Shattered Reality by Eveline Hood

That stupid fucking cunt. Did she really think she could beat me? That she was safe? She learned quickly not to fuck with me.  The basement workshop of the plant my friend works at is the perfect location for murder. That’s what it is. I make no apologies for it; I’d have to give a fuck to feel sorry. I don’t. And no regrets, all harm and all foul.

I hate her. From the moment I lay my eyes on her Barbie doll face the hate was there.  It became an offense to my very being. I dreamed and yearned to eradicate her from existence. Every second of every day brought new and forceful desire to end her pathetic life, to make her fucking suffer from dawn to dusk. Yesterday, I got the chance and I took it. Oh there are none as blind as those who won’t open their fucking eyes and see what is before them. Her loss. She didn’t see me coming until it was too late and by then I had my claws dug deep into her mind, slowly and with glee setting fire to the Hall of Memories in her head.

How she shivered, standing there shaking and gyrating in the cage I’d built.  Her rage was that of a new kitten, with no teeth at all.  She had a metal collar bolted around her neck attached to a chain.  I’d welded that to the floor. Then I sunk it in a foot of ice-cold water.  She fought me, daring to claw at me as I neared.  The taser helped. I upped the voltage, to maximum, and watched with a grin as her entire body flailed about, splashing water in an erratic interpretive dance. She couldn’t scream, but instead was gnashing at her own tongue, tearing holes in the muscle as it too quivered in her mouth with the unspoken scream she seemed desperate to give voice to.

Finally, she dropped to the floor, panting and groaning like an animal, stinking of shit and indignation. I crouched low in front of her, raptly watching as her damaged tongue danced across her lips, spreading the blood so she resembled a clown with no talent for makeup. Her eyes closed. Opened. Closed again.  Reaching through the bars, I slapped her hard, the crack of my hand on her flesh enough to make her cry out and open them again. Bits of tissue and an enormous amount of blood ran from her open mouth as her eyes grew bigger in their sockets. I hoped they would fall out. But they didn’t. She did find her voice however. She shrieked her pain and fury, and was unable to do a thing about it. When she tried, I turned on the Taser again.

Her lover stands spread eagled, bound to specially installed posts by metal shackles, bolted hand and ankle. He can’t see. I pierced his eyeballs with the pencil I sharpened in front of him before ruthlessly jabbing it in and deflating one, then the other. She thrashed in her cage, howling like the animal she is.  Her profanity was amusing.  His screams soothed my soul, like a decaying aria in broken tones. Even more so when I clipped off his tongue with my shears. It was all purposeful.  I took his eyes so that he would hear HER agony, so that it would be forever in his mind. So it would haunt his life. For the rest of his life.  I took his tongue so that never again could he articulate the anguish of his daymares, nightmares. I have no intentions of ending his pathetic life. No. I want him to suffer,  to feel unwelcome pain and to put that cunt through goddamn hell.

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In his unconsciousness he sobs. They echo in the empty expanse of the workshop I commandeered for this act. What delightful background music to the main event. Her, I will end, cheerfully. While he listens to his beloved shriek. Over and over in my mind, the memories of what I’ve done play behind my eyes.  It makes me happy. I came closer to him, hours ago, and placed my hand on his bruised and battered skin. It was feverishly warm and I pressed my body against him as I whispered in his ear, “Life is fragile. Listen as I shatter it” She moaned, she has perfect timing, and he fought me.  I forgive him for attempting to use his forehead as a weapon. It’s all he had really.

Laughing breathily, I grasped his cock, squeezing gently, then more firmly as he attempted to twist away. He protested, all while rising to the occasion. “You like it. Stop pretending you don’t. I feel it after all.”  Lamely he shook his head, denying as his dick grew harder in my hand.  I took full advantage of his inability to fight. A girl has needs after all, and I dropped to my knees, taking his hardness into my mouth, and sucking until he came out of self-defence as much as pleasure. The pleasure was mine. He was just the tool.

