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Perfection (Engelska! Extrem!!)

Pain and pain, two very different feelings. One can make you scream in agonizing torture, while another can bring you a satisfaction of feeling something new, different. I am not a crazy man, I work 9 to 5, I have a house with a two small cars and a garage with a fancy backyard. My daughter just finished high school and my son got his first tooth last week. So what am I? I like to bring pain to people, not the comforting, pleasing and loving side of it. No, I want people to burn, that I can cause them so much misery with just my hands or tools shaped and mined from mother earth. If I could possibly perform my hobby without causing them death or hinder them from calling 911, I would gladly do it, I don’t care. I am incapable of feeling sympathy for another human being, and I have to say I don’t want it any other way. But the thought of me being able to cause a family so much harm without indirectly having contact with any of them except maybe their son, forever vanishing his material remains off the face of the earth. That I can deny another being possibilities to such overrated feelings such as love, compassion, success of failure. That I, a simple man, can have such a huge impact, cause distortion within society, injecting fear into others by not even touching them, having a conversation with them or any form or contact, makes me shiver down my spine out of please. This is how God must feel like, I can strike and punish, release and liberate people from their material obsession by a few simple moves with my hand.

She is in my basement, a cold gray underground room filled with thick air and dried blood. There’s small blood stains on the floor and walls, mostly around a table of mine. Surrounding the table there is several straps and a small pillow for my visitors pleasure. I have a small poster on the wall with a cat hanging on a string with his upper paws, holding himself up with every ounce of strength he has, with the ironic words saying, *Hang In There*. I don’t know why I have that poster, it’s made in 1987 so the cat is probably dead and buried by now. Besides the poster I have several shelves with all kind of objects on them, duct tape, jigsaw, knifes, surgical instruments, hammer and plastic clothes for me when I am performing my art, just to name few of the stuff. Audrey is already tied on the table, still passed after the hit on her jaw, which broke it into several pieces. I enter the room slowly, unwilling to break the tension in the air, burst the bubble. I put my Billy club on one of my many shelves, strip down to my bare skin and put my plastic clothes. When all is set and done, she is still passed out and I am currently about to lose my patience for this girl. I pull a chair and sit down, north of her head. One hour passes. Two hour passes. That’s it! I poke her carefully in the solar plexus, hoping for some kind of reaction. She was still passed out. I slap her hard in the face, swearing and promising hours of torture due to her behavior. She wakes up slowly, opens her eyes mechanically, taking a handful of eyesight in a few seconds. Now her eyes are immediately shining of fear and panic. She didn’t scream, no, she started breathing heavier and heavier, letting out small moans of despair.
- W hat is this?
She whispers so lovely, so softly. Her lips were cracked wide open, showing pink flesh. Small blood was dripping out of the side of her mouth now, but she paid no attention to it. I stand up slowly, approach her side and she spots me. She does not scream, she just looks at me like a frightened animal.
Is that not what we all are, back to basics? Are we not all animals with animal instincts? Not anymore, greed, selfishness and crave for the best has taken over our heritage, our past. I want to soothe her, promise her that she will be all right, more than all right. She will live happily with a famous movie star, going on the red carpet on the premier day of the best movies, make commercials for the best make-up factories, she will ride the best cars In the world and have 250 millions in the bank, sitting on their ass doing nothing. So I tell her, whisper her gently in her ear of all the beautiful things that will yet to come, how she will see society evolve, how all the new fancy inventions will be hers. I promise her a life on the beach full of laziness, laid back with a glass of wine watching the sun go down while sitting on her porch with her dog and faithful husband. She starts to cry, small tears slipping down the sides of her eyes, clearing a path through the blood in dried in her face, almost trying to erase what really happened. She looks at me again, this time not with loathing or fear, but with love and hope. How easy I can manipulate her emotions. She starts letting out relieved cracks of laughs. In the middle of my speech to her, I start patting her head, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. Suddenly, I grab a hold of her hair and pull with all my strength. A fistful of hair follows my move and she screams in pain. It left an ugly baldness on her otherwise pretty blond hair. The head quickly turning red, as trying to give me the red light for doing this to her, mocking me. I do it again, she screams, and I do it again. I turn my back on her, not so I can avoid my masterpiece, no, so I can get my instrument to work on it. I grab my tong and start slowly working on her nails. Driving the lower side of it under her nail, pressing it together and pulling it out. Blood quickly starts sipping down her finger. I move on, doing so on her every finger and toe. She has not energy at the end of it to scream; only breathe heavily and crying softly. I throw my tong on the ground, filled with too much passion and joy to possibly think about placing it carefully on one of the shelves. I grab my jigsaw, a metallic piece with sharp tooth’s going zigzag. I place it carefully on her toes, starting to move it frantically back and forth, cutting through bone and flesh, accompanied by the sweet opera of her voice singing out the agony out loud. I start whistling, not to make fun of her, but to my joy. After I finished working on her toes, you can see liters of blood that have rushed down, skin hanging by the side and white bone covered In blood, unable to stick on it. I put my jigsaw on her wrist, she is almost dying now, but nonetheless I will continue, I start again mechanically cutting through veins, muscle and flesh. I take my big wooden axe aim carefully on her throat, lifting it with my both arms, drawing it back so it almost touches my back and snaps with a tremendous power, still not separating it. She starts to get violent spasm, making gurgling sounds when the amount of blood getting down her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Once a human, now a bloody mess of flesh and muscle, in disorder and covered in blood. One hand missing, one foot missing and no nails. I sit back on my chair, refusing to interrupt or have any contact with her last moments alive. She dies slowly and painfully, full of spasm, shattering blood all around my floor and me. It’s all right, I forgive you Audrey, still you gave me a lot of joy.

Two hours later, I have cut her corpse into 8 little pieces. The head going for my trophy room where she will eternally rest with 53 other experiments. I send the hand with the purple nail polish to her family. I am tired, I want to go to sleep.

 

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