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With a smashed-window symphony he writhed his hand through the small pane and unlocked the door from the inside. He dragged a sack full of muffled screams to the floor and slammed the escape route behind him.
Crazy eyes darted around the room looking for a method, a motive and a conclusion. A shadow stood in front of the door with pretty platted hair, watching her master at work. Trying to understand, or at least empathise with his decisions. A student at the school of madness, the only qualification was a loss of sanity.
The man bundled the sack over his shoulder, much to it’s screeching protest. An old work bench made the perfect operating table. But what is a surgeon without his tools? The instruments he found weren’t worthy of dissection or disembowelment, but they’d have to do. Makeshift and incidental to a not-yet-decided motive they would be easy clues for his many followers.
He finally removed the sack to reveal a writhing woman, pupils dilated and mouth gagged. He tied her wrists to the table legs with a length of wire and her ankles were bound in a similar fashion. She wriggled and thrashed but the write only bound tighter, digging beneath her skin.
The other woman by the door watched on solemnly. Taking in everything she was seeing. A silent accomplice to this vile rhetoric she gradually learnt. An apprentice to destruction.
The man set down beside the pretty young lady an assortment of tools. He ran his long fingernails along them and back again, carefully selecting the perfect instrument. He settled on the shears. They were garden variety, a coat of rust on the blades and weatherworn handled, but would still do the job. He pulled his mask over his mouth and the other woman did the same. In a tepid silence he raised the shears to shoulder level and plunged into her stomach with a thunderous scream.
Open, shut. Open, shut.
The churning motion turned organs into liquid. A sight that would sicken most, but the other woman watched on, unblinking.
A gagged scream turned to a muffled choke, which turned up a blood soaked gargle. Pupils transfixed and expired. The operation was a successful.
“We’ve saved another soul.” The man sail coldly to the other woman.
“Yes.” Was her stale reply. “Thank goodness.”
Crazy eyes darted around the room looking for a method, a motive and a conclusion. A shadow stood in front of the door with pretty platted hair, watching her master at work. Trying to understand, or at least empathise with his decisions. A student at the school of madness, the only qualification was a loss of sanity.
The man bundled the sack over his shoulder, much to it’s screeching protest. An old work bench made the perfect operating table. But what is a surgeon without his tools? The instruments he found weren’t worthy of dissection or disembowelment, but they’d have to do. Makeshift and incidental to a not-yet-decided motive they would be easy clues for his many followers.
He finally removed the sack to reveal a writhing woman, pupils dilated and mouth gagged. He tied her wrists to the table legs with a length of wire and her ankles were bound in a similar fashion. She wriggled and thrashed but the write only bound tighter, digging beneath her skin.
The other woman by the door watched on solemnly. Taking in everything she was seeing. A silent accomplice to this vile rhetoric she gradually learnt. An apprentice to destruction.
The man set down beside the pretty young lady an assortment of tools. He ran his long fingernails along them and back again, carefully selecting the perfect instrument. He settled on the shears. They were garden variety, a coat of rust on the blades and weatherworn handled, but would still do the job. He pulled his mask over his mouth and the other woman did the same. In a tepid silence he raised the shears to shoulder level and plunged into her stomach with a thunderous scream.
Open, shut. Open, shut.
The churning motion turned organs into liquid. A sight that would sicken most, but the other woman watched on, unblinking.
A gagged scream turned to a muffled choke, which turned up a blood soaked gargle. Pupils transfixed and expired. The operation was a successful.
“We’ve saved another soul.” The man sail coldly to the other woman.
“Yes.” Was her stale reply. “Thank goodness.”
I like crazy Kyz. More more more.
I was drunk last night. What I meant to say was I think it's well-written and funny.
KILL
KILL
KILL
KILL
Can I watch next time!!
Yeah, quite good.
KILL
KILL
KILL
Can I watch next time!!
Yeah, quite good.
I really do write things like this, when I have notepad open and it just spills out.
