"gift"

Posted by Menagerie on July 04, 2004 at 09:01:32:

GIFT
Vicky had started to think of it as her Gift.
She had slowly grown aware of it. First as a child, coming to realize that she could…see…things differently. Well, not only see. She could experience them.
When she had a birthday party, she wasn’t just hugging her friends and playing games and opening gifts. There was another Vicky, observing the whole scene, the kaleidoscope of the party, dresses swirling, children laughing. There was a wholeness there; she saw what everybody was seeing.
And sometimes at night, when she was tucked into bed…before her, in her mind, was her. First drowsy, stretching her tiny form and huddling under the covers…then eyes closed, mouth pouting, rhythmically snoozing. She could see herself, asleep. How could she see herself, if she was not awake?
Vicky didn’t understand, and was afraid to tell anybody. The other kids all thought she was a little spacey, anyway, daydreaming all the time. She couldn’t tell them she could leave her body and see herself, see them, see everybody. It was a Gift, but a scary one. So she kept it to herself.
She couldn’t really control it, anyway. The kids would be in class, listening to the teacher go on about math or an old book or something…and suddenly, she could see them all, some paying attention and some not. She could dive down, read the teacher’s lesson plan, then zoom back up to the ceiling and look down at Martha’s idle doodling in the margins of her book, at Jack’s sneaking a peek at Martha’s cleavage, straining at her tube top. Vicky envied Martha; that’s what boys wanted, big boobs, blonde hair, Amazons.
She watched them…and then she was back, just in herself, and the teacher was saying, “Isn’t that right, Vicky?” The class tittered; Vicky looked around, self-consciously, hunched down in her oversized shirt. She couldn’t even see Jack; the fluorescent light gleamed off Martha’s coif. And then she found herself reciting exactly what she’d seen in the lesson plan, word for word; the class buzzed, the teacher looked confused, the bell rang. She got out of there quickly; no more of that.
She got along, speaking when spoken to, a kind of half-smile on her face. When the time came for the big class trip, the three-day cruise out in the ocean, she brought a few books, a swimsuit, her evening gown. She was wearing the two-piece, laying back on a deck chair, the second day of the cruise, evening drawing near, almost suppertime. Vicky looked down, self-conscious; she was so small, so slight. The other girls, robust with ripening womanhood, proudly showed off their figures; Vicky curled up, hugged herself, and watched.
As the other kids ran wild on the deck, Vicky felt her mind split away, head up into the heavens. She saw them all, saw them smooching in dark corners, playing grabass in the corridors between berths. Saw Jack grab Martha’s hand, saw the two of them disappear into a cabin, the door slamming shut. Her vision soared skyward, came down to peer at herself, tiny, slender, almost fragile. And then she heard—heard a roar; growing, growling, like a hundred kettle drums rolling…
The wave hit so fast that Vicky momentarily ceased to breathe. She could still witness the chaos aboard deck, sailors frantically rounding up hysterical kids. At first Vicky couldn’t find herself; then she saw her frail form being swept away from the ship, out to sea, and abruptly realized she was not conscious. It was as if this realization reunited her soul and body; she gasped, sputtered, reached out and grabbed the first object she could find. Her good luck; a life preserver had been washed overboard with her. Vicky hung on, watched silently as she and the ship parted, until it was no longer in view. She tried to split from her body again; she couldn’t. She wondered if they realized she was gone…or if they would…
The titanic wave that had ripped Vicky from the deck had brothers; she rose and fell, violently, nauseatingly. Each bob drove her skyward, so she felt herself momentarily separated from the sea; each fall dropped her into a well of water, the waves impossibly high on all sides around her. The gut-wrenching oscillation seemed to last forever; Vicky barely noticed as the waves gradually receded, until she was gliding gently over the foaming surf, her slender body tossed lightly as if drawn by strings. Before her lay a patch of sand, framed by trees. She looked behind her. There was no boat.
Her toes were scraping bottom; Vicky forced herself to release her death grip on the preserver, began wading toward the beach. As she emerged from the surf, a bit at a time, the new day’s sun beat hot on her back and shoulders. She dragged herself forward, now waist deep, now to her knees…and finally collapsed, face down, on the hot sand. Home, at last.
