Tag: short stories

Waiting in a Non-Linear Line

He sits on the table, his legs swinging over the edge, his arms folded tightly against his naked chest. He closes his eyes as his lips tighten and his brow furrows. He tries to take a deep breath but finds his body unresponsive to the command. His lips curl back, baring his teeth. He unfolds his arms, clutches the edge of the table, and tries to breathe again. Once more, his body refuses—he thrusts himself to his feet and roars like a child throwing a tantrum in a supermarket.

As his cries die away, an eerie silence settles over the room—the kind of still silence that slowly eats away at your mind and quietly buries you alive. The vibrant walls shimmer and flicker. A grotesqueness creeps down his back as shadows dance before him, but the longer he stares at them, the more he realises they are not shadows but something beneath the flesh of the walls. Insect-like creatures writhe and crawl under the sheet of fabric that hangs loosely before him. He reaches out with a nervous hand, his eyes widening as he touches the silk-like fabric—only to find it solid, like plaster. Then the room is back to how it was, and he is sitting on the table once more.

“You’ve had your fun!” he calls out, tossing his hands into the air. “You’ve made me look like a fool, and I’m sure you’ve taught me a valuable lesson that will stay with me for the rest of my life, but the fun’s over!”

“The fun is far from over, and teaching you a lesson at this stage of your life would be a waste of both our time. As I said to you before, you have to perform the task on your own. Otherwise, you cannot move onto the next stage,” a voice whispers in his ear. He spins around to find the room empty, his hands tightening into fists.

“This isn’t real,” he mutters under his breath. His lip curls, his teeth clench, and his voice cracks. “Y-Y-You’re just screwing with me, trying to get in my head. R-Right?” he calls out.

But the voice doesn’t answer. Instead, the silence feels worse than it was before as the lights flicker again. The walls pulsate once more, and the insect-like creatures move beneath the wall again. His hands twitch, his fingers flexing against an itch he can’t scratch. He tightens them—then, without warning, reaches out and touches the softness of the wall. Peeling the paper-like shell away reveals a million or more bugs that spill into the room, filling it quickly. He screams and cries in terror as he scrambles to the other side of the room, pinning himself into the corner crevice. He closes his eyes tightly. Moments stretch into minutes as he waits for the swarm to overwhelm him. But when he finally opens his eyes, he finds the room silent and as it was before.

“This is bullshit! I’ve done everything you’ve asked for. I’ve practised all your little exercises, and I’ve answered all your fucking questions. So how about you just cut a guy some slack and let me through? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“To my knowledge, before I started here, there have been seven known violations of the rule. Each violation ends in apocalyptic conditions. Each event is cauterised from time, space, and reality, along with all those involved. So even though you may feel that a breath is beneath you, we hold these in high regard—and as a requirement!”

He slaps his arms together and tries to draw in a breath so he can thrust it back out. But as before—as now—he cannot. He grabs the table and upends it, screaming obscenities into the air before turning back to the empty doorway.

“So I’m just expected to stay here until I do?” he grunts.

“That is the way. That is how it is. Unless you choose to take the stairs down. Breathing is not a requirement to journey down there. In fact, I don’t think there are any requirements. He doesn’t even care if you’re dead or not—he takes all.”

Boils Blistering Pus-Filled Explosions

The blister pops, and a stream of green pus sprays across the floor in front of Timothy. He sways, a twisted smile spreading across his lips as another blister slowly swells. He purses his lips, then pulls them back in his best Billy Idol pose, grunting as he thrusts his hips suggestively forward. His flaccid member swings between his legs with each thrust. Throwing his arms back, he clenches tightly wound fists and bites down on his bottom lip, tilting his head to the side to capture the perfect photo profile. With a guttural grunt, the blister erupts, spraying another jet of slime across the floor.

Susie squeals, pulling her legs in tightly and pressing herself flat against the wall. A hiss, a spit, and a sizzle rise from the concrete as the ooze eats its way into the ground. A hazy mist rises, curling upward as the concrete erodes—the slime devours it like a greedy child feasting on a candy bar.

Timothy stifles a burp, his chest heaving as a lazy smile washes over his droopy lips. He pokes his bottom out, then pulls it back in, repeating the motion several times while laughing quietly to himself. The sound is almost like a record stuck on a scratched loop. Meanwhile, another pus-filled boil swells obscenely on his shoulder.

“P-P-Please, I didn’t mean—” Susie begins, her voice quivering under the weight of her fear. But before she can finish, the blister explodes with a violent clap, spraying her legs in a hot, wet torrent of sickly-green goo. Her screams tear pages from books older than mankind as the putrid, corrosive liquid burns through her skin. She grips her legs instinctively, only to have the palms of her hands seared to the melting flesh of her thighs.

