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Friday, 4 March 2005
The Hand That Breathes
Friday hits me in the face like a brick. My eyes open and adjust to my surroundings with a little confusion. Cramp pains swarm over my body, sending shocks of pain up my spine as I attempt to move from the bathroom floor. My naked body is coated in a thick layer of blood from the torso down. The linoleum bathroom floor looks like that of an abattoirs floor. I slowly ease myself up out of my sitting position using the side of the bath as support. My body tells me it's still early, but I'm not sure exactly how early it is. I move through to the bedroom, glancing at the digital alarm clock by my bedside. The LCD face reads 7.16am. Plenty of time to shower and prepare for work, perhaps even enough time to sort out the state of the bathroom. I decide I will definitely go in to work today.
I return again to the bathroom and start to run a warm shower. Whilst the water warms up, I peer into the mirror above the sink. My reflection is a disturbing one, a mass of blood splatters and thick red smears covering my entire body, even over my face somehow. My newly sewed nipple appears as just a large congealed mess of blood at the moment. My eyes meet those in my reflection, and pause there for a second. The dark pupils seem to bore a hole deep into me, searching deeper and deeper. I stand hypnotised by my own reflection for a second, until I suddenly break the hold I have on myself and turn away towards the shower.
I draw back the shower curtain and step in to the steaming shower, adjusting the dial to find the right temperature. The warm water stings my chest wound as the water thunders down on to the raw flesh. I try to encourage more water over the wound to clear away the clotted mess of blood. The water runs a cloudy red colour from the nipple area, small pieces of bloody scab falling away every few seconds, until the dark purple nipple is finally uncovered. The stitching looks amateurish with haphazard stitches falling at all angles from the outline of the newly transplanted nipple. The black cotton looks a mess, coated in a layer of the congealed blood. I bring the flesh around the area taught with my left hand in an attempt to enable a better view of the bloody spot. A sharp burst of pain shoots up from the wound as the raw flesh responds to my touch. I take in a deep breath and return to washing my body down, paying particular attention to avoiding the wounded area.
Showered and clean, I begin the task of cleaning the blood from the bathroom. On hands and knees I scrub at the stained linoleum floor, the cloth I'm using becoming saturated with blood in seconds. I continue scrubbing and rinsing, scrubbing and rinsing until the floor shows no more signs of the bloody activity of the previous night. Whilst cleaning, my hand came across the clotted mound of my previous nipple. Caked in a thick mass of congealed blood, the hard bud held such a strong resemblance to the one now attached to my chest. I decided to see if I can consume the item without retching. Like one would throw a nut in the air to catch in their mouth, I comically do the same with the nipple. As it slaps down in my mouth I grind my teeth down for a second, tasting the rich flavour of my own blood. I inch it to the back of my tongue and swallow hard allowing the blood and saliva to wash it down further. I sit there for several seconds, contemplating what just happened, then return once again to the task of cleaning.
Quarter to nine, I leave the house as normal, heading off for another mundane day at work. The traffic turns out to be fairly moderate, keeping my frustration level low. The day at work passes without incident. The office work seemingly meaningless to me. I leave at the end of the day with only the slightest attempt at a farewell. The weekend is before me and I know that it will hold such delights.
The evening floats along, a ready-meal and some like television to pass the time. I sit on the living room chair, unplugged to the world around me. I idly play with one of the kitchen knifes, spinning the blade end around in the palm of my left had. A bead of red sprouts out from the blades end, slowly collecting into a small pool of the fluid. I gaze down at the cut, still twisting the knife around and around, watching as more of the blood forms in the spot. With my attention completely focused on the cut in my hand, I gradually apply more pressure to the knife handle allowing the turning blade to sink deeper into my palm. Pain like electricity bursts up my arm as the hole become deeper, setting the nerves alive. The blood now mounting at a much faster rate, draws a quivering line down my palm, running of onto my legs. I continue pressing the knife into my flesh, now rubbing the sharp blade up and down the edges of the wound. The flesh opens out like a flower, the skin peeling away from the knifes blade as if trying to escape it's uncaring steel sides. My cutting motions become more erratic, cutting deeper and wider from around the palms centre. Blood flows more freely, the pain mounting into an aching throb that burns up my arm. My mind seems to detach itself from the frenzied activity I'm performing on my hand, as more and more cuts slice through the flesh and muscle. All of a sudden I throw down the blade, the action not entirely conscious. I walk to the kitchen fridge, seeking the polythene packages once again. I take hold of the bag containing the dead boy's lips and return to the armchair collecting up the needle and thread of the previous night. It becomes apparent to myself that tonight will involve a little more body play.
