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A Story by Vermuth

He didn't tie her up too tightly. He liked seeing her struggle. pretending like she had any chance of getting away. it was always like this, they always clung to the hope that somehow they would get out this. they never did.

Damp and moldy air permeated the room, which he did his best to keep tidy, it was his favorite place after all, but he didn't care much to actually clean it. he just wanted things to be in their right places. he was obsessive about it.

Maybe that was why the sight in front of him excited him so much. Her messy hair, dirty and sticking together with sweat. her clothes, wrinkled and damp, a couple of buttons missing from her shirt, ripped off at some point during the struggle. The chaotic, beautiful struggle.

He gazed upon her for minutes, the only sounds in the room her whimpers, trying again and again to undo her shackles.

She was beautiful, he thought, but also ugly. he hated how she seemed so loose, so desperate in her movements and attitude. She was fighting for her life, and he hated it. He hated it so much, that it excited him. This is what drove him.

Everything about his life was meticulously planned and organized. Always on time. Never losing anything. People didn't like him, but he didn't mind. He was content living his life, the way he had always done. Never feeling strongly one way or another. Just surviving, you could say. It wasn't truly living.

But in these intimate moments, he truly felt alive. He didn't quite remember why he chose her this time. He never did remember, always finding himself at this moment, with only one thing in his mind. Her ugly, chaotic, and useless struggle.
He felt powerful. He felt noble. He would make her beautiful again. He was going to fix her.

He picked up his toolbox, and kneeled in front of the girl, setting the tools beside him.

She shuffled away from him, shrieking in fear, pushing herself against the wall, hoping for it to give way and let her escape.

He felt pity. But he was going to help her, he was going to make her beautiful.
He came closer to the girl.

She moved frantically, trying to avoid his touch, but there was nothing she could do. Trying his best not to hurt her, he started unbuttoning her shirt, revealing her chest, skin pale and soft.
He grabbed a scalpel from his toolbox and held her still with his free hand.

"You should be grateful" he whispered, smiling.

He pressed his scalpel into her skin, just above her left breast, cutting enough to get under her skin.
It was hard to cut straight lines, with the girl struggling as she was, but he just tried to do his best. He had to. He just wanted to help her, she needed this.

He cut a square shaped flap of skin from her and then took a smaller container from his toolbox, carefully placing his handiwork inside of it, among the others he collected from his previous patients.

He did the same again, on the right side of her body, trying to be as symmetrical as he could. The girl struggled less this time.
He was just starting to begin again with a new patch when he noticed that something was wrong.

The girl was breathing frantically and seemed moments from passing out. He didn't want that to happen. He wouldn't have enjoyed his work if she was just going to sleep through it. He cleaned her wounds with care and placed his toolbox back where it belonged.

He felt happy. It's a shame she didn't seem to understand him, but they never did at first. None of them did.
But he knew that was he was doing was good, and that in the end, she would be thankful.

He left her in the room and went on with his day.
"Maybe I'll bring her flowers tomorrow," he thought to himself.