The ripe stench of burnt meat quickly fills the air, while her choking cries fall into pathetic, wet gurgles. She thrashes against the wall, her wide eyes locked on Timothy, who dances in mocking rhythm. His hips sway, his penis hardening with each of her screams. He giggles, thrusting his fists onto his hips and standing proudly in another exaggerated pose. Narrowing his eyes, he purses his lips and sneers down at her.

“Does it hurt?” he asks proudly, his words dripping with a sickly, perverse undertone that would almost be considered gleeful.

Another boil pulses on his face, its surface stretched thin and pulsating as if threatening to burst. She sobs, nodding her head weakly, and he smiles smugly.

“Good. Good. That’s how you know it’s real. That’s how you know change will be your reward. We all change. Without change, we are cattle—and cattle is food for the changed!”

The blister bursts, showering her with another wave of corrosive filth. This time it splashes across her face. Her skin bubbles and peels, her cries almost inhuman in pitch. She tears her hands free from her legs and collapses to the floor in an overly dramatic display, her body twitching.

Susie lies crying, half-heartedly trying to drag herself away. Her legs are almost useless, her hands a cradled mess, but the slime burns relentlessly. It eats through her flesh like a living thing, spreading and consuming her inch by inch as though alive.

A Sea of Changes After the Before 

The sea of red pulsates around him, its waves shifting around him like a jelly mould of muscle, but in his bubble, he feels safe. It crashes against its transparent flesh—pushing, pulling, dragging him in, then spitting him out. A spark, a ripple—veins streak across the bubble’s surface like angry scars, flexing in ways only something alive could manage. He spins, he swings, and the world loses all control as it thrusts him forward, grips him tightly, and sucks him back in again as his bubble slams into the world’s edge. 

The tide washes over him again and again. He grits his teeth and inhales the madness. A sickly stench of rotting flesh fills his nostrils, making him gag as the bubble shudders—almost gasping—before it tears open. The thick crimson tide rushes in, warm and viscous, drowning him in its suffocating grip. The fleshy skin of the deflated bubble wriggles and writhes, gripping him in grotesque arms like a lover that will not let go. He screams, thrashing violently as the thing sticks to his skin, gluing itself tighter with each futile struggle. 

His lungs scream, and his heart roars as he panics like a man without hope, pulling at the sticky flesh that wraps him in its suffocating cocoon. His nails dig through it, and into his own skin, as he tries to claw himself free, but it holds tight. He tumbles through the rotting sea of something else—unseen hands dragging him down into its depths. His eyes roll back, his body convulses, and he chokes, before, in a sudden spark of desperation, his eyes tear open and he thrashes wildly, kicking and twisting. But the more he moves, the deeper it drags him into its abyss. It pulls him left, then right, twisting his body until his muscles ache, before finally expelling him. 

A grotesque river of red surges from a gaping, freshly torn wound in the wall, vomiting him onto the cold concrete floor. He crashes down, the impact slamming the breath from his lungs as he’s violently birthed into a world he can only despise. 

He lies silently as his chest sucks in short, sharp, desperate breaths. His eyes stare emptily into the void beyond. Blood pools around him, thick and warm, and the sickly stench of death chokes the air. Above him, a hole opens in the very fabric of what is—and what is not. And a hand slowly reaches for him. Desperation takes hold, and he surges upwards, clawing and tearing at the sticky, translucent flesh of the bubble that had been his only sanctuary. 

But as he attacks, the bubble fights back like a leech desperate to finish its meal. Its surface twitches, pulsates, and grips him tighter, wrapping around his limbs. He bites at it, his teeth tearing through the membrane as black ooze sprays over his face. It clings to his flesh, burning like acid, and he screams as it writhes over him. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of agony, his fingers pierce the quivering skin, and he rips it open like a wet bedsheet. The air rushes in—thick and stale, reeking of decay. He gasps, choking as he gulps down the death-laden air. His freshly torn prison writhes as the hand continues toward him, and he screams indescribable words as he tears at the thing once more until it finally falls away, twitching weakly. He collapses onto the blood-soaked floor before melting away into a pool of congealed black liquid. 

He casts a weary gaze upwards as the hole closes. He drops to his knees, exhausted, while a few feet away, another sea of red washes from another hole in the wall. 

Handkerchiefs, and Rusty Blades

The door creaks open, his hand sliding in carefully to nudge it further—slow and deliberate. He leans in, his eyes widening, lips trembling, as the room’s disappointment reveals itself. Crimson streaks mar the walls and floor—body parts litter the scene. Some are disturbingly familiar while others are ruined beyond recognition. He clutches a handkerchief, pressing it against his mouth and nose as the stench hits him—sharp and unrelenting. Tears well in his eyes. He turns, sucking in shaky breaths of the night air before facing the carnage again and stepping inside.

