It was a vivisection—she autopsied me while I was still alive and delighted in my torture.
Part by part she dissected me, labeling and photographing each step and then mailing the results, one by one to each of my friends.
She waited until each incision closed before starting the next. It was interminable—a torment far more excruciating than anything Orwell envisioned in Room 101.
She could have let me bleed out, but that would end my pain, and that was the last thing she wanted to happen.
And so my tormentor planned the timing to maximize my suffering, prolonging the pain until I became insensate, unable to feel and no longer of interest to her.
And that was when she terminated me.
“That’s brutal, Mark—so that’s Jeanne—or at least how you see her?”
Martin Wallace leans back in his chair and studies me.
He’s an excellent psychologist and is at least convinced I’m not deluded or crazy.
“That’s exactly what she is, Doctor Wallace—a sadist who wasn’t content to drop me, but was determined to completely destroy me.”
He shakes his head sympathetically. “You know, Paul, most people are fair to middling folks—it takes real genius to be evil. And to be this evil and twisted is rare, maybe one in a million—but you found her.”
“And this year’s award for biggest loser goes to Paul Brunel,” I groan.
Wallace waves his hand and says sternly, “It’s not your fault—don’t own this. This woman is twisted.” And then in a softer voice, suggests, “Why don’t you tell me how it all began?”
And so I did...
We were at the beginning of fall semester when Harold Davies fell ill and was slated for heart surgery. He’d be out the rest of the year.
I took over his lectures until a suitable replacement could be found but it would be hard finding a candidate who could handle his Victorian Lit classes and teach graduate seminars as well.
I heard whispered rumors in the faculty lounge that an outstanding candidate had been found but when I was introduced to Jeanne I was stunned to discover the staid Department Chairman had hired such a young and vivacious woman.
Jeanne Dubois was beautiful—even without makeup. Her transparent skin and pale gray eyes were striking, especially set against her lustrous dark hair.
“You look surprised, Dr. Brunel,” she smiled, a mischievous gleam dancing in her eyes.
“Well, it’s not because of your credentials, Dr. Dubois—I’m simply amazed Henry Withers would look past his prejudices about youth and hire someone so attractive.”
“In that case, maybe you should call me Jeanne—formal titles are so impersonal.”
“I will address you by your first name, Dr. Dubois, on two conditions—that you also call me Paul and have drinks with me tonight and tell me all about yourself.”
Her eyes were ablaze with strange fire. “Is this what I have to do to make you stop calling me, doctor?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well then, I refuse to drink at the tawdry campus pubs—I prefer Scandals—and it will cost you.”
I never realized how prophetic her words really were...
And she was right―It did cost me―more than I could ever have foreseen.
