Status: In development!
A Goddamn Moskal
A tragedy.
The torturer slowly reached for the old rustic blanket, drenched in dried blood and other human substances. His victim saw a chance for a brief moment of relief and inhaled deep, and as fast his lungs would allow him. The next move left the victim in shock; In the blink of an eye the torturer had rammed a flimsy old screwdriver into the man’s side. The sharp object penetrated just below the victims armpit, perfectly sliding in between the man’s bruised ribs and almost certainly puncturing his right lung. The victim convulsed as his breathing came heavier and heavier. The cold steel tool left the man utterly stunned. His body couldn’t comprehense the fierce move made by the torturer, who now stood watching over the battered man as he struggled to keep his calm. The torturer didn’t even flinch as he gazed upon his horrendous act, all there was, was a serene smile, a sense of pride in his work. He hummed, as If to confirm to himself that this truly was the work of an artist.
“Too much blood.” The torturer confirmed putting the horrible blanket to the victims face scrubbing vigorously, yet with a painters touch. The man’s face slowly turned red and swollen from the vigorous thrashing. “Like a crisp, freshly picked apricot.” The torturer acknowledged the victims face, mostly a vulgar speckled red, with a hint of yellow around the eyes and corners of his face. The victim gathered his scrambled thoughts in an attempt to cry out to his capturer, but all he could compose vocally were dry upheavals that continued in a seemingly endless series, the next one heavier than the other. The torturer didn’t move a muscle upon his pale sweaty face. He sat in front of his victim, staring at him with eager anticipation, as calm as you would be waiting for a late night bus. The victim stared back at him, his body and mind fought a gruesome civil war inside his torn body. He met his torturer’s face and couldn’t help but to sob silently as his every shard of broken hope got swept up by the man’s serene look of calm. He wanted to scream, but as his throat opened up for that gruesome outcry, his mouth filled with a warm salty fluid that spat out unto the torturer’s face and ran down his chin and onto his lap. He didn’t close his mouth, instead he kept his forced and muffled scream going as his eyes clogged up with tears and his nose with snot.
“There we go!”
Never had he been in a situation such as this. He hung upside down, arms tied firmly behind his back. His body was naked and cold in the damp basement. He gazed up at his feet, around his ankles were thin steelcables slowly tearing into his bare flesh. The pure sight induced a sudden fright within the man, he couldn’t quite get what he was feeling. He could only acknowledge the fact that his feet were slowly being separated from his cold legs. He averted his sight and hurried to grasp his scrambled thoughts. He looked around for something to cut the cables with, but in his vicinity was nothing, and even if there was, he still wouldn’t be able to use it. Before anything else was cooked up inside his dizzy mind, a heavy robust door opened infront of him, and in came a man. The man stepped inside with hurried steps and rammed a shiny steel knife into the hanging man’s leg. The victim witnessed the deed and could do nothing else but to watch and cringe at the pain that never came. The man backed up as if to examine his victim. The dried thigh of the victim felt sore, but no breathtaking pain could be felt sweeping through his body. He looked at the shiv, it looked as though it had cut through some sort of thick dough, only a few scarce droplets of blood made their way out of the small, but deep puncture. The victim had a hard time breathing, but not of pain, no, you see there was no pain to be had as the blood in his veins hadn’t flowed through his legs for God knows how long. The torturer approved of what he saw and hurried out through the door. The victim had constant shivers hurrying through his body but it didn’t quite satisfy his needs. He was left with a body that now constantly convulsed at the mere thought of that cold steel shiv in his thigh. Back in came the torturer, a bright light shun behind him, exclaiming his figure into something of pure horror. The victim couldn’t help but to stare at the vicious creature. The dark figure moved closer, fixing his gaze at his victim’s throat. As the figure clenched his massive fist around the victims lower cheek, he couldn’t help but to scream, the victim.
"Still!" The figure exclaimed.
The sudden command had an immense authority behind it, and the victim obediently followed, yet his muffled screams and cries went on. He took two quick snips, and the victims head lost all its balance. His head now hung loosely as you might with your hand to relax it, although his head wouldn’t move, no matter how much he tried. His two sinus' connecting his head to his chest cavity, had gone, and a warm stream of blood came flowing down.
"D’you know what you are?"
The victim hung silent.
"Art! That’s what you are my numb human. If not for society’s pesky moralities, I hope you will understand my, perhaps violent, resolve. Art will not stand idly by while this country slowly losses it’s cultural heritage! Do not cry my fellow comrade, you are a fine specimen, an excellent piece of art! "
The man’s head bubbled with feelings, many of which he could not express, repressed by trauma and terror.
"Now! For your ultimate performance. The one that shines brighter than any other of your propaganda fueled acts of repression!"
The torturer had fetched a wheelchair, a rusty old thing, the wheels screeched in their axels as they rode on dry and cracked rubber. With an uncontrolled fall, the man hit the ground. And even though he acknowledged the pain of his brow hitting the concrete floor, he remained in apathy. He was making his peace with his gods now, excluded from his physical bonds. He pledged to gods he had never known, never cared for. He stood before their judgement, drowning in sin. Hollow eyes did meet his perspiring gaze, and he realized he would never be forgiven. He came back to this world as rain struck his tilted head. All he wanted to do was to stand up and be far away, where peace and quiet ascended all else, a place of love and understanding. But he realized he could not reach such a place, and little more deserve it. He saw his mother one last time, as his body was strung up on billboard advertising his best play.