Each step is calculated, his feet placed with precision to avoid the worst of it. The foyer leads to a short hallway, its shadows painting their own grim image opens into what was once the lounge room. The devastation deepens—torn couches lie like broken corpses, stuffing spilling onto the floor. The air is thick with the smell of death, suffocating and cloying. Rats scurry through the wreckage, weaving between upholstery shreds and jagged debris.

Body parts are scattered everywhere—a grim chaos amplified by the wall ahead. Painted in filth, its surface bears a crude mural with its grotesquery crowned by the words “HE COMES” scrawled in blood. His breath hitches as he clutches the handkerchief tighter, fingers trembling while he fights a wave of nausea.

“I wanted it raw—primeval—but I think it’s crossed into kitsch.” March’s voice breaks the silence, making him flinch. The man steps forward, his presence as dishevelled as the room itself. His wrinkled blue shirt hangs heavy with grime, its collar and shoulders stained by splotches of dried blood. One sleeve is rolled up, exposing a gaunt forearm, while the other droops halfway down his arm. His red trousers, torn and smeared with dirt, hang awkwardly from his hips, the knees darkened with filth.

“I-I-I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Corey says, his voice unsteady.

“You didn’t want to admit I could do it, or did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I-I-I… I don’t know. Both, neither. I just didn’t think you’d do this—on such a large scale.”

He laughs, half-hearted. “This is nothing. You should see down in the cellar. That’s where my true pieces of art are,” he says, gesturing toward a doorway halfway down the wall, a grin spreading across his lips, almost maniacal. Corey inhales sharply, his eyes widening, his mouth trembling as he steps back.

“The cellar? What’s in the—”

March’s grin broadens unnaturally wide, his teeth yellowed, stained, and jagged. Some have been filed, others chipped and broken, his gums covered in ulcers. “Oh, you’ll see soon enough,” he sings as he suddenly moves faster than Corey can react.

The rusty, bloodstained blade arcs toward Corey’s arm, slicing through flesh. Corey hisses and stumbles away, his back colliding with the blood-slick wall. March is on him quickly, pinning him in place and driving the blade into his shoulder. Corey screams like a dog howling at the moon—clawing, kicking, and thrashing—until March drives a knee into his groin.

March pulls the blade free, pressing it against Corey’s throat. “You wanted proof!” he hisses, his breath rancid and rotten. “Well, here it is! Now, you’re the proof.”

He thrusts his arm forward, driving the blade into Corey’s stomach. Blood spills down his torso in a hot stream. Corey tries to scream, but the sound chokes into a wet gurgle. His hands claw desperately at March’s arms as the knife twists, stealing the last of his strength.

Corey collapses to his knees, his body wracked with spasms. Blood spatters the floor as he coughs violently. March grabs him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him toward the cellar door.

“P-P-Please,” Corey sputters, his voice weak and desperate.

March grips the door handle, smiling wide as he opens it. “Don’t worry, old friend—it won’t hurt,” he says, tossing Corey’s failing form down the stairs.

From the darkness below, something stirs, growling low and hungry.

“Not for long, anyway,” March adds as he shuts the door.

Hiding in Sight so Plain

He lets out a low, guttural groan, dragging his left leg behind his right. Each step rolls the curve of his spine upwards. His head arches back, and his vacant eyes stare into the sky. A sickly, thick, congealed string of green goo hangs from the corner of his lips, swaying with every movement.

A few feet away, she drops to her knees, letting out a stifled cry. Her hands claw at the dirt, her shoulders shaking as she silently sobs on the ground where she has fallen.

His eyes dart from the sky to her, his lips trembling. He takes another awkward step, then another, before stumbling forward and collapsing onto all fours beside her.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, his voice tight and low. “We have to move. If those things even for a second realise we’re not one of them—if they think we’re food—we’re as good as dead!”

“I—I—I—I can’t,” she sobs, her body trembling. “I don’t want to anymore. Not like this. Not for however long this is!”

He casts an awkward glance around the area. Small groups of decomposing, grotesquely mutilated corpses stumble aimlessly, heading in no real direction yet somehow still moving directly for them.

His voice shakes as he looks back at her. “Baby, sugar, if you don’t get up, I’m gonna have to leave you here. And if I do that, those things are gonna figure out you’re not one of them. And then—” He catches his breath and swallows a dry mouthful of air. “Then I can’t stay for that.”

“Then go!” she spits, her voice sharp with anger. She lifts her head and glares at him, her face streaked with dirt and tears. “Get out of here and do what you’ve always done—leave. Leave the people who need you to die alone!”

“Mar, that’s not—”

“Fuck you!” she hisses, spitting in his face as she leaps to her feet. She rips the rotting flesh she has been wearing as a mask for the last five days off her head and throws it to the ground. “Fuck you! And fuck all of you!” she screams. “Come get me, you pieces of shit!”

The dead stop and turn, their heads arching toward her. They howl, they scream, they cry, and they charge.

