The Murder Act

Alistair rarely treated himself after a hard day of work. He rarely did anything that forced him to go out of his way. He did things as they had to be done. He took no extra turns, nor did he cut corners. He simply stayed on an ongoing road straight. He was a typical worker aged into his early 40s.

The one time that he did take that extra turn and strayed from the path of normality was the day that he was taken. No real answer to the question 'why him' was discovered, perhaps it was only mere coincidence that he happened to be the one used for this experiment . He had his clothes stripped off him, down to his black boxers. He let his head lull to his left side and his hands droop in their restraints. What an odd sensation it is. Chained and collared like a bloody dog. 

A cart was rolled off to his right, only to be stopped a short foot away from where his chair was put. How did he get into such a situation? How indeed. Some unknown drug had earlier been injected into his system, just long enough ago that it had worn off enough for him to be conscious. 

"It's just standard procedure" The mask said.

It was dark, but lit well enough for shadows and grainy figures to be seen and tools to be made out on the metal cart to the right.

A groan escaped the lips of the chained man and he shook in his restraints as the masked man prodded his stomach with a sharp metal object. Beads of blood and sweat dripped off of him and he bared his teeth in pain. The metal object was later identified as a common kitchen knife, drove in rather shallow, only a few millimeters, but enough for blood to be drawn. Enough for a slight sting of pain to be felt.

He jolted in shock as he felt the mask grip the material of his boxers and tugged it harshly. A low, off beat jangle of laughter erupted from the masked man as Alistair bit his lip in rage. For such a simple man, his mind was devoid of any logical thought, and the only thing that came from his thinking was unexplainable rage.

Never has he felt so exposed and bare. He felt like everything had been stripped, down to his very skeleton. He felt himself being picked apart by the blacked out holes where the eyes should be in the mask.

A glint shone to the side, barely visible in his field of vision. All too suddenly, a pair of pliers had ripped off his index fingernail. A broken scream of agony escaped him and filled the what was later revealed as a massive ballroom to an abandoned Pine Estates hotel. His scream echoed across the walls in the almost completely emptied room.

Second fingernail.

Third fingernail.

Blood was splattered across the tile floor, creating a mess for whoever was to clean up later.

The pain was excruciating even to him. His vision blurred and black splotches danced in his eyes.

"You will not pass out" The mask stated firmly.

Screams tore through his throat. He slammed his feet against the tile. His hair stood on end. His chains rattled. Enough. There was only so much a man could endure, and he had long since reached his breaking point.

The mask held a nail in front of his face by the same pair of pliers that was used to disconnect it from his skin. His finger was most likely tender where the nail once lay, most likely more sensitive than the rest of his hand. As if the mask had read his mind, he gripped one of the fingers void of a nail and gracefully brought his hand to a sewing needle that rested on the second shelf of the cart.

With one far from stuttered movement and flick of his wrist, the mask drove the nail achingly slowly into the raw tissue of his middle finger. The sensation was mind numbing and gut wrenching. Alistair felt his body twist and snap forward and back as if possessed by an unknown spirit. The needle seemed to be made out of steel, for it splintered his bone and passed to the other side of the tip of his finger.

The needle was later found still buried in the muscle of the man's finger, blood rusted on the majority of the object. When the body was found the face seemed almost as bleached as the mask that was discarded and shed on the floor far from the scene and towards the exit of the ballroom.

His feet stomped against the ground again. This time, his feet repeatedly tapped the ground spasmodically. He was loosing control of his body completely. It felt like he was no longer existing within his body, but instead watching from third person. His salt and pepper hair was plastered to his forehead with a heavy layer of sweat.

Alistair felt violated in every possible way. There was no way for him to escape such a situation. He realized this a long while ago. How foolish he was to stray from the path of normality and go out of his way for such an unnecessary thing.

Four more needles were shoved into the tips of his fingers, each time his screams got significantly weaker and more broken. Soon he was croaking like an old frog, his throat dry and soar. The kitchen knife was retrieved once again from the display of torture tools and pointed at his chest.

"It's only standard procedure" The other man reached his spare hand to the bottom rim of his mask and pulled it up his head, revealing the face underneath, a face representing pure insanity.

A groan of pure mortal terror came from the gaping mouth of Alistair Greco, a moan that could easily only be identified as solid grief.

A shame it was only the beginning.