Carved in the flesh by Tom Ross and Hilborn, slowly, as though devouring
a fiery dragon. The sun disappeared behind the distant hills, painting the sky
until it was a shield that had caught the stain of blood from the dying
orb. The whitewashed walls of the cell in the State Asylum for the Criminally
Insane were incrimsoned by the reflected light. Blood shrieked a crouching figure from the
corner of the cell. Blood on white flesh and trembling hands covered his gleaming,
staring eyes. You'd better look at number forty seven, Bill, advised
a corridor keeper to a guard. The guard nodded, walked slowly down the
passageway between the grated cells, his slippered feet soundless upon the concrete floors.
The red glint of the setting sun in invaded even the gloom of the dismal
corridor. He is always worse when he sees anything red, grumbled Bill.
He'll rave the rest of the night, I suppose. From within the cell
occupied by number forty seven came low moans, then a jumble of words,
words uttered in a pleading, halting voice. A short silence, and then
a pitch of words rose to a shriek. Blood blood on white flesh,
The blood of my name, screamed the man who was crouched in the furthest
corner of the cell. Bill Waterman, though he had been a guard in
the asylum for many years, shivered slightly. He peered into the cell,
quite unseen by the cringing man within. Although Waterman had heard the ravings of
the cell's inmate time after time, always he would pause, as if fascinated,
Well did he know the story of the imprisoned man. But the tales
horror enchanted him, held him there to listen to its repeating. He leaned
against the wall, out of sight of the man in the cell. I
loved her, Oh God, how I loved her. The voice of number
forty seven had sunk almost to a whisper. And she loved me. She
was mine, mine. I thrilled with the light of love that shone in
her eyes when we were together. I trembled when her beautiful soft arms crept
lovingly about me. I flamed when her lips sought mine. Four years I
had loved her, waiting for the wonderful day when she would kneel at my
side before the priest, and when that day came, the happiness was even
greater than I had dreamed. She was my sweetheart, my mistress, my
wife, all three in one. She was my all. I was away,
My firm sent me far away into the swamps of South America. The
parting was terrible, but we both knew that it meant my advancement, my
chance to make a fortune for us that would enable me to provide her with
all the luxuries that she craved and that I longed to place at her feet.
Through fever drenched swamps, battling the dangers of the jungle, fighting for
life itself, day after day I made my way. I had before me
always the picture of her. When we parted, sobs shaken, trembling with
grief, God speed you and bring you back to me, she had prayed
as I sailed away. There was no mail in the rubber country. My
party was far beyond the comforting blessings of messages from loved ones. Every day
I wrote love messages to her in my diary. I would show them to
her upon my return. She would measure the words that I had written during
the lonely nights in the camp of the fever country. Endless were the days
before my work had finished. Delays piled upon delays. I burned with impatience
to return to my loved one. But for her welfare, I stuck to
my post. I sent love thoughts hurtling through space. I felt that they
must reach her and tell her of my great love. Came the day of
my departure for our home. Ours was a slow sailing ancient craft that seemed
to creep through the waves. Day followed day of ceaseless yearning for the woman
I loved. I paced the deck hour by hour, longing for the journey's
end. At last, the ship slipped into dock. I hastened through customs,
burning with the desire to rush to my loved one. I cursed the
slowness of the taxi that bore me homeward. Would it never arrive? Finally,
the machine drew up before my door. I leapt to the ground,
flinging a bill to the driver, and fairly flew up the pathway. I
noticed that the ground seemed unkempt, the pathway was weed grown. These were
but fleeting impressions that flashed upon me as I leapt forward so that I might
the sooner clasp my adored one to my pounding heart. It came to me
suddenly the house was deserted. What could have happened? Was she ill?
Could she? But no, it could not be that. She could not
have been taken from me. God could not be so cruel. Frantically I
rang the bell. No answer came. I peered in at the windows.
The house was deserted. Then began my search. Friends at first sought to
conceal the truth from me, but I forced it from them. My wife
had proven faithless, another had robbed me of my dearest prize. From the
moment I learned the truth, the world took on a crimson tinge. Always
was there a red blur before my eyes. I sacrificed everything, my position,
my worldly goods. I turned everything available into money, money that I
carried always with me. I trailed the pair from place to place. They
were always ahead of me, but my searching was as relentless as death itself.
