The Withering Psyche Of A Madman

Revelations

That is all.

An hour had passed, and I hoped that I fulfilled the final wish of this woman.
I can see in her eyes that she was glad and entertained by those stories of mine,

She asked me if that is all, and I nodded in agreement.
And now that she's done listening like a child listening to bedtime stories, it is now time for my part.
I tightened her straps and turned the lamp much brighter that it radiates her skin, which I could plainly see the veins buried beneath. With the white light glimmering on the crystalline scalpel held in my hand and a pair of shears on the other, tearing of her shirt, reveaIing her exquisitely curved breasts, I began the operation, free of charge.
The blade runs through her smooth porcelain skin, cutting fine incisions that lined vertically on her chest. I cut deeper---deeper and wider, until blood gushed out from the wound. Its odor made me somehow elated, raising the hairs on my body. I dipped a finger onto it and sucked; it was surprisingly sweet and delightful.

But something baffles me--I looked into her face, and still she was smiling. She's not in pain nor in fear of being tortured like this.
Taking a pair of pliers from my toolbox, I grabbed her soft warm arm, and one by one, I plucked out her fingernails, polished by her own blood---she's still smiling.

Is she mad? Is she mad much as I am, I presume?
She's undoubtedly the most different subject that I held ever since; she didn't show any signs of panic or fear.

I asked her what she feels--she smiled,
I asked if she's hurt--she smiled.
She's strange indeed. And that made me wonder. I liked this woman. I think I'm beginning to fall for her.

Again, she smiled; and that smile turned into a jocose laughter, and she asked me something:

She had a story to tell.

And as she said, her story will be different from mine, as it is in fact, happening at this moment---and all of it are true.
Curiously and curiously, I agreed to this curious woman's proffering.

And she goes; and believe me---even I could not---that everything this woman says are true.

And I listened to what she says...

        ***************************
        A cold weather shed all throughout the warmth of the city.
       But deep within the streets of the city was a warmth, given off to sustain the condition of a small dark enclosure that was a room. Though it's unlikely a welcoming room, it has its curious hosts.
       In the middle of it, under the faint glow of a light bulb was a woman, strapped tight on a sturdy rack with blood dripping from a slit on her chest.
In front of her was a lithe gentleman; charismatic and bright, and in the midst of a surgical procedure that benefits his own pleasure.
But unbeknownst to this man is that something is coming for the door.
He refused to believe everything he had heard from the woman that he ripped her apart from talking further; but he looked at his hands---there's no blood.
He looked at the woman---there's no wound.
The man gripped tightly his blade and plunged it repeatedly upon the woman on the rack, who amidst the wild, brutal carnage of the man, is still speaking of him.
The man tore off the woman's insides like a spoiled child pulling off toys from a toy box; but every time he opens his eyes, he could see no blood; the woman's still intact.

"What is this?! This is preposterous!" the man cried out in utmost disbelief.
His mind was shambling in different places as everything the woman says is exactly what transpires in every moment.
He went to a nearby end table, thinking that the woman was playing tricks in his mind, smacked his head with a terrible force.
But he stood in surprise---he couldn't hurt himself.
Again and again, he repeatedly hammered his head against the hard wooden surface and then against the wall; but he couldn't feel a painful sensation as if everything is made out of air.

"Stop this at once or I'll kill you once and for all!!!"
The man cried with a loud outburst that turned into a malevolent, maniacal laughter, as he pulled the switch of an electric chainsaw and charge through the woman, tearing wildly through her abdomen. The man felt every splotches of blood and torn viscera as it flew against him by the raging chainsaw; but then again, there was nothing---not a blood; not a chainsaw on hand.

Then came the moment the man most feared of---the arrival of the white demons.
They banged against the metal door, trying to open, but the man went against it and blocked it with himself,

"Go away! Go wherever the hell you came from!"

Still the white demons forced through and opened the door with an ease, for the man wasn't really at the door as he opened his eyes, but beside the woman on the rack; in shock and disbelief

"She's not telling a story!

She's talking about me!

Somebody please stop her!

She's a witch! A goddamn hell whore!

Get her away from me!"

The demons restrained him, and one of them pulled out a small transparent spike from its abdomen and plunged it on the man's skin, transmitting an unknown kind and volume of indistinguishable fluid.
The man tried everything he could to resist but he could not; he tried to fight back but he could no longer move his arms nor his feet. He slumped on the ground; the demons around him, towering over him, chattering with words the man could not comprehend.
And then slowly, his mind swirled like a maelstrom betwixt consciousness and unconsciousness, that he could no longer see the woman on the rack; and her voice slowly fades away from his audition.
From that moment that he laid still, the white demons left the room one by one and shut the metal door, enclosing the man alone in the dark room of rubber material, bound in a strange straight jacket; numb, calm and asleep.
But this time, he's just another man; a patient rather, in an isolated institution, calm like a newborn child; but only for a short while, for he had so much story to tell---stories not of fiction; but of the reality that pierced his eyes and twisted his mind.

       - The End had only just begun -