The Theatre Of Pain

By Adamski Fleetwood

Copyright Adam Fleetwood, 20017 First Published by Rivendell Publishing

Limited Rivendell, 5 The Clays, Market Lavington, Devizes, Wiltshire SN10
4AY www.rivendellcentre.com The right of Adam Fleetwood to be identified as
the Author of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher,
nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Printed and
bound by Lulu.com

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The Theatre Of Pain

By Adamski Fleetwood

2
 Senses

Suddenly there they were, the flesh bubbling and peeling away from bone, the
blood drying almost as soon as it touched the air, not a single drop falling to
stain Mikeys bedroom carpet. Then the skin on his face and shoulders began to
go the same way, Mikey totally and inexplicably oblivious to what must have
been nothing short of agony. Then as soon as I had seen those terrible injuries
they were gone. I left Mikeys house in a hurry, feeding him a lame excuse
about feeling queasy or something. If I know Mikey though, he knew that
something had spooked me. At home I sat in the living room in an almost
penumbral silence, the horrible thing Id seen the only clear, recurring thought
in my mind. I had been sleeping and eating just fine in the weeks leading up to
that incident my vision and had never touched a drug stronger than
Cocodamol. Perhaps it was just a freak occurrence I told myself but the feeling
in my gut said otherwise. Two weeks later I was called to the county coroners
office to identify a body. The corpse had been a charred and twisted mess of
seared flesh, riddled with open, fleshy wounds where the skin had split open
under immense heat.

It was Mikey. He had been found in the burned out and still smoking
wreckage of his crappy Toyota out on the edge of town on the outskirts of
Riverton forest. The wreck had been checked over but the cause of the blaze
was still inconclusive, though there were slightly more severe burn marks on the
drivers seat, possibly indicating that the fire had emanated from there. Mikey
always used to smoke whilst driving, sometimes as many as three or four just on
a trip to the local store.

In the preceding weeks I began to see them more and more. A young
mother pushing a pram down the street, a vicious red and black tyre mark
printed diagonally across her face, her features flattened and stretched into a
grotesque mess. I saw a store clerk with multiple stab wounds in his chest, neck
and face, blood soaking his blue shirt until there was almost no blue left. I saw a
teenage boy playing football with his friends, his body smoking and charred
much like Mikeys had been. At first I put these visions down to my grief at
losing my best friend to such a horrific accident, as I became acutely aware at
just how much I had pushed it down under the surface. With a flash of guilt I
realised that I hadnt really thought about Mikey since identifying his body. It

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still felt like he had gone on a particularly long family holiday or just gotten a
new girlfriend and that Id get a call from him pretty soon to arrange a couple of
drinks at the bar.

Then the obituaries began to turn up in the local paper. Elouise Wren, 21,
hit and run, died on arrival to the hospital from her injuries. Terrance Benson,
43, multiple stab wounds inflicted by his wife in a bid for their shared life
insurance. Cody Marland, 15, fell onto the train tracks whilst playing with
friends, died instantly from the resulting electric shock. It was with a sinking
realisation that I admitted to myself my uncanny new ability. I was somehow
seeing, channelling the causes of death of the people around me, whilst they
were still alive. Needless to say, later that day I called my landlord and
demanded that he remove every single mirror in my flat.

Months passed and I was beginning to lose my grip on reality. They were
everywhere, oblivious to the fact that they were going to die and there was
nothing I could do about it. Try approaching a mid-twenties businesswoman on
a crosstown express train and explaining to her that pretty soon she was going to
slip in the shower and shatter her skull like a watermelon on the edge of the
sink. Nobody takes you seriously, not in our age of drug addiction and untreated
mental health issues. For all intents and purposes I mustve looked like an
insane homeless man, my appearance having become one of dishevelment, my
beard now untidy, my clothes mostly unwashed, and my body thin from
malnutrition and lack of sleep. It was starting to affect the linchpin of my entire
life, my work. I was a cashier at the local bank, not a massively desirable or
important job but without that, it meant no pay check, no rent money, no
apartment - no life. My boss came to me that day and although concerned, told
me in no uncertain terms that my personal hygiene and current grooming regime
werent up to company standards. I had to reassure him that my appearance
wouldnt be a problem for long and then I left at half past five after cashing up
my till as per usual. I had a plan, to end these visions and get my job and my life
back.

So when I got home that night I threw my rucksack down by the front
door, popped a couple of codeine, paused a moment and then shook my head in
disbelief before popping four more, retrieved a roll of duct tape and a pair of
scissors from the useful stuff drawer and sat down at the kitchen table. I taped
the scissors to the edge of the table, testing to make sure they were secure and
then positioned myself above the twin blades, not a centimetre between the soft
4
gelatine of my right eye and the cruel point of the kitchen implement. The
strangest thing was that I felt no fear, no apprehension against the pain which
was coming, only a sense of excitement at the knowledge that I would never
have to see the faces of the dead again. With both hands on the back of my head
I took a deep breath and with no hesitation, shoved myself down onto the
blades.

I passed out on the kitchen table that night. When I woke the next day I
had to peel my face off of the table top where it had dried in place in the pools
of blood and viscera. I tried to open my eyes but they were sealed shut with
blood too and the sting of my useless eyelids was almost too much to bear. I felt
dizzy, my head pounding like the worst hangover Id ever had. Then the real
pain hit. The vicious agony of realizing what Id done to my eyes, the redundant
pulp which the scissors had reduced my sclera to. Blind, I made my way to the
stairs where I sat for a while. That was when I started to hear the voices. Latent,
soft whispers asking me a simple yet terrifying question. The question which I
had been trying to avoid by blinding myself.

My eyes burnt with the agony of removal, the sockets not empty but full
with useless gelatine rent apart by the blades I stupidly used. I heard the voices
of the dead. They told me how they died, how they missed their families, how
they wished they could spend another night with them. Sat there on the stairs I
could hear nothing but the complaining voices and they grew louder and louder.
Why did he shoot Kenny first? Why did he bury me alive? Why did he
ply me with Heroin until I struggled for breath? Why did I slit my wrists,
knowing that I was supposed to be a mother? Why was I the reason that she
killed herself? All that they kept asking was why. A deafening cacophony of
questions which had no answers, at least none which I could give. Why the
fuck are you asking me? How am I supposed to know? I screamed to the
empty room but I could barely hear my own voice over the muttering whispers
and questions. Later that night after fumbling my way up the stairs I laid in
bed, the covers cold around me, the voices seemingly louder than ever, my head
pounding, my body weary from the constant pain. Yet I couldnt sleep, the
questions becoming a slurry of garbled words infesting my mind, cluttering my
synapses and making clear and organised thought impossible.

Shut up! Shut up! I desperately yelled into the constant darkness which
surrounded me but to no avail, I may as well have just laid there in silence for

5
all that I could hear anymore. It was at that point which I thought of another
solution to my problem.

Im not exactly sure how long I was unconscious for but my landlord
found me. I guess I passed out from the pain because when I came to I was
surrounded by people, led in a pool of my own urine and blood. Of course, at
this point in time I could only feel the hands all over me as I was lifted onto a
stretcher and carried out to what I can only assume was an ambulance. It turns
out that a pencil makes a very efficient tool for deafening oneself. The floating
sensation as I was carried out to the ambulance was a bizarre one. I felt almost
angelic, as if I were floating through the air, isolated from the world around me
by two of my cursed senses. The voices were silenced, my head a cage
separating me from a world shrouded in death. I remember smiling to myself
through the agony which was now the only feeling coursing through my
crippled form. Sightless and deafened, I felt a peace which I had never felt
before. Natural causes. It was the nurse who showed me just how
inescapable my powers are. At least I assume she was a nurse as she changed
my cannula on a daily basis. I knew it was her every time as she wore a perfume
which was heavily scented with Jasmine, mixed with the now ever-present
stench of decomposing flesh and the metallic smell of blood. The hospital
reeked of death but at least the voices were silent. I could abide the smell at first
but the headaches were only kept at bay by the morphine being pumped into my
veins.