Her thick moans pull me from my memories, alerting me that it was time to commence. There, she lays prone on the metal autopsy table I’d procured.  I’ll lose the deposit.  It was a bitch to lift her boneless, unconscious body from the cage to the table, her grace that she moved in her everyday life lost along with her bladder.  I should have made him do it. I made him listen though, as I drilled holes in her wrists and forearms.  As I drove the long, thick, metal screws home with a rubber mallet, each hit punctuated with an ear shattering scream.  And again with each turn of the ratchet gun as it tightened the hexnuts to the bottom edge.  The drugs I fed her didn’t keep her docile enough.  I’ll know better next time. Her legs proved more of a problem, so I used the 10 pound sledgehammer and hobbled the bitch. The sound of breaking bones was sheer bliss.  Then, I strapped her legs down with couple rolls of duct tape I discovered nearby. It really is useful.

La piece de résistance, was the ingenious device that I’d come to adore.  It shines in the light of the fluorescent bulbs, a glimmering jewel of brutal intent. An industrial vice, its small corrugated teeth glitter, fit perfectly to bite into the sides of her pretty head. It has an automatic function, for when it gets too difficult to do it manually. The emergency failsafe is has been disconnected.  Oops.  I cut off her hair.  The remnants of what had been her crowning glory litter the floor. How she cried when I ruthlessly hacked it from her head.  How I laughed at her vanity, her lame pleadings as she struggled. Struggles still.  It amuses me.  He is still out, and this simply won’t do.  I need an active audience.  Slapping his cheek to bring him around, once, twice, and then picking up the small hatchet I’d found on a nearby shelf I bury it in his hip. He came to, and his howls awoke her anxiety. It was heavenly.

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Her eyes fly open, disoriented and full of fear as she desperately tries to gauge her surroundings, and fails. “Comfortable?” I ask solicitously, climbing atop the table and settling my toned thighs around her rib cage, as she hitches in air enough to shriek. “No? Good.” I drop my full weight on her stomach as the first notes of what was sure to be bloodcurdling screeches were cut off with a rush of air. Easing up slightly, I allow her the small sips of air she seemed so fucking greedy for. Strong. This one is strong. She clenches her fists, trying to lift her arms. It must be agony the way she twists and roars. I observe her face, how it ripples with expression, eyes so wide they might pop out.  I keep hoping they will. Reaching forward, the curiosity of its consistency overtakes me and I press the tip of my finger against it. Well that’s disgusting. I wipe my hand against my denim clad thigh and pick up the duct tape, holding it up where he can see it. “I don’t want  to take your voice, but I will.  Shut. The. Fuck. Up.  I haven’t even started yet.”  His sobs stop with a sharp intake of breath, then continued at more manageable level.

“You. Unconscionable, inconceivable. Whore.” From him I may have accepted such a judgemental comment, but from the oldest whore at the Immorality Circus?  It was a slap in the face. I leaned forward, and pulled the metal baton attached to the vise’s side with all my strength. It slid smoothly, and her normally annoying tones reached a new octave. The sensation of her distressed muscles quivering was nearly orgasmic, how she gasped for air as I pushed harder, a gush of fluids as it hit its stopping point.

“Was it was good for you as it was for me?” Smiling Into her tearful eyes, I whispered, “I think he likes it,” giggling at his animalistic grunts and moans. “Take Five. I need to go do something, stop screaming. I mean it.”  Her eye is bulging again.  I bet I could pop it out. “Shut UP!” I slide from the table and stride to the far end of the room.  There was a steel lathe here, and where there is one, you’ll find… Jackpot. Shavings, and there it is, that precious, perfect item of my affections.  The bitch is still shrieking.  Does she breathe?  Shaking my head I cross the room with quick steps, my new toy tight in my grip.  If she didn’t like the vice, then she will fucking hate this.  “You know, Robbie is it? I asked you nicely to stop screaming.  Twice.  Nicely.  I’m feeling generous. Shut your motherfucking yaw now and you will only lose one of your eyes.  Or continue and lose both.  And your tongue.”

