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Schism

By K.R. Lugo

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 K.R. Lugo
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-9353-3

Chapter One

The light hazel eyes that reflected from the perfectly polished mirror were those of a woman who had seen far too many things in her life, terrible things that would forever alter the course of anyone's life. She licked her dry lips, causing her dimpled cheeks to elongate, as she continued to stare with unblinking eyes into the glass. She then leaned slightly forward to get a closer view of her facial features, not wanting to make any detectable errors that might make her appear even slightly clownish; ran a light coat of red lipstick over the contours of her pouty mouth; and then carefully blotted them on a folded-up piece of tissue paper by gently pressing her lips together. Once she had finished applying the final touches of makeup to her face, smiling to verify that she had correctly rouged her high cheek bones, the woman reached down and pulled each of the lilac spaghetti straps over her shapely porcelain shoulders. She then meticulously dabbed at the hair clips that held up her thick brunette mane and stood up from the chair that rested in front of the vanity once she was completely satisfied that her physical appearance was immaculate. She ran her hands over her ample breasts and down her tiny waist to smooth the material of the dress over her voluptuous body, shaking her hips ever so slightly.

The sound of the elevator doors opening from outside the room and down the hall reached her ears. Seconds later two voices—those of a man and a woman, probably a husband and wife—could be heard arguing as they walked down the hallway toward her room. They stopped right outside the door, each of their voices rising in the heat of the moment as words continued to be exchanged.

The woman inside the room remained unmoving as she listened intently to the subject of the conversation just outside the door. Typical, she thought as she pressed her tiny hands into fists. She blinked with deliberate slowness, wishing they would either kill each other or just do the courteous thing and be quiet. No one wanted to listen to their nonsense. She certainly didn't. She dabbed at her hair again for effect. "We don't need any interruptions, do we, baby?" the woman asked in a seductive whisper.

The sound of a door slamming shut across the hall echoed throughout the floor, followed by a man cursing loudly and kicking the door.

Silence.

Then the familiar mechanical sound of the elevator doors emerged once again.

"Finally, we have some privacy again, my love," the woman whispered. "People can be so very rude." She then used the mirror to look over her right shoulder in order to see the results of her unfortunate but very necessary actions. She frowned from the sight, wondering why everyone she ever cared for always left so selfishly. Like shadows during daybreak, they just vanished without a trace or explanation. No one, especially men, ever put her first. It just wasn't fair. But she always forgave them, regardless of their trespasses and betrayals. Blessed by God, she had been born with a heart of gold. If they couldn't see that—well—that was just their loss.

Sprawled out across the king-size mattress, hands and feet tied with leather straps to each of the four corners of the canopied bed that was prominently displayed by the posh hotel in pamphlets to lure visitors, lay the lifeless body of the man who had unwittingly approached his future murderess in the bar downstairs. Had he been alive to see the fate of how his life had ended, Samuel Smith might have found the surrounding circumstances somewhat amusing, if not downright hilarious. Samuel had always been a loving and faithful husband, never straying from his devotion to Marcia in thought or deed, but when he saw the stunning woman sitting alone in a booth in a dark, obscure corner of the bar, something almost primal had awakened within him, drawing him to her like a moth to a flame. The woman was flawless in appearance, and she exuded a sexuality that defied explanation, which was coupled with an aura of unidentifiable mystery, even a modicum of danger. He was powerless to resist her. He didn't know, and never would understand, why he felt overwhelmed with the desire to speak with her, to touch her, to be devoured by her, but the impulse could not be ignored or suppressed.

Arousing even more intrigue, the woman did nothing but sit alone in the shadows and daintily sip at a glass of red wine. She did not speak or move a single muscle other than those required to lift the crystal and drink from it as she stared off into the abyss.

If he had not been an out-of-town visitor, venturing out beyond the borders of the safety of his own hometown and to a distant city only because his company had sent him to attend a business conference, Samuel would have sprinted outside and driven off in his car as fast as the wheels would spin the first moment he had coveted anyone other than his beloved wife. Instead, since he opted to violate his own moral conscience by mustering up a misplaced version of courage he did not previously realize he possessed, shamelessly choosing to flirt with a woman who was physically out of his league, the dead body of Samuel Smith would eventually be found tied to a foreign bed in a thick pool of his own blood. Both corners of his mouth had been slashed up to the ears. A large knife was jutting out from his bare chest, and his severed genitals were floating in a jar of formaldehyde that rested on a nearby nightstand. His eyes had been meticulously sewn open with purple thread so he and those who found him could see and understand that all was not lost, because all men could be saved and sent into the realm of loving bliss. Sometimes people just had to be coaxed into seeing with their own eyes, so she had made certain those helped by her would see the error of their ways. None could escape or deny the incontrovertible truth, an absolute she had received in a biblical vision.

The woman walked over to the bed where her latest love lay and looked down at him with an almost quizzical expression. He's so quiet, she thought, tilting her head and wrinkling her nose from the metallic scent that was emanating from the massive amount of blood that saturated the linen. She then leaned down and ran her hand lovingly over his balding head with a sense of compassion for his plight. "You poor little man," she whispered, shaking her head ever so slightly as she peered down at the slain tool salesman. She caressed his cheek with the back of her hand, paused on the chin, and then pulled it away. "You have no one to blame but yourself and the weakness of your own flesh. The essence of this necessary act shall cleanse and give you a rebirth to make you worthy of my daughter." She then reached out to the nightstand that was located next to the bed and plucked a single rose from the bouquet he had bought for her in a pathetic demonstration of chivalrous romanticism and slid the stem between his two mangled lips. "For you, my misguided prince. Farewell, for I love you, if only briefly."

The sound of the door from across the hall being opened came again. A woman's voice was apologizing for acting like a jealous schoolgirl, immediately followed the sound of the door being shut. Seconds later the hum of the elevator summoned into operation sprang back to life.

When all fell silent once again, the woman stepped across the lush carpet and retrieved her designer purse, which was resting on a nearby chair. She removed an expertly...