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Carved in the flesh by Tom Ross
and Hilborn, slowly, as though devouring

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a fiery dragon. The sun disappeared
behind the distant hills, painting the sky

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until it was a shield that had
caught the stain of blood from the dying

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orb. The whitewashed walls of the
cell in the State Asylum for the Criminally

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Insane were incrimsoned by the reflected light. Blood shrieked a crouching figure from the

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corner of the cell. Blood on
white flesh and trembling hands covered his gleaming,

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staring eyes. You'd better look at
number forty seven, Bill, advised

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a corridor keeper to a guard.
The guard nodded, walked slowly down the

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passageway between the grated cells, his
slippered feet soundless upon the concrete floors.

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The red glint of the setting sun
in invaded even the gloom of the dismal

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corridor. He is always worse when
he sees anything red, grumbled Bill.

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He'll rave the rest of the night, I suppose. From within the cell

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occupied by number forty seven came low
moans, then a jumble of words,

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words uttered in a pleading, halting
voice. A short silence, and then

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a pitch of words rose to a
shriek. Blood blood on white flesh,

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The blood of my name, screamed
the man who was crouched in the furthest

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corner of the cell. Bill Waterman, though he had been a guard in

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the asylum for many years, shivered
slightly. He peered into the cell,

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quite unseen by the cringing man within. Although Waterman had heard the ravings of

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the cell's inmate time after time,
always he would pause, as if fascinated,

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Well did he know the story of
the imprisoned man. But the tales

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horror enchanted him, held him there
to listen to its repeating. He leaned

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against the wall, out of sight
of the man in the cell. I

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loved her, Oh God, how
I loved her. The voice of number

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forty seven had sunk almost to a
whisper. And she loved me. She

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was mine, mine. I thrilled
with the light of love that shone in

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her eyes when we were together.
I trembled when her beautiful soft arms crept

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lovingly about me. I flamed when
her lips sought mine. Four years I

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had loved her, waiting for the
wonderful day when she would kneel at my

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side before the priest, and when
that day came, the happiness was even

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greater than I had dreamed. She
was my sweetheart, my mistress, my

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wife, all three in one.
She was my all. I was away,

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My firm sent me far away into
the swamps of South America. The

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parting was terrible, but we both
knew that it meant my advancement, my

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chance to make a fortune for us
that would enable me to provide her with

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all the luxuries that she craved and
that I longed to place at her feet.

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Through fever drenched swamps, battling the
dangers of the jungle, fighting for

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life itself, day after day I
made my way. I had before me

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always the picture of her. When
we parted, sobs shaken, trembling with

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grief, God speed you and bring
you back to me, she had prayed

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as I sailed away. There was
no mail in the rubber country. My

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party was far beyond the comforting blessings
of messages from loved ones. Every day

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I wrote love messages to her in
my diary. I would show them to

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her upon my return. She would
measure the words that I had written during

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the lonely nights in the camp of
the fever country. Endless were the days

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before my work had finished. Delays
piled upon delays. I burned with impatience

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to return to my loved one.
But for her welfare, I stuck to

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my post. I sent love thoughts
hurtling through space. I felt that they

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must reach her and tell her of
my great love. Came the day of

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my departure for our home. Ours
was a slow sailing ancient craft that seemed

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to creep through the waves. Day
followed day of ceaseless yearning for the woman

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I loved. I paced the deck
hour by hour, longing for the journey's

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end. At last, the ship
slipped into dock. I hastened through customs,

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burning with the desire to rush to
my loved one. I cursed the

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slowness of the taxi that bore me
homeward. Would it never arrive? Finally,

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the machine drew up before my door. I leapt to the ground,

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flinging a bill to the driver,
and fairly flew up the pathway. I

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noticed that the ground seemed unkempt,
the pathway was weed grown. These were

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but fleeting impressions that flashed upon me
as I leapt forward so that I might

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the sooner clasp my adored one to
my pounding heart. It came to me

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suddenly the house was deserted. What
could have happened? Was she ill?

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Could she? But no, it
could not be that. She could not

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have been taken from me. God
could not be so cruel. Frantically I

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rang the bell. No answer came. I peered in at the windows.

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The house was deserted. Then began
my search. Friends at first sought to

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conceal the truth from me, but
I forced it from them. My wife

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had proven faithless, another had robbed
me of my dearest prize. From the

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moment I learned the truth, the
world took on a crimson tinge. Always

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was there a red blur before my
eyes. I sacrificed everything, my position,

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my worldly goods. I turned everything
available into money, money that I

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carried always with me. I trailed
the pair from place to place. They

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were always ahead of me, but
my searching was as relentless as death itself.