With one of the cold rubbery lips held tight against the mangled flesh of my hand I begin once again to sew. The skin of my hand is tough to pierce each time with the needle, but I persist, watching as the operation takes form. The lips stretch perfectly across the ragged wound on my hand, the cotton holding it down well. I move my fingers, opening and closing the whole hand, watching in fascination at how the new flesh withers then stretches.
I sit back in the chair, my mind swimming with emotions, thoughts and pain. I question what just happened. I now have a pair of dead boys lips, sewn to my left hand, in full view to the world. I glare down at them, seeing how my blood surges up from beneath the stitches. Scotch should numb the pain, but what shall I do with my hand now?
Hours pass by with me still seated on the armchair. The bleeding has since stopped in my hand, the bottle of scotch well on its way to becoming empty. The knife that I used for the cutting still lays waiting on the chair's arm. My thoughts numbed from the scotch I've consumed. The last few hours have been spent contemplating not only the weekend before me, but indeed what to do with my recent activity. A decision made, I grasp the knife's handle in my hand. Barely leaving any time for further consideration, I slash five deep cuts across the surface of my palm, cutting through the lips and my own skin. With fresh blood pouring again from my hand, I wrap a towel around the wounds and reach for more of the scotch. I take gulp after gulp of the fiery liquid until me skull folps back against the back of the chair. My eyes flicker closed.
Sleep pulls me into its restful darkness, as my mind gradually releases its thoughts. A lingering thought stays with me for a minute or two until it is finally swept away. That thought is of my hand, a hope that it will not only heal over soon, but also that it will consume the dead flesh as it mends. Then it would have all been worth while. The darkness of sleeps takes me off and the weekend draws closer.
All work is fictional. Vomited upon the world
at 4:24 PM GMT
Updated: Friday, 4 March 2005 4:27 PM GMT
Thursday, 3 March 2005
A Day Of Rest And A Little Experimentation
A burning blade of light cuts through the partially closed curtains of the living room as consciousness slowly creeps up on me. Straight away I am confronted with that nauseous smell that lingers throughout the flat. My head feels heavy, my body numb. A disturbing throbbing is coming from my stomach, aching into spasms of cramp. Sliding off the chair, I manage to stand somewhat limply on both feet. A faze of dizziness floods my head as I battle to stay erect. My gaze wonders down my body, as memory screams back at me. I stare at my body covered from head to toe in splatterings of blood. The crimson liquid has congealed leaving dark lumpy matter between the creases of my crumpled clothing. My hands are caked in a layer of crusty dark brown that forms sharp white cracks across the surface with every movement. Inspecting my clothing further, I uncover patches of fleshy matter and what I guess are chippings of bone that have found themselves stuck to the fabric of my clothing. I pick one such piece off with my fingers, holding it up to the beam of daylight that cuts through the room. It is a small splinter of creamy white bone with what appears to be yellow fat hanging from its end. I drop it to the floor and stagger towards the kitchen.
The digital display on the microwave reads 11:24am. I stand staring at the time, realising that I am now over two hours late for work. Fuck it, who needs the hassle of a job anyway? My brain slowly attempts to kick-start itself, trying to grasp the situation a little better. Without a job, money would be somewhat of a problem. Not to mention that it holds up a pretence of normality about myself. I decide to phone in sick, claiming bad stomach pains and a general feeling of unwell. The call is taken in a typical robotic fashion by one of my fellow co-workers, her voice never leaving the same dull monotone. I make a promise to be in as soon as I feel better. The conversation is polite and straight to the point; void of individualism, void of personality...nothing but professional.
That done, I take a shower and dress. I stand before the mirror and examine my features, desperately trying to see a glimpse of something dark behind my emotionless eyes. I stare deep into the bloodshot orbs, trying to coax something, anything from them that may suggest something more. Inside I feel drained but alive. I take a step back and run appraising eyes over my features. I return to my own eyes again, trying to read them, searching for a clue of what lies beneath. I am just another question that I hope to answer. I can feel a great changing happening, a mounting potential ripping through my veins, the birth of a demon, created with the eyes of sanity. It surges within me but in my reflection I see nothing.
