Wrong Reasons
The way this project came out did not fulfill my expectations on difficulty; I am not complaining but it is miraculous how smooth this had gone. Once, in a comparison, I was told to try catching a wild squirrel and killing it with my bare hands. I had not succeeded in that particular endeavor.
Yet I had managed to pull through an even greater one. With my eyes locked onto the viewfinder, I show the camera my prize: a captive human. I had already torn out some of his hair earlier due to lack of cooperation, and I cannot tell you how satisfying it was to see his face contort as he tried not to cry, lest his broken nose become irritated.
But he could not help it, camera, he simply could not. The tears slipped out from the inner corners of his eyes and raced down his face, clearing small trails for themselves through the blood dried all around his nose, mouth and chin. I recorded the way his chest rose when he sobbed, and the way his Adams apple twitched when he swallowed.
He wasn't always emaciated like this. He had started out thin, sure, but he was sturdy enough and now I'm certain that if I held him too tightly, something would break. Camera, there is no other feeling more complex than the one I have right now; I am not ashamed of my work yet I am torn between my pride and utter sadness for the misfortune that had befallen upon this creature of a man.
Then again, by the look in his eyes, I know that I have done the worst kind of damage already. He could not speak because we had cut his gums and he could not move because of the restraints around his wrists and ankles. As his condition grew worse and worse I couldn't help but ask myself at least once a day, am I truly gracious for this result? Do I really feel sorry?
It hit me then, how impressed I was with my work. To think that I had worn a man down so intensely that I brought about my own feeling of overwhelming sympathy, means I have surpassed the bar I had set for myself. The bar was set and I moved above it.
I move the camera into his face and watch him flinch. He manages to turn his head away despite the disgusting bruises all over his neck but all I have to do is move my arm. He turns away from the apparatus once more and when I move again, he doesn't do anything. The subservience he has been displaying lately is astounding. He's given up.
After letting the camera focus onto his face, I move it down the length of his body. There are four B's that make up the concept of brutality: bruised, broken, bloody and battered. This is my work and I have done an excellent job on it. His fingers have been mutilated into crooked angles, his knees were embedded with nails and once the camera has taken a good look at how I had sliced off his toes, I move it onto the tripod.
I have recorded him weekly to keep track of his deterioration but I can tell from the way his shoulders are tense and how his legs shake anxiously, that he knows I will be doing something new today. It's because of the tripod.
I fiddle with the camera until I'm sure that it's all at a good angle. Whoever watches this video will be able to see what I do with him. I glance between the scene and the viewfinder to tell where the cut-off areas are, and when I am certain I leave the bathroom to get my kitchen knife. It is small and rusty but still sharp, and though it may be improper I must argue that there is no point in using a good knife for something like this.
He sees it and his eyes already roll away. If he faints, I will have to wake him up. Yet he doesn't, and now I can see that he is only wishing he could. I tell him, "I'm sorry, fellow," but he's still quaking from apprehension. I pause for a moment to let it build up and then I creep around to the other side of the tub, all the while keeping track of where I am moving so that my face does not show up on the video. Editing would not save me then.
I put the knife down on the floor remove my tie. Somehow, the sound of it rubbing against my collar when I yank it has become a Pavlov's dog type of thing for him, activating a shuddering reaction. It must be because he knows I will be using it again. This time it will be to keep him quiet. As I move to gag him with my tie, he snarls but doesn't do anything except cry once more.
On camera, I turn my wrist up to check the time. I wait five seconds before picking up the knife and stabbing into his throat. What surprises me still was his apparent desire to live; as I stab he jerks his head down and all I did, really, was cut up his chin. It's a pitiful sight but yet I am embarrassed that this had been caught on camera, my miscalculated mistake.
I quickly make up for it by violently grabbing his hair and bucking his head so I can see his throat, forcing him to stretch his bruised neck and arch his back. Without any hesitation I plunge the rusty knife into him right below the Adam's apple, and rake it over to the side. Right away he goes rigid and even when I let go of his hair, he remains in his curved position.
