Totenkopf

She was so innocent as she lay there…shaking, shivering against the cold stone floor. The pale and tender nakedness of her body seem to emit it’s own glow, radiating in the predawn light. Every now and then she would moan, crying out through the pain. Crying for help. Her long ebony hair now lay scattered about the floor, basking in the specks of blood that surrounded her. The segment of human flesh he held in his hands was now oiled and dried to perfection. Yet, it seemed to be too small. Too small for him to paint her portrait upon, he realized with utter annoyance. She let out another moan and he gazed up from his busy work. Through the cavernous hole in her side, which had supplied the parchment now resting in his hands, he could see her muscles contracting. Each thin strand of delicately woven nerves and blood vessels danced with her shuddering inhales of breath.

His dark eyes roamed her plump form and he licked his lips. The unique and bountiful curves of her body had not changed since their wedding night. Those days were long gone, when he had taken her, and lain with her, feeling nothing but only the most passionate of all loves. No longer did he bear love for her. Whatever he had felt before was now consumed by the overbearing indifference he felt for all living things. He lazily watched her with growing fascination. She had managed to roll onto her stomach and was attempting to drag herself away, her legs dangling behind her like a lame dog. Where her pallid skin met fog-hat gray, an entanglement of blood and urine lingered.

“Now, now schatzi,” he cooed, albeit it was a smidgen more hoarse than he was aiming for. “Stop dragging yourself so, I need that blood to finish your portrait! Would rather me use pig’s blood?” She opened her mouth to respond, but he interjected, “No, of course not.”

Fluidly he paced across the room, the sound of his metal-rimmed boots drowning out the sounds of her gentle sobbing. He gazed upon her once beautiful face, which was now twisted up to him, contorted by agony and horror. Yes…he could smell it on her. The salty aroma that leaked out of each and every one of her pores; fear. He inhaled deeply, savoring the rush of vigor that erupted through his veins. The beating of his heart escalated to a point where he thought it were about to burst through his ribcage, and he smiled. A profound, throaty laugh sounded from the furthest alcove of his lungs and he gazed at her through the slits of his eyes. Forcefully, he dug the tip of his boot into her exposed muscles and flipped her over onto her back.

Her doe-brown eyes fluttered as she attempted to force out another scream, but her strength and color appeared to be waning. “Mmm…you fear death, yes? There is no reason to fear the inevitable,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You are going to die one day, so why not today, liebling?”

“Adel…bitte.”

“Adel…bitte,” he sneered, mimicking her tone. “You should feel special, really Alize. Out of all the women I could have taken down here, I chose you.”

She took in a struggling breath, her lip trembled, but she said nothing. She had not the strength to answer, but feebly looked up to him.

“Don’t fret,” he said with mock sincerity, squatting so that she was within reach. He placed a tender hand against her clammy forehead and grazed her skin lightly with his thumb. His tone was soft but hollow, “My love, my dearest Alize. Soon you will no longer be in pain, I will take it all away.”

It was of no surprise when she lent into his touch; when her almond shaped eyes trembled closed in ignorant reassurance. She was foolish and there was no doubting that. Alize had always been naive, with the bright-eyed optimism and stupidity of youth. After all, she had been raised in a pacifistic Judaic household. Her father worked as a Rabbi at the local synagogue while her mother helped Alize with her home studies. She had never truly seen the world as it was, like he saw it. She wrapped the lies of her mother and father around her like a warm blanket, contented by the untruth. That was one of the main things that irked him so about her. She was never willing to open her mind and explore the other various possibilities of life. It was vermin like her that were the essence of repugnance, basking in their foul, close-minded fabrications.

With an annoyed thrust, he rolled his wife to her side so that her back was now facing him. She deserved to see what life truly was, to see underneath the mask such as he did. It was the least he could do.

Wearily he gazed around the room until his dark eyes fell upon two rusted meat hooks, which suspended from the ceiling by metal chains. Maliciously, he knotted his fist through her ebony hair and dragged her limp body to the right-hand corner of the room. In protest of his violent gesture, Alize whimpered, unable to emit anything louder. As he reached the hooks, he abruptly let go, ignoring the crunch as her head hit the concrete. He lifted the hook from the floor and observed its rust-laden surface. Doubtfully, he wondered if the meat hooks were going to be stable enough to support her frame. He shrugged to himself; he was about to find out.

He turned and lowered himself once again to her level. Carefully, he poised the tip of the hook above the calcaneus bone and below the talus bone in her ankle. It would be much easier to puncture if he needn’t drive the weak metal through bone and just perforate the muscles and tendons. With a steady hand he began to drive the hook through her flesh, savoring the pleasure as she screamed in anguish. Her blood was of a deep red and trickled down her pale skin, streaking it more and more as he dug the metal deeper. Once he felt the hook go completely through, he began working on the second ankle until both were pierced and bleeding profusely. He pressed his back against the wall, the pulley for both chains clasped safely in his hand.

Slowly he pulled on the chains, watching in fascination as her body tediously lifted off the ground. Streams of blood rained down from her figure, as she dangled like a gutted pig with no strength to fight, no desire to live. He grazed the white skin of her abdomen with the tips of his fingers, tracing the tantalizing curves of her womanly body.

By now the girl was too tired and deprived of blood to ask him another one of her pointless questions. Her large brown eyes were now half-lidded and murky, cold. Cold like the morning fogs that arrived near the beginning of winter. To ensure that she was still alive, he dug his nail into the soft skin of her temple. Alize answered with a quiet word of disapproval and nothing more. He pulled the leather bound hunters knife from the pocket inside his boot, an old army present from his father. The tip of the blade, although being fervently used, was still sharp and cut his thumb when he tested it.

Without hesitation, he pressed the blade against Alize’s neck. She remained unmoving. Once more he began to apply pressure, perforating both exterior jugular veins as he dragged the blade across. Blood immediately began oozing from the large gash in her larynx, and he reached for his paint bowl, intent on filling the entire thing. As blood began to fill her airway, she fought for breath, inhaling and choking upon large quantities of her own fluids. It trickled from the corner of her trembling lips and onto the concrete floor. It didn’t take too long for her to die. With one final shudder, she went entirely limp, her mouth and eyes agape, forever preserving her final moments.

“What an extraordinary ending,” he said blankly, “for such an ordinary girl.”

For a split second he felt sympathy for her, but shook his head roughly to banish the thought. He needn’t think of that. Besides, he had a portrait to start.