Mortal

A short story...that may... well... end up being the first chapter of a novella or book. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

 

MORTAL

A SHORT STORY

By: JB Murray © December 2009

 

 

      “Get him in here!” The voice was booming, thunderous. Almost familiar, like the memory of something just over the edge, but falling rapidly into the forgotten. “Get him in here now,” the voice commanded a second time. And with that the man in the grey suit slammed the door and started walking towards the center of the garage.

 

      The garage door made a grinding sound as it lifted, severely in need of oiling. Just one more thing Andrew had been neglecting these few months. One of things he just couldn’t seem to find the time for since he met her. The garage door only slid up half way, and the two men on either side of him, their hands planted firmly in his armpits, dragged him through the door. He tried to look at his surroundings, the world still spinning from the knock he took on the head. Behind him, the door creaked slowly closed. He lifted his head slightly, and pain shot through his neck and into his temples. Man, they had clocked him good. 

He remembered coming out of the store. He was sure he had a small bag full of food; some vegetables, mushrooms and peppers precisely, along with a couple of lean cut steaks and a bottle of red wine. He had crossed the street, his head towards the ground, shielding his eyes and face from the drizzle that fell from the cold, dark sky this evening. He round a couple of blocks, on his way back home to his small one bedroom apartment, very much ahead of schedule and anxious to start tonight’s dinner, who he intended to share with a very lovely guest. She was different, this girl. He was nearly forty now, with not much to show for his time on this earth. He owned his own garage, true, but little else. He worked most of the time; just trying to skip over aspects of this life other people would probably have made better use of. And came home every night to the same tiny apartment, kicking his shoes off just inside the door, and draping his grease stained shirt on the back of his kitchen chair, before grabbing a cold one from the fridge and settling himself down in his recliner with a good book and his cat, Theo, purring away on his lap.

But she honestly didn’t seem to care. And at first that puzzled him, and then later, not much later, he fell madly in love. She had come into the shop one day with a problem on her car. A small sporty import, easily near six figures. He had taken a look, said he could fix it within a few hours, and the two of them got to talking. She stood right there the whole time, watching, chatting, laughing all the while he grunted, turned wrenches, and laughed along with her. It was by far the most pleasant job he had undertaken since the purchase of the garage. And then she paid him, and left.

Which was why he was so surprised when she showed up several days later. And when he asked her what was wrong with the car, she had said nothing. She wasn’t there for the car. She was there so he could take her out for coffee. And that’s how it all began. A mechanic named Andrew and a very well to do young lady named Kathryn sipping coffee in one of the little corner shops. It was almost like a Billy Joel song. 

Although he hadn’t know then who she was, or what he might get himself into. He didn’t know she was married. Didn’t find out till much later. And even then, the idea that they could muster through together, that their love was strong enough, was enough to make him turn the other cheek. But he didn’t know who it wasat the time she was with. Had he known, he may have changed his mind. He may have been smarter than this. He turned the last block and walked past several brownstones before coming to his. His foot hit the first step, and he could swear that he heard the whoosh in the air next to his ear before something hard and metallic came crashing down on the side of his skull. He fell like a bag of bricks, his forehead slamming against the stairs. The last image, almost implanted on his corneas, was the red wine, trickling down the stairs in a light flow of crimson.

 

 

 

The toes of his work boots scraped against the garage floor as the two men carried him past a man, whose back was to him, and led him to a chair. Once there, they plopped him down and wrenched his hands behind his back. There was a moment of tearing, and then they secured his hands with duct tape, before fastening both his ankles to the chair as well. He sat there for a few moments, though it seemed like eternity, blinking his eyes and shaking his head, trying to clear the fog. Gradually, the stars began to fade, and things were coming into focus. The lighting in the garage was dim, the overheads turned off, and just a small amount of illumination coming from the office to the right, and the table lamp on his work bench to the left. The man in the grey suit slowly walked over to him, the heels of his shiny black shoes clicking on the concrete, almost echoing in this near darkness.

 

“I don’t suppose we really need introductions. Now do we Andrew?” Grey man questioned. “And of course, names aren’t really important either I guess. Not where you’re going this evening.”