They hit her like a wave. The first knocks her off her feet, and the rest swarm, dragging her to the ground. Claws tear into her flesh, teeth rip chunks of meat from her arms and legs. She screams, thrashing against them, but it is useless.

He watches, frozen, as blood sprays everywhere, painting the grass in an explosion of red. One of them grabs her skull and smashes it against the ground until it splits open, her brain spilling out in a sea of crimson gold. Another tears her intestines free, pulling them from her like a magician with handkerchiefs. They keep surging, one after the next, feasting and feeding, as more pile on top.

Her screams are gone long before he realises, and she is just a pile of torn flesh. They continue to pull and tear at her—her eyes gouged out, her limbs torn and scattered, her body a mutilated disaster—and the beasts keep biting, keep tearing, keep feeding. Not because they are still hungry, but because they do not know how to stop.

When they finally shuffle away, there is nothing left but a dark smear of red across the grass and torn clothing. The clearing is silent except for the low grunts and hisses of the dead as they wander off, snapping at each other.

He sits there, staring at the mess, his breath catching in his throat. His chest heaves with each shallow gasp. Tears stream down his cheeks as he gently, silently sobs.

A hand grips his shoulder and squeezes.

He lets his eyes close as he feels the teeth tear at his flesh.

Face the Face You Hate 

“One hundred percent. I said if you can’t pay the money today, you’ll have to pay more tomorrow. But I also said you’ll have to give me something to make up for the lack of money today!” Snyder spits as he upends the table and rushes at George, hoisting him up from his seat and thrusting him into the wall. 

The room falls silent, and all eyes fall on the two. Snyder’s lips twist into a mask of rage while his eyes burn red, drilling into George’s flesh. George stammers nervously and casts a quick, wayward glance toward the others, who all stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed. 

Snyder pulls him back slightly, then thrusts him into the wall again, bringing his gaze back to meet his. “Don’t look at the sheep, child—look at me! I’m the one who gave you what you needed when you needed it—like I did for everyone else here in this unforgiving place. And like you, they chose to ask for more than they could give! Is that what this is going to be? Is this how you will repay your debt to me? Will you be my puppet? Will you be my fool?” 

“P-P-Please,” George stammers as tears stream down his face. 

Snyder’s lips tremble, and his face turns bright red as he pulls George from the wall and tosses him to the ground. George scrambles to his feet and turns to run, only to find the others surrounding him. He swallows a stale, desperate breath before slowly turning back to the smiling Snyder, now reclined in the torn, old Victorian-era chair he uses as a makeshift throne. 

Snyder casually chops the end off a thick Cuban cigar, takes several deep drags as he lights it, then blows a wad of smoke toward George, who fans the smoke from his face with his hands. 

“Now, let’s agree on the cost each day will bring, as well as how much extra money you’ll owe me for each day I wait for what you promised to pay when we first made this deal.” 

“I-I-I don’t understand w-why you want something now, but are also charg—” 

“BECAUSE I CAN!” Snyder roars, launching himself from his chair. Everyone in the room drops to their hands and knees as if a silent command of authority had been given the moment he stood and raised his voice. 

“I AM THE ONE WHO HAS BEEN WRONGED! I AM THE ONE WHO HAS GIVEN ALL THAT WAS ASKED! YOU! YOU HAVE ASKED FOR SOMETHING YOU CANNOT AFFORD, BUT YOU HAVE STILL TAKEN IT! SO I CAN ASK WHAT I WANT, AND IT SHALL BE MINE!” 

He cries out, snorting like a raging bull. “I can’t believe it—you, of all things! You, the one who mapped his entire second life out in post-it notes upon a board of human flesh.” Snyder spits as he tears at the fabric of reality, ripping open a hole in space and time to reveal the musty inner workings of George’s makeshift bomb shelter. 

A sail of human flesh—treated, sewn, and stretched across the wall—is littered with red tendrils of string, leaping from one post-it note to the next. Each note is covered with words, numbers, pictures, or actual shit and seeded spit. 

George’s lips tremble, and he falls to his knees, grabbing at Snyder’s boots, licking them, then rubbing them to shine. Tears stream down his face. 

“P-P-Please, I-I-I’m broken. T-T-This dream, t-t-this new face, it gives me someone else to see, someone else to be. P-P-Please!” he sobs, dragging himself up to Snyder. 

Snyder grins wickedly, grips George by the back of the head, and burns him in his crotch, rubbing his hardening penis in George’s face before thrusting him away and tearing his flesh suit from him. 

George’s true form is revealed. He screams in terror, his eyes wide and his mind lost. 

Snyder extends a hand to him, smiling with a wickedness George cannot look away from. “I think it’s all a matter of perspective—one I think you should experience,” he slurs. “That is if you dare take my hand. Do that, and you can have your flesh suit back, and another year to pay your debt.” 

“A-A-A year?” George stammers, blinking nervously. 

“Okay, a year and a day, but no more.” 

“A-A-And all I have to do is take your hand?” 