She continues. And as do I, once again climbing atop the table.  Her octave rises slightly, now assaulting my ears with the buzzing sound of her voice giving way.  All I could see was the perfect half of her eye, quivering as it pushed its way from her lids in terror and effort. “Shut up or you’ll have to start shopping for eye patches.  Or a guide dog.”  I could have said it louder.  The thin flat surface just beyond the point of the shaving glimmered in the overhead lights, turning it from just a tool to a thing of beauty.  I caught sight of myself in the bright surface, my own eye screaming its rage.  “SHUT UP!” I yelled into her face, and stabbed the sharp end into the gelatinous surface, feeling it run through.  There was no sound, only the harsh outrush of air from her still open mouth and the thrumming of her thighs on the table.  The sack of her eye now lay dripping its colourless fluid own her cheek, moving like delicate coral in the ocean.  Such beauty, how lovely she was in the throes of my attentions. I held the shaving to her other eye, making sure she focused on it before speaking.  “Last chance.”

Ah Vanity, you strike again.  Robbie’s shrill alarm choked off as though severed with a sharp blade, her breath catching in her throat.  Sadly, her eye will no longer be easily accessible.  Luckily, she will scream again. “I’m going to visit with your man for a few moments. Why don’t you take a nap or something?”  I see him from where I stand, his body bristling in his rage, empty sockets and mouth drooling blood on his face, and he was glorious in that moment.  In that place and that time, the cords at his neck perfectly shadowed the bunched muscles on his arms and legs delicious enough that I wanted to go and chew on him.  “Leave him alone you unbelievable shank.  You’ve hurt him enough,” she spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper.  I hear her.  I don’t care.

He leans forward, towards me as I approach, extending his legs and allowing his arms to pull backwards in what must be a most uncomfortable position given the small amount of play I’d given.  Oh his teeth how they glistened in the filtered light, snapping and grinding in hopes of finding an unsuspecting bit of flesh to tear off.  As if I’d be so stupid as to get that close.  I admired him, as I would art, a statue perhaps, or a painting.  The lines and shadows the blood had painted, sinking deeper into the creases of his eyes and lips. How much older he seemed than his real age.  They say pain does that to a person.  Life proving science right.

His voice has changed, no longer cracked and nearly garbled but clear and enunciated. “I….hate….you,” he spits, making a distinct effort to be understood.  I’m not surprised.  Most people don’t like me.  I don’t like anyone.  It’s a long-established fact.  “I hate you too. With every fibre of my being, I hate you.  I hate her more right know….and I’ll make it worse if she DOESN’T SHUT UP!! Holy fuck how did you not bash her head I every time she opened her mouth?” He laughs in a rush of air, the force of it ringing in my ears ……

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“Shhh don’t try to talk,” a gentle voice murmurs close to my ear and I awake, thrown from the warmth of my dreams into a cold, heartless place where nothing existed but pain.  Every inch of my body felt alive with fire, with agony and I couldn’t seem to give it a voice. There is a radio or television on somewhere nearby, the baritone of the newscaster carving on my mind with every word.  Through the pain-haze I heard, “Join us at 7 pm tonight, an update with Robbie Harrison, Chief of Police on the disappearance of Carter McMasters and updates on Roberta McMasters’ condition.”

“where am I?” That doesn’t sound like me, not my own familiar voice but some shattered and dusty rasp that scratched like a match on my throat. The strong antiseptic smell stings my nose and makes my eyes burn with the pain of all hell and damnation. Through a haze I see a shadow moving at my side, the pain in my head blurring the vision further.  “Sending you to hell bitch. Enjoy the trip.”  My hand scrambles for the call button to summon someone to my aid when the door to my room slides open.

“Chief? It’s time.”

TTPG edited-1

The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Created by Matt Farnsworth ©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
The Orphan Killer 2
Bound x Blood
Created by Matt Farnsworth
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
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