by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Hot Chocolate for the Unicorn and Other Flights of Fancy, December 2024
First, you tear the eyes out, digging your fingertips into the sockets around them, squishing the bulbs to get your fingers under them. They’ll be slippy, and you’ll have to squeeze hard while yanking out, or the eye won’t come.
Once you have the eyeballs pulled out of their sockets, rip quickly to tear them from the gooey threads still connecting them. When they come free, throw them at the floor. Stomp on them with your boot. The heavier the boot, the better.
Now it’s time to slice off the top of the head. Here’s the knife. It’s large and silver. It gleams. So pretty. So clean. The cleanliness won’t last. Don’t worry; it’s sharp enough. It won’t cut through the bone like butter, but if you push firmly, it will cut.
The brain is revealed. Crenulated and pinky-gray. Press your fingers into it and wiggle them, mixing the soft, mealy flesh. Blending thoughts and memories. Treasured moments, carefully collected over a lifetime become nothing more than scrambled eggs.
Now take this pair of swords. They gleam like the knife, but they’re longer, thinner. Swing them through the air and hear how the air itself is cut by their sharp edges. They dance as they swing, beautiful in spite of the pain they portend.
Swing both at once, cutting long slices across the torso, first one way, then fractions of a second later, crisscrossing in the other direction. Draw Xs across the body with the hushed, breathy rhythm of the swords. They swing through the air, then cut through the flesh.
Innards fall out. Blood gushes through ribbon-like cuts.
You’re almost done. Keep going.
You cannot see. You cannot think. Or remember. The pain is everything now. That and the swishing, dancing of the swords.
How are you doing it? How do you wield the knife, swing the swords, when it’s your own body being cut?
You can’t. You know that.
This is only a dream. And when you die, you’ll wake up. You’ll have to make it through another day. But when you sleep, you’ll come back here.
You’ll rip out the eyes. Scramble the brain. Slice your own body from every angle. It is the ultimate horror.
Yet you keep coming back. Because somehow, it’s easier than the small everyday horrors, the existential uncertainties, the inescapable pressure of living.
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