A Piece Of Him

“Where is she?”


The thud echoed wetly in the dark room, and there was a dripping sound as spatter connected with floor and walls.

“Where is she?”

“Told you, I–”

Another thud, but the sound was turning into a wet smack, high and liquidy. It was the sound of the color of open wounds and fresh bruises.

“Where is she?”

“She’s fuckin de–”

The word was cut off in mid snarl, and the odd sound of bones and teeth cracking inserted a disturbing crunch into the rhythmic smack of flesh on flesh.

“Where is she?”

“Fugg off–”

The words were becoming mush in a mouth of paste; saliva and blood coating gashed knuckles that were bared time and time again, driven against jaw and nose and eye.

“Where is she?”

“I d’know–”

Another blow, another smack; he wouldn’t believe the answer, wouldn’t stop the questions, wouldn’t let go of the idea he had in the back of his mind, where his reptile brain basked beneath the tiny sun of ‘She’s still alive’ and kept itself warm, kept itself breathing.

“Where is she?”


The silence snapped something in him, something vital, and those electric blue eyes went out, went blank. A piece of him knows the horror he enacted on the poor sod stupid enough to get caught. A piece of him remembers quietly, cataloguing the way a piece of flesh can only take so much abuse before it comes undone like it were made only of red putty.

A piece of him used the black plastic bags and hose like he was taught, and a piece of him woke the rest to marinate it in scotch and cigarettes while it went back to slumbering fitfully, gorged to sickness on blood and screams.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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