“What do you want,” Andrew questioned hoarsely.

“What is this?” Grey man joked. “Some kind of movie? You know what this is. You know why you’re here. And more importantly, you know why I am here. So let’s not waste your or my time with trivial questions. Ok sport?” Grey man then sighed and scratched at his temple. He turned towards the two guys who had dragged Andrew in, and were now standing near the office. “All right boys, let’s add to the party. Shall we?”

 

      The two nodded. Andrew turned his head as they disappeared into the office. It was the first time he realized the way they were dressed. It was almost a stark contrast to the grey man. Both men were in boots, maybe combat, and both wore jeans and your basic white tee-shirt. Andrew could hear some rustling in the office and soon the two men came walking out. Between them they had hoisted a chair. Fastened to that chair was Kathryn. Andrew’s heart sank, but only for a moment as she looked at him with the most helpless, pleading eyes he had ever seen. But the moment was fleeting, replaced with something else, something unfamiliar to him. Rage.

      The two guys, obviously henchmen of some sort, walked the chair over near Andrew and set it on the floor just off center to his, maybe five feet away. There was just enough light for the two of them to see each other clearly, though a slight shadow played across her eyes. Still, Andrew could see she’d been crying. Grey Man then walked over between the two, looking from one to the other for a few moments. And then he laughed. He laughed whole-heartedly; straight from the belly. It was guttural and it fed Andrew’s rage all the more.

 

      “Well I don’t expect I have to introduce you to my wife, now do I Andrew? I get the feeling you know her well enough already.”

“Whatever you think has happened, has not,” Andrew spoke calmly.

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s just say I find that hard to believe,” Grey Man added.

“Even if it’s the truth?” And it was, mostly. Andrew and Kathryn had not done much wrong. They had had dinner a few times. Coffee more times than he could count. She had even been over once or twice. A girl like her, in his crumby apartment. It seemed crazy at the time. Either way, they had done little more than talked. That was, until a few nights ago. She had come over late, really late. They had opened a bottle of wine. And he had kissed her. Just on the lips, mouths closed. It was a defining kiss though. But only a kiss. They had gone no further. They both knew, in order for them to take the next step, she would have to leave. And the way she put it, he would have to leave as well, with her, far away. He hadn’t understood at the time, even though he agreed. But now he did. He understood just fine now.

“The truth? I’ll tell you what the truth is Andrew. The truth is that maybe something happened between you two. Maybe it didn’t. But eventually my friend,” Grey man began as he rested a hand on Andrew’s shoulder and squeezed. “Eventually something would have. And you would have left, taken her, my wife, with you. You would not have had any other option. And do you want to know why?” Grey Man paused, bent, and stared straight into Andrew’s eyes.

“No, why?” Andrew sneered.

“Because if you didn’t leave, I would have to kill you. Both.” Andrew opened his mouth as if to speak and lunged at Grey Man’s face. His teeth seized part of the man’s nose and cheek, and startled, Grey Man pulled back violently. His skin made the slightest tearing sound as Andrew peeled some skin from him in his retreat. Blood trickled down Andrew’s bottom lip and chin. And when Grey man, only a moment later regained his composure and looked at Andrew, both horrified and somewhat amused, Andrew spit the flesh he had torn from his face back at him. Grey Man placed a hand gingerly to his face, and pulled his hand away, fingers bloody. Both of his henchmen or bodyguards or whatever they were, were now at his side. One pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Grey Man pushed it away. And then he laughed, again. Guttural indeed. But controlled. Almost too controlled. 

 

“I’ll tell you what Andrew. It’s almost a shame I have to dispense with you. You and I aren’t that different. Sure, we may be animals of a different breed. But I can see into you now.” Grey Man ran his fingers over the wound on his face and then licked the blood from his fingers. “You could have been an asset to me and my organization.”

“We are nothing alike,” Andrew spit.