I leave the bathroom and return to the kitchen to inspect the fridge contents. The polythene bags lie on the shelf, their contents visible through the plastic. I pick out the first meaty package and inspect the contents through it's wrapping, using my hands to feel the cold and tender item within. The tongue feels more rigid than I had expected it to, with a course texture to its surface that catches on the plastic. A rigid cut identifies where the tongue was severed, showing stepped tears from the brutal hacking motion. Dark purple chords flap loosely from the end, smearing a clotted red substance across the polythene interior. I open the re-sealable top, hovering my nose over the bags opening. A faint coppery aroma wafts up from the bag. I retrieve the tongue clasping it's rubbery underside loosely between my fingers. It feels deathly cold as it slips between my fingers. I grasp it tighter, watching as more of the clotted substance falls from it's severed end. Without any further thought, I shove the tongue into my mouth closing my jaw tightly down onto the tough meat. I feel a further squirt within my mouth as I try hard to bite down on the tongue. The tongue feels rubbery and tough, providing a very difficult texture to bite through. I walk through to the living room again, still chewing on the dead boys tongue. I decide that this will be my first piece of cannibalism. And so I persist with gnawing away at the tongue.
The day passes by with little in the way of interest. I watch various daytime television shows that all seem to blend into each other. Glancing down at the cigarette packet resting on the arm of the chair I realise that I have been practically chain-smoking all day. I hope it wasn't a subconscious effort to remove the pungent meaty taste from my mouth. I doubt it. I enjoyed the experience way too much.
I try to collect my thoughts together. Loose fragments of questions float around in my skull. None of them too important. Should I take another one tonight? What exactly should my next stage be? Am I being careful enough? Do I really care?
Time passes by once again. A blur of reality, that only exists through the pointlessness of the days TV shows. And then I'm awake to the world once again. Ready to do something. I decide not to leave the flat, but instead see how fare my play can go with the remaining items in the fridge. I go to the kitchen to retrieve them, collecting together some other items. A half bottle of scotch, a bottle of white spirit, a pack of sewing needles, some thread, scissors, some towels, a selection of kitchen knives and the remains of my cigarettes. With these items placed upon a tray, I take them through to the bathroom, placing them upon the sink top. I remove all my items of clothing and tie back my hair, glancing at my thin reflection in the mirror. Still admiring my thin frame, I reach for one of the kitchen knives, bringing it up to my chest. The fierce white light from the bathrooms bare bulb catches the edge of the blade creating a burst of brilliant bright light. I study the blade's edge in the mirror as it slowly descends towards the flesh of my chest. Angling the knife's tip, I ease it into the side of my right nipple, watching in fascination as a flow of bright red blood pours from the fresh wound. Pain fires up from the cut, increasing as I drag the blade around the outline of the nipple, applying more pressure to the knife as I go around. My senses are ablaze as I finish the circle, staring into the mirrors reflection of my bloody wound. With my left hand still clamped tight against the taught flesh around the nipple, I press the knifes blade deep into the cut, levering out the hard bud as I had the boys eyeball only last night.
A sudden wave of nausea flows over me, sending a spell of dizziness into my head. I find myself desperately clutching at the sink edge, trying to keep my balance as I become increasingly light headed. I allow my eyes to open, my head bowed against the bathroom mirror. As my eyes once again try to focus, a small bright red mound slowly takes shape on the bathroom floor. Resting amongst the blood splattering on the floor, the mound finally takes form as the fleshy remains of my severed nipple. A fresh wave of nausea once again hits me as it dawns on me what I have just done. I lean for the toilet basin, preparing to vomit, looking through blurred eyes as the toilet water is disrupted by specks of dripping blood. Only now do I become aware of the constant bleeding from my chest. I bring my hand up to the wound, smearing the blood away from the hole. I inspect my handy work, watching as more of the crimson fluid pumps from within.
Moving purposefully slowly due to my shaky hands, I reach for the closest polythene bag to me. A quick glance at it confirms the contents to be the darkened remains of the dead boys nipple. I pull open the top of the bag and retrieve the hardened cold nipple. It's texture feels like a strange mix of hard and rough flesh yet still with a surprisingly spongy quality. I rest the fleshy remain on the edge of the tray and pour out some white spirit onto a towel. A deep breath and a particularly large gulp from the bottle of scotch readies me for my next move. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror and then I proceed to press the white spirit soaked towel against the bleeding wound. Tears spring to my eyes as a burst of intense pain sears through my body. I quickly remove the now blood drenched towel and reach for the pre threaded needle. With my other hand, I collect up the dead boys nipple and lightly press it to the fresh wound on my chest. Then I begin to sew.
