Trapped In Nowhere

The crusher of Fingers

The locked door will slide open by itself. 25 minutes to go. In Marilyn the fear and the excitement builds up about how he will find me. Completely disfigured? Bloody? Injured? Torn? A psychological wreck? Maybe even dead? Oh God! He has to do it quickly! Too many questions, too many scenarios, too much fear and too much worry all at once. A rusty, old, rickety table is lined up in front of him, with a meat hammer on it. He already suspects what to do next. He presses the button on the telephone to play the message.

"Hello Marilyn, and welcome to your second last test. A meat hammer is placed on the table in front of you. Now it's time to make the fingers that have gripped the razor blade to tear your own skin and cut open the veins unable to do that ever again. The test requires you to mash every single finger with the club of the meat hammer. Look at the door. It is equipped with blood sensors. To open it, you have to smear enough of your own blood on the handle. Let's see how good it'll work. Live or die, Marilyn. Good luck. "

Manson breathes inconsistently, hesitantly, quickly, shakily. Loud, quieter again. Under the circumstances of his madness, trauma and the awareness of the volatility of life, he sees everything countless times stronger. He doesn't feel the hard, cold, uncomfortable surface of the butcher's hammer, no just, he feels the stone or the rock, the original shape of this object. His right arm is stretched backwards, the "weapon" hovers in the air, the left hand is on the table. His eyes are like tennis balls with two points, his teeth are clenched and his face is tense. He just thinks of Manuella, visualizing her ugly face instead of simply accepting his devastated hand. That makes the act easier, the crime that he has to commit. He hits. A hammering, throbbing, pulsating, cold cord of feeling runs from his fingertips to his elbow. It takes a moment before he regains control of his trembling hand and it lies there calmly. A throb in his fingers, like that of a heartbeat, hugs the surface of the table. The knocking throb gets stronger with each crushing hit. It rises, it seems to Manson that he is hearing it in his ears, as if he has put his head on my chest, and hears my heartbeat sailing. He misses the feeling of being close, the warmth and security.
It's done for the left hand. The fingers are like liquid with small pieces of meat. They pour themselves into small puddles under his outstretched arm on the frame. The same is said to happen with his right hand. But how should he hold the meat hammer now? He doesn't know, but an idea has already taken root. He's going to bite his fingers. Like a dog chewing on a bone. He puts them in his mouth. He nibbles his skin with his teeth, plucks it from the meat and spits it on the floor. The blood runs down his chin and hand. This intense taste of the blood that swells up on his tongue makes him imagine a carousel in an emotional sense that is rocking around in circles as fast as a storm. His red fingers, which look like melting licorice sticks, taste like raw sausages covered in blood. He thinks he now knows the pain that an animal experiences in the mouth of the enemy or at the slaughterhouse. Little by little he pulls the flesh from his blood-stained knuckles, lets his mouth loose so that his fingers slip out of the grip of his teeth. Manson spits out the blood and sways down on his ass cheeks. With his boots he kicks his bony fingers to dust, which feels like falling from a surreal height and slapping the stomach flat on the hard water. So strong that the stomach rips open and the water mixes with the blood and organs.
The clock on the door shows 5 minutes. Marilyn gets up on his two legs and sprints to the door. He dabs the blood on the handle with his fingerless clumps of hands. With his shoulders he pushes the obstacle (the door) out of his way.