As she changed my drip she laid a comforting hand on mine and in a

second my mind filled with images. Her malformed foetus growing in her
mothers womb, the first light she ever saw blurred by the harsh ultraviolet
lights of the birthing suite, her entire life rushing past in a flurry of images and
impressions exploding through my mind, her skin ageing and wrinkling as she
reached the end of her life and faded into nothingness on a hospital gurney.
Her body rotted as her family stood around her, the white cloth beneath her
withering form curling and moulding in time with her gradually desiccating
corpse. She never lost her beauty as she fell away into dust, her family leaving
her eternal mausoleum to walk outside into the suns beautiful rays, crying into
their palms, wiping their noses onto the cuffs of their suit arms, thinking that
she would be burned away and not knowing that she had left a long time before
and was now sat with me at my bedside, her hand on my left wrist, her
grandmothers on my right, smiling on and knowing that in a short time they

6
would be reunited. Natural causes I mumbled as the nurses fingertips left
my wrist. I imagined that she looked at me with confusion in her eyes but of
course I had no way to prove it to myself.

My life had become a series of imagined interactions. I imagined her

face, young, blonde and beautiful, her voice a sirens song in an ocean wider
than my dead eyes could wander and deeper than my broken form could fathom.
At that point I understood what my life meant, what I was a conduit of - life. It
wasnt god or any of those stupid ideologies but life itself, the driving force
and somehow I was the conduit for it. I had the power to tell people how they
would die and with that information they could choose to live their lives as
criminals, rapists, murderers or good, kind people. I smiled. I felt it flow
through my veins like light but lighter, like darkness but more weightless, my
ability to see past the scriptures, the mythology, the pretences, the sorrows and
pains and smiles and endless days of misdoubt.

Forty years have passed and now I sit here in this Roman temple, sat in
front of a congregation of terrified men singing and praying for the word of one
who doesnt speak in words, speaking tongues to a thing which has no tongue.
They clamour and they crawl like maggots asking me what I see beyond, all of
them too terrified to really see what I have seen. I sit here, shrivelled and cold,
shrouded in whatever robe they have given me, my eyes blind to nothing but the
night, my ears deaf to all but the voices in my head. My fingertips the only thing
I have left which gives me worth. I feel the trembling fingers of an ancient
man, I wrap my arms around him. As he leans into my frail form I feel bones
creaking beneath his small weight, his skin withering second by second, the
blood in his veins running colder, his heart beating slower and slower as the
holds off his inevitable mercy. I lean into him, offering my dry lips to his
begging ear and I offer him the one thing which I have learnt from my sight, my
curse. I whispered, my voice cracked and raspy Father, keep doubting.

7
 When My Mother Ate My Brother

Myxomatosis - a highly infectious and usually fatal viral disease of rabbits,

causing swelling of the mucous membranes and inflammation and discharge
around the eyes.

Where were you when the end of the world came? I was in the basement of my
house a bungalow in the country. It was a lovely place, trees on all sides and a
small pond out back past the hammock which Dad practically used to live on,
taking the edge off after a hard days work tending the beautiful garden which
pleased Mum more than really anything. You see, when I was born I came out
as the middle of triplets except well, the other two didnt make it. My parents
took me as a gift, thanked whoevers up there that at least they got to keep one.
Soon after Dad retired to look after me and let Mum carry on with her career in
accountancy. Those were good days, days which make a memory which you
hold onto like a fluttering heartbeat and smile as you remember it right before
that fluttering heartbeat flutters out.

I remember my brother more than anything really, its bad but I miss him
so much. I miss his little brown nose, how he used to get excited and almost
look like he was grinning. I havent smiled in so long. I miss seeing his whole
body wag along with his tail. I miss those small things so much, now that things
have changed. Before my mother ate my brother. Of course youve most
probably guessed by now that my brother was a dog. He was a Springer Spaniel,
a tiny little runt of a creature with a heart which beat only for the people he
called family.

When the internet still existed, in a stupor of boredom customary to any

young man I spent a night researching the anatomy of Canis Lupus Familiaris or
the common, domesticated household dog. I found that if you were to take each
of a dogs front legs in your hands with a tough, knuckle-white grip and wrench
them outwards away from their body, because of their intricate quadrupedal
bone structure it will split their ribcage open, exposing lungs, heart, and the
surrounding flesh. This was proven to me by my mother, before she began to
feed. I mentioned that the internet used to exist. Once the power grids went
down it wasnt long before the internet, mobile phones, dial up, and all of our

8
other everyday communication luxuries became a thing of the past. If Im
honest I was more surprised at how quickly well, those who were left got
used to not checking their Facebook pages whilst they answered natures call.
How suddenly people got used to a life devoid of viral videos or the ability to
contact their loved ones at the touch of a few buttons.

The click of fingertips on keyboards echoes in my mind now that all there
is, is silence. You see there is a genuine reason why my mother tore my
brothers ribcage open and began to eat the contents, of his abdomen. I can
remember the sight of it all too clearly, my mother ravenously thrusting her face
into the gaping hole in his tiny body, growling and snorting as she dug her teeth
into his soft organs. I remember her pulling her head from the wound and
vomiting blood into his now empty and torn apart chest cavity, then digging her
face back in and starting again, blood smeared from ear to ear like a clown gone
wrong, her eyes a cluster of boils and pustules seeping blood down her cheeks.

I remember these things not through choice but because I cannot forget
them. Once the flesh is torn, the soul can escape. I heard that from a friend of
mine, once. He went to a different University to become an Archaeologist
whilst I followed in the footprints of my Father to fall into a career in law. I say
footprints because the first man to walk the surface of the moon left footprints,
marks which will never leave that place unless scuffed away by careless men of
the future. Perhaps one day it wont just be birds and clouds and stars up in the
sky anymore. Perhaps one day we will have planes again, not rusting debris
from the crashes, smeared in brown congealed blood of the unfortunate.
Perhaps one day the survivors If there are any, its been more than months
since Ive seen another person will once again be able to see whatever family
they might have left and I hope - wish every day as I pick berries from the
garden outside that there is a family out there somehow surviving. I imagine the
only resource they need being one-another and the unity that must bring. The
instinct to cast any thought of self to the winds and throw oneself into the face
of an oncoming train to make sure that a loved one is safe.

I think about that family every day. I sit in the empty bath as I drift in and
out of sleep into a place where the word family carried meaning. Deep down I
know theyre dead and gone. That family only exists in my head. My family
never exactly came from money as my Dad was quite a hard-line lawyer, the
only problem being that he never actually won a case anywhere close to the
level which most lawyers achieve. He was always the affordable guy, trying to
9
help a certain type of client whose life would be crippled by legal debt so he
charged under the bar. He worked day and night to keep the family unit together
and on the rare occasion that we saw him we always used to build a fire in the
back garden, the reward being that he would have brought home some fireworks
on the way back from work. Fireworks and sprinklers cutting their way through
the night air, burning our names into the darkness only to fizzle into nothing in a
few moments of hilarity and pleasure.

First came the crazed, staring eyes, the bulging veins like Chernobyl
earthworms, the eyes torn apart with infected skin, bulging and raw. Then the
madness, the murder and the beginning of the end of man. The infection
stripped away the mind, stole away everything which made them human until
all that was left was a shell full of hatred and loathing. The violence spread like
a forest fire laying waste to everything in its path in a cacophony of screams and
blood. There was no point running, they ran faster, no point fighting, no matter
what the resistance they broke through eventually.