When I rip the knife out, I watch him adopt the movements of a seizure. Blood comes out of his neck quicker than the tears come out from his eyes, and after a particularly vigorous spasm, I'm impressed at how perfectly formed a small arc of blood was when it spurted out. A low groan escapes him and the sweat upon his brow is already enough to soak his bangs.
It's at precisely that moment where I realized that I felt extremely moved by his will to survive. He had given up fighting but he still had something to say; final words? The thought of it was unreal. He would not have been able to say more than one articulate word, anyway. And now here he was, spasming and dying and trying his hardest to scream through a slit throat.
Due to his moving about, the sides of the tub were eventually wiped with red. It takes just a minute or two more for him to die and when he does, his body ceases all movement aside from a gentle shivering. I don't know why this phenomenon is, but I do know that I have a short while before rigor mortis kicks in and he will become cold.
I begin to touch his corpse inappropriately.
-
In the dark--it was hard to tell who--someone immediately ejected the disc from the player in a late attempt to save everyone the horror of watching the death. They had all long gone pale, and from the collective shivering of all their hands and arms, even the table seemed to shudder. Several chairs seemed to quake. The room was completely silent and yet they all heard buzzing static mixed with their heartbeats in their ears.
Someone else rose up shakily from his seat to inspect the fifty-five gallon drum that sat ominously beside the door. With sweaty and slippery fingers, his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer to a wall, he grasped the lid and immediately felt light-headed. This was not how things were supposed to be. Others leaned in to see. The figure, holding his breath (and now certain that his heartbeat was pulsing throughout his entire body and forcing his limbs to throb), pulled. A certain stink started to fill the room.
The muted glow from the television was the only source of light and yet despite the poor visibility, everyone still found it difficult to handle what they saw. The grimace on the corpse's face embodied exactly what death should never be like. The person who had opened the lid reflexively turned away to run to the other side of the room but fell short as he vomited on the floor, the gagging noises forcing a few others to lose their lunches as well.
Here crammed Benjamin Murphy, the man who was unapproachable in both his times of living and death. Unable to love and impossible to love, up until now. Connor's face was wet with tears as he shakily picked up the disc and tilted it into the television glow, looking once more at the message someone had messily written on it.
"happy 23rd birthday, new boss."
Yet I had managed to pull through an even greater one. With my eyes locked onto the viewfinder, I show the camera my prize: a captive human. I had already torn out some of his hair earlier due to lack of cooperation, and I cannot tell you how satisfying it was to see his face contort as he tried not to cry, lest his broken nose become irritated.
But he could not help it, camera, he simply could not. The tears slipped out from the inner corners of his eyes and raced down his face, clearing small trails for themselves through the blood dried all around his nose, mouth and chin. I recorded the way his chest rose when he sobbed, and the way his Adams apple twitched when he swallowed.
He wasn't always emaciated like this. He had started out thin, sure, but he was sturdy enough and now I'm certain that if I held him too tightly, something would break. Camera, there is no other feeling more complex than the one I have right now; I am not ashamed of my work yet I am torn between my pride and utter sadness for the misfortune that had befallen upon this creature of a man.
Then again, by the look in his eyes, I know that I have done the worst kind of damage already. He could not speak because we had cut his gums and he could not move because of the restraints around his wrists and ankles. As his condition grew worse and worse I couldn't help but ask myself at least once a day, am I truly gracious for this result? Do I really feel sorry?
It hit me then, how impressed I was with my work. To think that I had worn a man down so intensely that I brought about my own feeling of overwhelming sympathy, means I have surpassed the bar I had set for myself. The bar was set and I moved above it.
I move the camera into his face and watch him flinch. He manages to turn his head away despite the disgusting bruises all over his neck but all I have to do is move my arm. He turns away from the apparatus once more and when I move again, he doesn't do anything. The subservience he has been displaying lately is astounding. He's given up.
After letting the camera focus onto his face, I move it down the length of his body. There are four B's that make up the concept of brutality: bruised, broken, bloody and battered. This is my work and I have done an excellent job on it. His fingers have been mutilated into crooked angles, his knees were embedded with nails and once the camera has taken a good look at how I had sliced off his toes, I move it onto the tripod.
