“There’s a story,” he started, “about a satyr.”
“Why are you telling me this?” She asked.
He looked up at her where she was hanging and continued with his story. “Apollo was jealous of the way the satyr played so he challenged him to a contest. The Muses judged the contest and the satyr won. Apollo, being the god of music and not liking having lost to a mortal, punished the satyr. That’s how it always goes: mortals being better than gods and getting punished for it. Well, Apollo hung the satyr upside down and flayed him.” He had a sharp, thine wire in his gloved hands. He hoped it would do what he wanted. “Be grateful all the blood isn’t running to your pretty little head.”
“You don’t need to do this,” she said.
He shook his head. “No, I do.”
“Why?” He hated the word “why” forcing him to explain his actions. Maybe there was nothing to explain. He did things because it felt good. He did things because he wanted to. There was no grand scheme. There was no master plan. There was nothing. He did because he could.
He never answered her, just got to work. The wire made a cut on her thigh, and he pulled it down. Slowly, he made a cut, a tear, a peel. She wasn’t screaming at first. By the time he had peeled to her knee she let out a cry of pain. He wanted to hear her scream, hear her plead, hear her sob. He let the flap of skin hang as he pulled at the tendons, meat, muscles inside her leg. “Doesn’t this hurt?” He asked, starting to feel dissatisfied.
“Of course,” she answered quietly.
“Then why aren’t you screaming, crying, or pleading for me to stop?”
She was quiet a minute; he could barely hear her breathing. “I’ve accepted my fate. Made my peace with God.”
“This isn’t a church,” he said. “God isn’t here.”
She squirmed a bit, finding a better position for her wrists within the confines of the rope. “He’s all around. It’s okay, you can continue. I don’t mind.” He felt pitiful towards himself. He didn’t want encouragement. He wanted screams. He wanted tears. He wanted something that wasn’t silence. He uttered the question he hated; that one word that dredges so much to the surface. “You’re not alright,” she said, “in the head. I hope by doing whatever it is you’re planning on doing to me you see how broken you are. And you go and get help, and repent.”
He started to feel anger. What was it with women and righteousness? Why did they feel they could fix everyone they ever met? He couldn’t be fixed. God couldn’t fix him, and he wasn’t convinced God was real. Imagination. He must lack that. Imagining gods is something normal people could do. It was just a cult. One big imagination cult. He watched the blood drip down her leg. The flap of skin hanging uselessly, reduced to a banana peel. He felt devoid of anything. What was he doing? Why? Why? Why? He’d run out, he needed more. He couldn’t go back to being semi-normal. He drove too far to turn back. He continued, in silence, to flay the woman. He wasn’t excited, happy, angry, sad. He wasn’t anything.
He left her hanging after she’d bled out and he’d peeled most of her. He locked the basement door and sat. He’s all around, her words were getting to him. He isn’t real. Was anything real? Was Isaiah real? He touched his arm, making sure he was real, alive, awake. If He could see him He’d tattle. Sarah used to tattle. Tattling got him in trouble. He didn’t want to get in trouble. If He were real he’d tell Him not to tattle. But He wasn’t real so he couldn’t. He needn’t get worked up over real and unreal. How did he know He wasn’t real? No one could see Him. Some people on television claimed they could see Him, and they were praised for their faith. Some people said God made them commit crimes and they were cast down and confined. God could only be good, they all claimed. But they also claimed humanity was made in His image, so why were humans evil?
He stood. At some point he’d have to go back down in the basement and dismantle her. His mood was ruined by her words. By her morals. He never met her before he killed her. Her words shouldn’t be bothering him as much as they did. Something about her reminded him of someone. Someone he probably saw on television. He shouldn’t be bothered by it, by her words, by her better-than-thou aura. She was nothing now. Felt nothing now. All she was, was something that’d haunt him. The first woman didn’t haunt him. If anything, it brought him joy to remember her body.
It shouldn’t bother him this much. He must stop thinking about her words. He didn’t need help. He never thought he did. It didn’t bother him when his parents brought him to doctors thinking they’d help. It must be because she’s a stranger. He thought he fit right in, but she saw through him. Who else might see through? Who else might find out he’s not normal? Who else might push their infuriating religion onto him? What if he ran away? Left everything but the most essential items. His parents would report him missing by next week when he didn’t show up to dinner. Didn’t respond to their texts or answer their calls. He could be dead in a ditch, without worry. He’ll go to Hell and be happy. Happy. He never felt the mildness of happy.
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