The military set up perimeters, roadblocks, assaulted the hordes

attempting to take the cities, bombed the smaller suburbs in an attempt to lower
their numbers but it did nothing to hold back the screaming tides. The only way
to survive was to hide and hiding is the only thing now separating myself from
the rotting, mangled corpses which litter the streets and the things which fed
upon them, the remnants of humankind. The ravenous. Them. For the first
couple of years people still delivered pizza, I chuckle to myself at the thought,
to think that I used to worry about the price of a takeaway pizza. That was of
course before people became food. Ive considered killing other survivors for
their flesh myself in times of desperation. Im so hungry but thats something
that still separates me from them. I can choose my actions, they cant. Or
perhaps they can and this is much worse than I thought. I dont really miss
people though. Ive learnt to live alone now.

All my life Ive been one of those people who when left alone just finds
something to do, something to forget the feelings of loneliness. For me it was
always writing, the creation of untold worlds without limits, where the
characters are my friends. Whilst they dont speak directly to me they speak all
the same. Im not lonely when I have them. I can walk outside and enjoy the
chirping birdsong, the seasonal weather and quiet of the day. When it comes to
night I can only hear the gibbering and the screaming and the rapid footfalls of
them in their hunt for flesh. I can only thank whoevers up there that they
10
seem to have lost a lot of their previous intelligence and dont seem to look in
the closet where I now spend most of my nights, cowering on a bedroll which I
found in an abandoned camping supplies store and some pillows which I took
from my parents bed, where I found their rotting, bloated corpses. The top one
reminds me of my Mum, the bottom one my Dad.

As I write this I can hear them a way off. They tend to move in packs, ten
or eleven usually but sometimes a lot more. On those nights sleep is impossible,
the screeching and nonsense gibberish just too loud and the lump of dread in the
pit of my stomach too strong. On those nights I go to the closet and padlock the
door from the inside and try to stay silent, holding back my sobs of terror so as
not to make any noise. Occasionally they rattle the door handle but they never
seem to try any harder to get in. Surviving has been more convenient than I ever
imagined it would be when all of this began. Food can be tough to find but at
least the taps still run somewhat clean.

In this day and age a man needs to learn that he can function without food
for a number of weeks on end but Im fairly lucky in that I know how to catch,
skin and cook a rabbit. Conies have been my primary diet for months now, three
times a week. The most disappointing thing is when you hunt a rabbit, kill the
poor creature and then check its eyes only to find the tell-tale lumps and bumps
of the disease, blood running from their eyes into the soft fur of their cheeks a
sure sign that they carry the infection. At least I can hang them from tree
branches in a couple of miles radius around the house, the smell of the flesh
and disease drawing the infected away.

Sometimes I find the occasional battered can of spaghetti, once I even

found a can of steak meat. I made that last a week and let me tell you that was a
good week even if the meat tasted sour by the seventh day. Usually its a routine
of check the rabbit traps, find nothing. Drink enough water to fill my stomach
and then keep low when night falls in case they come looking for food of their
own. I have a lot of food now however. I have a fridge full of meat and plates
on which to serve it. My life isnt so bad. Sure I have to hide in the corner and
keep quiet when night falls, hugging myself to keep warm, unable to take my
hands from my shoulders.

When morning comes I think about how long my family will keep in the
fridge now that the power is out. Should I gorge myself before they rot or
should I wait, taking a little at a time, cooking the scraps on my camping stove

11
over my coal pit and salting whats left to keep it even longer? I need to keep in
mind that the delicious smell of the flesh cooking might attract them. I hear
footsteps outside the door.

Theyre here. I think its the nurse with her little tray of drugs or Dr.
Cortez coming to take me to the quiet room with the comfy chair. In that room
my familys voices get louder and so do the screeches and chuckles of them. I
hope the nurse will bring me the drugs which make me sleep in the cupboard
and let me remember my family. I am hungry as I listen to the footsteps right
outside the cupboard door and for a split second I almost hope that the padlock
breaks and they get in and just end this isolation. I slide my back up the wall
behind me to a standing position and the door creaks open gently and the nurse
enters. My erection is rock hard as I grin at her as she approaches, baring my
teeth which I filed down to fine points a long time ago. And as the life loses her
body and the burly security men run into the room to stop me tearing her throat
open with my teeth, blood spraying and staining their scrubs, I screech and
speak nothing but insane gibberish.

12
 Vampire Killer Lesbian Zombie Assassin Fucks

Im sorry, what? Tommy Sierra said, incredulous. You heard me Daddy,

Vampire killer lesbian Zombie assassins. Tasha fingered one of her brunette
curls, winding and twisting it around her finger, just like she twisted Tommys
balls when he asked her to during playtime. Just watching her stood there was
getting him hard, the tingly, fizzy feeling creeping into his loins. Youre
gonna have to run that by me again babe Tommy mumbled, still confused at
exactly what she was getting at. I aint sayin it again fool, Vampire killer
Lesbian Zombie assassins! She repeated. She looked at Tommy as if he was
the village idiot, unable to understand how he couldnt grasp the concept.
You want to call our next film Vampire killer lesbian Zombie assassins? Im
not sure what part of that beautiful mind of yours that clanger came from but it
doesnt exactly roll off the tongue, does it? Neither does your dangle-bag but
I manage! Im set on this title, Im getting them good vibes her voice was
hard, forceful and sure. Tommy looked her up and down, admiring her ebony
curves, her pert breasts barely short of bursting out of her skin-tight sports bra.
Well? She stared him down, her lips inviting as they ever were.

I might need some persuading he said whilst dropping his sweatpants to

the floor and sitting down on the six-foot black beanbag chair he had frequented
with her so often. She dropped to her knees and began to crawl slowly across
the floor towards him, drawing close, running her fingertips up his inner thighs
to cradle his testicles. She kissed his rock hard manhood, staring up at him with
keen, deep blue eyes. Daddy need some convincing? Her tongue played up
the length of his throbbing shaft and he shuddered with pleasure. Yeah, daddy
needs some convincing.

He stood in the queue at the fancy dress store cradling the two costumes in his
arms, feeling just a little stupid. He had found the perfect Zombie costume and a
pretty corny but otherwise adequate Dracula outfit for Tasha. Theyd already
had some interest online, having posted an advert for actors and actresses on as
many swingers, BDSM and Sado websites as they could think of. One of them
was a big, burly cunt with a bushy chin-beard which Tommy had politely ask
that he remove, the other a gorgeous twenty-something with dark hair and green
eyes. From the pictures which she had provided (at Tommys behest) she had
13
the body of a model ruined only by a small scar across her pubis a souvenir
from a particularly late emergency caesarean section after a miscarriage, she
had explained.

He tapped his foot and blew out some air, impatient at the wait. Their
company were due to arrive at eight and judging by the stores wall-mounted
clock in was nearing twenty past seven. He would have to hurry back if
everything was to be prepared and ready on-time. There was a lot to set up
when it came to his films, that was for sure. First the camera setup, three
cameras to capture every detail. One at the foot of the bed, one in the left-hand
corner of the room next to the nightstand and one handheld for POV shots. In
his experience the POV videos sold best, and for good reason. There was
nothing quite like watching Tashas lips round a cock.

It was a nightmare in post-production, however. Three cameras meant

three different angles to cut together, three different points of view to balance.
Two of the cameras were like silent observers, almost as if there were six
people in the room four fucking, two stroking themselves whilst they watched.
It was important to get the right balance and cut to the money shots when it felt
right. Quite often he would sit before his PC screen, penis in hand, judging the
cuts and timing by the hardness of his shaft and his own excitement. Sometimes
he would release all three angles in separate videos to cater to individual viewer
tastes, charging whatever he wanted for each.

