THE UNDERTAKER - a work of fiction

She did consent to him administering the drug that would render her inert, initially excited at the thought, fear being a great aphrodisiac to her. But as she lay on the marble mortuary slab, every muscle frozen, she began to wonder if she would come to regret such consent.

Her eyes could only stare up at the stained ceiling above her as her senses told her he had re-entered the room. She could hear his footsteps cross the aged linoleum tiles and move towards her helpless body, hear her own heartbeat in her head, loud and ever increasing. The scent of rubber from his apron filled her senses as he leant over her and ran a gloved hand over her bare skin, planning his sadistic artistry.

A slight prickle on her belly alerted her to his cutting, the scalpel blade lightly slicing through her soft skin, his creativity unleashing as he patterned her flesh with his carving. She tried to follow his cuts and envisage the design in her head. Small streams of itchiness irked her skin slightly as the flows of blood meandered over her.

A gentle clatter signalled to her he had finished his masterpiece, a vague feeling of abdominal pressure as he pressed a square of pure white linen over the cutting, taking a bloody impression of his work.

He left the room, for what seemed like an eternity to her, an underlying sense of panic threatening to take hold. Then a deep sense of relief as she heard the door and he returned to her. Gently, he turned her head to the side so as that she could see him and what his plans were. He stood in an ebony tail coat suit, a top hat with black feather plume – true old fashioned undertaker style. She smiled inwardly at his handsome malevolence but as he moved slightly aside and revealed to her the dark oak coffin with brass handles that mindsmile vanished.

He stepped forward and returned her head to its original position. Leaning over her he kissed her lightly on the lips and gently thumbed down her eyelids. Pushing his arms underneath the backs of her knees and the middle of her back he lifted her from the slab and placed her in the coffin. She felt the creamy satin lining cocooning her, the lightly padded cushion under her head. He took the cloth that had traced her wounds and lay it gently over her face, the coppery aroma of her own blood filling her nostrils.

She tried to cry out to no avail as he moved the lid of the coffin into place. There was no strength available to her to be summoned to detail the terror she felt as the lid slid into place. A solitary tear began to wind its way down her cheek as the sound of screws being put in place murmured in her ears.

He kicked the brake off the trolley and began to wheel her to her resting place. The movement strangely calming to her, the silent internal screeching quietening down. She relaxed into the motion, moving her mind to a better and safer place.

Journey's end and she felt the coffin being pushed from where her feet lay. She listened carefully to the change from metal to stone occurred and knew where she was. The ancient vault he had showed her on their first meeting, his favourite place he had told her. A dark and dry place, rectangular holes cut into the stone walls, coffin shaped holes.

She strained her ears, was aware of his footsteps going off into the distance. She was alone, entombed, paralysed, bleeding, but she was singing inside. All fear had dissipated, been replaced by an undescribable feeling of contentment.

He contemplated as he enjoyed his glass of Merlot, knew he had a couple of hours until the drugs he had injected into her would wear off. She would be safe until then, unaware of course that there was air holes drilled into the coffin. Then he would go to her, resurrect her, rebirth her. Together they would embrace her new found purity of soul. The soul that belonged to him.

©2009 by shapeshifter