Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I (6 page)

Communicating
only with the man, the creature revealed a choice; two types of
torture, either physical or mental. Either for eternity or until
the creature got bored; whichever came first. The stunning creature
showed him a vision of its last guest. He had chosen the mental
torment. He'd stayed for a mere 8 years before his release, a
pittance in cosmic terms. That guest had been a boring, sour man,
so the creature had almost been glad to see him go.

The man
pondered his choice for a while. The decision was a difficult one
to make. Soon he knew what he would do though, he was the man, so
he would bear the physical pain. She could deal with the mental
part, he on the other hand, did not think he could bear to see such
maddening sights. No, that was not possible. He looked at the
creature and worldlessly made his choice. His sultry gaolor gave
him a grin and turned again to face his lover.

The creature then
secretly revealed the same choice to her. It showed to her mind the
same images it had shown him – those of its last pained guest. She
too decided to bear the physical torment, she was neither big nor
strong, but she knew that women could endure much greater pain than
men. Besides, she couldn't bear to see such maddening sights. It
was his fault. She had been minding her business in bed, and then
just woken up here. She'd told him about the
damn
è
d house. She
had. All she had done was wait for pizza. She made her choice, just
as he had made his.

In that
moment, the creature cackled with a devilish grin. In a manner
suggestive of a great invisible orchestra the creature swung its
arms through the air with vigor. The two prisoners stared horrified
at the air which shimmered ever faster. The pair felt the
creature's inner inferno grow, warming their surroundings. The
woman's shackles disappeared, and she tried to run to her beloved.
No luck. With a flick of the wrist, the creature made her sit. A
seat appeared to catch her rear just before it hit the ground. With
another flick of the wrist, the creature materialized another chair
for the man too and also made him sit. Carved out channels ran the
length of the seats. With a third, final, flick of the wrist, the
creature made spikes pop up from each chair's falsely flat face.
The spikes first pressed into their skin. The blunt tips did not
penetrate, they just pressed uncomfortably. The creature smiled,
and the pressure grew, creating thousands of pain points all over
their bodies. The pair were too pained even to scream. The creature
laughed hatefully at their contorted faces.

The beast
raised its arms, the spikes rose, and this time sharpened, finally
penetrating them. The spikes punctured their tensed skin, and so
their blood began to flow. Deep red juices trickled through the
canals, and down into bowls at their feet. Neither one of them
welcomed this warm foot bath. Both of them tried to yell at the top
of their lungs, hoping, more than they had ever hoped for anything,
that they'd be heard, that they'd be saved, but only a pitiful,
minute, stifled yelp escaped. A grave mistake. Each sound made the
little lances rise further, resulting only in more agony and blood,
so they stopped trying to shout. Their hearts beat rapidly, so
rapidly that like a hummingbird hearts they buzzed.

Confusion set
in and their clothes began to darken with sweat. The creature
winked at the man, and then at the woman. Two transparent tubes
rose from the ground, from betwixt the blood filled bowls. The pair
were now lightheaded, as a result of having lost much life force.
The tubes hovered above their heads. They dared not look up, but
even so they sensed the conduits' presence. The creature laughed
and walked over briskly, it put a hand on each of their heads and
closed its eyes. One pointed claw upon each hand glowed, red hot.
Bald circles formed where the hairs were singed away. The air
filled with the putrid scent of burnt keratin. With one of its
claws, the creature traced circles upon each scalp, the extreme
heat of cut through the bone with ease, simultaneously carving and
cauterizing. The creature removed the bone plugs from each
trepanned lover. It grabbed the hovering tubes and shoved them into
the pulsing exposed pink matter. The tubes squelched into place.
The two had begun to fade from life, they both panted rapidly, as
though unable to gain enough air; their hearts fluttered even
faster than before. Neither one was sufficiently awake to do much,
but the violent cerebral intrusions brought them both back to life
with haste. They sat more upright than they ever had before,
hopeless eyes telegraphed horror. Blood began to mystically be
pumped from the ever fuller bowls back into their wretched bodies.
The creature giggled, elated at its vile creation. Though stuck to
spiked seats the lovers exchanged glances, now that they had
sufficient sentience to move once more. Great anger showed on their
faces as they realized the creature's cruel trick, and the choice
the other'd made. The gleeful monster snapped its fingers, and
great silver screens materialized before their eyes. They played
each fight, each lie, each regretted action and inaction endlessly.
From harmless white lies to sordid affairs, like Vine loops the
images played out for them again, and again, and again. Endless
past deceits droned upon the screen, dispensing pure despair. Each
replayed flirtatious thought sent pangs of pain through each lover.
The creature was elated, everything had worked out marvelously
well.