Next came the set dressing, the Mise en Scene. It was his personal
favourite aspect of putting his films together, creating the mood from the
environment. Sometimes he liked to use a well-made bed, clean cashmere
sheets and candles for a more romantic setting, sometimes a dirty mattress and a
pair of shackles. Jessie had experienced the latter and loved it, screaming for
hours upon end. He hardened again and shifted his position, focusing his
attention on the elderly lady in front, now paying for her insipid little groceries,
shaking hands dropping them into her carry trolley and clipping the catches
closed, now feebly dropping crumpled notes and change onto the counter, the
cashier scooping it up, running it through the till that worked, that tamed the
beast.

He moved up to the counter and placed his items down, averting his gaze
from the cashier. He felt stupid buying what were effectively childrens
Halloween costumes, he preferred his expressionless white mask or his Plague

14
Doctor headdress. There was something more ominous and less personal about
them, something of the uncanny valley. Having a party tonight? the cashier
chimed, smiling. She was probably in her early twenties, short and freckled with
auburn hair tied back. She had dimples in her cheeks when she smiled politely,
cute and innocent, perhaps worth a look another time. Something like that. A
Horror movie night. Ah cool, what you gonna be watching? Im not sure
yet he surfed over the small talk, wanting to get the hell out of there and get
back to the setup. At long last the cashier shut the fuck up and took his money.
He thanked her, took his bag of goods and left the store and practically jogged
to his car.

His chainsaw tore through the air in a whirling ark and in one sweeping
movement tore the bitchs head clean from her shoulders, her neck spouting
blood in a clear stream and then spraying as the other veins caught up, her
severed head thudding to the floor and coming to rest on its right cheek as he
grabbed her still twitching buttocks, tore her black thong down and rammed
himself into her softest place, fucking her ferociously. This was the way he
liked them, what made his bitch call him Daddy. She knew that she was no
less a bitch than the whore he was fucking now and that kept her in her place.
The chainsaw chugged on the floor, the blade dangerously close to his left
ankle. This was unacceptable. He pulled his swollen member out of the detritus
dead slut, throwing her lifeless body down onto the couch, leaving strings of
hot, white semen connecting her buttocks and his crotch.

What have I told you pet? What have I fucking told you? the menace in
his voice could not be mistaken although his face was as calm as ever. She
always shivered at that look, in a way through anticipation of pleasure but
mostly expectance of pain to come. Im sorry Daddy, it was my mistake, I was
looking at your ass she tried to explain, coyly biting her lip. He stared at her
for a moment, considering. This fucking saws still running, bitch he
motioned with a bloodstained hand Get that shit and the rest of this cleaned up
whilst I finish up with this cunt. Our guests are gonna be here soon. That is,
unless you want to sleep downstairs tonight?

No Daddy, I want to sleep next to you, make you feel good all night
She said, emphasising the last two words with promise in her eyes. Good girl
Daddy said, turning back to his headless prize, resuming fucking her doggy

15
style over the sofa, digging his fingers deep into her collar bones as if
massaging her. She remembered the first time hed massaged her as she began
to mop the pool of blood from the floor.

Hello, Nice to meet you! Were the Firkins. The guy on the doorstep wore a
forced smile; his hair slicked back in a 60s rock and roll style, his shirt and
jeans every part the image of a small town business owner. His wife, by
comparison, was nothing short of gorgeous. She stood at around 53, nice and
petit as Daddy saw it, wearing a tight black dress which showed off her hips and
promised a good back-view. Of course, manners being manners he would have
to wait to peer over his shoulder to get a glimpse as he let them in and shut the
door behind them.

They entered and he led them through to the living room where his baby
was perched on the sofa wearing nothing but a black bra and panties, her knees
huddled up to her chest, shivering in fear. Hed told her to do this, the seeking
advert had said specifically DOM M SUB F which to anyone who frequented
those areas of the internet meant Looking for a dominant male and submissive
female. It was an act to get the right experience going. What was the point in
just fulfilling his deepest desire without a little sex first? Mr. Firkin dropped a
heavy duffle bag on the floor which landed with a mixture of thuds, clanks and
tinkles of metal as Mrs. Firkin strode over to the sofa and sat down next to
Baby. She wrapped her arms around her and began to whisper nothings into
her ear. Both men watched as Mrs. Firkin began to play the tip of her tongue up
the girls neck to her ear and Baby began to enjoy it, nuzzling her head towards
the point of pleasure.

Amazing sight to see huh? Daddy said, transfixed. It sure is. You ever
done this before? They were both transfixed, watching the immediate foreplay,
amazed at the two girls willingness to enjoy one anothers bodies. A few
times, though I always had a favourite, this girl Rose Rose? Rose
Mayfield? Yeah, one of your regulars too? Daddy watched, stroking his
slowly swelling cock through his jeans. That was when he felt a strong hand on
his shoulder, whipping him round and a grip on his throat so strong he blacked
out almost instantly. What made him black out for good was the boot to his
face.

16
He screamed, the agony beneath his fingernail unbelievable. He wasnt a pussy
by any means but the pain he felt was eye-watering at the very least. He
couldnt even look down, what he guessed was a blindfold obscuring his vision.
The knife beneath his fingernail leapt side to side until it buried deep into his
finger, the pain dizzying him to the point that he felt drunk and then all of a
sudden it was finished, done, gone. He held his dreary head up Why are you
doing this man? What is this? We got a good price for this video Sierra, a
really great price. Hahaha, a lot more than you can pay to get out of here. Ill
give you a hundred grand man, two hundred! He was beginning to panic,
anticipating the next blow of pain, wishing they would take the blindfold off,
whoever they were.

I paid for this with my sister your last hit video. Then a scream and
a hiss came from somewhere in the room. The mans footsteps seemed to walk
away. Sierra struggled and heard the clanking of chains above him and wish a
flash of white hot agony realized that he was strung up, hanging by his wrists.
He kicked out and suddenly the pain deepened, the chains digging into his
wrists to the point that he almost lost consciousness again. I wouldnt take your
feet off that stool if I were you, boy Firkins voice came from across the room
though now you have Ill just leave you for a minute, Im busy. Daddy hung
there a moment, scrabbling for the stool with his feet, toes catching the edges
yet failing to take purchase.

The footsteps approached him again. I want you to listen to this, and
listen carefully the voice dead, soft, no emotion. He felt the mans breath on
his ear, his wet lips close, and intimate. Your girl or the baby? Barely awake
through the agony in his wrists and still blind, he hung there, barely able to form
words. The girl or the fucking baby? the question came again, the words hard,
cold. That was when his knee broke under the force of the claw of a hammer,
the two prongs catching behind the tendons in his knee, stretching and tearing
them clean in a ruthless tug and eliciting a scream hed never thought possible
from his lungs, a primal howl of agony hed never thought possible to come
from a grown man. The baby it is were the last words he heard before he fell
unconscious.

He came to sometime later to the sound of a woman screaming. He opened his

eyes slowly and carefully, his vision coming into focus in blurs and blushes,

17
dots and knives of light. As everything came into focus he looked to his left and
screamed. Baby was shackled to a wooden table, her arms broken cruelly
backwards and shackled into their hyperextended positions, her feet bound to
wooden stirrups with rusted nine inch nails, her face a mess of bruises and
contusions, blood colouring her previously beautiful form. Worst of all though
was her stomach. Her stomach had been cut open with surgical precision, the
flaps of skin, flesh and fat folded aside to expose the organs and womb within.
Her head hung sideways, her mouth still dripping blood, her cheeks still bright
red with colour. She must have died mere minutes ago, as he was coming to.

And at that moment he sobbed. He began to cry not for himself but for
her, and the agony she must have gone through in her death. He remembered
how much Heroin hed pumped into her before and after he bought her from the
cartel, how many films hed forced her to make with him, promising her a life
without the skag if she didnt, calling her a whore and a pest every day, even
reducing her to baby, feeding her with a spoon only when he thought that
shed earned it. Then he looked at the man in front of him and the gorgeous girl
cleaning blood from a large pair or surgical scissors with what looked to be a
used dust cloth and he remembered.

