Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Sold My Scars for Free 

He wipes his hand down the steam-drenched mirror and stares into his bloody reflection. He holds his jaw high, scrunching his nose as he looks at the gashes across his throat. He sucks in a heavy breath, runs his tongue across his teeth, coming to a half-stop as he feels a dislodged tooth sticking through his gum. He grimaces and gently plays with it before looking up into his eyes, hate written across them. 

He takes a few deep breaths, screams, and jams a pair of rusty old pliers into his mouth. He grips the tooth, locks eyes with himself again, takes another breath—then rips it free. 

A showering of red follows the tooth as it careers through the air like a comet. It slaps the glass, bounces into the porcelain sink and laps it several times before coming to a rest in the plug hole. 

He snarls, mumbles a handful of obscenities before swallowing several mouthfuls of whisky, straight from the bottle. He hisses and snarls, as he grabs a fistful of hair and yanks it back. He grimaces, his hand now soaked in red. The blades of the electric razor whirl to life as he swishes a mouthful of blood around, then spits it at his reflection. 

He shakes his head and drags the blade across his scalp, tearing clumps of hair free with each pass. Tears run down his cheeks as he laughs maniacally between fits of sobbing, shearing his head to reveal scars long hidden. The blade jams—he yanks it loose, ripping a chunk of flesh tangled with hair from the teeth of the razor. 

He screams and drives his fist into the mirror, sending a cascade of fractured reflections bleeding across the glass. 

His lips curl and he studies his bloody, glass-ridden fist. He puffs out his chest proudly, and stares up into a sea of eyes staring back at him. He grimaces, then, smiles. 

“Skin deep, you said,” he spits as he grips the shard sticking from the fleshy part of his knuckle with trembling fingers. His smile quivers as he stares at his reflection, before he pulls the surprisingly long shard free and, without a moment’s hesitation, slams it deep into his thigh. 

The pain rushes into the back of his skull like a bullet, but instead of screams of agony, he laughs—a twisted, haggard laugh, drawing from the back of his throat like dry kindling to a fire. 

“Y-Y-You want p-pain! T-Then let’s see how deep p-p-pain really goes!” he spits as he tears the fresh wound open, digging into it, carving a shape his mind doesn’t comprehend—but he can feel it. He can feel its age. He can feel its purpose washing over him. Something old. Something waiting. Something bloody. Something free. Blood gushes from the gaping wound, greedily bathing the floor beneath him in a sea of red. 

His eyes flicker, his smile twisting across his face. He laughs as he slowly drags the shard of glass to his chest and begins to trace the symbol into his flesh again—this time with more precise movements, with a defined purpose. His hands quiver. They tremble as his mind erupts in a sea of agony, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. 

He looks up into the mirror—it pulsates like a beating heart, moaning with ecstasy and pain, a veil of black pouring from its cracks. He stares at his many reflections, only to find them staring back, their grins wicked and not his. His heart skips as his reflections tilt their heads and their grins widen, revealing teeth he doesn’t remember losing—now missing from their twisted grin. 

He feels his body tighten and raises his bloody fist in front of him. He looks at his twisted reflections as they nod their heads—and then starts punching himself in the face, splitting his nose across his face. He grimaces, but doesn’t stop until teeth dislodge and tear into flesh. He spits a wad of blood and teeth into the sink and stares up at his twisted reflection. 

“Are you ready for me now, world?” he snarls, before driving the shard of glass through his temple