“Take my hand, and the deal is done. Yes, sir, indeed. Take my hand, see what must be seen, then take your year.” 

“A-A-And a day?” George stammers. 

Snyder laughs. “Of course, a year and a day, to be sure.” 

George leaps up and grasps Snyder’s hand, a smile beaming on his lips. “Y-Y-You won’t be sorry! I swear, I’ll get you your money on time this—” 

But his words catch in his throat as the world spins before him. 

“Face your experiences, and then I’ll see you, sooner than you think,” Snyder’s voice says as the world turns to custard. 

George suddenly finds himself seated in an all-too-familiar restaurant—across from himself. 

He tries to scream, tries to run, tries to do anything—but finds himself stuck, in an elevator with no buttons. 

Snyder’s voice oozes in his ear. “You better watch this one. He looks like a real killer,” he hisses with a crackle, as George stares into his own smiling face, knowing all too well how the night is going to play out. 

Through Books, Lessons Are Taught

The books tumble to the floor, piling on top of David’s limp frame. He groans, his face twisting in pain as he squeezes his eyes shut and scrunches his nose. He tries to push himself up, but the sheer weight of the books drives him back down.

He gasps for air, his chest pressed against the floor, panic painting his face pale. He swallows hard, struggling to pull in a breath, but the air catches in his throat like a lump of wet sand. Desperation claws at him as he drags himself to his hands and knees. After a few agonising attempts, he manages to create just enough space for his chest to puff out. He sucks in one jagged breath after another, his lungs burning from the strain.

The weight on his arms turns to fire, but he forces his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he focuses. With effort, he shuffles his knees forward, his body trembling under the burden. He shifts his position enough to ease the pressure on his arms, granting a brief moment of relief—but it’s short-lived. The agony in his legs flares, spreading like molten lead.

He tries again to stand, grunting with the effort, but the weight above refuses to relent. His breaths come in stuttering gasps as tears slip down his cheeks, unnoticed.

“No one likes a sook, Davey boy,” a voice mocks from above, its tone sharp and dripping with disdain. “So why don’t you toughen the fuck up and get the hell outta dodge?”

“W-Who’s there?” David stammers, his voice barely audible. “C-c-can you help me? I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”

The voice chuckles, low and guttural, each sound cutting like a blade. “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up,” it mimics, the words drawn out like a cruel song. “Grow a pair, Davey. Deal with your problems like a real man.”

“W-W-Who are y-you? A-and how do you know my name?” David gasps, his voice trembling.

“I know plenty about you,” the voice purrs, growing closer. “I know how sick you are. How depraved. I know what you do when you think no one’s watching. And I know what you’ve been thinking about doing to that sweet girl in number sixteen.”

David freezes, his breath caught in his throat.

“The same as what you did to the girl in number twenty.”

The voice erupts into a cackling laugh, its sound ricocheting through his skull.

“I—I don’t know wh—” he stammers, but his words cut off as the weight on his back suddenly doubles.

David gasps for air, his lungs seizing. His body trembles as the books press harder.

“Don’t lie to me, David,” the voice hisses. “It won’t end well for you. Unless, of course, you enjoy an eternity of sodomising. You might even like it.”

The weight slightly lightens, and David draws in desperate gasp after desperate gasp. A sea of sweat covers him from head to toe as he frantically positions himself on all fours, braving the weight so he can breathe. The room falls into silence.

“W-What do you want from me!” he cries.

But the voice doesn’t answer. Only the silence of the room and his own desperate breaths remain. His arms wobble, his legs ache, and frustration boils over.

“F-Fucken answer me!” he screams.

Suddenly, beneath him, looking up from the floor, is the most unexplainable person he has ever seen. His eyes seem to speak without a mouth, their dull greys leeching into corners of yellow and red. His flesh is tarred the colour of a fire’s dying embers, and his smile—his smile makes David wet himself.

The smile broadens, and a firm hand gently cups David’s groin. “You shouldn’t have—not for me anyway,” the man purrs mockingly.

“W-Who are you, and how do you know the things you said?” David stutters.

The man’s smile widens, revealing several rows of impeccably beautiful teeth, pearly white and glowing with an unnatural aura of life. “I don’t think either of us need to go any further down the rabbit hole with explanations, do we?”

“W-What do you want?”

For a moment, David swears the man’s eyes are pits of fire. The wicked smile stretches impossibly wide as the man leans closer.

“I want you to stop fighting what you are, David. I want you to do what you desire to do. I want all that disgusting stuff in your head, and I want you to do every bit of it to that slut in number sixteen,” he says with a wicked cackle.

An Envelope Written for Me 

Blood runs down his face as he stares at his fractured reflection in the cracked mirror. He curls his lips, baring his teeth like some deranged wild animal. The gash on his forehead gapes wider, the skin peeling apart like fruit left out in the summer sun—warm, sticky, and rotting too quickly. His gaze drifts toward the eye that stares silently back—buried deep inside the flesh, staring at him from within the bloody wound. 

