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Subject: {ASSM} The Butcher And The Butterfly (MF, NC, Torture, No Sex, Metaphorical)
Date: Sun, 6 Aug 2000 00:10:15 -0400
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The Butcher and The Butterfly
He had watched her for months.
From his place behind the grocery store meat counter, he watched a
never-ending parade of humanity scuttle by each day, so many characitures and
clich (C)s. The obese woman in their flowery muumuus; the bent old men grinding
at rotting teeth; the haughty housewives forever poking at the meat and
blathering on to other equally vapid creatures.
Simply cattle, simply sheep.
She was different.
Hispanic, long dark hair framing an average face upon an average body.
Simple clothing, simple shoes. Unremarkable. Yet something about her always
drew his attention, something always set her apart from the mulling herd.
She never came to his counter, usually carrying vegetables and fruits along
with children's snacks in her basket. Once or twice her eyes had met his in
the course of her shopping. Each time it was like licking a battery, a
quick, sharp charge through his being. She would look away and continue on,
probably not really seeing him at all. But as she would continue on her way,
his eyes were invariably fixed to her receding back, that certain hunger
beginning to gnaw at his soul again.
Each time his knife flashed and danced across a cut of meat, he thought
of her. Sometimes he would close his eyes as the cruelly sharp knife glided
through flesh and sinew, imagining it was hers. When it got to a point that
he had to step away from the counter and go to the bathroom to relieve the
growing tensions in quick, violent anger, he knew that it was time to act.
Taking vacation time, he set about his business.
It is usually remarkable easy to stalk someone, when they have no
suspicions of being watched. They go about their daily routines like the
good little social machinations they are, going from errand to errand, work
to dinner, blind date to guilty sex without the slightest idea they are prey
in a hunter's sight. They may as well leave a trail of breadcrumbs to their
door and post a sign saying "Here I am, come do me in at your leisure."
She, par for the course, was different.
There was no predicting when she would appear at the market. She must
have been a student or unemployed, as she seemed to have no schedule, no
night or day. Each time she would take different routes from the store, bags
in hand, often long, winding paths in opposite directions from where she
seemed to come from. Often she would stop in mid stride and look around, as
if sensing his eyes upon her. It took over a week to follow her to her
small, remote house.
She lived alone. No friends, no pets.
Careful, late night approaches to the windows showed little activity
within. She would spend hours on the computer, either playing some game or
engaged in Internet activities. Often she would read until the sun came up
and she seemingly passed out from exhaustion, crumbling in the chair, hefty
book sliding from her fingers to thump upon the hard wood floor. On several
occasions she seemed less than lucid, walking about without purpose, odd
expressions on her face. Sometimes she would play with children's toys with
determined glee.
He watched for two weeks, perplexed, fascinated.
Hungrier than ever before.
"Tonight," he whispered to the Hunger. "Tonight."
Hours after she had turned the lights out, hours after any sound was to
be heard, he donned before slowly opening the chosen window and slipping
inside.
Deep shadow within. The distant streetlights did little to banish them.
Crouched in a corner, eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom, he listening to the
house's voice: the faint hiss of gas, and the slow, rhythmic drip of a
faucet. From her bedroom slow, gentle breathing. After 20 minutes he rose
and carefully walked towards her door, soft shoes silent on the worn carpet.
So close, so close.
Stepping to the doorjamb, he carefully peered around.
Her bed was empty.
A chill ran through him. Something was wrong. Something --
His world erupted in pain and brilliant stars swimming in his eyes as the
door crashed into his skull.
Reeling back, blinking to clear his vision, he got a shadowed glimpse of
the woman as she launched herself at him, her full weight crashing into his
chest, toppling him onto the floor. A nightmare banshee, she screamed and
screamed as she clawed at his face, nails ripping away bits of flesh.
With all his strength he hurled her aside, blood streaming down his
chest. She curled into a ball, then leapt at him again. This time he was
ready, taking her by the wrist and flipping her off balance to crash into the
wall. Staggering, she turned and came again, all clawing rage and madness.
He let her come, twisting at the last moment to avoid her clawing hands and
bring a crushing elbow into her face, followed by hammering punch after
hammering punch until she finally sank to the carpet, blood streaming from
her nose, eyes rolling back into her skull.
He slumped against a wall, breathing in ragged gasps. His mind was
reeling between fear of someone hear her scream to wondering how the fuck he
had misjudged her. This was not the shy, quiet woman who went through his
store. This was a wild animal.
Composure regained, he crept to the window and listened to the night. No
sirens, no lights on in the distant houses. Crickets chirping happily away.
The night was still his to do with as he pleased.
Hefting her limp weight, he took her into the kitchen and carefully laid
her upon the long table. With quick, practiced ease he stripped her clothes
away before binding her with nylon rope to the table, legs spread wide, hands
crossed over head.