Rose, Mayfield. Little Rosie May? Is she what this is all about? Is this
why you did this to Baby, why youre doing this to me?! he yelped, his
dangling, nearly severed leg causing him to crush his eyes shut and let out a
screech of pain. She was a bitch, disobedient! She knew what she was doing,
practically begged me to cut her up as long as she has some skag in her fucking
veins! You think this is gonna change who you are? Who I am? Who she was,
you fucks?! he struggled against the chains on his wrists again but he had no
feeling left in his hands, his fingers useless, blood-drained stubs on the ends of
equally useless palms.

I dont think that shes going to change you Cierra. Im no better than
you, and neither is she Firkin said, motioning over his shoulder to his wife,
love, whoever she was who was casually tossing wallets and ID cards into an
open furnace. The difference is, the Cartel want to see Daddy and Baby
gone, and were going to add a special surprise for the ending of the tape.
Firkin reached up and strapped something around Sierras head, the straps
uncomfortably tight, the weight almost light a searchlight. Its a Go-Pro
camera, if youre wondering, so we can get this in first person.

18
 Firkin motioned and his wife stoked the furnace across the room, the
flames leaping out and flickering across the blackened front. She walked across
the room and picked up a bundle of Daddy and Babys clothes, his shirt and
jeans, her black lingerie and walked back across the room with the wriggling,
crying bundle towards the fire. Did you wonder at all, when you were hanging
up there crying for yourself, why we cut her stomach open? This is for my
sister, Daddy.

19
 Eyes Sewn Shut

Youre loved ones are stood around you. You feel the pain of the needle
piercing the flesh of your eyelids and slowly, they are sewn shut.

All that you hear is laughter, the laughter of your family echoing in your ears.

Your heart still beats, only so that you can hear that echoing sound as your
vision is taken from you.

The sound of your family laughing at the thought that you will never see them
again.

20
 The Wangmangler

Okay Roy, serious question now. Which do you find more satisfying, taking a
huge dump or busting a nut? Jamie sat back, apparently pleased with himself
for his unique line of questioning.

Youre one fucked up individual, you know Jay.

Come on now Roy, youve got to answer! Roy paused for a moment,
thinking. There were benefits and drawbacks to both, and Roy voiced these
aloud, eliciting a few chuckles from Jay. Taking a shit, I think.

Are you serious, how can taking a shit be better than spooting one in
some hot cooze? Jay seemed incredulous, wide eyed as he stared at Roy.

You asked which I find more satisfying, there you have it. Think about
it, making the devils fudge, you get to relax and take stock of your life. Have a
bit of man time. And when youre done you aint got to buy it dinner, cuddle it
or nothing.

There is that Jay chuckled again, staring out over the lake. Every
couple of months he and Roy took a weekend away for a little camping, to drink
a few beers and have a bit of time away from their wives. Theyd definitely
chosen the right time to come out to the lake, the sun shone through the tree
canopy in dry, hot lances, cooled only by the pleasant afternoon breeze. He
reached down for his beer and took a long pull,

Has dick ripped off, both get each others dicks shoved down their throats. One
dies, Jay lives. Jay gets his cock back, makes a makeshift nappy out of his shirt
and goes to find his dick, thinking it can be sewn back on if he gets it back fast
enough. Sets off in direction the Wangmangler left in, finds cave going down
into the earth. Down there he finds the wangmanglers lair, lots of dicks
everywhere used for different stuff such as candles, the white wax dripping
down the shaft like spunk. Wangmangler shows him to his penis and hes
confused as it is big and black. Turns out he accidentally threw his own dick on
the campfire. Lol.

Beneath
21
 Pig Man

1956

Ted and Lorraine Warner listened to the bible. It told them that Demons were
trapped in the bodies of pigs and tricked; Demons forced into the bodies of pigs
by Jesus and convinced to run over the edge of a cliff, plunging to their deaths.
Some said that Ted and Lorraine Warner listened too much, that they took the
stories too seriously. These were merely rumours whispered under hushed voice
in the town, by those who didnt understand, could never understand.

Lorraine watched as Ted prepared the ritual. He was a good husband, a

kind man. He was sturdy in his ways, a hardworking man yet fiercely
intelligent. He had opened her eyes to many new things, and her mind to many
new concepts. She would never have been the woman she was today if it
werent for Ted and she was under no misunderstanding of that fact. She had
been raised by her nuclear family with their white picket fences and post-war
optimism, encouraged to spend her life as an archetype, the homebound wife.
Ted had offered her something different, something more pure.

Across the room he stoked the coal fire with a poker, embers fluttering
into the air and burning out almost instantly, like childrens sparklers. He
looked back over his shoulder and smiled a kind smile which crinkled the skin
around his eyes into crows feet, a sign of his age beginning to creep up on him.
They were both ageing; all the more reason for them to spawn whilst they still
had time, before she dried up and her womb became a useless weight,
reminding her of a chance left untaken.

A while back she began to get stabbing pains in the pit of her stomach.
Ted had put it down to a test from god. He was a man of faith, but that all
changed when the doctor told them exactly what they didnt want to hear.
Lorraine was barren, the pains caused by the dead child in her womb. She had
bled a little the month before but thought nothing of it, told herself that it was
merely an average period. Apparently the baby had died a couple of weeks
before the check-up. She had been living with the foetus inside of her,
suspended in animation by the safety of her womb, but dead nonetheless.

22
 They had induced birth, it was either that or complications which could
lead to her own death. The day she held her tiny babys limp body, barely
bigger than her hands, was the day that something inside her broke.

Ted had found a way for them to conceive, hidden away in an ancient
book passed down from generation to generation in his family. Ted found a way
to give them hope again. She smiled back at Ted, filling her eyes with all of the
warmth she could muster. She knew what was to come; Ted had translated the
ancient Latin writings from the book. It would be painful, and that filled her
with a mortal fear, painful, but nessecary she told herself for what seemed like
the hundredth time today. The flickering orange of the fire made Ted look even
taller and burlier than he already was, formidable in the dampened light of the
cabin. The shadows seemed to congeal around him, darkening around his frame
like an outline as he raised the book to his eyes. She laid back and opened her
legs as he began to read.

Et vocavi vos confossiorem soricina bestia

His voice boomed in the tiny cabin, authoritative, intimidating. She found
herself almost aroused by it, his dominance, as if a little of his age had fallen
away.

Et vocavi vos confossiorem soricina bestia

This time she was sure the shadows had come alive; they seemed deeper,
swirling, and cold.

Uno ore tenebris hac tum praetoria nave accipere

Terror gripped her, a fist of ice clenching her heart in her chest, freezing the
breath in her lungs, crawling inside and choking her. She gasped for breath,
eyes bulging with panic, his eyes meeting hers in a wild glare as he finished the
incantation.

Et iterum vivere!

The cabin fell silent, she collapsed back, the agony and terror subsiding as the
room returned to its warm, orange glow. She took a moment to steady her
breathing then smiled up at Ted who was already preparing a damp cloth for her
forehead. She touched her stomach gently; it was already beginning to ache a
little but she knew of the pain, she had prepared for it. Thank you she smiled
as she fell into a deep, restful sleep.
23
When she awoke Ted had already prepared the wheelchair for her. She would
need it after what was to come. Shakily she stood, Ted taking a hand and
leading her across the room, sitting her gently into the leather and steel frame. It
wasnt comfortable at all but it would do. He wheeled her outside into the
clearing, helped her up from the chair and laid her gently down in the mud. It
was raining, the ground slick, boggy. Squealing and grunting came from the
barn nearby. A flutter of apprehension in her stomach, swiftly shooed away.
This was no time for fear; they were so close already, couldnt turn back now.
Ted had made it very clear what would happen to both of them if they did, and
that scared her far more than the trials ahead.

