The struggle. The pain. The bitter hateful voice that made me utterly loathe myself. It made everyday life extremely difficult, not permitting me to sleep or do my noble work.
I continued to complete my daily chore of sharpening a knife or two, remembering to remove the dried crusty blood from the stunning blade. My hands skillfully moved around the blade, admiring the cleanliness of it.
I have begun to fear as if my mind was going. Torture for the sake of torture was vital to my existence, my life source, my reason to, for the lack of a better synonym, live and breathe. The sounds of the screaming echoing around my walls, the crimson liquid spilling down onto the stone table. The only thing that urked me was the filthy mess seeping into the floorboards. The splinters that came from having to clean up the rotten blood out of the destroyed boards.
The voices wouldn't stop. They constantly attacked me, stabbing into my mind and oozing into my subconscious. I clutched my head in pain, yanking roughly at my locks of hair, shouting at the voices to remove themselves from me, to get out and never come back.
"You're not imagining things. I am here." A horrid voice spoke. The voice was as vile a putrid vomit with the feelings of it absorbing around me.
"Leave me alone." I mumbled to no one in particular.
No, the only way it would leave me be was to end it, such as I have the lives of many others.
I mentally prepared myself for the most gruesome and terrible torture that I would ever have done. I sharpened my best weapons, I pulled out my strongest pulls. I was planning on ridding myself of this horrid son of a bitch once and for all.
I started out by ripping out each and every nail out of the body of this gruesome thing, leaving it screaming in pain. The blood oozed down the table, forever staining the boards. I then moved onto carving the flesh, stopping every once and awhile to admire my beautiful handy work.
"You'll never be alone." The voice mocked as I carefully removed each layer of skin on its body.
"Shut the hell up, you twit." I screamed, plunging my carving knife into the stomach of my victim.
"You're breaking. You're breaking. Ha ha ha you're breaking." The singing of those horrible words danced throughout my head and around the room.
I let out an inhuman cry, driving the knife into every part of the body that I could, not missing any target.
I finally stuck the chest of the voice that mocked me, feeling a sharp pinch in my heart.
I crumbled onto the floor, snapping out of my mental mind. I was bloodied, no skin remained on my person.
I couldn't defend myself.
"You're dead." The voice sang, disappearing forever. My vision darkened, the last words ringing through my ear.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
Losowe"A short story is a brief work of literature, usually written in narrative prose. Emerging from earlier oral storytelling traditions in the 17th century, the short story has grown to encompass a body of work so diverse as to defy easy characterizati...