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At last I found them. They
had fled to a cabin in the

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western mountains, unknown to them.
I watched them, watched them, and

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planned, I am a strong man. My hatred made me stronger. I

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came upon him one day alone,
on a high peak in the mountains.

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I crept upon him, slowly,
cautiously. He did not hear my approach,

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and then I had him in my
arms. He was as helpless as

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a child. In spite of his
struggles. I bore him to the edge

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of the cliff and lowered him until
his fingers clutched it. He could not

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draw himself to safety, and I
laughed as I saw his fingers cling to

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the rock they slipped. Slipped on
his face was written agony, and there

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was also agony engraved upon my heart. As his hands loosened, I brought

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the heel of my shoe down upon
his finger tips. I did not stamp,

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but pressed firmly and laughed at the
pain I knew I was bringing to

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him. He had brought pain to
my heart. He begged, pleaded,

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entreated, but I watched him,
smiling, watched him until he fell,

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with a shrieking curse flung from his
lips. I watched him fall, fall,

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and then crash upon the jagged rocks
below. I had far to go

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before I could reach the cabin where
he had left her. I knew she

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would be awaiting his return, as
she had once awaited mine. Night had

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fallen before I reached the cabin.
A light gleamed from the tiny window of

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the log built cabin. I saw
this light gleaming through the openings among the

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massive trees, long before I reached
their love nest. It was her beacon

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light, the light that would guide
him to her. Did she long for

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his comings as I had thought she
longed for mine in the days of my

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happiness. Approaching in silence, I
crept close to the cabin wall. I

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peered through the window. She was
there, nervously, pacing back and forth

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across the tiny room. The light
of the fire burning in the open fireplace

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painted her, painted her scarlet noiselessly. I opened the door, but she

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saw me almost as I entered the
room. She did not scream, but

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her face grew white, and she
trembled and swayed as a slender tree sways

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before the rush of storm. My
eyes drank in all her splendid beauty.

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But my heart did not quicken,
as it had in those days when I

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had possessed her. It beat with
the slow, dull throb of the heart

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of a wounded beast. I was
strangely calm. Her lips parted as though

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she would speak, but there was
no sound issuing from them. I saw

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her tongue make the effort to moisten
them, but they remained dry pallid.

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Slowly I approached her. She shrank
from me until she was backed against the

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wall of the cabin. I reached
forth and grasped her arm. It was

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cold, I could feel the tremor
of fear at my touch. I have

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come, was all I said.
What what are you going to do?

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She faltered, shrinking from me.
I did not answer. My other hand

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sought her free arm, and as
I grasped it, I could feel her

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flesh quiver under my clasp. I
drew her to me and looked at the

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stark, naked fear in her eyes. There was a crude bunk built in

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one corner of the cabin. An
upright post ran from its corner from the

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floor to roof. Clasping both of
her arms within the grip of one of

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my hands, I loosened my belt, forcing the fear ridden woman slowly toward

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the bunk. I bound her with
a leather belt tightly to the post.

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When she was securely bound, I
reached forth and pulled the clothing from her

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quivering body. Deliberately, ruthlessly,
I stripped every vestige of covering from her.

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She stood before me, her glistening
white flesh shrinking from my touch.

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I could hear the rattle in her
throat as she made an effort to cry

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out. I had planned all that
I would do. My hand sought the

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sheath knife that I wore in my
belt. Slowly I drew it from its

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sheath. I tested its point with
my finger. The steel felt cool beneath

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my touch. Again, my eyes
sought those of the woman standing helplessly before

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me. She flinched under my glance, and then there broke from her lips

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a torrent of prayers, of entreaties, and finally she was silent. She

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had fainted. I set to work
rapidly there upon her tender flesh. I

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began carefully to carve my name.
She was mine, and upon her I

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would place my mark of ownership.
None other could have her without the knowledge

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that she belonged to another man.
As my knife bit into her flesh,

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she recovered from her swoon, but
under the sting of pain, she again

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collapsed. During her conscious moments,
I told her of what I intended to

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do, Carefully, slowly, taking
all pains that my knife did not bite

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too deeply, I carved my name
upon the fair flesh beneath her firm,

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rounded breasts. The crimson blood flowed
steadily downward, making branching paths upon the

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white skin. Jackson carry his woman. These were the words I left engrave

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with all my skill, upon the
woman to whom I had given my name,

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and who could never belong to another. Blood, blood on white flesh,

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the blood of my name, screened
forty seven. Crouching shiveringly in the

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corner of his cell, poor devil, muttered Bill Waterman. We'll have to

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put a colored glass in the window. He's always worse off when he sees

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red. The end of Carved in
the Flesh by Tom Rosson Hilborne