The pig mounted her with a fervour she had never felt from Ted,
slamming its pelvis into hers aggressively, climbing up onto her arched back
with its front hooves. She welcomed it, her clitoris swelling as the pigs moist
penis found her, slipping inside, inducing a squeal from the creature. She
moaned as the beast treated her to its most animalistic desires, her buttocks
spread open to accept the swines phallus, pumping her like a jackhammer. Her
mouth opened in a silent scream as she shared orgasm with the pig, who
squealed, triumphant as wave upon wave of hot semen exploded inside her. The
pig withdrew, and with a snort it began to sniff the soil, searching for food.
Teds rifle went off with a thunderclap and the pig fell to its side, brain matter
and fragments of skull spattered into the mud, a final wheezing grunt escaping
its barely intact lips before death took it.

The needle was agony as it pierced the outer folds of her vagina but she held in
her scream, biting down on the wood and leather bit Ted had made for her.

Sat at the dinner table, Lorraine Warner is wearing a floral dress. Some time has
passed, her hair a little more grey, her skin a little more wrinkled around the
eyes. The dress is suddenly stained with blood pouring from her vagina, wetting
her inner thighs, seeping the partition between her buttocks to pool on the seat
beneath them.

She is giving birth. The blood pours from between her legs, her hands barely
stemming the flow as she clasps the previously safe spot between her legs.

Her husband and her mother carry her out into their barn. There they lay her
down on a bale of hay and watch the birth. Her vagina is stretched wide, the lips
unfolding like a flower, flesh peeling back to allow a thick stream of blood as
something hideous is disgorged from between her legs, slapping to the dirt
floor.

24
She cradles her new born in shaking hands, receiving it from her mother, carnal
fluids dripping between her fingers. She looks down at its face, twisted,
deformed. Its ears located to the top of its head, its nose the snout of a pig, its
eyes small points in the front of its face, black, unfeeling, empty.

And her offspring squealed like a pig.

Some say that child is still out there, in Riverton woods. Some say it was the
spawn of Satan, that it ran from the angels, into the woods where it would never
be found. Some say it was the product of Bestiality. I dont know what I
believe.

Some say its still out there. Some even say theyve seen it. Roaming the forests
around Riverton, countless people claim to have seen the Pig Man.

In 2012 a film crew went in search of the Pig Man and they never returned.

In 2013 a group of college students went to film a short documentary about the
Pig Man. They are also still missing.

Smiler

Youre in the shower, steam blossoming around you. Youre naked, exposed,
alone. You rub the shower gel into your skin, feeling secure. Then suddenly,
through the shower curtain you see a silhouette. The silhouette of a very thin
man.

You pull the shower curtain back and you see the face in the picture above. Hes
pissed himself, covered in blood, shit himself and you can smell it. Hes so thin
you can see his ribs sticking out, stretching his albino skin, his blue and green
veins pushing forth of him.

25
You see the shit stains on his pants just after he cracks your skull open, your
forehead held against the edge of the bath by a foot, porcelain, smooth against
your cheek as the last gasps of life beg for attention. As its all over.

You feel a little silly but you go with it. Then the dizziness and the pain hits.
Your jaw collapses under the heel, your teeth clattering together as you realize
that It wont kill you, that this isnt the end for you, that life will continue, that
you have more pain to come.

You feel his dirty hands on you, the infection of life seeping into your skin. You
feel your flesh part as his knife whispers across your shoulder blades; you feel
the warm water of the shower, your blood mixing with the droplets splashing
from your back.

You know that with your ruined face, you will be a monster for the rest of your
days. You wish it upon someone, anyone else. Yet you wishfully accept the
agony bestowed on you by the Smilers knife.

You wilfully watch the diluted blood fall around your head as the shower water
washes your body clean.

And thats when you wish the Smiler was back.

Second Son

The Theatre of Pain

Screaming. Hazy, fumbling in and out of consciousness. A spasm in the left han
d, a tug on the wrist. Vision coming to, blurred, light trails, swirling patterns an
d shapes gradually coming into focus. Screams louder now, moans of pain, the
clacking of metal chains, heavy, rusted, worn. I looked left and right, trying to
make sense of it all. I was in a huge amphitheatre surrounded by people, before
us a huge stage. It stretched further to either side than my eyes could see, no dis

26
cernible end to it. A backdrop of ruffled, worn-looking once crimson cloth now
moth bitten and sun bleached to a deep, sickly maroon.

Yet there was no sun, no discernible light besides those which flooded the
stage, their intense, directed beams casting more shadow than illumination. I s
quirmed in my restraints yet my hands held fast to the theatre seat, its usually c
omfortable upholstery now an unnerving friction on my cut wrists. Cut wrists?
I could just about twist my hand around enough to view the damage. Three jag
ged (yet obviously deliberate) slashes stretching from just below the crook of m
y elbow down to breach the palm of my hand. I felt only minimal pain, a dull th
ud thud in my wrists yet a curious awareness of my bodys every process. I was
aware of my heartbeat, the prickling of my hair at every sensation, a cold grip
where my heart was. Help me... the voice came from my right hand side, sw
eet yet troubled, no, more than troubled, begging. My head snapped to face the
source and I was confronted with nothing. Nothing, no face to put a name to the
pleading voice, the voice of a woman in terror. Until I looked down.

She was so, well, beautiful wasnt really the word. She was different to m
ost girls though. Very little makeup, letting her real looks shine through. White,
leg-hugging jeans and a sporty hoodie, long brown hair in messy, unkempt tan
gles. A mole on her cheek, no, more of a beauty spot and wide green eyes that s
poke of something more beneath the surface. I came to find that there was a wh
ole lot more. Yet her head wasnt there, only a ragged stump of neck, the spine
broken off into splinters, the short stem poking from the wound jagged and wh
olly unnatural. Yet still she spoke, her voice coming to me as if she were a whis
per in my ear help me... please... help me... He woke with a violent start, a s
harp pain in his neck, almost like a trapped nerve but ten times worse and even t
hat was an understatement. Red drapes, what the fuck? He had fallen asleep ne
xt to Karen, in his bed, his big, heavy, fucking expensive bed in his big, expens
ive condo. The bitch better still be downstairs! the thought burst into his min
d with a sudden lurch of panic, and then he realized that hed actually shouted i
t, a burst of anger which echoed around him. If he didnt know where he was, h
ow could he know where she was? She could be telling the authorities now, spil
ling all of his beans as if he hadnt spent years planning how to look after his lit
tle pet, how to keep her docile. That stupid cunt in her little chair, her pussy re
eking of piss, the bucket under her chair always full. She would pay, she would
fucking pay. Wherever he was, he didnt like it. The shackles around his wrists
were heavy, chafing his wrists. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the d

