The Acid Girls

This story was the result of a challenge... we all were to interpret the phrase Acid Girls fictionally.  (i have no idea where this stuff comes from!) -G


The Acid Girls

Hunger gnawed at the edges of Pieter DeVries' belly as he slid the stack of nature prints back into the worn leather portfolio.  He shook his head. Long hair, tied back with a shoelace, came loose in slick strands.  "I just don't understand."

"I'm sorry Pieter."  Michael Graham needed Pieter out of his gallery before one of his customers saw … or worse… smelled the artist.   "It's the new narcissism.  The public is fickle. The only things the patrons of this city want are portraits of themselves, the more avant-garde, the better.

Michael set the tone of what the "patrons" would purchase, and Pieter and every other artist in the city knew it.  If Graham told them toadstools were "all the rage," then a child's scribble title Toadstool would bring in a fortune.

But Pieter was trained in the old school. He had Dutch masters in his bloodline. His preferred subjects were landscapes or flowers or trees.  His prints ranged from woodcuts to aquatints, and he knew they were good. Why couldn't he sell them? "Intaglio is painstaking in its precision. How can they not see the value?"

"Play to their weakness, and your strengths my friend.  How many artists before you have been advised to make portraits for the wealthy, just to pay their bills while keeping their dream alive?  Even Rembrandt did etchings of Lords and Ladies in shades of gray."  He guided Pieter to the back door, his slight touch like leading him in a waltz,  "Call me when you've something to show me. "  His last touch was more of a shove, and Pieter heard the deadbolt click behind him.

He held the portfolio in front of him, a shield against the cold and walked behind the gallery.   Dirty snow crunched and gave way to icy water as the laceless wingtips broke through the crust. "Patrons," he mumbled.  "I'll see the patrons."

He worked his way down the city block and cut through an alley to return to the storefront side of the gallery.  The wind wasn't so bad there, so he tucked his portfolio under his arm, straightened his spine and walked up to the line forming outside the Michaels elegant doors.  An opening was about to begin. The crowd of patrons, dressed in evening gowns and dinner jackets, hummed the social chatter of the idle rich.

Pieter had an idea.

He scanned the crowd, waiting for the kind of inspiration that captivates the artist, lets him work through the hunger and fatigue to produce his masterpiece.  When he found her, he felt the gnawing in his stomach turn to the warmth only fine wine or bourbon gives most men.  She had red hair, done up in ringlets and braids that must have taken hours in a beautician's chair. Her skin was unlined, her make-up perfect.  But she was very heavy, her body unmatched to the pretty face. She stood off from the crowd somewhat, either without a companion or waiting for someone. Pieter smiled. Perhaps she had been stood up.


"Excuse me, miss?"

"Yes?"   She eyed the tattered cape Pieter wore and stepped back.

He slipped a business card from his pocket, the engraved ones he'd bought for price tags for his etchings when they hung in the Gallery.  "You are such a beautiful woman.  I am an artist, and am captivated by your stunning beauty."

She giggled and touched her hair.  "Why thank you, Mr…"  She looked at the card, "De Vries.  Have I heard of you?"

Pieter bowed.  "I have had my measure of fame. But… you must think me terribly bold… have you ever modeled?"

"Me?" she laughed again, but stepped closer.

Pieter wanted to groan. Manipulating the ego was almost too easy.  "I wonder if you would be interested in having your beauty preserved?"

"Preserved?"

"Yes, a portrait.  An intaglio … a new process I am developing.  My friend Michael," he gestured to the gallery, "says it will be "all the rage.""

"Really?  How exciting!"

"Yes, it is.  It would make a lovely gift, for your husband, perhaps?"

"Oh, no. I'm not married.  I am…" She scanned the crowd again for the missing companion.  "I seem to be available."

"Really? Oh wonderful!  I am ready now, would love to capture the look of you with your hair just as it is, your face…" Pieter turned then to the gallery window, "Though if you want to see the paintings, I understand.  Another time…"

"No, really, I can come back here anytime."  She answered to fast.  She liked the fact that she would be walking away with an artiste who understood that beauty was more than wearing a size two dress.

Pieter smiled again, and offered her his arm.

Together they sloshed through the snow down the block to the apartment he kept for working and storing his prints.  "What exactly is an intaglio?" the woman asked, breathless.  She was nearly jogging to keep pace with Pieter.

"Ah, well, simply put, it is a printing technique, where rather than painting or drawing on the canvas or paper, the design is cut into a plate of some material: wood, copper or such, as opposed to applying the medium to the material."

"Fascinating!"  She panted. She had no idea what he was talking about.  His smile spread, lighting his eyes with the empty metallic gleam sometimes caught in photographs when the camera appears to look into the soul.