Unbeknownst
to the pair, the creature's bowls collected chemicals too, storing
them in perfect crystal towers. CB1 & 2, GABA, Dopamine,
Oxytocin, and Endorphins; all formed colorful and crooked spikes
within the deep red liquid. Even serotonin and adrenaline
collected, slowly but surely. The two could not feel it, not at the
speed at which their blood was depleted. But they would as time
went on, joy literally leeched from their life-force. They would
little be able to resist the creatures cruel contraption. The
attractive antediluvian monster bade its time, waiting, that it
might sample, might smoke and partake of their bodily delights once
more, as it had with so many vulgar guests before.

I need it
out. It has to go. I can't live like this anymore. It needs to be
gone, now and forevermore. I cannot be alone nor can I be with
others. My very thoughts are a danger, at least that's what they
say.

I want to
kill. I want to maim. I want torture; I want fame.

There's
nothing quite like the destruction of innocence. My fun hobby and
my most favored friend. I long to watch souls shatter by my will
alone. I long for it now, just as I longed for it then. I long for
that pained cry, the cracking of bone, the youthful, bright, red
drops of blood! Oh, how I need it. How I lust! I crave to curate
their curiosity. I want to see their stupid writhing, when through
their skin I slice. I want to feel the sheer wrongness of my most
righteous acts once more. But I can't. I have to dig deep within
myself to stop, that's what they said, so that's what I'll do. I
can bear this cell no more.

The sharp
steel edge caressing my temple is cold. At least this is happening
on my terms, not those of yet another quack. I can't even bear the
very thought of more medics interfering with me. The cut is
painless, I sharpened the blade well; you can still see where I
stropped it on the well polished concrete floor. I guess the lack
of pain is no surprise, not after five Percs anyway. Even though I
write this painlessly, I can still feel hot liquid stream down my
face. It splatters below me, on the floor, an abstract
expressionist mess, it drips & drops. Good. I feel dizzy, but
this will fix me. I don't want it, but I need it, so I must. My
teeth grind like millstones against my will, exemplars of my
disheartened disposition, as I peel back the flap of skin on my
temple. I feel the tugging of skin trying to grip the bone beneath,
trying not to leave, it's quite disconcerting. At least I'll be
better, not that I'm not good, oh I am, I am perfect, but then I
will be like the others. They tell me if I am they'll let me go,
they'll even let me take my kids to a show.

In front of
me, I've laid out misshapen makeshift chisels and small hammers.
This is the part I dread the most. This is the part which makes me
write this letter, made just for you, for your delight, it is here
in case something goes amiss, in case my head dares, in case it
resists. I wish my bones popped gladly like other people's,
instead, they just snap like stale bread.

The man
relinquished his pen and cast his gaze upon his chisels and
hammers. He grabbed a punch and placed its sharp tip against his
temple. He began tapping it with his small plastic hammer. Tap.
Tap. Tap. With each tap he hit harder, his skull was one tough
motherfucker.

I write this
not but think it still. I feel each tap reverberate through my
head. I feel the vibrations rattle my grill, I feel my eyes swim in
their sockets. I have to hit harder.

TAP. TAP.
TAP.

TAP. TAP.
TAP.

TAP. TAP.
TAP.

CRACK.