At last I found them. They had fled to a cabin in the
western mountains, unknown to them. I watched them, watched them, and
planned, I am a strong man. My hatred made me stronger. I
came upon him one day alone, on a high peak in the mountains.
I crept upon him, slowly, cautiously. He did not hear my approach,
and then I had him in my arms. He was as helpless as
a child. In spite of his struggles. I bore him to the edge
of the cliff and lowered him until his fingers clutched it. He could not
draw himself to safety, and I laughed as I saw his fingers cling to
the rock they slipped. Slipped on his face was written agony, and there
was also agony engraved upon my heart. As his hands loosened, I brought
the heel of my shoe down upon his finger tips. I did not stamp,
but pressed firmly and laughed at the pain I knew I was bringing to
him. He had brought pain to my heart. He begged, pleaded,
entreated, but I watched him, smiling, watched him until he fell,
with a shrieking curse flung from his lips. I watched him fall, fall,
and then crash upon the jagged rocks below. I had far to go
before I could reach the cabin where he had left her. I knew she
would be awaiting his return, as she had once awaited mine. Night had
fallen before I reached the cabin. A light gleamed from the tiny window of
the log built cabin. I saw this light gleaming through the openings among the
massive trees, long before I reached their love nest. It was her beacon
light, the light that would guide him to her. Did she long for
his comings as I had thought she longed for mine in the days of my
happiness. Approaching in silence, I crept close to the cabin wall. I
peered through the window. She was there, nervously, pacing back and forth
across the tiny room. The light of the fire burning in the open fireplace
painted her, painted her scarlet noiselessly. I opened the door, but she
saw me almost as I entered the room. She did not scream, but
her face grew white, and she trembled and swayed as a slender tree sways
before the rush of storm. My eyes drank in all her splendid beauty.
But my heart did not quicken, as it had in those days when I
had possessed her. It beat with the slow, dull throb of the heart
of a wounded beast. I was strangely calm. Her lips parted as though
she would speak, but there was no sound issuing from them. I saw
her tongue make the effort to moisten them, but they remained dry pallid.
Slowly I approached her. She shrank from me until she was backed against the
wall of the cabin. I reached forth and grasped her arm. It was
cold, I could feel the tremor of fear at my touch. I have
come, was all I said. What what are you going to do?
She faltered, shrinking from me. I did not answer. My other hand
sought her free arm, and as I grasped it, I could feel her
flesh quiver under my clasp. I drew her to me and looked at the
stark, naked fear in her eyes. There was a crude bunk built in
one corner of the cabin. An upright post ran from its corner from the
floor to roof. Clasping both of her arms within the grip of one of
my hands, I loosened my belt, forcing the fear ridden woman slowly toward
the bunk. I bound her with a leather belt tightly to the post.
When she was securely bound, I reached forth and pulled the clothing from her
quivering body. Deliberately, ruthlessly, I stripped every vestige of covering from her.
She stood before me, her glistening white flesh shrinking from my touch.
I could hear the rattle in her throat as she made an effort to cry
out. I had planned all that I would do. My hand sought the
sheath knife that I wore in my belt. Slowly I drew it from its
sheath. I tested its point with my finger. The steel felt cool beneath
my touch. Again, my eyes sought those of the woman standing helplessly before
me. She flinched under my glance, and then there broke from her lips
a torrent of prayers, of entreaties, and finally she was silent. She
had fainted. I set to work rapidly there upon her tender flesh. I
began carefully to carve my name. She was mine, and upon her I
would place my mark of ownership. None other could have her without the knowledge
that she belonged to another man. As my knife bit into her flesh,
she recovered from her swoon, but under the sting of pain, she again
collapsed. During her conscious moments, I told her of what I intended to
do, Carefully, slowly, taking all pains that my knife did not bite
too deeply, I carved my name upon the fair flesh beneath her firm,
rounded breasts. The crimson blood flowed steadily downward, making branching paths upon the
white skin. Jackson carry his woman. These were the words I left engrave
with all my skill, upon the woman to whom I had given my name,
and who could never belong to another. Blood, blood on white flesh,
the blood of my name, screened forty seven. Crouching shiveringly in the
corner of his cell, poor devil, muttered Bill Waterman. We'll have to
put a colored glass in the window. He's always worse off when he sees
red. The end of Carved in the Flesh by Tom Rosson Hilborne