27
ays activities. He had planned to remove her right hand just above the wrist; af
ter all she had been sluggish, lazy during their recent sessions, malnourished. It
would make a brilliant feast for her. If a bitch couldnt give a decent hand-job
what was she worth? God knows the cunt couldnt give a decent blowjob after t
wo days without water, even if a glass was her prize for making him cum. He g
lanced down at his right wrist and watched as more blood was smeared on the ar
m of his chair. An abrasion and nothing more, nothing compared to what he ha
d planned for Goddess. Im a general, a fucking army general! You will list
en to me! the words flew from his mouth with abandon, him straining against
shackles which held him in place like a vice, almost as if someone were tugging
back on the connecting chains every time he attempted to pull away. He roared
, anger spilling from between his parched lips. He didnt care much for his curr
ent position, his confinement. He was a figure of respect, a man to be revered.
He had championed one of the few potentially world-saving scientific experime
nts of the last century, commanded a force so elite, capable of mastering any op
position, cultivated a cloning program which could solve human extinction fore
ver. Now he couldnt even move his hands. And the burning sensation! Searin
g him from head to toe, coming and going in waves as if he was reliving a mem
ory
he could not quite recall, over and over again. He could take the pain; switch off
that part of his brain through sheer determination. At least, usually he could.
With every movement the hot, burning sting became worse. The more he strug
gled the more his vision clouded over, closer and closer to passing out, closer to
a vague rest. He was tired, his head beginning to droop, his struggles against th
e shackles waning, less and less defiant as the room came into focus. He looked
around him, saw the faces and screamed as the pain came back tenfold. What
the fuck?! his panicked words burst from his mouth and instantly he tasted blo
od. Had he been punched? Had he been mugged? Kidnapped? He fumbled but
couldnt move, his hands trapped in some restraint yet his vision wouldnt quite
focus. Weed and speed, a potent combination. He could feel it raging through h
is veins, his lower teeth biting hard into his lower lip, beads of sweat trickling d
own his forehead. Its so fucking hot in here! he shouted, feeling the beginni
ngs of a freak-out, adrenaline pumping into his heart. He could feel every ventri
cle about to burst, every vein a betrayal. He squirmed where he sat, his whole b
ody alive with energy. His vision wouldnt focus on one thing yet it would, the
opiate and the stimulant sending mixed messages to his brain. His heartbeat sou
nded like drum and bass in his ears, fast and efficient, his tongue dry, his bod

28
y dehydrated. Then he felt a thud in his chest, almost as if hed been poked pai
nfully hard in the breastplate. His breath cut short as he saw the people around
him, faces stretched into gleaming smiles torn too wide for a face. Then he hear
d the voices as his face flushed red, as his mind reeled, his vision blurring into
nothingness, his drug-induced cardiac arrest a mercy to the repetition of life. H
e thought of the girls hed fucked and chucked; the powders hed inhaled, the s
nide remarks, and the verbal victimisation of others for the fun of it when hed h
ad the stoned confidence. He breathed his last sigh of relief, knowing that he w
ould never have to hold up his false pretences, maintain the image that he had c
reated for himself again. You deserve this, you disgusting excuse for a breath.
Are you ready for the show? What the fuck?! his panicked words burst fro
m his mouth and instantly he tasted blood. She tried to open her eyes. She tried
again but the pain was too much for her to handle. Yet her eyes wouldnt close,
the lids werent working properly, folding as if there was no globe of ocular ge
l to guide the thin sheets of muscle on their descent. Then the agony washed ov
er her. She had no eyes, nothing to fill the sockets yet she felt the thin rivulets
of blood trickle down from her face, lines drawn in lipstick red down the conto
urs of her bosom and shoulders. Where am I? she intoned, her voice a weak,
pained tremble. All that met her were groans of pain and sorrow, animalistic, fe
ral and wrong, the sounds one would expect in the corridors of an asylum. Hav
e I been committed? Am I blindfolded? What is going on? My name is Angela,
Im Angela, Im Angela! It was then that the exuberant, jolly music began.
*** She was carried out onto stage in its arms, so thin yet so strong around he
r. She didnt know what it was; just that it had always been there. It had been t
here when Joey had tried to abort her, when the scissors had pierced her skull an
d dug into her brain. She hadnt been able to scream at the time; having not kno
wn oxygen, but the pain she had felt... disappeared as it found her, as it crawled
through the jagged opening in her foetal skull, the soft, unformed part. She ha
d felt it crawl in, settle into the corners, sear through her mind and settle beneath
her skull with a flash of pain but she welcomed it like an old headache. Its arm
s around her were exquisite warmth, something ancient to her, something just a
s broken yet just as beautiful. It held her withered arms, its fingers moving up to
her hair, the final whisps coming out and falling to the floor at its touch. Then i
t lead her towards the stage. The chair was already set up for her, a toddlers w
alker set-up, where she felt comfortable. The only place she felt comfortable aft
er her torment. She squealed as she was placed on her throne, her constant achin
g agony mixing with excitement. At last, at long last. She looked down at her

29
 five year old arms, starved almost to the bone, shaking, barely able to move, no
t the arms of

a ten year old at all, which she was meant to be, if life served. She looked at her
legs, the same yet stunted, morphed into atrophied angles by her years in the ch
air... in the attic. She had spent enough time in the dark to understand it, to get t
o know it. To understand them. The people who came in the dark. It stood ba
ck, merging seamlessly with the stage backdrop, disappearing into a false image
, created for the comfort of the new arrivals. It wouldnt be long until the Cabar
et arrived, she knew it, and she could feel them. She felt the tiniest flash, a mini
scule synaptic response (could she even feel them now?) of sorrow at the sight o
f her mother, blind, burnt from head to toe, sat in her chair awaiting the show. S
he felt sorrow because her mother would never be able to see the beautiful, fant
astic show awaiting her. She felt nothing but sadness knowing what was to co
me, yet for them it was deserved. She heard the lute twang, the piano burst into
a rhythmic, complex melody, the lute pluck its diabolic yet comforting melody,
the pan pipes whispering to the wind. She looked out across her congregation,
thousands of them, guests to the show which would end the universe. The ring
master ushered his troupe onto the stage, surrounding her in a choreographed m
ove, sticking to a tradition born before time itself. Allegro! Allegro! Her voi
ce, merely a whisper, travelled across time itself, to a broken man sat at a piano,
his fingers worked to the bone, his spirit broken, awaiting death. She felt sorro
w for him but time had a course, a movement which she darent touch. If she da
red she would have unravelled time itself and cast herself to parts unknown.
Not now, not yet... they whispered. She looked at the ringmaster, frozen in pl
ace with his fiddle rested on his shoulder, ready to continue his awful melody.
She glanced out at the sea of human waste, the squirming bodies all trying to es
cape their shackles, screaming for another chance, a way out. Let the show b
egin she smiled Welcome to the theatre of pain. The Theatre of Pain Sc
reaming. Hazy, fumbling in and out of consciousness. A spasm in the left han
d, a tug on the wrist. Vision coming to, blurred, light trails, swirling patterns a
nd shapes gradually coming into focus. Screams louder now, moans of pain, the
clacking of metal chains, heavy, rusted, worn. I looked left and right, trying to
make sense of it all. I was in a huge amphitheatre surrounded by people, before
us a huge stage. It stretched further to either side than my eyes could see, no dis
cernible end to it. A backdrop of ruffled, worn-looking once crimson cloth now
moth bitten and sun bleached to a deep, sickly maroon. Yet there was no sun,
no discernible light besides those which flooded the stage, their intense, directed

30
 beams casting more shadow than illumination. I squirmed in my restraints yet
my hands held fast to the theatre seat, its usually comfortable upholstery now a
n unnerving friction on my cut wrists. Cut wrists? I could just about twist my
hand around enough to view the damage. Three jagged (yet obviously deliberate
) slashes stretching from just below the crook of my elbow down my forearm to
breach the palm of my hand. I felt only minimal pain, a dull thud thud of blood
flow in my wrists yet a curious awareness of my bodys every process. I was a
ware of my heartbeat, the prickling of my hair at every sensation, a cold grip w
here my heart was. Help me... the voice came from my right hand side, swee
t yet troubled, no, more than troubled, begging. My head snapped to face the so
urce and I was confronted with nothing. Nothing, no face to put a name to the p
leading voice, the voice of a woman in terror. Until I looked down. She was so
, well, beautiful wasnt really the word. She was different to most girls though.
Very little makeup, letting her real looks shine through. White, leg-hugging jea
ns and a sporty hoodie, long brown hair in messy, unkempt tangles. A mole on
her cheek, no, more of a beauty spot and wide green eyes that spoke of somethi
ng more beneath

the surface. I came to find that there was a whole lot more. Yet her head wasn
t there, only a ragged stump of neck, the spine broken off into splinters, the shor
t stem poking from the wound jagged and wholly unnatural. Yet still she spoke,
her voice coming to me as if she were a whisper in my ear help me... please...
help me... He woke with a violent start, a sharp pain in his neck, almost like
a trapped nerve but ten times worse and even that was an understatement. Red
drapes, what the fuck? He had fallen asleep next to Karen, in his bed, his big, he
avy, fucking expensive bed in his big, expensive condo. The bitch better still
be downstairs! the thought burst into his mind with a sudden lurch of panic, an
d then he realized that hed actually shouted it, a burst of anger which echoed a
round him. If he didnt know where he was, how could he know where she was
? She could be telling the authorities now, spilling all of his beans as if he hadn
t spent years planning how to look after his little pet, how to keep her docile.
That stupid cunt in her little chair, her pussy reeking of piss, the bucket under he
r chair always full. She would pay, she would fucking pay. Wherever he was, h
e didnt like it. The shackles around his wrists were heavy, chafing his wrists.
He chuckled to himself as he remembered the days activities. He had planned t
o remove her right hand just above the wrist; after all she had been sluggish, laz
y during their recent sessions, malnourished. It would make a brilliant feast for
her. If a bitch couldnt give a decent hand-job what was she worth? God know