“Oh, but I think we are. Oh well. Gentlemen,” he spoke to the other two. “Shall we begin?” They both nodded, and one walked to the work bench and picked up a toolbox. He then set it in front of Andrew and Kathryn. “Kathryn my dear,” Grey Man spoke as he squatted in front of his wife. “It is far too late for tears. And I would say I would miss you, but then, I would have had to have actually loved you. So I’m sorry to say, that this will certainly hurt you much, much more than it’s going to hurt me.” And with that, he kissed her on the forehead. He then turned to Andrew. “And as for you Andrew? Enjoy the show.”

“I’ll be seeing you again,” Andrew spoke, in a near whisper.

“I doubt that my friend. I truly doubt that. But who knows... maybe someday. There’s always hell.” Grey Man laughed again, turned on heels, and walked out of the garage.

 

 

      The toolbox opened with a creak, much like the garage door had. Atop the tools sat an old rag. It probably had once been white, maybe tan, but now was a dark brown. Andrew could only guess why. The first of the two grabbed the rag and set it aside. The only way Andrew could tell them apart was their hair. This one was bald. And as he bent to fish around in the toolbox, Andrew could see a tattoo on the back of the guy’s scalp. There was an inscription, probably Latin, within a scroll, but he couldn’t make it out. The scroll rested entangled in the feet of what he was sure was a phoenix. The other wore his hair long, considerably long in fact, jet black, and pulled back into a pony tail. Baldy lifted the top compartment out of the toolbox and set it aside. He then withdrew the biggest knife Andrew had ever seen. Baldy was smiling.

 

      “You don’t have to do this you know?” Andrew pleaded.

“Wait your turn boy. I’ll get to you. But for starters, I was told to make sure you witnessed what’s about to happen next.”

 

      Baldy stood and walked over to Kathryn. Ponytail was standing behind her, his hand under her chin from behind, holding her head up. Baldy then handed the knife to Ponytail and reached for Kathryn’s shirt. With brute force he ripped the front of it open. She screamed through her gag. Ponytail then handed the knife back to him and he slid the large blade under the front clasp of her bra and tugged. The bra snapped open.

 

      “Not bad,” Baldy spoke as he took a moment to peruse the woman’s flesh. “Not bad at all.” He reached up and cupped one of her breasts. She struggled against her restraints, but it was no use. She was fastened all to well. “Oh,” Baldy said as he stepped aside. “Sorry Andrew, didn’t mean to block the view.” And with that, he gave her breast a hard squeeze. She winced.

“You son of a-,” Andrew struggled against his restraints as well, the legs of the chair clanging against the concrete floor of the garage.

“Don’t worry boy. We don’t have time for that sort of thing anyway.”

 

      Baldy then grasped the handle of the knife tightly and swished the blade lightly over Kathryn’s chest, around one n****e and then the next, letting the blade come to rest between them both, at the center of her chest. He erected the blade, and with little effort, he pushed. Andrew could just barely see the knife enter her, though the motion of Baldy’s arm made it evident. And her eyes. Her eyes told the story. They grew large, so very large at that moment, and they stared straight at Andrew, as if she could see through him. Andrew could here the knife being dragged down her chest. He could hear it turning, ripping, tearing. Baldy stepped in front of Kathryn for a moment, obscuring Andrew’s view. All the while he sat there, not truly believing what he was seeing as the blood puddle at Baldy’s feet and started its slow trickle towards the drain at the center of the garage, just beneath Andrew’s chair. He could see her feet stiffen against the chair legs, and tell there a moment when her body went rigid. Baldy dropped the knife to the floor. It clanged and splattered all at once. And then there was this sound. This strange, almost foreign sound. It started with a snap, and then another. These were followed by a grunt or two from Baldy. Another snap. Kathryn’s breathing was shallow and almost echoed in the garage. Her breathing was accompanied by a slight gurgling. She sounded as if she were choking. God, please let her be unconscious, Andrew thought to himself. And then there was the sound. Almost a sucking sound. And Kathryn screamed. Even through her gag it came out loud and clear. Her feet bounced once, then twice and as the sucking sound grew louder a moment, Kathryn fell still.

