Chapter One: For Her

Excitement gripped his throat as he walked along the gravel road in the grass, the only noise he made that of the nearly silent tread of his footwear amongst the lawn. He wore a black hoodie and equally colored fatigues along with his military-issued boots; on his back he donned a black messenger bag. Tactical gloves adorned his hands as he reached inside his hoodie pocket once more to check on his blade. Making sure it was secured, he patted at his top right trouser pocket even though he could feel the weight of the Glock 33 against his thigh the whole trip down here. He tightened the voice-distorter strapped to his neck a little tighter; he didn't need it coming off in case the guy struggled. Finally he checked his back pockets; the handcuffs were still there. He grinned broadly to himself, enjoying his solitaire journey toward the distant house. He had parked about a half mile down this country road, making sure to cover his truck with the camouflage he conveniently kept.

It was only the sound of crickets that met him as he finally approached the house. He breathed a sigh of relief; anticipation only seemed to falsely extend the time of his little journey up here. He set the bag down on the grass, humming a quiet tune to himself. From the bag he extracted a black polyester material face mask and a plain white plastic male face mask with his gloved hands. It was all just shit he'd kept from Halloween but it wasn't like this guy was anything special. He didn't even need the mask, he just liked wearing it. He couldn't believe he was doing this, though. Then again he always knew it would happen at some point. He always told her he would do it for her, he just never thought she'd actually ask him to. As he slid the mesh hood over his face he reflected that he had done a lot of things for her already. Those guys he had beaten, that one guy he had stabbed, the house he had burnt down, that time she asked him to kill that chick's dog, taking those pictures and distributing them around the school… ah, high school antics. Those were fun. Now they were adults and she had called upon him again. With that thought he began his approach. He slung the bag back over his shoulder and began to creep up to the house, thankful that the house was far the fuck away from civilization for the first time that now.

As he approached the house, he began to notice one thing: he was hearing music. From one hundred yards away. And it was coming from the house. Grinning under the mask at his luck he sprinted across the field, slowing down only until he got within visible sight of the house. Before long he had crept around to the back of the house where sure enough, like she had said, was a ladder to the upper balcony. He nearly laughed aloud at how absurdly easy all this was. He tried his hardest not to cackle manically as he ascended the ladder, easily vaulting over the balcony railing from the ladder. He found himself in a bedroom, of course. But not his victim's bedroom.

Whiteness shocked his senses with its blankness. It's sterility. It's achromatic madness! White wall, white floor, white bed, white bedspread, white desk, white dresser, white door, white everything! Wait, door! He rushed to his escape of purity, yanking it open in his haste to get out. Swearing, he took extra care to shut the door quietly. He chuckled and realized a moment later that he could have ran in here screaming at the top of his lungs firing off a shotgun and the guy still wouldn't have heard him. And the music was coming from the door just down the hall. This was so easy it almost wasn't fun.

He lost track of how long he stood crouched in that hall beside that door; it could've been minutes, it could've been hours. But sure enough before long the sound of bass booming abruptly stopped and the sound of a doorknob twisting was heard. He clutched the dagger tighter in his hands, the blade pointed down, readying himself. As soon as the man exited he kicked him in the nuts. Now, an unexpected kick to the balls, cowardly as it may be, is a very effective way to bring a man down. To get him completely on the floor, he waited until the man had dropped to his knees. He took the man's head in his hands and brought it closer to his enclosing knee. He felt the sickening crunch of cartilage as he broke the man's nose. Surely enough he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. He didn't even know what part of his body to clutch at.

Before the man could recuperate and regain his senses the lunatic assaulting him grabbed him by both ears and dragged him down to the door were the white room resided. He kicked the door in, his heavy boots aiding his foot in the destruction of the doorknob. He threw the man bodily into the room, directly into that horrid white dresser before the door. As the man fell with his back to the lunatic the maniac stabbed down with his dagger, driving the steel blade between the femur and the tibia, slicing through ligaments and tendons directly into the patella. The man began screeching in agony, trying his hardest to crawl away. The maniac began laughing. Why did they think they could get away? His punctured knee produced a trail of blood in his efforts to… where the fuck does he think he's going? The desk? Oh, shit!

He dropped the knife and ran over to the man as he opened the desk drawer and brought the handgun to bear. Cursing his stupidity he lifted up his foot and gave the man a sense of what a Spetsnaz boot-heel tasted like. He man's noggin rocked into the desk, stunning him as the maniac tore the man's only protection from his hands and took a leap back. He quickly ejected the magazine, cocking the slide back to remove the firing pin before removing the slide completely in quick succession. He took what remained of the handgun and smashed it onto the man's crown before tossing it aside. Next he grabbed the man with both hands by his jaws and threw him onto the white bed.