A grunt growls through his clenched teeth. He slaps the wound, punches it hard. The eye shifts beneath the skin, its gaze infuriating. With trembling fingers, he pinches the torn flesh together and drives the needle through it. A grimace contorts his face as he pulls the line taut, then weaves the needle through again. And again. Slowly. Clumsily. Stitch by agonising stitch, he buries the eye beneath the flesh. He bites down on the thread and rips it free, snarling as he spits the bloody remnants into the sink. 

Leaning back, he grips the grimy white ceramic basin and glares at his twisted reflection. His face is a mess of sweat, blood, and poorly sewn flesh. He tilts his head, baring his teeth as he clenches his jaw tight. His facial muscles twitch as a laugh escapes—a dry, broken sound that echoes through the filthy room. 

The laugh dies quickly as his legs give way. His bare feet slip on the blood-covered tiles, and he collapses backward. His head slams into the edge of the sink with a wet crack before his body crumples into a tangled heap on the floor. 

For minutes, maybe longer, he lies there. Above him, the flickering light casts his twitching body in erratic bursts of brightness and shadow. The stitches stretch as the buried eye shifts, pulling the skin taut. The torn flesh splits as the eye slowly, deliberately—impossibly—rolls upward. The thread snaps, and the flesh hangs open again. The eye stares out, triumphant, unblinking, watching the world. 

He awakes with a sudden cry, the room unfamiliar. A low hum of machinery fills the air, rhythmic beeps echoing from the machines linked to wires piercing his flesh. The door opens, and a striking blonde woman in a nurse’s uniform enters. She smiles softly. His lips tremble, his brow furrows, and a sea of sweat cascades down his face. 

“W-W-Where a-am I?” he stammers. 

The nurse continues to smile as she checks the machines, her eyes glinting in the cold fluorescent light. 

“H-H-Hello?” he tries again, his voice cracking. 

She looks at him and nods politely but says nothing. His trembling hand lashes out, snatching the folder from her grip. It’s blank. His heart races as he looks back up at her. Her mouth opens wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth. She screams, the sound shrill and relentless, like a siren tearing through his skull. 

His body jerks, and the pain consumes him. He opens his eyes again, heart pounding, to find himself back on the floor, staring at the cracked sink. The blood pools beneath him as he lies in silence, the room bathed in suffocating darkness. 

Then, from the cracks in the tiles, a whisper rises. A low, incomprehensible murmur, wet and insidious, wrapping itself around his mind like a vice. His lips twitch, curling into a grotesque, blood-painted grin. The whisper grows louder, burrowing deeper into his ears, his skull, until the words become clear. 

“Do it,” the voice commands, jagged and sharp, cutting through his sanity like a razor slicing through skin. 

A low laugh rises, soft at first, then swelling louder. He jerks his head backward, smashing it into the tiles with a sickening crack. Blood sprays across the floor. He slams it back again. And again. Each blow deliberate, each strike harder than the last, his laughter growing more hysterical, more unhinged, with every impact. 

Finally, his body falls limp. His eyes remain wide and empty as he lies in an ever-growing pool of blood. His skull is a shattered mess, the cracks in his head leaking crimson rivers. 

As silence fills the room, something stirs. A small, grotesque creature slithers out from the remains of his skull, its single wide eye gleaming as it crawls free. 

What Hides in Mother’s Milk

The fluorescent light hums, flooding the room with its cold, white glow. A nervous smile ripples across his trembling lips like a wave crashing against the shore. He rolls his neck to the side before reaching into a trough full of thick white liquid and pulling out a severed leg. He gently places it on a stainless steel table, takes a step back, and admires it, squinting one eye shut as his lips pucker.

He takes a breath and steps around the table. Lifting the leg by its base, he peers down its length, places it back down, then quickly rushes to the other end and clutches the leg once again, eagerly examining the cut at the hip joint where the leg was severed. His gaze shifts to the nurse, frozen in place, her face pale.

“I’ll need the hacksaw,” he says, his voice sharp. “We’ve got a strange discolouration around the cauterisation site. If we attach it as-is, the body could reject it, and our lovely patient will most undoubtedly die of infection.”

He cradles his jaw in thought, then snaps, “The hacksaw, woman! Now!”

The nurse jumps, grabbing the tool from a tray of what one would call semi-clean, almost sterile, instruments and slaps it into his waiting hand. He places the blade against the leg and drags it back, tearing through the soft, meaty flesh with a wet squelch as milky fluid spills out.

With ease, he saws through the flesh, but when the blade hits bone, it grinds, sticking fast. Patrick groans, sweat dripping down his face as he yanks at the saw. He pushes, then yanks again. The blade chews its way free, and he stumbles back. Letting out a frustrated grunt, he pulls the flesh apart at the cut and grimaces loudly.