A tragedy.
“Too much blood.” The torturer confirmed putting the horrible blanket to the victims face scrubbing vigorously, yet with a painters touch. The man’s face slowly turned red and swollen from the vigorous thrashing. “Like a crisp, freshly picked apricot.” The torturer acknowledged the victims face, mostly a vulgar speckled red, with a hint of yellow around the eyes and corners of his face. The victim gathered his scrambled thoughts in an attempt to cry out to his capturer, but all he could compose vocally were dry upheavals that continued in a seemingly endless series, the next one heavier than the other. The torturer didn’t move a muscle upon his pale sweaty face. He sat in front of his victim, staring at him with eager anticipation, as calm as you would be waiting for a late night bus. The victim stared back at him, his body and mind fought a gruesome civil war inside his torn body. He met his torturer’s face and couldn’t help but to sob silently as his every shard of broken hope got swept up by the man’s serene look of calm. He wanted to scream, but as his throat opened up for that gruesome outcry, his mouth filled with a warm salty fluid that spat out unto the torturer’s face and ran down his chin and onto his lap. He didn’t close his mouth, instead he kept his forced and muffled scream going as his eyes clogged up with tears and his nose with snot.
“There we go!”
Never had he been in a situation such as this. He hung upside down, arms tied firmly behind his back. His body was naked and cold in the damp basement. He gazed up at his feet, around his ankles were thin steelcables slowly tearing into his bare flesh. The pure sight induced a sudden fright within the man, he couldn’t quite get what he was feeling. He could only acknowledge the fact that his feet were slowly being separated from his cold legs. He averted his sight and hurried to grasp his scrambled thoughts. He looked around for something to cut the cables with, but in his vicinity was nothing, and even if there was, he still wouldn’t be able to use it. Before anything else was cooked up inside his dizzy mind, a heavy robust door opened infront of him, and in came a man. The man stepped inside with hurried steps and rammed a shiny steel knife into the hanging man’s leg. The victim witnessed the deed and could do nothing else but to watch and cringe at the pain that never came. The man backed up as if to examine his victim. The dried thigh of the victim felt sore, but no breathtaking pain could be felt sweeping through his body. He looked at the shiv, it looked as though it had cut through some sort of thick dough, only a few scarce droplets of blood made their way out of the small, but deep puncture. The victim had a hard time breathing, but not of pain, no, you see there was no pain to be had as the blood in his veins hadn’t flowed through his legs for God knows how long. The torturer approved of what he saw and hurried out through the door. The victim had constant shivers hurrying through his body but it didn’t quite satisfy his needs. He was left with a body that now constantly convulsed at the mere thought of that cold steel shiv in his thigh. Back in came the torturer, a bright light shun behind him, exclaiming his figure into something of pure horror. The victim couldn’t help but to stare at the vicious creature. The dark figure moved closer, fixing his gaze at his victim’s throat. As the figure clenched his massive fist around the victims lower cheek, he couldn’t help but to scream, the victim.
"Still!" The figure exclaimed.
The sudden command had an immense authority behind it, and the victim obediently followed, yet his muffled screams and cries went on. He took two quick snips, and the victims head lost all its balance. His head now hung loosely as you might with your hand to relax it, although his head wouldn’t move, no matter how much he tried. His two sinus' connecting his head to his chest cavity, had gone, and a warm stream of blood came flowing down.
"D’you know what you are?"
The victim hung silent.
"Art! That’s what you are my numb human. If not for society’s pesky moralities, I hope you will understand my, perhaps violent, resolve. Art will not stand idly by while this country slowly losses it’s cultural heritage! Do not cry my fellow comrade, you are a fine specimen, an excellent piece of art! "
The man’s head bubbled with feelings, many of which he could not express, repressed by trauma and terror.
"Now! For your ultimate performance. The one that shines brighter than any other of your propaganda fueled acts of repression!"
The torturer had fetched a wheelchair, a rusty old thing, the wheels screeched in their axels as they rode on dry and cracked rubber. With an uncontrolled fall, the man hit the ground. And even though he acknowledged the pain of his brow hitting the concrete floor, he remained in apathy. He was making his peace with his gods now, excluded from his physical bonds. He pledged to gods he had never known, never cared for. He stood before their judgement, drowning in sin. Hollow eyes did meet his perspiring gaze, and he realized he would never be forgiven. He came back to this world as rain struck his tilted head. All he wanted to do was to stand up and be far away, where peace and quiet ascended all else, a place of love and understanding. But he realized he could not reach such a place, and little more deserve it. He saw his mother one last time, as his body was strung up on billboard advertising his best play.
A tragedy.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is the first chapter in a story about a serial killer which is an on-going project.Do note that this chapter was at first written as a stand-alone story, and later evolved into a series.