Garra Rufa Revenge
“Sylvie,” she called. Where was the girl? “Be a darling and fetch me another coffee–this one’s gone cold.”
Sylvie didn't mind about the coffee, but her name was Helen.
“Sylvie, would you mind awfully, darling, bringing me an extra towel?” This was supposed to be a luxury spa! One wanted one's moneys worth.
Patricia fetched the towel.
“Just a little higher, Sylvie... Teensy bit higher? No, no, girl towards my neck... Ah that's better. My left shoulder has been quite tight lately.”
Not as tight as your arse, thought Gillian.
Massage, manicure, pedicure, spa treatments–this was her weekly pamper time and Linda Lux was used to the best of treatment. Why, between luncheons, bridge afternoon tea and various cultural persuits, one barely had a moment to oneself. She didn’t suffer from any particular ailment but she liked to look her best at all times and was determined her feet remain smooth and soft, so having kicked off her Gucci spa-shoes, she relaxed with a magazine as the little carp did their work.
She didn’t believe in all this tosh about how the fish might get sick or die from lotions and chemicals on the skin. She scoffed at the notion that tank conditions might not be ideal or consistent from spa to spa. And as for exploitation… this was a beauty parlour, for God’s sake, not an aquarium, and they were mere fish. It wasn’t as if they were intelligent or aware – rather like Sylvie, she surmised.
When time was up, Linda Lux put aside the article she’d been reading, looked down into the water – and screamed. Her feet – her feet were in shreds. Skin hung like rags from white bone. Unable to stand up, she screamed and screamed, Sylvie! Sylivie!! But no assistance came. There was no sign of blood but the fish were still feeding and she was above her ankles in water and still no one came -- no one at all.
Copyright: © 2011 Oonah V Joslin
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