"Yes, it is quite fulfilling work, especially when experimenting with different substances and subjects." They were at the studio door. "Here we are. I'll show you some of my work when we get inside, perhaps that will explain better."

They climbed the stairs and the woman dabbing at droplets of sweat springing around her forehead from the exertion.  Pieter ushered her into the workroom, and opened his portfolio. "Take a look at these and I'll get you a drink.  I did cheat you out of your cocktail party after all."

"Oh, thank you.  That would be lovely."  She dropped her fur, clearly from a past season, onto on a chair and turned to the portfolio. His collection of landscapes and flora was impressive, and she gurgled her delight.  "You are quite good!"

Pieter went into the tiny kitchen and took a tumbler from the shelf.  Then he found the bottle of sleeping pills he kept for when he had finished a work and needed to stop the adrenalin rush.  One capsule had him out in a matter of moments.  He emptied three of them into the glass, and filled it with a splash of whiskey and water.  He poured another tumbler full of whiskey for himself.

He handed her the drink and started the heater for the wax. "The process we are going to use tonight is one called etching.  In an etching, the medium is covered with acid resistant wax, and then acid is used to "cut" the detail into the design.  Then inks are infused into the cuttings, and the whole thing is pressed against the fixing medium…paper or canvas or cloth…. That sort of thing.  That gown is just lovely! Is it silk?"

"Why, yes, thank you!  My friends think this shade of peach is perfect with my hair, and I do like it.  She wore the stupid grin of a schoolgirl on her first date.  He made note of the expression on a sketchpad as she drank deeply from the cocktail he offered her.  "Won't you sit down? The wax needs time to melt before we begin."

She sat in the only chair in the room, fanning the skirt of her gown as though she were royalty.  It took only moments for her to lean back, her head lolling in drugged stupor. He took silk scarves he normally kept for still life settings, and tied her hands behind her, looping them fast against the chair. He threaded another through the elegant carvings on the back of the chair to wrap around her throat, tight enough to support her head, but not cut off her air.  Then he sketched her sleeping pose, noting her open mouth and escaping drool.  Finally, he stirred the melted wax. It was time.

He dipped the wide natural-fiber brush into the vat of wax and began to coat her face.  The heat of it woke her, but the drug would hold her captive for a few hours more, he knew.  The wax crept into the creases of her brows, the line of her lips and clung to each of her fake lashes.  He let it set, then carefully took the etching knife and cut around the edges of the wax. He cut into her skin around the hairline in several places, but was able to lift a perfect mask from her face.  She moaned in pain, but couldn't awaken.  He repeated the process through the night, sipping on the whiskey and labeled each for one of the emotions he'd witnessed and recorded: flirtation, stupidity, delight, unconsciousness, and pain.  He set each mask aside, each bearing unique remnants of her makeup and different amounts of blood, depending on how well he'd controlled the etching knife.

He worked as she slept, his full talent engaged as he let the acid etch the expressions from his sketches onto each mask.  It was nearly dawn when she emerged from the depths of the drug's effect and screamed. 

"Ah, you've rejoined me.  At last."  He finished the last of the whiskey and stepped aside so that she could see what he had done. Six masks, perfect reflections of her face stood facing her, set on poles to let them dry, each bearing the expressions he'd noted.  Red blood stains outlined them, and he had added color where it would have been.  Powder blue over her closed eyes, ruby tints to her lips.

"What are you doing? Let me go!" Her terror increased as she struggled with the scarves. They wouldn't budge.

"Let you go?  Oh, but we aren't finished!"  He dipped his brush into the wax again and approached her face. "I told you I would preserve your beauty.  My masterpiece won't be finished until we capture this last emotion."

"No!" She screamed again and tried to turn her head, but it was bound too tight.  He applied the wax once more, leaving her eyes and mouth uncovered.  Terror made the screams even more shrill.

"That's right. Perfect."

Her eyes were wide open as he poured the acid onto the wax.  The circles of them smoldered and bled and bits of charred flesh and colored iris clung to the mask that was forming.  Her tongue too melted into an array of flesh tones that pleased his artist's eyes. The screams died with her.


"I knew you could do it."  Michael clapped Pieter on the shoulder as he surveyed the crowded gallery filled with prints.  Landscapes and flowers were selling well, but the most interest, that which would make them both rich, was in a series of tinted sculptures that he'd printed in small runs on a peach tinted, almost flesh-toned, silk.


Michael knew how easy it was to influence Pieter. "They capture so perfectly the emotions of women that they are indeed 'all the rage'!  Perhaps as an encore, you could do a man.  You'll need to follow up quickly to capitalize on the popularity.  What are you calling them?"

"Perhaps, but only if you agree to model for me, Michael. I call them The Acid Girls, of course."