“Damn rot,” he mutters, scrunching his nose and gritting his teeth tightly. “If it’s reached the base of the femur, this leg will be useless!”

He adjusts the blade and begins cutting again, his teeth clenched. The saw snarls through the tissue, but as before, when he reaches bone, it jams once more. Frustration flares as he jerks at the blade and strikes it with his palm, but it refuses to budge.

“Give me the other hacksaw!” he growls, his trembling hand outstretched.

The nurse doesn’t move, her wide-eyed stare frozen in place.

“For God’s sake, the hacksaw!” he bellows, shaking his hand furiously.

Startled, the nurse rushes forward and, in her panic, thrusts the hacksaw blades-first into his outstretched hand. The jagged teeth bite deep, severing three fingers and half of his thumb.

Patrick screams, stumbling backward as blood splatters across the floor. The table rocks violently, sending the severed leg tumbling to the ground. The trough wobbles, its thick white liquid sloshing over the edge and spilling onto the floor.

Clutching his mangled hand, Patrick thrusts it into the liquid, his scream echoing through the room. He turns to the nurse, now collapsed in a heap on the floor, unconscious.

His lips tremble as his face twists in agony. The fiery pain in his hand intensifies. He pulls it from the trough and stares in horror as hundreds of thin, writhing tendrils cling to his torn flesh.

Patrick staggers back, his eyes wide as something stirs within the liquid. Slowly, a massive, unblinking eye rises to meet his gaze.

He freezes, his breath caught in his throat. The creature’s enormous mouth opens, revealing a sea of jagged, razor-sharp teeth.

A warm trickle runs down Patrick’s leg as the beast lunges. Its jaws snap shut, severing his head from his shoulders in a single, clean bite.

A Cleaver is the Key to the Skull

Brian’s empty gaze stares off into the distance as his body drops, slapping the floor like a wet piece of clothing. A pool of red quickly grows around him from a sizeable, crimson gash at the back of his skull.

Stewart smiles and gently nods his head in satisfaction, curling his lips and casting a wayward glance at the petrified Michelle. His grip tightens on the bloody cleaver he holds proudly in his hands.

Her trembling fingers cup her face as she sobs uncontrollably. He nods again and turns his attention back to the body.

“He’s a good choice—big muscles, an alluring smile, and an ample package to keep the women happy. I can see why you chose him. And don’t worry, the damage we’ve done today will be minimal at best,” he says, sawing the cleaver idly through the air. “Nothing that will be noticeable to the outside world. Maybe you’ll need to relearn a few things, but most of my clients only have small hurdles to overcome in the first few days. I can assure you the biggest problems you’ll face will come later—when someone recognises you.”

“R-R-Recognise me? B-B-But you said you’d vetted him, and he had no attachments. Y-You said he was completely alone in the w-world! I-I-I paid good money, and I was ensured that you operated with a one-hundred-percent guarantee, and that all my expectations would be fulfilled without fear of being found out! I-Is this still the case, or am I mistaken?”

Stewart holds up a hand to calm her and smiles gently. “You are not mistaken. We,” he says, patting his chest several times, “I have never had any of our clients come into contact with a situation we weren’t prepared for. Everything we, everything I do is methodical—I leave no stone unturned. But, as I’m sure you understand, there’s no such thing as one-hundred-percent certainty. Someone, somewhere, might crawl out of the woodwork. When that happens, you’ll need to know how to handle it. You’ll need to know the protocol because one wrong move could endanger everything you’ve worked so hard to keep, all that is outlined in the videos and literature we’ll provide you with while you’re recovering from the process.”

He says with a broad smile upon his lips, as he grips Brian’s corpse by the back of the neck and hoists it up onto his shoulder. “Now, we can stand around here talking about hypotheticals all day, but, while we are doing that, many important factors are taking place, the most important one of all is that our friend here will have degraded to the point where he will be of no good to anyone—and you’ll be back at the start, and any money you’ve already paid, of course, won’t be refunded.”

“Y-Y-You can’t do that. I-I had an agreement. I was told—”

Stewart thrusts his face into hers, his sneer cutting her off. “Lady, I can do anything I fucking like. You paid for a service, and I’m delivering it. Back out, and you forfeit the fees. Challenge me, and I’ll happily take it wherever you like, but I guarantee you—it’ll hold up. Now, are we going to pull that psychotic brain of yours out of your ditzy little head and put it into this muscle-bound buffoon, or am I going to be disposing of two bodies tonight instead of one?”

She swallows nervously, her face drained of colour as her knees wobble. She stumbles momentarily, then steadies herself with a deep breath. A forced smile spreads across her lips as she brushes back her hair and nods. “O-Okay. L-Let’s do it.”

Stewart smiles broadly and grips her powerfully by the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Let’s get you that new you.”

