My Killer

Not Your Victim

I wasn't Michaels victim. At least not right now. His newest prey sat strapped to a chair opposite his fiancée. Both of them would suffer under Michaels hands, but only one of them was here as the true prey in all of this. At least that's what Michael had told me. Grace was just collateral damage. Lucky her...

Neither prey nor collateral damage had yet to stir, which made me wonder just what the hell Michael had used to put them under. I knew that both of them were very much alive. I had felt their warm skin, seen the rise and fall of their chests and heard the soft sounds they made occasionally. How had I experienced all of this? Michael had made me move them, or more correctly he made me help him move them.

I had helped him set up the required equipment first though. Pushing the two chairs of horror close together, and turning them until they were facing each other. The chairs were to be positioned close to each other, yet not close enough that the happy couple would be able to reach one another when sitting down in them. I didn't even want to think about Michaels sick reasoning behind that decision as I followed through with his orders.

Then I had to help fetch some of the supplies for his fucked-up table, and by supplies I mean knifes, clippers, needles, and a saw among other items. All items which made my skin crawl and my stomach twist.

I'm sorry...

Carrying the victim and the collateral damage came next. Michael did, in all actuality, do the heavy lifting, and left me to carry their feet after he suddenly realized that lifting the top part of a person was a bit above my capabilities. Or at least he said that me half dragging them across the floor wasn't dignified. But making people crawl away from you as you murder them is? And what about making people beg you as you cut them open, sure there's a whole lot of dignity in that Michael... So, he made me carry their legs instead. I didn't complain, out loud that is.

I'm so very, very sorry...

And let me tell you, moving someone unconscious is a lot harder than it sounds. How Michael ever managed to do this feat all alone earlier is beyond me. Well, come to think of it, perhaps it's not that much of a mystery. His body is formed for heavy burdens, mine not so much. I guess Michael was made for this sort of thing, made to create horrors, made to be the bringer of death. At least he had made his own body into such a tool. He had turned his own body into that of a killer. In all honesty, he didn't need my help with carrying their legs at all, but he still made me do it. He took some sort of sick satisfaction in making me do things which went against my very nature.

Next, after helping Michael carry the unlucky pair, I had to help him fasten them to the chairs, strapping in their arms, legs and their head with the chairs unyielding leather bindings.

Please forgive me... I... I...

My hands were trembling by the time I had finished fastening the last strap on Grace. I didn't tremble in fear but from exhaustion. My body was spent. The adrenaline had wrecked through me, done it's job, and left me to deal with the mess my mass had gradually become.

My tummy had growled from pangs of hunger several times earlier, neither myself nor Michael had given the pathetic sounds any attention. And now, with the preparations near completion, my tummy had just given up it seemed. No more sounds came forth, the pangs of hunger were wiped away by the agonizingly slow passing of time. A minute seems to last forever when every movement you had to make was filled with dread, filled with actions that you just knew would come back to haunt you. Time, what a curious thing.

Please...

I didn't want to do this...

Please understand...