      Andrew closed his eyes. Tear streaking down his face. What in the hell had the two of them gotten themselves in to. He shut them tight, angry, afraid, enraged. And then something wet and heavy hit the floor near him. His eyes bolted open. Baldy was standing closer to him now. The front of his tee-shirt and jeans were soaked in crimson, the blood glistening in what little light they had. Baldy was smiling. Ponytail was too. Kathryn’s heart lay in the river of her own blood, at Andrew’s feet.

 

 

      The tears on Andrew’s face seemed to dry almost instantly. His breathing went from sporadic and shallow to deep and heaving. He knew at that moment, that all he needed was a chance. Just a small stroke of luck, and he would kill both of them. He would rip their heads from their shoulders with his bare hands, and then pull out their entrails through the gaping hole in their necks where their skulls used to be. All he needed was a chance. Just a bit of luck. But there would be no such luck this evening.

 

      “Such a waste, if you ask me,” Baldy said to Andrew. “She was a beautiful woman. I guess you should have run when you had the chance.”

“Running’s not my style,” Andrew retorted.

“And look where it got you.” Baldy smiled and shook his head. “Your turn.”

 

      Ponytail had grabbed the knife Baldy had used on Kathryn, and now handed it to him. Baldy then stepped aside, affording Andrew a god long, hard look at the woman he loved. Kathryn lay slumped in her chair, her chin resting on her chest, which itself, was wide open and gaping. Blood had stopped flooding from her, and was more at a slow and steady trickle now, almost like molasses from her wounds. Her rib cage lay open and splintered, the bones sticking out of her at odd angles. And at the center, a hole. A hole torn open and empty where her heart once beat for him. He shook his head and stared at the floor.

      Baldy knelt in front of Andrew and grabbed his left pant leg. With the knife he tore a slit along its side up over his knee to the middle of his thigh. He then repeated the action with the other pant leg. Across Andrew’s thighs, he made two more cuts, and removed the tattered remnants of his pant legs, tossing one aside and handing the second to Ponytail. Andrew couldn’t help but think this whole scenario seemed all too rehearsed. Ponytail walked behind Andrew and grabbed each end of the fabric tightly in his hands. Baldy, without hesitation, rammed the knife into the side of Andrew’s calf, just above the ankle. Andrew screamed. But only for a moment. As his mouth opened and he yelled in agony, Ponytail wrapped the pant leg around Andrew’s mouth and head, and pulled tightly. He then tied each of the ends together. Andrew bounced in his chair.

 

      “You think that hurt?” Questioned Baldy. “We’re just getting started.”

 

      Grabbing the hilt to the knife, he then stood and pulled the blade up and through Andrew’s calf, to the back of his knee, where he yanked it free. Andrew could not here the sounds of his flash sloshing and tearing. His eyes watered and his head was spinning. His calf tore from the back of his knee and flopped against the floor, still attached at the ankle. There was blood and exposed bone. Baldy slapped him in the face hard, once, twice. 

 

      “Stay with us now Andrew, we’ve got quite a long way to go. Hope you didn’t have plans for tomorrow?” The ritual was repeated, the knife buried in the back of Andrew’s other calf, before being pulled viciously up and out at the back of the knee. This time, Andrew passed out.

      Baldy and Pony tail had a cigarette or two, waiting for Andrew to come around again. They talked of sports and women and especially the large sum of money the Grey Man was dishing out for this little adventure they were now involved in. Ponytail, once again had to commend his friend on his abilities, his techniques. When it came to pain, there was only master and slave. And Baldy, as always, was truly master. All in all, two hours had gone by before Baldy decided it was time again. Ponytail fished in the toolbox and pulled out the smelling salts, Baldy being sure it would pull Andrew from his unconscious state. He was sure Andrew’s reserve was stronger than most. Grey Man had been right to a certain degree, and Baldy could see it in Andrew’s eyes. Beneath his plain, ordinary, I’m just a mechanic exterior, he was sure Andrew was a lot like them. An animal. But what kind of animal was he? Had he chosen a different path in life, Baldy was sure Andrew had it in him to be more vicious than maybe even he was. After all, he had eaten his boss’s face. Baldy smiled.

