Dödens konst - min första novell!
It was a perfect night. The mist made it look like a scene from The Exorcist, making it impossible to identify anyone’s face unless they stood under a street lamp or next to you. Everything was going planned, every little detail attached to my mind, tattooed, scarred. Though it wasn’t unpleasant, no, the exact opposite, it was joy, a sanctuary, his altar of sanctuary. She seemingly slowly opened her car door, left the vehicle, turned around and locked the car. Her old ford was looking like a moped with a roof. She looked right at my direction, giving me a small shiver down my spine of enjoyment. Even though she never looked directly at me or suspected what was going to happen, I sometimes wish they would. It would give the chase a more danger to it, a cat and mouse game. Of course I would win, since I have been planning this for almost 3 weeks, watching her every move. Little innocent Audrey Jefferson, only 16 year olds. She was soon about to experience the worst time of her life.
The time had come. She was walking upwards on a deserted street during mid day. I love to get them in the middle of suns smile, when they though they were safe unlike at night, to shatter their illusion of security. Suddenly she stops in the middle of a move, turning her head at my direction. Of course there were nothing odd by having a fellow citizen walking on a public road, but Audrey knew something was wrong. The blood rushed to my head, my palms started to sweat, my heart beating faster and my hands shaking. Oh God, this is the rush, this is what I want from life! I felt my breathing become faster and heavier as I approached her, my hand suddenly steady as I was about to set in moves what I have been planning for weeks. I slowly grab my wooden billy club. She saw me. My heart rushed once more straight to my head, causing me to breathe even heavier. She started to run down the paved sidewalk, jay-crossing, zick-zacking. I let her run, I would get her soon enough, the closer to my van as possible, the easier it would be. Besides, I wouldn’t want to ruin it, the chase was a part of the game, a huge element of my sick fetish. Run Audrey, run, hahahaha. She didn’t have a good condition thanks to the facts that she had gotten a car and smoking secretly. She would soon run tired, look for a shelter to hide and call 911. I was jogging behind her, hiding behind houses, cars, trees or any other object that could hide me from her eyesight. I have to make a move soon, otherwise she might bump into someone. And also, who would their right mind would reject a panicked crying beauty ready to offer anything for a temporary safety? Yes, I have to make my move. She was slowing down, outside a big yellow house with a white door and big windows. A small garage with 2 cars outside of it, she hid between them. A smooth breeze just came flying by from north, carrying with it the scent of gasoline and food. I came by her side, crouching next to the big family Mercedes, having my billy club ready for attack. I could hear drawing small panicked breathes, smelling of sweat and fear. She was kneeling, peeping her head so she could barely see around the car corner, looking in vain for the villain attempting to harm her. Oh, this was beautiful, better than planned, better than anything else. I arose, feeling my presence getting larger, my hand be the judge of her life and death. I walked up slowly to her, without attempting to crouch to hide my shadow or walking easy to cover up the sound of my steps. I want her to know, I need her to know is going on, what rage will be unleashed upon her. She turned around against me with, her whole face turning pale as a corpse, eyes shining with fear, almost popping out of her head. Her mouth was open, yet she was not breathing, small saliva dripping down on her hands and clothes. I took my time, I stood watching her for a good 10 seconds before she left her paralysation, a state of trance. She was so beautiful and innocent, wishing this moment would last forever. Unfortunately it did not and my kick landed perfectly on her small chin, breaking it to piece with a shattering noise. I approached slowly, making sure to savour the moment. I raised my billy club, hitting her as hard as I could on her back, snapping her spine, forever preventing her to walk again. Loved it.
I wouldn’t finish her quick, I refused to. No, I would take my time, she cost me a lot of effort and time. Why did I do this to her? It’s not like the movies where I hate innocence or she’s been bad so I have to punisher. This doesn’t involve religion, philosophy or hate. I enjoy killing. I love every moment of the chase; every moment of the pain and suffering they felt which was displayed in their eyes. That me, a humble citizen, brother of democracy, son of humanity, could cause someone so harm, kill them, be their God and personal devil at the same time. Yes, I was truly their God. They would obey, worship and cast away every sense of morality and honour just to escape my claws. Am I a power freak? Yes. But some people like to cook for other, other likes to fight, some people snort heroin and others bungee jump, I kill. It feels somehow like a private moment between me and my ¨victim¨. In a world like this, when human kind is so shielded against all kind emotions, more than 10 wars active, I like the fact that I can bring some feelings into them, causing them to feel. They all say they care about the poverty in Africa, they want to end the war in Iraq and eliminate terrorism, they don’t give a fuck. We donate 20 dollars that the company takes 18 dollars of to sponsor their company, making it bigger and better with new commercials of children at 4 year olds with bulking stomachs and flies around them.
Pain and pain, two very different feelings. One can make you scream in agonizing torture, while another can bring you a satisfaction of feeling something new, different. I am not a crazy man, I work 9 to 5, I have a house with a two small cars and a garage with a fancy backyard. My daughter just finished high school and my son got his first tooth last week. So what am I? I like to bring pain to people, not the comforting, pleasing and loving side of it. No, I want people to burn, that I can cause them so much misery with just my hands or tools shaped and mined from mother earth. If I could possibly perform my hobby without causing them death or hinder them from calling 911, I would gladly do it, I don’t care. I am incapable of feeling sympathy for another human being, and I have to say I don’t want it any other way. But the thought of me being able to cause a family so much harm without indirectly having contact with any of them except maybe their son, forever vanishing his material remains off the face of the earth. That I can deny another being possibilities to such overrated feelings such as love, compassion, success of failure. That I, a simple man, can have such a huge impact, cause distortion within society, injecting fear into others by not even touching them, having a conversation with them or any form or contact, makes me shiver down my spine out of please. This is how God must feel like, I can strike and punish, release and liberate people from their material obsession by a few simple moves with my hand.