Blood continues to seep from the wound changing in intensity as I change the pressure on the nipples surface. I continue to sewing around and around the nipple, dabbing at it from time to time, trying to clear away the excess blood. I can see my flesh going pale on my hands and chest, either due to blood loss or the shock of the current situation. Whichever it is, I do not care. I press on with the matter at hand, determined to complete my task before my body has chance to shut down on me.
At last I draw to an end, securing the thread with a small knot. The cotton is then cut a centimetre or so from the knot, and at last I collapse against the side of the bath. I sit there, head bowed for what seems like hours, my head spinning with thoughts and emotions. I feel drunk, yet all I've had is one gulp of alcohol. I put it down to the blood loss. Glancing up, I see that the bathroom floor is flooded with the bright red fluid that has seeped over the length of my body. I notice the sink too is splattered with it, as I lift myself up, reaching for the open bottle of scotch and the cigarettes. I collapse back down once I have retrieved the items, and immediately light up one of the Marlboros. The first drag sends my head spinning once again, but I battle on by taking an even bigger gulp of the scotch. The fiery liquid burns down my throat, sending me into a miniature coughing fit. I take another drag on the cigarette and rest my head back against the bath side. Time once again passes me by?
I have a vague memory of opening one bleary eye, seeing that night has fallen upon the sky outside. I make a feeble attempt to get up, but in the end I reject the idea and close my eyes once again. The night draws on as I drift into a deep sleep. The day had finally brought about some merit.
All work is fictional. Vomited upon the world
at 10:52 PM GMT
Updated: Friday, 4 March 2005 10:37 AM GMT
Wednesday, 2 March 2005
The Maggot Is Born
Today is the day when my life becomes something else, something so much more. I am an experiment upon myself, a preacher to my own reflection. Nothing can be purer than unwanted innocence. To discard all social responsibility and build a life on questions. Questions that search that dull void in everyone, in an attempt to snatch just a whisper of something with soul. I am a man who needs to taste blood before I know there exists life. I am a man who needs to cut the skin to know there's something deeper. I am a man who needs to hear sorrowful whimpers before I can sense the pain. I am a man who needs to see the world on its stinking knees before I can ever appreciate the goodness in life. And so it begins here...
My eyelids flicker open and I am awake. The slur of the world greets my ears as I slowly unjust to my waking self. Senses numbed, I clamber from the nest of my bed, adjusting to the room around me. The flat is cold, damp and decaying. A rancid smell clings to the furniture delivering its slowly developing aroma. A foul odour can go without detection if one's senses have adapted to accept the stench as norm. But how can you possibly adjust your senses to a constantly developing and re-defining aroma? The answer is, you can't. And so, each and every morning that I am vomited into the waking world, I am greeted by a new and increasingly more rancid and repulsive stench. Yet I deserve and indeed welcome this daily assault. It reminds me of who I am and why I am here. It's the air to my depravity that seals me into this existence. It's the aroma to my fate.
So, this is me. Awake, washed, dressed and ready for the world. Another day in the office, another mundane existence for the next eight hours. Driving to work I am surrounded by the usual dead zombie faces. Each and every one of them, content in spending their lives sniffing at the shit encrusted anus of modern society. Car after car after car, each of them being herded into the corporate bullshit that is our nine to five existence. We are all already dead. So what have I got to lose?
The day passed me by with little interest. I worked through blurred vision as my mind took me through a maze of questions. Always questions, beating a thunderous tattoo within my skull. Each question as intricate yet experimental as the last. Is life itself not one long experiment within a structureless existence that we simply evolve within?
I take the time to map out tonight's mission, leaving room for inspiration and the unpredictable delights of circumstance. Chance is what holds the fabric of balance together. Without chance we have no living future. Without future there is no need for further existence. Chance is everything in life. Everyone has the chance to take action, it's just that so little do.
Once the days work was over and I was settled back at the flat, it was time to start. First I collected together my tools, leaving room for inspiration whilst equipping myself with everything that would or indeed could prove to be necessary. All that was left was to wait for the night to creep over the city, and when it did, it brought with it a downpour from the heavens.