      It took a moment, but the smelling salts pulled Andrew around. He could feel little at this point, endorphins racing through him, shock settling in, nerves severed. He could see another pool of blood now mixing that of Kathryn’s. Baldy was standing in it, the two shades of crimson is a swirling dance slowly, very slowly heading for the drain. He imagined the two would simply hose the place down when they were through.

      Baldy nodded to Ponytail, and Andrew could feel the binds on his wrists being tugged. His arms came free though Ponytail had a good hold on one. This he pulled back in front of Andrew and proceed to duct tape it to the arm of the chair. Baldy had a hold of his other one. His grasp was cold, but strong, very strong. Or maybe Andrew simply didn’t have anything left in him. He felt weak, drained. His head still spinning, his eyes still blurry. Once he was secure, Ponytail walked over to the other side and grabbed a hold of Andrew’s left arm at the wrist. His grasp as well, seemed unbreakable. Ponytail lifted his arm straight up in the air. And in a moment, Andrew saw the knife, and watched helplessly as Baldy brought it home, sliding it through the skin and muscle in his forearm just above the wrist. Andrew writhed. The pain that had numbed came crashing back all at once. Baldy pulled down forcefully on the hilt, and Andrew watched in horror as the blade zigged and zagged in ragged fashion through his forearm up to his elbow, where Baldy twisted the blade and yanked the at the blade, pulling it through flesh and bone. Andrew lurched forward, screaming into his gag. The muscle in his forearm flapping in the wind as he shook his arm, now free from Ponytail’s grasp. This time Baldy laughed.

      Ponytail was fetching the duct tape, Andrew certain they were going to bind his damaged arm and start on the other one. Baldy leaned over to say something, a smirk on his face when Andrew lunged again. He reached forward with a force of strength he didn’t know he still had and grabbed Baldy by the throat, the flap of forearm muscle slapping the side of Baldy’s head. But that moment was all there was for Andrew. Just as soon and the burs of strength came, it also vanished. And his hand fell from Baldy’s neck without Baldy even having to pry it away. The b*****d was smiling again.

 

      “Now don’t tell me you’re not an animal. You surprise even me. Surprise and please.”

 

      Baldy took Andrew’s ravaged arm and slammed it against the arm of the chair. The pain was akin to nothing Andrew had yet experience as it shot up through his shoulder, down his spine and throughout his entire body. Duct tape tore. And he watched Ponytail wrap what was left of his arm, the flap hanging off to the side, the stark white of the bone beneath showing through, with duct tape. His other arm was then freed. Andrew thought to himself that this was like a commercial he had once seen. Wash, lather, rinse, repeat. Though his starring role would have been more like, Plunge, tear, scream, repeat. Andrew passed out again, but this time, only for a few moments. This of course, impressed Baldy even further.

 

 

      The torture went on for a few more hours. After they tore his forearms from the one, they then stripped his biceps, and carved out chunks of his thighs. He’d pass out and they would wait ten, maybe fifteen minutes. If he didn’t come to on his own, they would use the salts. Sometimes Baldy would smack his solid in the face, his hand stinging just enough to keep Andrew coherent and with them in the moment. Baldy was truly impressed. He could not recollect a time when anyone had stayed with him that long. Not after all that pain. Not after loosing that much blood. He admired Andrew and was almost saddened that he would, in the end, have to kill him.

      Next they took the tips of his fingers, one by one. Andrew had a fleeting thought following this as he watched them drop each piece to the floor. How would they ever fit down the drain when the Ponytail and Baldy rinsed the floor clean? This is hen Andrew started laughing. It was calm and shallow at first, and then his eyes grew big and his chest heaved. He spewed blood from his mouth as he bellowed. Baldy knew they were almost finished. Andrew was losing his grip. And when Baldy smiled next, Andrew winked at him, and mumbled through his gag. Ponytail loosened the knot. Andrew begged for more. The he’d laugh. Is that all hey had? Was that the best they could do? Baldy, very carefully, as Ponytail held Andrew’s head steady, then sawed his eyelids from his face. Andrew laughed some more. Baldy sighed. It was time. Andrew was finally beyond that point. They could hurt him no more. He had lost all of his faculties. And so, Ponytail cut Andrew free of his bindings. He sat there, chucking to himself. And with violent determination, Baldy slammed the large knife into Andrew’s chest several times. Andrew crumpled in his chair, and then fell to the floor in a bloodied, butchered slump. Just a piece of mortal meat.

