Read Online Arsenic for the Soul by Nathan Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Nathan Wilson
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I’m imagining a problem
when there’s none. But if there’s the slightest chance…
An idea popped into her head that
certainly guaranteed dismissal from the nursing program—if she was
caught. When the attendant turned his head, she quickly flipped out
her phone. Her pulse was pounding and she worked hard to steady her
hands. She snapped a picture of the lesions on the
corpse.
The guard looked up from his paperwork
as Vivian tucked away her phone.
Maybe Gavin could answer her nagging
doubts about these markings—and forgive her crime against ethical
behavior.
* * *
The Toxic Mistress was every shade of
splendor and debauchery that an outcast could ever long for.
Located on the cusp of Wenceslas Square, it funneled stray
onlookers inside who wouldn’t be seen again for nights at a time—if
they were fortunate.
Of course, one couldn’t enter the
Toxic Mistress in any other attire besides elegant, dark, twisted,
and lurid. Vivian was loath to disappoint anyone who turned an eye
her way.
She was dressed in a halter mini-dress
strung together from liquid red spandex. Always straddling the
border between sexy and excessive, the keyhole cutout plunged down
to her navel. Vivian designed much of her own club attire because
the boutiques simply didn’t measure up to her level of
“cute.”
With the aid of contacts, Vivian’s
eyes wore the guise of black sclera and white irises. Jet black
lipstick was painted on her mouth and bone-colored rose was nestled
in her hair.
She noted the addition of blue velvet
curtains that cordoned off VIP lounges. Stranger still, the Toxic
Mistress seemed refurbished in the spirit of a hospital.
Sometimes it was a wonder how such a
place still operated within the cage of society. It was a fringe
sanctuary for the disenfranchised and disinherited. The medical
overtones in the club reminded her somewhat of the University
Hospital, from the cybergoth nurse outfits to an
absinthe-dispensing IV. The Victorian elements had been dialed down
in favor of a more medical approach—like an abandoned surgical
ward.
Vivian didn’t want to reminisce about
clinicals now. She distracted herself by searching for a familiar
face among the clients.
Always curious about what crawled in
off the streets, she noticed a man being intravenously injected
with glowing liquid. Truly, there was nothing sweeter then delirium
directly shunted to the brain.
Men and women with a fetish for
leather congregated in the far corners. They wore bizarre
headdresses, goggles, artificial dreadlocks, or gas masks layered
in spikes.
Some appeared to have prosthetic legs
and arms equipped with surgical attachments. In the light, it was
hard to tell whether those appendages were genuine or optical
illusions. She dreaded to think someone would swap their prosthetic
hands out for hooks at the end of the day.
Vivian glanced at the stage as
punishing riff fell on the crowd. The nightly performances rotated
between Russian synth pop, Neue Deutsche Harte, cybergoth
distortion, and Czech metal.
Tonight the nu metal group
Misanthrophilia was setting the atmosphere and sharpening their
lyrics before lunging for the jugular. Slugging guitars and
battering drums poured into the Toxic Mistress in a matter of
minutes. Each cathartic rumble of the guitars added another layer
to the bile fest.
As much as Vivian would have enjoyed
the chaotic show, she was here for business and not pleasure. She
finally spotted Gavin lording over the bar like a gatekeeper to the
forbidden.
A Mohawk of slick blades protruded
from his skull. Supposedly an explosion at an anatomy model plant
left him with shrapnel embedded in his head.
How strange that an injury to his
brain reshaped his personality. If that wasn’t odd enough, it drove
him to the dark realms of the Toxic Mistress.
He fashioned the blades into a razor
sharp Mohawk to cement his newfound identity in the deranged and
deviant. A monocle gleamed on his right eye like a portal into
when there’s none. But if there’s the slightest chance…
An idea popped into her head that
certainly guaranteed dismissal from the nursing program—if she was
caught. When the attendant turned his head, she quickly flipped out
her phone. Her pulse was pounding and she worked hard to steady her
hands. She snapped a picture of the lesions on the
corpse.
The guard looked up from his paperwork
as Vivian tucked away her phone.
Maybe Gavin could answer her nagging
doubts about these markings—and forgive her crime against ethical
behavior.
* * *
The Toxic Mistress was every shade of
splendor and debauchery that an outcast could ever long for.
Located on the cusp of Wenceslas Square, it funneled stray
onlookers inside who wouldn’t be seen again for nights at a time—if
they were fortunate.
Of course, one couldn’t enter the
Toxic Mistress in any other attire besides elegant, dark, twisted,
and lurid. Vivian was loath to disappoint anyone who turned an eye
her way.
She was dressed in a halter mini-dress
strung together from liquid red spandex. Always straddling the
border between sexy and excessive, the keyhole cutout plunged down
to her navel. Vivian designed much of her own club attire because
the boutiques simply didn’t measure up to her level of
“cute.”
With the aid of contacts, Vivian’s
eyes wore the guise of black sclera and white irises. Jet black
lipstick was painted on her mouth and bone-colored rose was nestled
in her hair.
She noted the addition of blue velvet
curtains that cordoned off VIP lounges. Stranger still, the Toxic
Mistress seemed refurbished in the spirit of a hospital.
Sometimes it was a wonder how such a
place still operated within the cage of society. It was a fringe
sanctuary for the disenfranchised and disinherited. The medical
overtones in the club reminded her somewhat of the University
Hospital, from the cybergoth nurse outfits to an
absinthe-dispensing IV. The Victorian elements had been dialed down
in favor of a more medical approach—like an abandoned surgical
ward.
Vivian didn’t want to reminisce about
clinicals now. She distracted herself by searching for a familiar
face among the clients.
Always curious about what crawled in
off the streets, she noticed a man being intravenously injected
with glowing liquid. Truly, there was nothing sweeter then delirium
directly shunted to the brain.
Men and women with a fetish for
leather congregated in the far corners. They wore bizarre
headdresses, goggles, artificial dreadlocks, or gas masks layered
in spikes.
Some appeared to have prosthetic legs
and arms equipped with surgical attachments. In the light, it was
hard to tell whether those appendages were genuine or optical
illusions. She dreaded to think someone would swap their prosthetic
hands out for hooks at the end of the day.
Vivian glanced at the stage as
punishing riff fell on the crowd. The nightly performances rotated
between Russian synth pop, Neue Deutsche Harte, cybergoth
distortion, and Czech metal.
Tonight the nu metal group
Misanthrophilia was setting the atmosphere and sharpening their
lyrics before lunging for the jugular. Slugging guitars and
battering drums poured into the Toxic Mistress in a matter of
minutes. Each cathartic rumble of the guitars added another layer
to the bile fest.
As much as Vivian would have enjoyed
the chaotic show, she was here for business and not pleasure. She
finally spotted Gavin lording over the bar like a gatekeeper to the
forbidden.
A Mohawk of slick blades protruded
from his skull. Supposedly an explosion at an anatomy model plant
left him with shrapnel embedded in his head.
How strange that an injury to his
brain reshaped his personality. If that wasn’t odd enough, it drove
him to the dark realms of the Toxic Mistress.
He fashioned the blades into a razor
sharp Mohawk to cement his newfound identity in the deranged and
deviant. A monocle gleamed on his right eye like a portal into
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