More Ways Than One to Change Who You Are

He squints one eye tightly, closing the other as his tongue pokes into the corner of his mouth. His trembling fingers carefully thread the catgut cord through the needle’s eye. A bead of sweat trickles down his brow as he draws several stuttering breaths. What feels like an eternity passes before the line finally slides through, and he exhales a sigh of relief. Turning to the pale, dazed stare of Kyle, he offers a nervous smile.

“How embarrassing would that have been—to get through all the bullshit before, only to trip up right at the end? It would’ve made a mockery of everything terrible I’ve done to you, wouldn’t it?” he says, his nervous smile curling into a hideous grin.

He takes Kyle’s limp hand, placing it gently onto a crudely modified lazy Susan. Its surface, fitted with several restraints, is marred by deep, dark crimson stains. Fastening one of the straps around Kyle’s wrist, he secures the hand in place. Tilting his head, he purses his lips and leans back, carefully surveying Kyle’s outstretched hand. One by one, he gently locks each finger into the roughly fashioned holsters. Closing one eye and sticking out his tongue again, he leans back, studying Kyle’s bewildered face with smug satisfaction.

“You know, when I first started doing this, I used pruning shears and chloroform. The results weren’t great,” he says, holding up a decayed hand, its fingers at various stages of rot.

“Growing up, my father thought the best kind of punishment was the kind that involved taking my fingers off at the hilt—one by one. So, what do I really know, right?” His words dissolve into a hysterical cackle as he picks up a cleaver and brings it down hard, severing Kyle’s hand in one clean stroke.

Blood pours out in a wave of red. He nods, tilting his head as though evaluating his own work. Glancing at Kyle’s glazed eyes, his smile grows wider.

“Don’t worry about bleeding out. The drug I force-fed you doesn’t just keep you docile—it thickens the blood. They use it in all those big, expensive hospitals where the surgeons are gung-ho mavericks who couldn’t give a fuck about the person on the table before them.” He grunts, letting out a stuttered sigh as he wipes his arm across his sweaty forehead, leaving a crimson smear on his pale flesh. Pursing his lips again, he looks over the severed hand and nods in satisfaction, glancing at Kyle with the grin of a used-car salesman sealing a deal.

“Everything has a place, a shelf, a spot to exist. You take what was there away, you replace it with something else. Balance. Without that, nothing exists. They say self-improvement starts at home, and you can make the change just by deciding it. You’ve got to work for it—put in the hard yards—and if you can find a corner to cut, you cut it,” he says with a hearty chuckle, slapping his own hand onto the table with a sharp thud.

Without hesitation, he grabs the cleaver again, rests its blade against the curve of his wrist, catches several short breaths, and allows his smile to twist into something more unhinged than before. Tilting his head to the side, he glances over at Kyle, who meets his gaze with a crossed-eyed stare.

“Don’t do that. You don’t know what true art is—what true change is all about. This is evolution,” he spits, raising the cleaver. Without hesitation, he brings it down in one quick, brutal motion.

He screams as the pain rushes through him like a freight train, taking out everything along the way. He hisses, roars, and then begins to laugh hysterically. A gush of red sprays from the wound, but like Kyle’s, the flow slows and steadies. He clenches his jaw, stumbling forward before collapsing in a confused heap. Closing his eyes, he takes several deep breaths before staggering back to his feet and focusing his gaze on Kyle’s severed hand.

“P-P-Perfect,” he whispers through gritted teeth, turning the lazy Susan around and pressing his own bloody stump against the severed hand. He looks over at the vacant Kyle and smiles. “N-N-Now, you probably thought everything we’ve done so far was the hard part. Well, that’s where you’re wrong, because this part—this part—” He stares off into the darkness with an empty expression before shaking his head and laughing softly.

With his free, trembling hand, he holds the threaded needle, its catgut line gleaming.

He swallows a jagged mouthful of air before piercing the needle through his own flesh and then into Kyle’s former hand. Yanking the thread through with a grunt, his eyes roll into the back of his head. He sways momentarily before looking back down and repeating the process several more times, each stitch as grotesque as the last.

“S-S-S-See, Kyle? Now y-y-you’re a l-l-little piece of me, a-a-and you, well—” He stammers, pulling the cord taut as he ties the final stitch. “You’re just a little less of you.”

He arches back and frees the restraints from the fingers, then the wrist. Like a king of the jungle holding a newborn high, he raises his hand into the air, studying it with perplexed wonder. The hand twitches involuntarily at first, spasming as though electrical connections are impossibly joined. Then he flexes his fingers, grimacing through the pain.

“Look at that, Kyle—a perfect fit,” he says, a twisted grin stretching across his lips. He looks over at the despondent Kyle as a single tear trickles down his cheek. “Oh, don’t worry, baby boy. You’ve still got a long life ahead of you—because I’m nowhere near done with you yet. Not while I’ve still got so much of me to change!”