      It took Baldy and Ponytail only moments to clean up. They would leave the bloody mess for the cops to find some time down the road. They knew they were safe. All precautions had been taken. Even a shoeprint in the blood would lead the cops of a wild goose chase. Both men wore boots three sizes larger than their feet. They were thorough. They knew how to cover their tracks. As the saying went, this was not their first time at a dance. The two left the garage with only fifteen minutes to spare before the sun came up again.

 

 

     

It was the smell that hit him first, though he couldn’t place it. If he had eyelids, he would have opened them at this point. Instead, the darkness crept away slowly and the room faded into focus. He was lying on his chest, one arm at his side; one tucked what could have been conceived as uncomfortably beneath his torso. His face could feel the cold ground, and the now cooling syrup on the floor. That was the smell, he was sure of it. His head pounded. He all at once went into convulsions as the images of the past eight hours went crashing through his skull. He saw them. All three of them, as vivid as the day. He saw the chairs, the duct tape. He saw the knife. The heart at his feet. His Kathryn, opened and bloodied and empty, like the hollow casing of a doll. Her eyes rolled over in her head. 

The noises came rushing through as well. The laughter. The clanging of chair legs against the concrete. The tearing and ripping of flesh. The muffled screams. The sobs, and gasps. It was like a dream, only no dream he had ever had felt like this when he woke up. There was pain somewhere in his body, far off at the moment, but waiting anxiously to start pounding at the door. Let me in, it screamed. It too laughed.

Andrew coughed, and the pool he was lying in rippled with his breath. He could smell it again. It smelled… welcoming? It somehow, beckoned him? It was like a hand in the dark, reaching towards him, reaching for him. Gradually, he stuck out his tongue. He didn’t know why he felt compelled; all he knew is that he was. And he licked the blood soaked concrete. Slowly at first, and then gradually, with more vigor. It tasted not like he imagined. He expected it to hit the back of his teeth, coppery and rusty, like biting down on tinfoil. But it was nothing like that. It was sweet. Oh so sweet. And it still hadn’t lost all of its warmth. He could feel it fall into him, down his throat, being absorbed by his body. Like a bottle of bourbon, warm, welcoming, soothing. He craned his neck a bit, pulling his torso up slightly, and dragged the ragged pieces of flesh hanging from his arm out from under him and laid it above his head. His tipless fingers clutched at the concrete, making streaks in the crimson paint. 

Next he knew, he was no longer licking the pavement. He was slurping at it, sucking the juices from the floor, hungrily. He had propped himself up on his half forearm and lurched forward and back, side to side, drinking in the larger pools. And then he felt it. A tingle. As if parts of his body had fallen asleep and the blood was suddenly rushing back into them. It hurt like hell. He tried to scream but it only cam out gargled, his mouth, his throat overflowing with that sweet, sweet elixir. God did it hurt. It cut him to the bone. He felt it in his right arm, the one outstretched, first. It started in his wrist and slowly, far too slowly, worked its way up to his elbow, then past it and up to his shoulder. And then the pain was gone. Just like that. Like all the light from the blazing sun only a few feet away shutting off all at once. Plunged into darkness. He flexed his right hand. And when he looked up at it, the dangling flesh of his forearm and bicep were back in place. His arm seemed whole again. How could this be? But the thought, the question, only lingered in his mind for a moment. He knew. He could not believe it. But yet, he knew.

With his good arm, he pulled himself towards the ragged remains of Kathryn, not yet feeling strong enough to look up at her. But the blood had pooled deeply beneath her, the small stream that once rushed towards the drain now subsided into thin strands, standing virtually still. He didn’t hesitate, and splashed his face into that crimson well. It went down in gulps. And then, once again, the pain came. In his other wrist this time, creeping up to his elbow and then shoulder. But he did not stop. He scurried the floor in a frenzy, from pool to pool, his blood and hers. It didn’t seem to matter.  His body was engorged with pain, racked with it, in his calves and thighs, everywhere, everything. He couldn’t get enough. He lapped at the concrete, cupped the blood in his hands, shoveled it down, chocked on it, threw some of it up only to lick it back up again. He bolted to his knees, his chest heaving and screamed. The concrete shook. The tools on the work bench rattles and the windows of the office imploded in a rush of wood splinters and glass.

