FIG LEAVES By: Bill West
Friday, May 15th, 2009Darren woke. He was naked and gagged, strapped to a rough workbench. It was dark, cold. A woman was making a wet, snorting sound somewhere nearby. He shivered.
“Are you nesh, as my old grandmother would say?”
A single spotlight light clicked on. The speaker thrust his face into view. It was the bald, scary man again, grinning like a demon.
“Soon have you warmed up!”
They both stared as a pale lock of hair drifted down from the darkness above. Darren felt it land on his nipple. Charlie–for that, he remembered, was the man’s name–peered at the hair like a bird sizing up a worm. His grin widened. He tapped it with a cutthroat razor. The cold blade broke skin.
“Struggle if you want but I may cut you if you do!”
With quick skillful movements Charlie applied soap from a can. Darren barely breathed as the razorblade negotiated his trachea, stroked his carotid artery and jugular. Charlie wiped slicks of soap, gray with bristle, into his cupped palm.
“Did you know that women shave more these days than ever before? My grandmother always kept herself covered up. She was decent, never shaved anything.”
Darren winced as he lost an eyebrow.
“That’s better. Smooth as a baby. Apparently the early church considered that pictures showing body hair were depraved. In religious paintings the genitals were always hidden by fig leaves and body hair was painted out. But now, the more women expose their flesh the more they shave their bodies! And it isn’t just the odd leg or armpit; facial and pubic hair, round nipples, even toes.”
Now he hacked hanks of head hair, wielding the razor like a cleaver. He rubbed soap into the stubble before shaving Darren’s head.
“I noticed when I walked in last night that you have a very hairy bottom! Crack and sack with a straight razor will certainly be challenging for both of us!”
Darren whimpered.
“My wife was pure, like my grandmother. At least I thought my wife was pure until I came home unexpectedly. But a little bit at a time I’m bringing her back to a state of grace.”
There was a click and the cellar sprung into sharp halogen relief.
Darren didn’t recognize Grace at first. She was bald, naked, gagged, gaffer-taped to the ceiling.
“But of course, you’ve known each other for a while now, haven’t you? No need to be a big girl’s blouse; you’ll be joining her soon enough.”
—
© 2007 Bill West
Bill West lives in Shropshire, UK. He is a member of a number on-line writing communities and is Group Host for the WriteWords Flash Fiction One Group. His work has appeared MicroHorror, Kaleidotrope, Every Day Fiction, Static Movement, Twisted Tongue, Zygote in My Coffee, FlashQuake, Heavy Glow, Bewildering Stories, 52 Stitches and other places. http://www.myspace.com/crowspark