As Vicky slept, her spirit emerged and flew free. Water in all directions; she was on a mere speck of land, a few square miles. The foliage was dense, but she could see movement, even a little smoke, and realized she was not alone here. Her other self, her “Gift,” had no emotion; she felt neither excitement nor fear, just detached interest. Hovering, her mind drifted lower; there were men, several, dressed loosely and sparsely for the tropics, tending to a fire, occasionally disappearing into a tent. They had crates and boxes; she couldn’t tell if they were provisions, or perhaps contraband? There was a small pen, with a few chickens; the men seemed busy, in a hurry…
Her body was awakening; Vicky’s Gift left the men, returned. She stretched, spent a few harried moments removing sand from more sensitive places. Should she seek out the men? There was a twinge of fear; she was young and alone, and who knew why they were here—drug smuggling, perhaps. Or maybe they were just middle-aged husbands and fathers out for a weekend of playing pirate. Vicky decided to play it carefully, staying away from their camp and hoping for rescue; she couldn’t have floated far from the cruise ship in a single night. The hot sand burned her bare feet; she started walking, away from the men, toward the outskirts of the trees.
There was a little to eat; some shrubs with berries. Vicky grabbed handfuls, saw more, along a path. She was hungry, and careless; the berries tasted too good. She minced forward, the rough floor of the forest cutting into her feet, reached out eagerly…
Something was whipping Vicky skyward, so fast it took her breath away. She tried to kick out, but found herself wrapped up neatly, surrounded by a webwork of vines. She bounced up a few times, then dangled, neatly bagged up like a bundle of fruit at the supermarket…hanging twelve feet off the ground. Dizzy, frightened, she waited.
She didn’t have to wait long. The men appeared, three of them, scruffy, bearded. They were lean and sinewy, burned dark by life in the sun; they gawked up at her, first astonished, then delighted. “Willie!” shouted one. “I do believe we’ve bagged a treat, here…”
Another man stepped forward, glared up at Vicky. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. Vicky looked down at his angry face, and swallowed. “I was washed off a boat,” she said.
The face became more thoughtful than angry. “You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
He turned to his grinning, simpering colleagues; they were standing first on one foot, then the other, rubbing their hands in glee. “Cut her down,” he ordered; Willie unsheathed a machete, swung at a rope tied to a nearby tree. Vicky’s heart jumped into her throat as she plummeted, but the first man, the one who called her a “treat,” caught her neatly. His muscles were rock hard; he barely budged, but smiled down into her face. There was no mirth in his eyes, though, just an infernal gleam.
“Back to camp,” the boss ordered, and the three trundled on through the dense underbrush, Vicky over Treat’s shoulder like a sack of flour. She felt his hand pat her butt. “Good, good,” he was saying. “Very good, indeed.”
He tossed her on the ground in the clearing, the makeshift living quarters she’d seen while apart from her body. Vicky writhed in the netting for a while; looked up to see the man with the machete, who slashed her free. She rolled over and sat up as the three of them hovered around her; Vicky looked from face to face, and it registered on her that she was wearing only a brief swimsuit, and they had hunger in their eyes. Willie finally asked the chief, without taking his eyes off her, “What now, Man?”
Man looked her up, then down. Vicky met his gaze, looked away, uncomfortably. He said, evenly, “Provisions are low. She’s yours for a while; I want her done by sundown.”
The other two laughed in delight, reaching out for her. “Don’t worry,” breathed Treat, “we’ll be careful.” He hoisted Vicky to her feet; Willie put out one strong hand, and in a flash Vicky’s top was gone. She sucked in her breath; her tiny breasts poked out as Treat groped at her, pawed the delicate flesh. “Not a lot of meat on her,” Man remarked; he was tending to one of the wooden crates Vicky’s Gift had seen. “We’ll still need to raid the mainland in a week. But now, we have time.”
Vicky was momentarily bewildered by the talk, but that gave way to pain. Willie had twisted her arms behind her, was binding her wrists with another of the island-made ropes. Treat has a thin razor of a knife; he was menacing her with it, holding it inches from her nose as if to slice it off, then tracing it down her breastbone and belly. He tugged at one end of Vicky’s bikini briefs; the blade slipped in, severed the fabric. She stood nearly naked, her tender young pubes exposed, the briefs curled up on one leg. Treat looked down. “Nice,” he said, then back up into her terrified face. “Young miss, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. They call me Sally. When they aren’t screaming.” And with that, he was on her.
Sally had Vicky pinned down, hard. He plunged his bristly mouth over hers, sucking at her as if to draw the juices from her. His tough, callused hands pulled her slender legs apart; she felt it inside her, huge, hot, slick. The hands came up to her throat; momentarily, Vicky couldn’t breathe, her eyes bugging, throat choking. “Be good,” the bad man whispered, harshly. “Be good to me.”
