PANTS

"Our duty as men is to protect our women. Guard our young."

Anonymous

Freida heard the clinking of drinking glasses. She smelled the alcohol on her own breath, and the B.O of drunk patrons behind her. She inhaled smoke from a passerby, clogging her lungs with its wretched scent. On her tongue she tasted booze, and on her lips, cherry. Every little noise was bouncing around, her senses heightened by her consumption of cold beers and margaritas.

A low whistle alerted her to the presence of someone behind her. "Ello," the man said as he settled in the seat next to her. "You're looking quite ravishing."

Freida laughed, throwing her hand down on the counter to support herself.

"Thanks," she slurred, smiling like mad. "Not so bad yourself."

The two conversed, and the man had convinced Freida to drink some more, paying for them himself. It wasn't long before she passed out, and the man carried her out on his back into a dark alley. With his charming manners, daring accent, and her extreme intoxication, there was no reason for her to suspect the worst. She felt safe, now nestled in warm arms. Even drunk, she somehow felt she could trust the man.

"Number thirty seven, secured," the man whispered to the driver. His driver nodded, taking off his hat. Underneath the rim was a scar running the entirety of his forehead.

"Yes, Mr. Heartland. The usual?"

Mr. Heartland lit up a cigarette, putting it between his plump lips. When he finished, he smirked. "Absolutely. The usual, Henry."

Henry put his cap back on, revving up the engine, speeding away into the dark.

Henry pulled into an empty motel parking lot, shutting of the car. The scarred man pulled his gloves tight against his skin, opening the door as quietly as he could. Henry saw the unconscious woman, her face and body so innocent looking. He whispered a quick "it's for the kids" before tossing the woman over his shoulder. As the driver climbed the stairs, his shoes echoed on the metal.

"Here you go," he grunted, putting Freida down in front of door number thirty seven. He placed a firecracker on the ground, and jogged back to the car before it went off. The man pulled out, shaking his head. He had no idea what he was doing anymore.

As the firework sounded off, an older woman opened her door, to find the body of Freida. She didn't panick, or scream. She simply dragged the body inside of her room, stoicism ingrained in her features. The woman shut the door, glancing at the person on her worn, leather sofa. The lady was tall, with black heels, and a suave, v-neck dress. It was made of fine satin. Her hair was a wreck, a precious chestnut brown, matching the inherited amber eyes.

The older woman pulled out an old hankie, putting peroxide on it. She held it down on the girls face, until she began coughing, shaking herself awake.

The older woman knew the young lady was still drunk, and would be out of it. Saying a prayer in her head, she held her finger tips to her lips and pulled out a knife.

"I'm sorry," she said. "My kid needs to go to college."

And with that, the older woman carved off the skin on Frieda's writing body. Her mouth was duct taped shut. She could only feel the pain as her legs gathered fire.

The skin was then gathered in a box, where the older woman sewed the pieces together to form a sort of pants.

The body of Frieda lie limp, her dead eyes staring at the woman. The older woman closed her own eyes and sighed, asking God to forgive her sins.

With the sounds of needles and droplets of blood hitting the floor, the older women only hoped that someday all those she wronged would welcome her in Hell.

It was easy to imagine.

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