I can't quite remember exactly where he was or what he was doing. I'm certain he was alone, but a haze has formed over the whole event. Perhaps the build up to it all was too much. It's true that I felt a raging energy like liquid fire burning through every vein in my body. Control was achieved after a while, but was not there from the start. Memory serves me like an old celluloid film, played back in a scattered slow motion. I remember striking the youth once, twice, perhaps forty times. Each time the claw hammer stroke the prone form, a jet of his crimson life blood would spray from his ravaged body. Images of limbs and broken bones flood through from amongst the hazy red blur. I remember crouching down next to the broken form of the boy and examining the his pulped skull. Vivid singular images bounce through my brain; the boy's hand reaching up in a feeble attempt to block my brutal assaults on his delicate form; the hand and majority of his arm, splintering into a thousand pieces as the hammer connected with it. A memory like a Polaroid of the boy's blood arching above me as I bring down blow after blow onto his ribcage.
At some point the frenzied assaults finished, I am not sure when. I remember sitting down next to the broken form of the boy and cradling his crushed head in my arms. I remember staring into those blood filled eyes, wondering what secrets this life is now encountering. I remember simply existing for the very first time in my life.
Time passed by, again I have no idea how much. I would hazard a guess somewhere towards five minutes and twenty minutes, but without my watch I was lost in the beauty of the moment. What followed next was completely controlled and performed with the purity of inspiration. My memory of the following events is perfect, which I believe reflects the calm nature that had followed the earlier brutality. I am not upset or disappointed by the earlier onslaught, it was inevitable. My first kill could not have happened any other way. Birth is a brutal and bloody business, and that moment I was truly born.
The rain was cutting through the sky like a scalpel, hammering down on me and the form I was now cradling in my arms. Soaked through in rainwater, sweat and blood, the atmosphere was perfect. I could see a stream of cloudy red flowing from our two bodies, dispersing itself into larger puddles to be flushed away in seconds into the roadside gutters. My concentration focused once again on the task before me, as I carefully removed the slightly rusted Stanley knife from inside my jacket. It's grip was slippery, but I managed to hold it tight in my fist as I retracted the blade, hovering it above the face before me. With the swiftness and precision of a surgeon, I began carving away at the eyelids, slipping the blade in deep around the moist orb, careful not to burst its delicate membrane. The first socket immediately filled with a pool of thick blood that slopped down the cheek bones of the boy as the rain splattered over the wound. Using the knife's handle as a lever, I arched the eyeball out from its home, allowing it to flop from the face and rest limply, dangling at the side of the head. Delicately placing the boy down onto the roadside with the care of a mother to her baby, I leaned across the blooded form collecting up the optical nerve in my left hand. Twisting the cord first to add more strength and purchase for the blade, I began to hack at it's prone side, severing the eye from the rest of the face. Taking my new trophy, I placed it into one of the re-sealable polythene bags I brought for such a souvenir, laying it down to rest next to the dead boy before I began once again on the other eyeball. Maybe it was the cold that was getting to my hands, or maybe it was the increasing downpour of rain, but the next eyeball was a struggle to pop from it's socket. In the attempt I accidentally burst the orb with the point of the blade. White liquid oozed from the damaged eye, forming within the crimson pool on top of the boys face. A moment of inspiration washed over me and before I new it, I was leaning across the face and sucking up the thick ooze. It's substance filled my mouth delivering a multitude of textures and exquisite tastes. I sat there for a second longer, revelling in the complex emotions and feelings that flooded my senses as I dined on the boys fluids.
The rest of the cutting and removal was done in much more of a hurry. I took away the boys lips, a nipple, one of his testicles and a large portion of his tongue. Each were stored in their own separate bags to save unnecessary contamination of the body parts. This done, I returned to my car and set off once again into the night.
Once home, I lay back in the living room chair, still soaked by the rain and blood, and closed my eyes. The experience had obviously taken a lot out of me, for the next second I had drifted off into unconsciousness. The night had been a success. The first of hopefully many to come. The trophy's are stored away in the top compartment of my fridge, awaiting consumption, but that's for another day.
All work is fictional. Vomited upon the world
at 2:40 PM GMT
Updated: Friday, 4 March 2005 4:27 PM GMT
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