The Sharpest Lives

The head hung before me. It hadn't been cut cleanly, the bottom edge of the neck that was dripping with blood was zig-zagged and uneven. There was blood pouring from it like a tap, forming a small river on the ground. Its eyes were wide open, staring at me with a glare of utter terror. Its mouth hung loosely open, as if having gone limp after a wild scream. It was dangling from its hair that was matted with blood already starting to clot. I looked at the hand holding it. It was hard, the knuckles broad but also white as it was holding the head's hair with such grip. I followed up the arm, hair covering all of it like a gorilla's own arm. The man was grinning madly at me, his eyes that of a lunatic. His hair was greasy, incredibly so, and streaked back. He had no beard. Gazing into his eyes, they looked empty and unwhole. He sent a shiver down my spine.

He waved the head at me as though it was a gift and not a grotesque bodypart. He nodded at me to take it.

"No." I murmured.

He threw his head back and cackled wildly. I jumped and fell back a few steps. He strode into my room, holding the head before him. I glanced down at his other arm and saw my Dad's hacksaw in it, soaked in blood. It dripped down onto my beige carpet, sickly staining it. He walked past me, standing in the middle of the room, and sat on the bed, spinning round onto it so he was sitting cross-legged in the centre of it facing me. He chucked the head at me, laughing wildly. It came soaring towards me, but I couldn't dodge it as I was frozen with shock and fear. In my imagination i heard it yelling at me, willing me to die. It smashed into my stomach, knocking me back a few steps. I felt ill. I spun round and dropped to the floor, as puke gushed from my mouth. My eyes closed and the world went dark as I fell to the sound of a psycho's laughter...