31
s the cunt couldnt give a decent blowjob after two days without water, even if
a glass was her prize for making him cum. He glanced down at his right wrist a
nd watched as more blood was smeared on the arm of his chair. An abrasion and
nothing more, nothing compared to what he had planned for Goddess. Im
a general, a fucking army general! You will listen to me! the words flew from
his mouth with abandon, him straining against shackles which held him in plac
e like a vice, almost as if someone were tugging back on the connecting chains
every time he attempted to pull away. He roared, anger spilling from between hi
s parched lips. He didnt care much for his current position, his confinement.
He was a figure of respect, a man to be revered. He had championed one of the
few potentially world-saving scientific experiments of the last century, comman
ded a force so elite, capable of mastering any opposition, cultivated a cloning p
rogram which could solve human extinction forever. Now he couldnt even mo
ve his hands. And the burning sensation! Searing him from head to toe, comin
g and going in waves as if he were reliving a memory he could not quite recall,
over and over again. He could take the pain; switch off that part of his brain thro
ugh sheer determination. At least, usually he could. With every movement the
hot, burning sting became worse. The more he struggled the more his vision clo
uded over, closer and closer to passing out, closer to a vague rest. He was tired,
his head beginning to droop, his struggles against the shackles waning, less and
less defiant as the room came into focus. He looked around him, saw the faces
and screamed as the pain came back tenfold. What the fuck?! his panicked w
ords burst from his mouth and instantly he tasted blood. Had he been punched?
Had he been mugged? Kidnapped? He fumbled but couldnt move, his hands tr
apped in some restraint yet his vision wouldnt quite focus. Weed and speed, a
potent combination. He could feel it raging through his veins, his lower teeth bi
ting hard into his lower lip, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Its so
fucking hot in here! he shouted, feeling the beginnings of a freak-out, adrenali
ne pumping into his heart. He could feel every ventricle about to burst, every v
ein a betrayal. He squirmed where he sat, his whole body alive with energy. His
vision wouldnt focus on one thing yet it would, the opiate and the stimulant se
nding mixed messages to his brain. His heartbeat sounded like drum and bass
in his ears, fast and efficient, his tongue dry, his body dehydrated. Then he felt
a thud in his chest, almost as if hed been poked painfully hard in the breastplat
e. His breath cut short as he saw the people around him, faces stretched into gle
aming smiles torn too wide for a face. Then he heard the voices as his face flus
hed red, as his mind reeled, his vision blurring into nothingness, his drug-induce

32
d cardiac arrest a mercy to the repetition of life. He thought of the girls hed fuc
ked and chucked; the powders hed inhaled, the snide remarks, and the verbal v
ictimisation of others for the fun of it when hed had the stoned confidence.

He breathed his last sigh of relief, knowing that he would never have to hold up
his false pretences, maintain the image that he had created for himself again.
You deserve this, you disgusting excuse for a breath. The lights are coming. Are
you ready for the show? What the fuck?! his panicked words burst from his
mouth and instantly he tasted blood. She tried to open her eyes. She tried aga
in but the pain was too much for her to handle. Yet her eyes wouldnt close, the
lids werent working properly, folding as if there was no globe of ocular gel to
guide the thin sheets of muscle on their descent. Then the agony washed over h
er. She had no eyes, nothing to fill the sockets yet she felt the thin rivulets of bl
ood trickle down from her face, lines drawn in lipstick red down the contours o
f her bosom and shoulders. Where am I? she intoned, her voice a weak, pain
ed tremble. All that met her were groans of pain and sorrow, animalistic, feral a
nd wrong, the sounds one would expect in the corridors of an asylum. Have I b
een committed? Am I blindfolded? What is going on? My name is Angela, Im
Angela, Im Angela! It was then that the exuberant, jolly music began. ***
She was carried out onto stage in its arms, so thin yet so strong around her. S
he didnt know what it was; just that it had always been there. It had been ther
e when Joey had tried to abort her, when the scissors had pierced her skull and d
ug into her brain. She hadnt been able to scream at the time; having not known
oxygen, but the pain she had felt... disappeared as it found her, as it crawled thr
ough the jagged opening in her foetal skull, the soft, unformed part. She had fe
lt it crawl in, settle into the corners, sear through her mind and settle beneath her
skull with a flash of pain but she welcomed it like an old headache. Its arms ar
ound her were exquisite warmth, something ancient to her, something just as br
oken yet just as beautiful. It held her withered arms, its fingers moving up to her
hair, the final whisps coming out and falling to the floor at its touch. Then it le
ad her towards the stage. The chair was already set up for her, a toddlers walk
er set-up, where she felt comfortable. The only place she felt comfortable after
her torment. She squealed as she was placed on her throne, her constant aching
agony mixing with excitement. At last, at long last. She looked down at her f
ive year old arms, starved almost to the bone, shaking, barely able to move, not
the arms of a ten year old at all, which she was meant to be, if life served. She l
ooked at her legs, the same yet stunted, morphed into atrophied angles by her y
ears in the chair... in the attic. She had spent enough time in the dark to understa

33
nd it, to get to know it. To understand them. The people who came in the dark.
It stood back, merging seamlessly with the stage backdrop, disappearing into a
false image, created for the comfort of the new arrivals. It wouldnt be long unt
il the Cabaret arrived, she knew it, and she could feel them. She felt the tiniest f
lash, a miniscule synaptic response (could she even feel them now?) of sorrow a
t the sight of her mother, blind, burnt from head to toe, sat in her chair awaiting
the show. She felt sorrow because her mother would never be able to see the b
eautiful, fantastic show awaiting her. She felt something akin to sadness know
ing what was to come, yet for them it was deserved. She heard the lute twang, t
he piano burst into a rhythmic, complex melody, the lute pluck its diabolic yet
comforting tune, the pan pipes whispering to the wind. She looked out across h
er congregation, thousands of them, guests to the show which would end the un
iverse. The ringmaster ushered his troupe onto the stage, surrounding her in a c
horeographed move, sticking to a tradition born before time itself. Allegro! A
llegro! Her voice, merely a whisper, travelled across time itself, to a broken ma
n sat at a piano, his fingers worked to the bone, his spirit broken, and awaiting
death. She felt sorrow for him but time had a course, a movement which she da
rent touch. If she dared she would have unravelled time itself and cast herself t
o parts unknown.

Not now, not yet... they whispered. She looked at the ringmaster, frozen in p
lace with his fiddle rested on his shoulder, ready to continue his awful yet beaut
iful melody. She glanced out at the sea of human waste, the squirming bodies all
trying to escape their shackles, screaming for another chance, a way out. Let
the show begin she smiled Welcome to the theatre of pain.

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