She is in my basement, a cold gray underground room filled with thick air and dried blood. There’s small blood stains on the floor and walls, mostly around a table of mine. Surrounding the table there is several straps and a small pillow for my visitors pleasure. I have a small poster on the wall with a cat hanging on a string with his upper paws, holding himself up with every ounce of strength he has, with the ironic words saying, *Hang In There*. I don’t know why I have that poster, it’s made in 1987 so the cat is probably dead and buried by now. Besides the poster I have several shelves with all kind of objects on them, duct tape, jigsaw, knifes, surgical instruments, hammer and plastic clothes for me when I am performing my art, just to name few of the stuff. Audrey is already tied on the table, still passed after the hit on her jaw, which broke it into several pieces. I enter the room slowly, unwilling to break the tension in the air, burst the bubble. I put my Billy club on one of my many shelves, strip down to my bare skin and put my plastic clothes. When all is set and done, she is still passed out and I am currently about to lose my patience for this girl. I pull a chair and sit down, north of her head. One hour passes. Two hour passes. That’s it! I poke her carefully in the solar plexus, hoping for some kind of reaction. She was still passed out. I slap her hard in the face, swearing and promising hours of torture due to her behavior. She wakes up slowly, opens her eyes mechanically, taking a handful of eyesight in a few seconds. Now her eyes are immediately shining of fear and panic. She didn’t scream, no, she started breathing heavier and heavier, letting out small moans of despair.
- W hat is this?
She whispers so lovely, so softly. Her lips were cracked wide open, showing pink flesh. Small blood was dripping out of the side of her mouth now, but she paid no attention to it. I stand up slowly, approach her side and she spots me. She does not scream, she just looks at me like a frightened animal.
Is that not what we all are, back to basics? Are we not all animals with animal instincts? Not anymore, greed, selfishness and crave for the best has taken over our heritage, our past. I want to soothe her, promise her that she will be all right, more than all right. She will live happily with a famous movie star, going on the red carpet on the premier day of the best movies, make commercials for the best make-up factories, she will ride the best cars In the world and have 250 millions in the bank, sitting on their ass doing nothing. So I tell her, whisper her gently in her ear of all the beautiful things that will yet to come, how she will see society evolve, how all the new fancy inventions will be hers. I promise her a life on the beach full of laziness, laid back with a glass of wine watching the sun go down while sitting on her porch with her dog and faithful husband. She starts to cry, small tears slipping down the sides of her eyes, clearing a path through the blood in dried in her face, almost trying to erase what really happened. She looks at me again, this time not with loathing or fear, but with love and hope. How easy I can manipulate her emotions. She starts letting out relieved cracks of laughs. In the middle of my speech to her, I start patting her head, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. Suddenly, I grab a hold of her hair and pull with all my strength. A fistful of hair follows my move and she screams in pain. It left an ugly baldness on her otherwise pretty blond hair. The head quickly turning red, as trying to give me the red light for doing this to her, mocking me. I do it again, she screams, and I do it again. I turn my back on her, not so I can avoid my masterpiece, no, so I can get my instrument to work on it. I grab my tong and start slowly working on her nails. Driving the lower side of it under her nail, pressing it together and pulling it out. Blood quickly starts sipping down her finger. I move on, doing so on her every finger and toe. She has not energy at the end of it to scream; only breathe heavily and crying softly. I throw my tong on the ground, filled with too much passion and joy to possibly think about placing it carefully on one of the shelves. I grab my jigsaw, a metallic piece with sharp tooth’s going zigzag. I place it carefully on her toes, starting to move it frantically back and forth, cutting through bone and flesh, accompanied by the sweet opera of her voice singing out the agony out loud. I start whistling, not to make fun of her, but to my joy. After I finished working on her toes, you can see liters of blood that have rushed down, skin hanging by the side and white bone covered In blood, unable to stick on it. I put my jigsaw on her wrist, she is almost dying now, but nonetheless I will continue, I start again mechanically cutting through veins, muscle and flesh. I take my big wooden axe aim carefully on her throat, lifting it with my both arms, drawing it back so it almost touches my back and snaps with a tremendous power, still not separating it. She starts to get violent spasm, making gurgling sounds when the amount of blood getting down her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Once a human, now a bloody mess of flesh and muscle, in disorder and covered in blood. One hand missing, one foot missing and no nails. I sit back on my chair, refusing to interrupt or have any contact with her last moments alive. She dies slowly and painfully, full of spasm, shattering blood all around my floor and me. It’s all right, I forgive you Audrey, still you gave me a lot of joy.
Two hours later, I have cut her corpse into 8 little pieces. The head going for my trophy room where she will eternally rest with 53 other experiments. I send the hand with the purple nail polish to her family. I am tired, I want to go to sleep.
Skriven av: baraa al
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En kvinna mitt i livet som lever med psykisk ohälsa. Har så länge jag kan minnas använt skrivandet som min terapi. Varje fredag kommer jag även att publicera mina fredagstankar, där jag bollar mina…Fredrik Trulsson