I read it back and think, "what sort of sick wierdo am I"
Then I post it and people say the same. It's reassuring my self-observations aren't wrong, only my mind.
thanks for re-affirming my self-confessed insanity.
I read it back and think, "what sort of sick wierdo am I"
Then I post it and people say the same. It's reassuring my self-observations aren't wrong, only my mind.
thanks for re-affirming my self-confessed insanity.
An interesting delve into a sick mind.
And the characters weren't too healthy either...
;-)
And the characters weren't too healthy either...
;-)
With a smashed-window symphony he writhed his hand through the small pane and unlocked the door from the inside. He dragged a sack full of muffled screams to the floor and slammed the escape route behind him.
Crazy eyes darted around the room looking for a method, a motive and a conclusion. A shadow stood in front of the door with pretty platted hair, watching her master at work. Trying to understand, or at least empathise with his decisions. A student at the school of madness, the only qualification was a loss of sanity.
The man bundled the sack over his shoulder, much to it’s screeching protest. An old work bench made the perfect operating table. But what is a surgeon without his tools? The instruments he found weren’t worthy of dissection or disembowelment, but they’d have to do. Makeshift and incidental to a not-yet-decided motive they would be easy clues for his many followers.
He finally removed the sack to reveal a writhing woman, pupils dilated and mouth gagged. He tied her wrists to the table legs with a length of wire and her ankles were bound in a similar fashion. She wriggled and thrashed but the write only bound tighter, digging beneath her skin.
The other woman by the door watched on solemnly. Taking in everything she was seeing. A silent accomplice to this vile rhetoric she gradually learnt. An apprentice to destruction.
The man set down beside the pretty young lady an assortment of tools. He ran his long fingernails along them and back again, carefully selecting the perfect instrument. He settled on the shears. They were garden variety, a coat of rust on the blades and weatherworn handled, but would still do the job. He pulled his mask over his mouth and the other woman did the same. In a tepid silence he raised the shears to shoulder level and plunged into her stomach with a thunderous scream.
Open, shut. Open, shut.
The churning motion turned organs into liquid. A sight that would sicken most, but the other woman watched on, unblinking.
A gagged scream turned to a muffled choke, which turned up a blood soaked gargle. Pupils transfixed and expired. The operation was a successful.
“We’ve saved another soul.” The man sail coldly to the other woman.
“Yes.” Was her stale reply. “Thank goodness.”
Crazy eyes darted around the room looking for a method, a motive and a conclusion. A shadow stood in front of the door with pretty platted hair, watching her master at work. Trying to understand, or at least empathise with his decisions. A student at the school of madness, the only qualification was a loss of sanity.
The man bundled the sack over his shoulder, much to it’s screeching protest. An old work bench made the perfect operating table. But what is a surgeon without his tools? The instruments he found weren’t worthy of dissection or disembowelment, but they’d have to do. Makeshift and incidental to a not-yet-decided motive they would be easy clues for his many followers.
He finally removed the sack to reveal a writhing woman, pupils dilated and mouth gagged. He tied her wrists to the table legs with a length of wire and her ankles were bound in a similar fashion. She wriggled and thrashed but the write only bound tighter, digging beneath her skin.
The other woman by the door watched on solemnly. Taking in everything she was seeing. A silent accomplice to this vile rhetoric she gradually learnt. An apprentice to destruction.
The man set down beside the pretty young lady an assortment of tools. He ran his long fingernails along them and back again, carefully selecting the perfect instrument. He settled on the shears. They were garden variety, a coat of rust on the blades and weatherworn handled, but would still do the job. He pulled his mask over his mouth and the other woman did the same. In a tepid silence he raised the shears to shoulder level and plunged into her stomach with a thunderous scream.
Open, shut. Open, shut.
The churning motion turned organs into liquid. A sight that would sicken most, but the other woman watched on, unblinking.
A gagged scream turned to a muffled choke, which turned up a blood soaked gargle. Pupils transfixed and expired. The operation was a successful.
“We’ve saved another soul.” The man sail coldly to the other woman.
“Yes.” Was her stale reply. “Thank goodness.”