The Slim, Yet Beautiful

The Slim, Yet Beautiful

It was Highway route fifty eight that Spencer Smith drove his red Chevrolet Camaro on, at alarming speeds, not quite but almost drunk. The open roofed car gave him adrenaline.
The rush was insane; he felt like he was falling into a sea of wind. Spencer’s eyes were tearing up, someone would think that was because of the wind that flowed in his brilliant red Camaro, but really, in truth, he had just broken up with his fiancé.

The pain that was his felt like poison to his furiously beating heart. It ached just to breath he thought, so why do it, why breath at all? The idea that ran through his mind, the thought that resulted, him purged from the earth satisfied him; it kept the emotion that was still poisoning his heart at bay.
Highway Fifty Eight wasn’t populated, it was rather void. Only one car was the runner on the lined track. Spencer took out a jar from between the two smooth leather seats and began drinking; trying to drown the pain, drown the emotion that dwelled inside him. The hurt made a home inside the inner interior that was Spencer’s.

A tree was what he was in collision with; he would finally erase the pain. Then again, he thought a new pain; the images that came along with them were hard to digest. The steering wheel in his head due to an immense force, no eyes, face drenched in red liquid, that’s when he swerved away from the tree. Bushes cut his face as the car went down a near by hill. He put his hands up to protect his eyes; it would not be good if a thorn or sharp leaf cut his eye balls.

Bang; the car had crashed in to a small shed. Indeed, a shed, populated by thorns, bushes, weeds and other plants at sight were not so pleasant. An old black 1966 Buick was parked on the side of the house.

Then, a man’s voice; “What the hell is this!”

Spencer opened his door as quietly as possible sneaking around to the front of the shed. He saw an old guy; face wrinkled, grey hair, you know, old. The glasses he; the old man, wore reflected off light from within the house. A rock made his footing unbalanced, and then an idea occurred. Spencer through the rock, far, towards the old man’s way and just like he had thought the old man went in that direction saying; I hear you, and I’m going to get you, what ever that meant he thought. Spencer saw a window and jumped inside. The car had taken half of the huge shed. He saw stairs and ran down them often looking behind him to see if the man came back.

Sniffles and slight breaths of air through the nose could be heard beyond him. The under ground rocks made lots of noise making the sniff cease.

“Hello, any one down here?” Spencer called

“Mmmm,” was the response, and with it he ran towards the direction.

As dark as it was Spencer could not see a thing. He knew the rocks he tripped over would lead him some where. That is when he heard it again; the whispered sniffle.
Spencer felt around the figure and discovered it was a girl. She was tied up in a chair with a rag in her mouth which Spencer removed.

“What’s going on here”, he asked.

She didn’t say one thing; it was just quiet, only footsteps could be heard. He realized whose footsteps they were. The man was coming.

Lights flickered, and then they illuminated the dark and creepy cavern. Nothing but a young woman she was, about seventeen. He asked her again just what the hell is going on, but still no answer.

The room had many tables; on all of them were delicious looking foods. A fruit table; full of: bananas, apples, grapes, pomegranates and many others, a bread table: full of all kinds of delicious bread, a meat, and also a vegetable table that were a like; holding their perspective contents. All the tables surrounded the young woman.

Spencer looked for something blunt, something that would put the old man to sleep; it was obvious that the young lady didn’t want to be here. He remembered the bread table and, yes, the table did have it. Hard bread, it was, in this case Spencer’s club.

The footsteps grew near; Spencer gripped the long hard bread even tighter, until that sound was close enough. When it was, he swung with all his might, and it was out of there. The old man had taken a hit to the head and the unconsciousness that followed came quick and easy.

He untied the young woman, ran out of the cave-like underground and out of the shed. Into the car they went and that’s when the engine roared and the tires circled, burning its print in to the earth.

“Hello,” was Spencer on his phone, “yes I’d like to report an attempt at murder.”

The young lady was looking at him now; her face was the face of confusion, she knew not who Spencer was and if he was saving her, or bringing her to a worse hell.

“Are you hurt?” He asked.

No reply.

“Listen I need to know if your hurt or not?”
That’s when she shook her head.
Then it was Spencer on the phone again “Hello, what kind of police station puts someone on hold? Yes, it’s off the old Highway Fifty Eight a mile before exit Haven. No, it’s literally off the Highway, you know, no road, dirt and all.”

A sigh was Spencer’s relieve in hanging up. “Damn!”
They want to meet us on the Highway. They made there way around to where Spencer drove down the hill.
Fifteen minutes later Spencer was outside his car, leaning and folding his arms. The young lady was sleeping, Spencer’s jacket serving as her cover.
Sirens made there way to them. Police cars, four, were in front of them. A man stepped out. His uniform was a suit; he was a detective.

“Ah, Spencer Smith, what brings you out to these desolate parts?”

“I was driving to a store, that’s all Detective Derrick.”

“Yeah I bet. Who’s the lady?”

“She was found in the shed with a crazy old man that…,” Spencer was cut off.

“Yes, we know, this guys been on the run for years.” He is a famous scientist.

“That has gone mad apparently,” Spencer added.

“Any way, he kidnaps a test subject to prove theories and notions, through quality concentrated experiments, these are done on woman. That’s usually his thing. So where is he?”

“Straight down there,” Spencer said while pointing down the hill he had gone down, his car tires tracks were still visible.

When the police drove down they collected the old sleeping man and inspected the area. Spencer watched as policemen walked about with bags of evidence, and the emergency bed which the old man lay in.

“Help, Help me!” A man’s voice grabbed their attention his skin was a violent purple and his mouth bled out white suds of his own spit.

“What happened said the detective?”

“He just ate a doughnut that was on the table, sir”

“Damn, poison,” he concluded.

They rushed the young police officer to the car, telling Spencer to follow and that something might be wrong with the lady as well.

***

At the hospital she laid, doctors results consisted of good and bad news. They started off, first, with the bad news; they said she ate many different kinds of food, each one with a different poison, and that she has consistently been fed poison food. They assumed that she started off with cellular small doses of poison mixed with her food, then, worked her way up to large doses. The good news was that she was immune to all, due to the constant feeding of them. They said she will live if she eats well.

***

The next day Spencer came in early to see how, Emily, the young lady, the patient who had endured so much was doing. They said she refused to eat a thing.
The young lady was un-trusting and unwilling; she threw tantrums when ever the doctors tried to feed her. They categorized her “symptom”; in Anorexia Nervosa.

Time went by and Spencer would always check on Emily, her features were thin, but he still saw her as the beautiful girl that he had saved.
The slim beauty, Emily, he called her, and it would brighten his day to see that smile appear on her face.

The medic had to put her to sleep through a needle that she would struggle to as they gave it. When she was asleep the scientist set up feeding equipment that fed her through her veins. Of course when she woke up she would take them off and stick her hand deep in her throat to gorge out the food they gave her. The scientist said she had no parents and rarely spoke. It was all a mystery.

Spencer often came to play the drums for her for the wide smile it generated. He knew her day was coming, he knew his effort was going to be in vain.

The final day, the day the doctors said was to be her passing from this world to the next came. He brought his drums; he played a beautiful melody that a drum rarely hits, tapping the drums and metal plate with a faint stroke of grace. He played his heart out, and heard a faint sound; “Can I have some food, please? But only from you Spencer.”

He was happy, his action made him get the doctors and he sat there and fed her a whole meal. She grew up later healthy and strong, along with Spencer who was twenty six. They eventually got married and told the story of how the brave Spencer Smith took out a wacko and saved future women who would have suffered a worse hell.