Thank
goodness, I'm through. No more of this wretched life. I cannot help
but sway a little. Though I have not lost life, dizziness pervades
me still. The hot stream on my face trickles faster now, I feel the
bottom, there where a brown crust had briefly formed, now new fluid
flows, refilling dried red riverbed. The custodian won't be happy,
but fuck him he's a cunt. I pry the bones off my temple with the
sharp corner of a chisel. I can feel a chill pass between my ears.
My brain finally sees the light, after so long so lonely, just
hidden away in the dark, finally, it gets out to play. I can feel
it now; my finger's going in.

The folds are
soft, they're moist, they're warm. There it is. Now I know where it
must go. The cold air makes my finger feel as though I've just
pulled it from a glass of water, and yet the gelatinous brain goo
dares not evaporate off it, instead it oozes onto the concrete
table and the floor. My practice is paying off. My procedures on
others were mere perfected preparations for this final crucial
operation. Now it is time, time for the chisel, now it is time for
the fix. It's cold. Colder than my finger. I can feel the steel
traverse each fold, each micrometer of my monstrous thinking
machine.

Chisel brain
hurt. What
‽
No!
Missed!
Demon there. Inside. MUST STOP!
CHISEL brain. BREAK demon soul. NO NO NO.

His ability
to speak became more and more impaired, as he lobotomized himself
further and further. The steel chisel blended the contents of his
head into a lukewarm strawberry smoothie colored pulp. Soon enough
his whole face began to droop. Within minutes, he died.

He was a good
boy, he never got involved in fights, he never did drink, he didn't
even do drugs. That's why it was so unusual that he had fallen for
her. She wasn't 'a good girl', her tattoos told tales of proscribed
memberships, and pinpoint pupils disclosed her pastimes, her
slurred speech told tales of many a good day and night.

Perhaps it
would've been better if they'd never met. She was bad to the bone,
but she had much good in her heart. She spent a lot of her time
helping others. She had a strong personality, addiction never stuck
no matter how many binges she went on. Her memberships were used
foster peace, not war. Ganglands had enough of the latter already;
she was that good which existed to balance the bad.

He was the
bad. According to society's mores, he was very good indeed. Well
bred, well read, well educated, and well fed. He was very good at
what he did, but his heart was not. He was bitter, he was jealous,
and he was angry. He would not be, and he could not be 'bad', but
by 'zounds he wanted to. He, unlike she, did not know himself well.
He often found himself obsessing, addicted even to thoughts.
Perhaps it would have been better if they'd never met, but they
had.

She kept him
from her awful trap, from the all-encompassing game, she knew the
strength it called for, and she knew he didn't have it. She could
not explain why they'd come together as they had, she just knew
they had.

He didn't
want this, he wanted the glamorous needles, the precious pale
powders, and pressed pills, he wanted it all. One day he stole her
horse and rode it into the wild blue yonder. He loved it, and so
needed more. He quivered in anticipation. He needed her contacts,
but they would deal with him only if she was gone. A call, and a
scaly-tailed tip later, and soon she was. Hustled away by
well-armed tax collecting swine. He wanted it, and now, finally, he
had it.

She'd wanted
nothing but to help. Now, and for the next 10-15 years, all she
would be able to do was help caged birds imagine they could fly. He
made his dreams come true and finally became bad, no longer good
even by the surrounding sociocultural standards. He had that which
he sought, and as an extra boon he was rid of the whore. He was
happy to start, but the horse was very tall, so he had trouble
getting off. Within months, he would be found slain in a ditch,
with a needle in arm, thrown violently from his horse.

"Junkies...all the same” the EMTs will remark. As they shoo
scavenging flies away from his splayed cadaver.

Sunny days
were his favorite, they were perfect. Just him and bright beautiful
rays which shone down upon all. People were out and about,
frolicking children and pets sheltered smiles from thoughts of the
long winter months which lay ahead. It was a shame he had to be
cooped up on a day as wonderful as this. It was a perfect day, that
made him happy. To be fair he was, generally, quite happy. Indeed,
he often walked with an all too literal spring in his
step.