A little catharsis
Had a shitty day. Decided that instead of killing people in real life, I'd do it in writing.
Warning: Torture
Monster
I am not, have never been, am not sure that I'm capable of being a nice person. A good person. I am dark corners and hard lines and sharp, gleaming edges. I am a black hole of morality. I am a wasteland and as I carve into the flesh of the forearm of the man I was paid to bring back information and body parts from, all I can think of is that there must have been something he'd done to do to deserve this. I don't know what. I don't really care. Does he know? I don't really care about that either. The cash was real, non-sequential small bills and that's all that matters. Not how he begs; the walls here aren't sound proofed but here is far enough away from anywhere that no one will hear. Not how his blood drips onto my shoes; I've build bonfires hot enough to warp the metal barrels that carry them so some second hand sneakers shouldn't be a problem. Not the sob story he's telling me as I slide the knife into his skin, the meat of his muscle and fat; I've done my research and know his wife is cheating on him and won't miss him. His children might, maybe, but they do their best to distance themselves from him as it is so I'm not sure. It doesn't seem worth thinking about. He calls me, as I take the nail off of one ring finger, a monster and I'm almost sure that it's not that far off of an estimation. I've heard others that get close. Bastard. Sociopath. Evil. Demon. That one almost made me smile at the time. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the way that he'd started to pray. There aren't many that do. They beg mostly, try to buy me off, tell me that their people will catch me. This one's done all three. The begging rolls off of my back. They never have enough money. And no one ever really looks that hard. For them or me. It didn't take this man long to switch tactics; his offers lasted until I peeled the skin off of his forearm and then his begging turned to threats when I started breaking his fingers. The hands are so sensitive and makes for easy, quick work. Plus, it gives off a certain illusion that they might heal, that I might let them live long enough to do so. That moment of hope, the ruination of that moment makes the breaking all the more memorable. As I work on the fingernails, he begs again. He'll tell me anything I want to know. His hands were soft; he wasn't going to last long. And later, when I stoke the fire, his eye and ear in a Ziploc in the pocket of my fresh pair of jeans waiting nearby, I know that I am a well-paid monster who's done his job to the level of which he is expected. And I am not, have never been, and will never be a person, good or bad.
Warning: Torture
Monster
I am not, have never been, am not sure that I'm capable of being a nice person. A good person. I am dark corners and hard lines and sharp, gleaming edges. I am a black hole of morality. I am a wasteland and as I carve into the flesh of the forearm of the man I was paid to bring back information and body parts from, all I can think of is that there must have been something he'd done to do to deserve this. I don't know what. I don't really care. Does he know? I don't really care about that either. The cash was real, non-sequential small bills and that's all that matters. Not how he begs; the walls here aren't sound proofed but here is far enough away from anywhere that no one will hear. Not how his blood drips onto my shoes; I've build bonfires hot enough to warp the metal barrels that carry them so some second hand sneakers shouldn't be a problem. Not the sob story he's telling me as I slide the knife into his skin, the meat of his muscle and fat; I've done my research and know his wife is cheating on him and won't miss him. His children might, maybe, but they do their best to distance themselves from him as it is so I'm not sure. It doesn't seem worth thinking about. He calls me, as I take the nail off of one ring finger, a monster and I'm almost sure that it's not that far off of an estimation. I've heard others that get close. Bastard. Sociopath. Evil. Demon. That one almost made me smile at the time. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the way that he'd started to pray. There aren't many that do. They beg mostly, try to buy me off, tell me that their people will catch me. This one's done all three. The begging rolls off of my back. They never have enough money. And no one ever really looks that hard. For them or me. It didn't take this man long to switch tactics; his offers lasted until I peeled the skin off of his forearm and then his begging turned to threats when I started breaking his fingers. The hands are so sensitive and makes for easy, quick work. Plus, it gives off a certain illusion that they might heal, that I might let them live long enough to do so. That moment of hope, the ruination of that moment makes the breaking all the more memorable. As I work on the fingernails, he begs again. He'll tell me anything I want to know. His hands were soft; he wasn't going to last long. And later, when I stoke the fire, his eye and ear in a Ziploc in the pocket of my fresh pair of jeans waiting nearby, I know that I am a well-paid monster who's done his job to the level of which he is expected. And I am not, have never been, and will never be a person, good or bad.