"What are you going to do?"
Her soft voice almost startled him.
Turning, he found her to be passively looking at him, eyes remote, no trace
of fear or terror.
Taking his knife from its sheaf and laying it against her throat, he leaned
close and in quite a calm, matter of fact voice said, "I am going to kill
you. I am going to carve you into pieces."
Her eyes held his, searching, probing. "Do you mean it," she asked,
voice almost hopeful.
He paused for a moment, a bit taken aback. "Yes, I mean it," he said
after a beat, tapping her trachea with the blade for emphasis.
"Thank you," she said, closing her eyes with a wistful smile. "Thank
you."
He stared at her, not sure what to make of what was happening. This
wasn't how things usually went.
"You did say you were serious," she said, looking at him again as he
paused.
"Yes," he said with a bit of hesitation. "I did say I was serious."
"Don't let me stop you," she said, closing her eyes again. "Please, just
do it."
Such a willing victim was somehow very unsettling to him. Almost took
the fun out of it. But the pain in his face and the gnawing hunger within
guided his hand as he planned the first cut a shallow incision just below the
trachea and running down to the pelvic region. He always started this way,
first slowly stripping the flesh away while they screamed and begged, before
the deeper carving.
As the razor-edged knife slowly cut into her olive skin and began it's
trek southwards between her breasts and across her belly, the woman gasped
and shook, but did not cry out, only whimpering slightly, eyes pinched
tightly shut. Blood poured from the wound, slowly pooling between her
breasts and in her navel.
Another incision, again shallow, from her right armpit to the left,
taking care to bisect the nipples as he crossed the breasts. Again shaking,
quaking, but no screams, just hard-bitten whimpers.
It was as if she as used to pain as most are used to taxes. Bitter,
biting, but not horrific.
He set the knife aside and pondered his victim, blood now covering her
entire torso, streaming in small fountains from her cloven nipples. Still
nary a twitch to get away. He almost felt guilty, with her so willing to
feed his darkness.
Almost, but not quite.
Deciding to alter his plans a bit, he wanted to motivate some true
suffering from her. Reaching down, he dug his fingers into the intersection
of the incisions and ripped the flesh apart and away.
A shrill squeal from between clenched teeth, but nothing more.
She was a lovely sight to behold, still tightly bound, her torso peeled
back like an exotic, crimson fruit. But there was something odd there, where
the flesh had been pulled away. Not the expected web of muscle, sinew, and
ligament, but instead, bathed in blood, pink, flush skin. Intact, though with
a crossing trace where the first cuts had gone above.
Perplexed and a bit unsettled, the butcher pulled back more skin, across
the belly and waist, to find still more perfect flesh beneath. As he tore
the flesh away she whimpered less and less, breathing deeper and deeper, as
if going into a deep sleep.
He began cutting again, along arms, legs, and face, the same careful,
shallow strokes of the knife. Flesh came away from arms and legs with the
same result, more impossible flesh beneath. As he was about to pull the face
away, she opened her eyes, looked into his, and said "Thank you."
Like a carnival mask flesh and hair peeled away, to reveal another face
beneath. Similar in structure, a definite kinship, but different
nonetheless.
The new eyes opened, blinked away the blood, and met his. "Don't stop
now," she said. "Don't stop, before someone changes their mind."
Beyond questions, beyond the truly surreal moment, his hunger drove him
on; hunger to cut and punish tempered with his fascination.
Cut and peel, cut and peel, the night wore on and on. Beneath each layer
of flesh there was another, and another beneath that. Each face revealed
another, all of a family, similar but unique. Some of the faces screamed,
some struggled, some seemed peacefully asleep. At his feet the discarded
layers lay piled like blood soaked sheets, crumbled faces flat and grotesque.
The deeper he went the younger the faces became, and the bodies became
those of children.
Still he cut, driven by something he no longer understood. It was not
pleasure, nor was it hate. It was purpose.
As the thin light of dawn began to seep through the windows, he stepped
back from the table, wading through the slaughterhouse at his feet. He
carefully cleaned his knife and sheathed it, and quietly, quietly gathered
his ropes together and bundled them into his pack. After changing his
clothing, he used a dishtowel to lift the receiver on the telephone, set it
aside, and dialed 911.
When he finally heard sirens in the distance, he knew he had to be going.
He had already stayed too long. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, he
looked to the table one last time, slowly nodding, a small, rare smile
appearing.
Then he was gone.
Upon the table, cleaned of blood and wrapped in a white, fluffy towel,
skin pink and untouched, was an infant. Small arms and legs slowly twitched
and moved. Tiny fists waved in front of a small, innocent face. Slowly,
hesitantly, wide brown eyes opened to the world for the first time.
Alive, awake, and alone, the infant began to cry.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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