I watched You for over a century, as you stole child after child, tying them to wall, to chairs, to tables. I stared as you giggled in delight at the children’s screams of torment. I gazed upon your actions as you lopped off toes, fingers, ears as you took the butchers knife to cleanse their innocent bodies of ‘adulthood’. The interesting thing about slaughterhouse was that it was never the same place. After me, came a house in the countryside, then a house by the sea, each with its own basement of operations. But the almost ritualistic routine of your slaughters remained the same. The pleasure you took in watching the fear in their eyes, the enjoyment you took from watching in darkness as they fought against their restraints and the muffled screams that echoed pitifully round the crimson covered rooms.
Over a century had passed and by some demonic means, you had lived long. The last ten years had been quiet, the killings had lessened, age had come for you. But I will not allow age to be your killer. You sat in your comfy chair in a darkened living room as I silently grabbed the cricket bat and swung at your head. You went down with a silent thud, the sound so convincingly muffled by the soft rug beneath. with my new found skills, accumulated since my untimely death, I dragged your body down to the basement.
I flung you on to the cold metal table, ripped your clothes off, and strapped you down. I know how you liked the ropes to be extra tight. I could hear the frail bones snap as i made sure the ropes were secure. you stirred, no doubt from the agonising pain in your joints and the adrenaline pumping through your veins. I forced your mouth open and shoved not two, but three rags down your throat. I would say I felt satisfaction as you gagged, but you stole that from me too. I tied the cloth to hold it in place as you wearily opened your eyes. I remembered the glee that used to light up your face, as you made your own futile attempt to shout through the foul-smelling cloths. Not even an echo reached the walls of the now spotless basement. I’d chosen three rags for a reason, I wanted to make sure you weren’t heard or freed before I was done.
You struggled for a while, the veins along your arms almost bursting out of the thin layer of skin left. Then, as your eyes adjusted you looked to me, and froze. I laughed, a ghastly laugh that reverberated round the room. Your eyes had rested upon the Butchers knife in my hand, which i had silently aqcuired from your own kitchen. with my other hand I pulled the metal trolley into your line of sight. The fear in your eyes doubled. At that moment I managed to feel despise. I despised you, the coward, the man who took pleasure in my death. You had lived your life confident that justice would not come. And now, now your own medicine would be served to you. I could see that you had closed your hands into fists, probably to stop me from cutting your fingers off, so I started with the ears. The blood spurted high into the air and rained down upon the concrete floor. You screamed silently into the rags, as your body spasmed, then as it relaxed I went for the fingers of your left hand. I repeated the process, waiting for the involuntary relaxing of your body till your fingers and toes were severed entirely.
Then I spoke to you. ‘Sometimes I start with the ears, sometimes it’s the fingers and toes, Then it’s the testicles!’ I roared as i swung the knife down and sliced your testicles off of your revolting body. I placed it on the trolley and brought the mallet down on it till it had become mush. Then as swift as you had once been, i brought the scalpel down across your throat, the crimson ichor spilling down the sides of your neck and pooling on the table. You gurgled in shock, your neck squelching as i pried it open with the tongs from your barbecue grill, and ripped the esophagus from its home.
Having finished placing the tongue, tonsils and esophagus in a jar, along with your teeth in another, I started up the chainsaw. This was the part I had looked forward to the most. The part where i plunge the chainsaw into your chest, watching as the blood flies everywhere, spattering against the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It was wild seeing the blood fly, the colour of your pale skin slowly turning grey, the life flooding out of them. I used my abnormal strength to rip your rib-cage apart and then took my time, just like you. I used your liver as a pin cushion, your lungs as bags for numerous arteries and veins that throbbed feebly as their lifeline was cut. With your heart I strangled it till it popped the life dripping over and down my arms. Your kidneys, I placed in a blender and gave to the birds that came for food the next morning. But I wasn’t done.
I took the ice cream scoop and gouged your eyes out. I had saved them for last, because I wanted you, even in death to see what I did to you. I left the spoon protruding from your open mouth. I left your lifeless, ragged body strapped to the table as the flies began to gather for the feast I had left. I was seven when you stole me in the dead of night. I was seven when you slit my throat and took my life. I was still seven when I took my revenge at the witching hour and brought justice upon your twisted idealism.
‘Welcome to the Slaughter House.’