Vicky squirmed, her bare, soft backside chafing against the roughened ground. Her eyes snapped open to behold those of Sally, more red than white, gleaming with sex madness. She closed her eyes again, felt the man’s sweaty, stinking bulk against her, hammering the breath out of her with each thrust, the unfamiliar fullness of him inside of her…and then she was off, separated again.
But she did not escape her ordeal. Vicky could feel herself being pummeled by the man, while she floated above them at the same time, taking in the entire scene. She had to focus to watch the other two; Willie was eyeing the two of them intently, his hand cradling the flat side of the machete. Man was rummaging through a crate—plastic wrap, she could see, paper within. Money? He pushed some of the bundles aside; her detached mind’s eye picked up something shiny, metal and wood. Weapons. Guns.
She was interrupted by a stiffening; Sally was arching his back. He had let go a load, and Vicky’s groin was filled with it, warm, sticky. Then, her face stung; the man had raised himself from her, had slowly, deliberately backhanded her, once, twice. “Not so good,” he hissed down at the cowering girl. “Willie will straighten you out.”
Willie pulled her off the ground by her long, brown hair; he held her up to his waist, the evil blade against her neck. “Suck like a good girl,” he commanded. As his dirty, foul member invaded her mouth, Vicky dimly realized her bikini panties were still clinging to one leg. She looked down, saw the helpless girl being abused by two hooting men; looked up, saw Willie’s icy blue eyes, felt the painful grip on her hair. A yank, and she used her mouth, kneading the organ, long and hard down her gullet…
Where was Sally going? The thug went around the tent, came back with an armful of wood. He dumped it by the chicken pen, next to a large pit filled with ash. Was he going to cook the chickens? They scurried about as Sally piled the wood, then went off into the trees. Then came fluid, salty, strong, oozing down Vicky’s throat; Willie exhaled deeply, his grip tightening on her hair.
The long day wore on, the hot tropical sun framed by ancient trees waving in the high breezes. Vicky was alternately used and abused; she ached, hurt, as one man and then another forced his way into her. They tied her hands before her, threw a vine over a crook in a tree, hoisted her off the ground; Vicky felt herself being penetrated from two directions, the men grunting as they filled her pussy and asshole. The shreds of her bikini bottom finally came off; Sally stuffed it into her mouth, stepped back and fumbled with his belt. Vicky felt the searing pain as the worn leather cracked against her back and buttocks, again and again; her lean legs flailed each time the instrument of torture found its mark. The wad of fabric was soaked with her spit; her cries became high pitched mews.
Through it all, Vicky’s other self was blurred by the agony, but picked up information. The men were predators; they had a lean speedboat behind the trees, used it to raid pleasure craft. The men were beaten, the women savaged, valuables taken; the attacks were always far away, and no one from outside had stumbled onto their island, but they were ready to flee at a moment’s notice. She learned she was not the first to be dragged back to the remote clearing—“but it’s been awhile,” Sally remarked to Man; the head man nodded, smacked his lips. “They never did find that girl, did they?” he remarked, and the men roared with laughter. The girl, Vicky heard them say, was from a family that owned a big department store…then she heard no more, as Willie’s fists thudded into her naked belly. She kicked and flopped, still dangling by her wrists from the tree, her feet barely brushing the ground.
The sky was still lit through the tunnel of trees, but the sun was gone; blue was starting to fade to violet. The logs were piled in the pit, on top of the brush Sally had retrieved from the forest; he flicked a lighter under the pile, watched intently as it caught, small flames turning to big ones. Vicky was tied to the tree, the vine ropes around her throat, waist and ankles; her hands, bound in front of her, flexed uselessly. The swimsuit bottom still filled her mouth; Man plucked it out. As she worked her mouth to get it wet again, the head of the gang stood before her, hands on hips, and shook his head. He asked, mockingly, “What are we going to do with you?”
Vicky was as much exhausted as battered. Her pussy and asshole were sore from the repeated attacks; her lungs ached from the ordeal. She swallowed, moistened her lips. “Please,” she murmured, “let me go…”
Man chuckled, cruelly. “Can’t do that,” the pirate said. “Haven’t you been listening to us? You’re the first meat we’ve seen in weeks.” The words traced coldly along Vicky’s bare back. “That’s what we did,” he went on, unsheathing his own Bowie knife, “with that department store chick.” He grinned, pressed a thumb to the tip of the wicked-looking knife, licked his own lips. “You haven’t seen a steak in a month,” he leered, “and that looks good.” He whapped the flat of the blade against Vicky’s leg. “Or that,” pricking her tender, young breast.
