit beneath the window just past the water fountain. They're always green and pretty. Someone here must know exactly what to do and what not to do to keep them healthy. They do try hard to take good care of things here.

Occasionally I allow myself a glance at the fire extinguisher outside Dr. Fillmore's office. Well, perhaps fire extinguisher isn't the right term. It's the old-fashioned kind, very interesting — the kind inside a glass case with a hose on a rack. The nozzle on the end of the hose is brass and very shiny. There's an ax inside the case, too. A rather small ax with a short handle. I like to look at my reflection in the glass. It's almost as good as having a mirror.

I'm not sure I like my hair the way it is today. Plain brown and all chopped off. I think I look like a boy. I wonder if Dr. Fillmore thinks I look like a boy. No, I'm certain Dr. Fillmore doesn't see people as male or female but as God's creatures who must strive diligently to do His blessed will. I like Dr. Fillmore. My name is Joan.

August 9

My hair looks terrific today. It's long and fluffs out around my shoulders. And I'm crazy about the color, sort of platinum blond. Real sexy. I gave myself the once-over in the glass on my way to see Fillmore. I know I look good. God, I just love having big boobs, having them poke out the way they do. Fillmore couldn't keep his eyes off them. I looked him straight in the face, gave him that look that said, I know what you're thinking, buster! He glanced down real quick and fidgeted with some papers on his desk, pretending nothing was going on. Silly man. I guess I'm too much for him. I guess he doesn't know what to do with me, but I wouldn't mind giving him a lesson or two. He's a good-looking hunk.

But I'm getting sick and tired of hearing: "Let's talk about your mother. Let's talk about your father. Let's talk about your childhood." Same old thing. Boring. Boring.

About halfway through the visit, I got up and sidled over to where Fillmore was sitting behind the desk, as if I was kind of restless and needed to stretch my legs. I leaned over, pretending to look at something on his desk, and brushed against him so that my boob rubbed against his shoulder. Then I sat down on the corner of his desk and squirmed around so my skirt was hiked up to my thighs, and I didn't bother to cross my legs or keep them together. Fillmore got a good crotch shot. I know he did. His face turned red, and he said, "I think you'd be more comfortable back over there in the chair, Mae." So he'd be more comfortable. That's what he meant.

But he loved it. I know how men are. They've all got just one thing on the brain. They'll do anything to get what they want. And they'll talk others into helping them get it, too.

Fillmore never got up from his desk, so I couldn't see below his waist, but I bet he was hard as a rock. I bet he would have loved pushing me down on that desk and having somebody hold me there while he crawled on top. He wanted to put it to me. I know he did. That's what they all want. To heave and shove and grunt like nasty old pigs. I can't help it if I'm sexy. I guess I was born that way. But when you're a grown woman you can choose who gets into your pants.

When I left, I told Fillmore he ought to get out of that stuffy old office once in a while and come up and see me sometime.

August 16

I'm wearing a very beautiful headpiece. Much like a tiara. But, instead of gaudy jewels, it's ornamented with an exquisite golden serpent. It is a symbol of my high station. I wear it on certain occasions — such as my visit to Dr. Fillmore today. To be perfectly frank, I was rather dismayed that he failed to bow when I entered the room. Not the slightest sign of obeisance. The man is impudent. Perhaps I should have rebuked him immediately. Instead, displaying great forbearance, I chose not to do so. We of noble birth often find ourselves obliged to tolerate the ill-bred and the low-born. There are so many of them and so few of us.

The doctor wanted to talk about my relationship with my parents. He pressed me to speak of certain incidents from my childhood. I declined. Why dwell on unpleasant matters? I am growing weary of this inquisition. I offered to discuss life along the Nile… or Julius or Antony… but the learned doctor did not seem interested.

I am sure he is jealous. It's obvious that he dreams of how it would be to lie with me. I can see it in his eyes though certainly he dares not speak of it. Well, let him dream. Even dogs are permitted their dreams. Let him imagine bringing his swollen loins to my silken couch. Let him picture in lusty detail the glory of such a coupling. Let him imagine the perfection of my alabaster breasts and the ecstasy of my embrace. I allow him his fantasy, for that is all he will ever have. Though I have a generous nature, there are limits to my indulgence and he would pay dearly should he forget his place and so much as lay a finger on a lock of my ebony hair.

August 23

Today, before my visit, I looked in the glass again. The nozzle is still so shiny. It looks as if they open the glass and polish it every day. I know they don't, of course. There's no way to open the glass except to break it. And it's not easy to break. You have to hit it really hard. I never noticed before, but the ax blade is as shiny as the nozzle. And sharp, too. A sharp ax can be a very handy thing to have around.

I cut my hand today. It bled. I hate the sight of blood. It's sickening. When I went in to see Dr. Fillmore, I kept my hands behind my back. Fillmore's got eyes like an eagle. I tried to forget about the blood, to forget about what was behind my back. I can block anything out of my mind if I try hard enough.

Dr. Fillmore wanted to talk about my parents again. I knew he would. He always does. If he doesn't shut up…

If he wants to talk about somebody's parents, let him talk about his own. I bet his old ma and pa were as ugly and hateful as he is. I bet they made him do nasty things when he was little. I bet he remembers every filthy detail to this very day. Every terrible, terrible detail…

When I let Fillmore see my hands, when I raised them high, his eyes went wide, and, after that, he made an odd, gurgling sound.

I don't know why Dr. Fillmore has become such a slob. After I'd been there for a while today, I noticed that his hair was damp and matted and that his clothes were all blotched with stains. It was sickening. I stood right over him and he just stared up at me, never blinking, his mouth gaping open, as if he didn't have a clue to why I was looking at him. When I glanced up, I saw that the office was in pretty foul shape, too. Right away I began to feel dirty, as if the place was rubbing off on me. I had to get out of there. So I just turned my back on the sickening mess and walked out. I went straight back the way I'd come. I didn't stop or dawdle or slow down for anything. In fact, I barely spoke to the nice doorman who took my arm when he saw me coming down the hall and insisted on escorting me back up in the elevator. I didn't say a word when he took the ax from me. My name is Lizzie.