I have recorded him weekly to keep track of his deterioration but I can tell from the way his shoulders are tense and how his legs shake anxiously, that he knows I will be doing something new today. It's because of the tripod.
I fiddle with the camera until I'm sure that it's all at a good angle. Whoever watches this video will be able to see what I do with him. I glance between the scene and the viewfinder to tell where the cut-off areas are, and when I am certain I leave the bathroom to get my kitchen knife. It is small and rusty but still sharp, and though it may be improper I must argue that there is no point in using a good knife for something like this.
He sees it and his eyes already roll away. If he faints, I will have to wake him up. Yet he doesn't, and now I can see that he is only wishing he could. I tell him, "I'm sorry, fellow," but he's still quaking from apprehension. I pause for a moment to let it build up and then I creep around to the other side of the tub, all the while keeping track of where I am moving so that my face does not show up on the video. Editing would not save me then.
I put the knife down on the floor remove my tie. Somehow, the sound of it rubbing against my collar when I yank it has become a Pavlov's dog type of thing for him, activating a shuddering reaction. It must be because he knows I will be using it again. This time it will be to keep him quiet. As I move to gag him with my tie, he snarls but doesn't do anything except cry once more.
On camera, I turn my wrist up to check the time. I wait five seconds before picking up the knife and stabbing into his throat. What surprises me still was his apparent desire to live; as I stab he jerks his head down and all I did, really, was cut up his chin. It's a pitiful sight but yet I am embarrassed that this had been caught on camera, my miscalculated mistake.
I quickly make up for it by violently grabbing his hair and bucking his head so I can see his throat, forcing him to stretch his bruised neck and arch his back. Without any hesitation I plunge the rusty knife into him right below the Adam's apple, and rake it over to the side. Right away he goes rigid and even when I let go of his hair, he remains in his curved position.
When I rip the knife out, I watch him adopt the movements of a seizure. Blood comes out of his neck quicker than the tears come out from his eyes, and after a particularly vigorous spasm, I'm impressed at how perfectly formed a small arc of blood was when it spurted out. A low groan escapes him and the sweat upon his brow is already enough to soak his bangs.
It's at precisely that moment where I realized that I felt extremely moved by his will to survive. He had given up fighting but he still had something to say; final words? The thought of it was unreal. He would not have been able to say more than one articulate word, anyway. And now here he was, spasming and dying and trying his hardest to scream through a slit throat.
Due to his moving about, the sides of the tub were eventually wiped with red. It takes just a minute or two more for him to die and when he does, his body ceases all movement aside from a gentle shivering. I don't know why this phenomenon is, but I do know that I have a short while before rigor mortis kicks in and he will become cold.
I begin to touch his corpse inappropriately.
-
In the dark--it was hard to tell who--someone immediately ejected the disc from the player in a late attempt to save everyone the horror of watching the death. They had all long gone pale, and from the collective shivering of all their hands and arms, even the table seemed to shudder. Several chairs seemed to quake. The room was completely silent and yet they all heard buzzing static mixed with their heartbeats in their ears.
Someone else rose up shakily from his seat to inspect the fifty-five gallon drum that sat ominously beside the door. With sweaty and slippery fingers, his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer to a wall, he grasped the lid and immediately felt light-headed. This was not how things were supposed to be. Others leaned in to see. The figure, holding his breath (and now certain that his heartbeat was pulsing throughout his entire body and forcing his limbs to throb), pulled. A certain stink started to fill the room.
The muted glow from the television was the only source of light and yet despite the poor visibility, everyone still found it difficult to handle what they saw. The grimace on the corpse's face embodied exactly what death should never be like. The person who had opened the lid reflexively turned away to run to the other side of the room but fell short as he vomited on the floor, the gagging noises forcing a few others to lose their lunches as well.
Here crammed Benjamin Murphy, the man who was unapproachable in both his times of living and death. Unable to love and impossible to love, up until now. Connor's face was wet with tears as he shakily picked up the disc and tilted it into the television glow, looking once more at the message someone had messily written on it.
"happy 23rd birthday, new boss."