You know you are in a nightmare world when blood and guts and fear all become one and the same to you. When the sight, the sound, the feel of splicing flesh...is just another daily occurrence. When the dying screams of those you love is as mundane as the morning alarm clock, and just as irritating.
When your day begins in a cold and empty cellar, and ends just the same, you know you are alone. The feeling of isolation is so great it creeps into your heart with the stealth of a thief and the audacity of a charity collector. They might as well be shaking that collection tin under your nose to the tune of “Eleanor Rigby”.
You would rather die than face them though. Those who knew you...once. Those who have surely given up and left you to rot in this awful place, would they even recognise you? Are the scars as livid as they feel? The raised smooth lines on a mottled dirty face, the only pure part left is where the skin has been flayed away with self loathing.
What of the taste in your mouth? Morning breath has become forever breath and you might as well have tiny hamsters for teeth they are so furry. What you wouldn’t give for a toothbrush and a cup of coffee, but what hope have you of that, in the dark.
Who is this person who wears the hood and picks up the same dirty knife day in day out? What right have they to press it against the unblemished, paper like skin of a child...and feel their heart quicken? Can there be pleasure in the slight resistance of flesh, the relief of salty blood?
You cannot fathom it, and that makes it all the worse. To be trapped in body and mind gives a feeling of binding so oppressive it is enough to suffocate the soul but leave the heart still beating. You know a lot about suffocation, you’ve seen a fair few go that way. A grimy, maggot coloured pillow is drawn out of nowhere and pounded down with the slick crack of fragile bones.
Twitch, twitch, twitch , dead.
Not a particularly interesting way to go, little blood, futile struggle, no challenge. Guns have their advantages, the thrill of a shot never fails to surprise you, to wake you from that grey matter fog of yours. Another song “I Don’t Like Mondays” seems fitting and that’s what you hum under your breath as the next victim is dragged forth and laid bare upon the table, small and cowering beneath the hands of the life-liberator. The hum becomes a roaring buzz as the screams escalate....but when they lull you pause the hum to lick the blood that has splattered onto your mouth. You hoist her lifeless body over your shoulder and dump her in the pile in the corner.
In this nightmare world the most important question is: Who’s next?