His face, his chin, was streaked with it. His eyes cleared, and everything became so vivid. The details were haunting. Even in this darkened garage, it was if a thousand candles burned to light the way. But not just that, everything was outlined. Most in silver, until he turned to Kathryn and saw that she was in a faint red. The color of death he presumed. He titled his head, much like an animal, and sniffed at the air. The smells were bombarding. Rust, and copper, sweat, lust, and fear. God the fear was strong. There were other smells as well. Faint hints of cologne, cigar, definitely cigarettes, perfume, dirt, grease, and mint? Was that really mint? Yes, he was sure it was.

He arched his back and let out a howl of sorts. He felt alive. More alive than he ever had at any point in his life. He felt enraged, almost crazy, but in control. He was, if he could use such a ridiculous phrase, insanely clam.  He looked around on the floor. He had cleaned a good portion of it up in his hunger. And then he saw it, by the leg of the chair he had been bound to. He heart. Her lifeless, unbeating heart. He crawled over to it, and scooped in up with both hands.  He felt like crying, but didn’t. Instead he shoved it’s gelatin-like mass into his mouth, smearing it and squishing it against his lips, and he ate. He gulped it down and gnawed on the more fibrous parts until there were just bits and pieces left on his fingers and hands. And these, he licked off like pieces of greasy leftover greasy chicken.

It was then that he noticed his hands. The fingertips were still missing. Somehow, all of him had not grown back. But his ails caught his eye. They were longer, almost a half an inch past the tips, and they were thick and jagged. They looked like they could tear through flesh and bone alike. He stood, staring at them and rushed through the office and into the small bathroom. The light was off but he could see clearly. He gripped the edge of the sink, his nails peeling off some of the enamel and stared first at his eyes. The pupils were black as night, and rimmed with a hint of silver. But the white, my god, the whites had turned blood red. They were flushed and veined, almost bulging. And his eyelids had not grown back either. The rest of him was different as well. He could not cry, he could not scream. What the hell was he? What had he become? What was this monster standing in front of this mirror staring back at him? He snarled his teeth and let out a growl or disgust. They were right. He was an animal.

 

 

48 hours later…

 

      The detective and his partner had arrived just after ten o’clock. And after seeing the crime scene, both were glad they had forgone breakfast this morning. Both were sure that regardless of their training and experience in homicide, they certainly would have thrown up all over the place. Neither had ever seen anything like this. And they had seen some pretty nasty things.

      To their left, what was left of a girl, bound to her chair, her chest cavity torn open. Heart missing. Jesus. One of the detectives, not a religious man at all, actually crossed himself. The blood, on the floor, now congealed looked as if someone had taken a mop to it and done a terribly lousy job. Then there was the empty chair, with remnants of duct tape still attached at the arms and legs. Where the hell was that body? Were those eyelids near the drain? Jesus. Those couldn’t be fingertips. Could they?

      The two detectives were called into the bathroom. Gingerly they walked around the crime scene and through the office. The bathroom was pretty bloody itself. What in God’s name had gone on here? The mirror held a single message, one word, scrawled in blood. 

 

Animal.

 

 

Author's Note

Hope you like... tried to keep it under 4,000 words... but failed...lol. We're actually around 6,000... hopefully it moves fast enough so that you can't tell the difference! Enjoy!!!

Reviews

[James Watts]

Not a bad piece. Missing punctuation here and there, but looks that may be a typo. If this were a first chapter, 6000 words would be just fine. As short story, that is also fine. Seen longer. Most people on here don't understand length. What you write on your word processor changes in length when it comes back from the publisher and you usually loose some. Not sure how that happens. I had 288 page manuscript and my book came back at 188 pages, and was the same word-for-word. weird.