Vicky turned away, horror twisting her face; Man’s free hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of hair, turned her head to face him again. His eyes were devilish, a smile crinkling the corners, as if he were sharing a joke. “We’re survivors,” he hissed in her face, his foul breath hitting her like hot steam. “We take what we need, and every little bit makes us a little richer. We have money, now; we have loot. And we can take you. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Live like a hermit, you ought to be able to splurge once in a while, right?”
Willie ambled up; he told Man he’d been monitoring the radio, and there’d been no reports about Vicky’s disappearance, not like that department store girl. “That was all over the news,” he said, “even while we were finishing her off.” They might still be out looking for Vicky, Man remarked. Probably ought to get this done—he held the Bowie knife up to Vicky’s throat—“in a hurry.
Vicky was surprised at how little pain there was. The honed steel slid effortlessly through her neck; warm fluid flowed down her breast and belly. She could get no air; her eyes filled, pools of defeat. Her small, slight body surged against her bonds, then relaxed and slumped.
But she was still there. Still watching it all from a vantage point that was everywhere, and nowhere. She watched, in detached fascination, as the pirate split her open from crotch to breastbone; her viscera spilled out. With cool efficiency, Man harvested her liver, heart, kidneys, then dumped the rest in a sack. He wrapped his fingers around her hair, lifted, then wound up and whacked with the heavy knife. Once, twice, and her head gave way.
Sally retrieved it. “Those guys from Miami pay good for these,” he said, casually swinging the girl’s head by the hair. “Voodoo.” Vicky’s pale blue eyes were still wide open, staring straight ahead. “Just you tend that fire,” grunted Man, digging Vicky’s remaining entrails out of her body cavity.
Vicky’s Gift watched from all over. She found herself wondering—will I go away? She observed as her body was lugged to the fire, plopped on the ground and rinsed inside and out. Willie produced a steel pole, rammed it cruelly through her anus. The end popped out her open neck; the thug tied her hands and feet to the pole. Vicky’s consciousness welled up as she looked at the violated form of the abused girl, naked and gutted, about to be placed over the fire. How unfair, she thought. Where will I go?
The girl’s carcass cooked for a long time over the slow fire. Skin turned red and then black; grease leached from inside her, ran through the cracking skin, sputtered as it reached the fire below. Sally gave the spit a half turn, and Vicky saw her wide-open torso, charred rib bones peeking from behind the ragged meat of her abdomen. Her small, neat breasts were shrunken and hard, the nipples singed.
Vicky’s Gift watched in awe, as her body became meat. The soft, round thigh and shoulder muscles glistened with her own fat; her plump calves seemed to bulge against the tightening skin, finally breaking free as the skin cracked wide open. The men drank—she couldn’t tell what, homemade stuff, out of nondescript bottles—and joked about her, compared her sexual performance to that of the unfortunate heiress, speculated on the quality of her more intimate parts. “I’m not a pussy eater, boy,” grumbled Man to the snickering Sally as the swigged from their bottles, poking at Vicky’s roasting carcass with their knives. “She’s all yours. I want—” and the knife plunged deep into the girl’s thigh.
Night had fallen; only smoky, oil-burning lanterns illuminated the luckless girl’s body, spread over the dying embers. Great hunks had been speared from her back, legs and arms; her vagina was completely gone, the prize of the depraved Sally. Hard work in the jungle made the men hunger for flesh, and they devoured a great deal of Vicky, very quickly. The three slobbered and belched, the only sounds other than the eerie insect chorus from within the trees; they flung the girl’s inedible parts back into the fire, where they would stir up a maelstrom of sparks and then settle down.
They treated what remained of Vicky casually. Willie carved big slabs of meat from her, salted them and wrapped them in leaves to be preserved. The organs they’d taken would be made into a stew the next night. The rest of her—blackened bones with bits of flesh here and there, hands and feet still dangling from the bare limbs—went into a hole.
Vicky felt herself start to fade. She didn’t know if she’d ever return, whether her Gift would go as her body had. She had just witnessed herself raped and tortured, slaughtered and butchered, cooked and eaten; it had been horrible, but…fascinating. She looked down at the men, savoring the last shreds of her, delighting in the sheer hell they had visited on this helpless girl. If I come back, thought the discorporated Vicky, I want to come back here. I want to see them trap another unfortunate young woman. I want to witness this again.