He removed the handcuffs from his back pockets and jumped atop the man, easily capturing him and securing him to the headboard bars bellyside up. Now he started to cackle. It was the noise one would depict a psychotic clown to be howling at the moon. He slung the messenger bag off of his back onto the bed beside the man's feet. Its contents clanked heavily. Under the mask, he was grinning. When he spoke, his voice was obviously distorted to a lower pitch, deep and gravelly.

"Hello there, Mr. Miles." He began, looking directly at his bound victim. "You don't know me, but I know you. I know you very well." He said as he turned around, taking his dagger from the floor.

Miles spat out a few of his shattered teeth shards and a glob of blood before asking "What do you want with me?" rather weakly. The psycho sighed. Why is that always the first question? Not who are you, not what are you doing here, but what do you want with me. Like they're important or something. He heaved a sigh and then brought his knife down into his other kneecap, slicing into the tendon between the femur and the patella. The man roared with tumultuous pain. Under the mask the lunatic grinned, ecstatic that he could finally kill someone in their own home as loudly as he wanted to. It was his dream come true, and she'd given him a reason for it. With that, he began to pry the man's patella away with his knife. He felt the razor edge of his blade slice easily through the ligament as he popped the bone out.

As the man lay bawling in misery the maniac set down the dagger and opened his bag. From his bag he produced a mallet with a metal head. With a calm demeanor he went over the man's head, looking directly below on him, his eyes unseen behind the fabric. He looked into the man's eyes. They danced with pain and terror, confusion being the forbearing emotion amongst all. The lunatic had anticipated the next question even as the man uttered it.

"Why are you doing this?" he whined pitifully. This made the maniac angry.

"Do you forget so easily?" he asked with his distorted voice. "Did you forget that time you RAPED that little girl?!" His voice buzzed like angry hornets as he stabbed down into the man's calf, slicing through it. It was more a cut than anything, only meant to hurt, nothing more. Sick bastard's like this man made him sick; he was glad he could do this for her. The man, however, feigned ignorance.

"WHAT? No, no, that little bitch is lying!" He started babbling. "I didn't touch her, I didn't do anything with her, what the fuck kind of bullshit are you talking about I never touched any-"

His words were cut short as the man in the mask obliterated his jaw with the mallet. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He screamed, his voice laden with malice and rage. "You think I'm going to believe you? You think that after I made all this effort I'm going to think for one splitfuckingsecond that you're innocent?!" He ranted, ignoring the man's agonized moaning from his now-broken jaw. "You think that she didn't send me here? That she didn't tell me everything? That she wouldn't tell me anything? That I wouldn't do anything about it?" At this point the man's eyes cleared in recognition. If he could speak, he probably would have screamed his assailant's name aloud.

Happily, he could not. He could only choke and gurgle as his tormentor opened his bag once more and produced six small meat hooks. The hooks ended in an eye to allow it to be connected to a fastening. Naturally the next item from his bag was rope. He crouched by the edge of the bed and did some measuring, cutting the rope when he was satisfied he had the right length. He threaded the rope through the eyes, tying the knots as tightly as he could to avoid them coming loose from the pressure. The lunatic didn't know if the man was growing pale from blood loss or fear but was sure he'd live through the next implementation. This was the fun part.

Dagger in one hand, roped meat hooks in the other, he stood over the man. With what he considered a calm voice amidst the distorter, he proclaimed:

"I always called you gutless you sick prick. Now I'm going to make it so."

And with those words he plunged the knife into his abdomen, ripping and tearing the blade down along to his groin. A hellish scream of anguish erupted from his victim, but he wasn't done. He strung the hooks through the man's skin, tying the ends to the metal frame below the mattress. His entire torso's digestive tract was exposed with the removal of the skin. Blood flowed freely from the wound but the man was still alive, still screaming. Chuckling at all of this, the maniac seized a portion of the man's small intestine. He reveled at the jellylike feel of the organs beneath his tactical gloves, grinning under his masks in childlike glee. He began ripping the man's intestines out, causing him to convulse and sputter as the maniac gathered up the organs, drawing them back and throwing them with all his might at the wall. The sickeningly wet slap of connection was heard clearly over the man's screaming; blood splattered cheerfully from the impact, staining the surrounding area with streaks of crimson. As the man continued his death rattle the psychopath dug once more into his body cavity, clawing and tearing at the man's insides with his hands. He then gripped very tightly and sprang from the bed, pulling at the man's bowels as if it were a line of sausage links.

The average human's small intestine is about 6.9 meters. That's 22 feet and 6 inches. With all this leeway the lunatic was able to cover the entire floor of the room with the man's intestines. He also began digging into his chest cavity to throw other numerous organs at the wall. The sound they made upon impact made him feel good inside. Of course by now the man was dead from blood loss. He wasn't sure how much of the experience the man felt before he passed from this world but he was sure it wasn't a pleasant experience. Now but for one more thing. He extracted the hacksaw from his bag and set to work.