Page 40 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

My sins scar my hands like broken glass embedded in my throat, oh father.

The piercing sound of his screams crack through the still, bouncing off the stone walls. The fear coating his every plea feels like glee to my ears and gascondes to my egotistic hunger. Blood is splattered everywhere like a spoiled canvas, dripping down the walls and making a pool under the dead limbs like pure art. A glorified piece to my creativity. Its metallic scent clings around us like his hoarse welling. There is allure in torment like there is venus in misery. While most kids at their tender ages found interestin normality, I was like a wasp drawn to sugar when it came to the oppugnant field.

Whereas their indulgences were sports, I spent my hours locked in a room with a dead animal of my choice and its blood striking my hands and clothes. A lot similar to now, only that little pests no longer cut it for me. Not when slicing thrumming veins and ripping apart cavities alike mine peaks my fascination and excitement. It feeds my starvation and quenches the exhilarating adrenaline seeping through my veins. The devil is not walking the pits of hell, not when he’s right here, breathing life to my gruesomeness.

Kakia was an abomination of malice, yet her actions were nature to her, like a second skin. In wives tales, there was not a nefarious god or goddess, not when they all acted according to who they were to be. They were true to their beings, so I make no exception to society’s normality. Not when it feels too good to act wrong.

I was ten when my passion for anatomizing rats and birds formed a thirty-one page analysis and report.

The room was blissfully warm and dark, with only the lamplight on. Mama and Papa sat across the woman who had watched me for hours and penciled stuff in her brown book. I ran the brush across the canvas, creating red strokes with no intention behind it. She had me pick one color, so I chose my favorite.

“Sebastian is special, Mr and Mrs Moretti, he is rare and so is his condition.”

“Can you treat him Dr H—” papa‘s concern was marred all over his aging eyes.

“Antisocial personality and dissociative identity disorder are a never ending stem. Its branches will only grow further and its roots will only dig deeper with years.”

Back then I never truly understood the depths of myserial condition. I hadn’t been aware how deep my roots had sunk.

It is not heaven I’ll bang the gates of, but hell my soul shall be damned in.

I drop the blood drenched blade on to the ground and it makes a loud thud in the hibernal underground cell. The carnality lapping every breath I take feels like smoking cocaine into my system. Three dismembered bodies lay defunct on the floor, a causality to their own incompetence. When asked for names to the deity they fall to their knees for, their mouths remained glued, so I cut off their tongues and dug out their eyeballs and teeth.

I had gently tried coaxing each of them with the others laments, but the fools were tougher than nails on a coffin. Oscar had found them guarding one of the four circles last night and, try as I may, they did not deliver the information I’m seeking. An utter waste of human ashes.

“Dear Heavenly Father, My sins scar my hands like broken glass imbedded in my throat. My innocence was lost when I first tasted death on my lips. Forgive me for the lives I have stolen, forgive me father for I have no regrets.”

On a table that stretches the length of one wall sits herbs, syringes, chemical florence flasks, and an array of poison. I’ve never been quite fond of a bullet. The pesky leaded metal makes for a quick death, and god knows I salivate when I watch the eyes of my victims dim, lifelessly slow. I close my eyes for a brief second, quieting the raging voice behind me and methodically mix Perilous, a mauve-like venom extracted from a wild amblyodipsas snake in Africa. I place the glass cup over the burner to heat up the toxins, my blooded hands smearing over every surface I touch.

I add foxglove to the bubbling chemical, and the smellof raspberries emits into the air. And how deceiving a mask poison can be, to have such a delicate scent, yet succumb to a thousand lives.

“It’s such a shame God gave you a mouth you are not willing to make good use of.”

The hue has turned a shade lighter, so I remove my poison and pour it into the metal syringe. “Neither were your friends” I cock my head to the side, looking over said friends.

Victor,thirty-eight-year-old rapist, father and husband. I’m surely no martyr for having him tied and bruised to a chair with the intention to rid him of this green Earth, but neither am I a saint. Not when his atrocious acts are just as bloodied as mine. The only difference is that he’s the dog that stalks the streets for piss to drink and meatless bones to lick, whereas I’m the bastard that decides when he’s fed.

“I told you everything I know, man, please,” he spits like he has the chance to salvage his pending decay.

My steps are gratingly slow as I settle myself in front of him. My boots pressing into his hacked off feet. The sew had accidentally fallen from my grip and sheared off a toe or two.

“You told me nothing I did not know, Victor.” My voice is calm. I bring the syringe between his eyes and spritz some of the liquid.

“I have a kid man, a wife” he heaves, with red-rimmed eyes and sweat dripping down his swollen face. He looks like coyotes were left to feast on him before being dumped in a sewer for maggots to eat. A sadistic laugh spills past my lips, filling the sound of his heaving breathing. My nose is irritated when the smell of urine seeps past the copper.

“I’m sure Elizabeth and Corinne will adapt to yourabsence like they have for years,” I say dryly. “Now settle or do not, but the more you squirm, the more I’ll enjoy this.”

He thrushes against the rope that visibly digs into his naked body, causing the purple shade on his torso and wrists to darken. With little enthusiasm and haste, I dig the needle into his eye and push out all the poison. The slim man breaks into tears of anguish and gore as his body tries to fight through death. But just like anything made of ashes, it shall return to dust.

“Dear Heavenly Father, my sins scar my hands like broken glass embedded in my throat. My innocence was lost when I first tasted death on my lips. Forgive me for the lives I have stolen, forgive me father, for I have no regrets.”

Organ trafficking was the grotesque secret the pathetic mop had revealed to me. An answer we had pieced together over time, when the pattern of missing people, with no bodies ever surfacing, became too undeniable to ignore. Riverbanks became graveyards, and the air thickened with the scent of vanished lives. Iris, always so entrenched in the dark rituals of the world, saw the spiritual hand at play, something twisted, something ancient that fed on fear and sacrifice. But the true puppeteer behind this web, the one pulling the strings, was not motivated by the grim beliefs Iris held so tightly to. No, this was about money. Cold, ruthless profit.

The rituals were nothing more than a stage for something far darker, a theater where the true fiendish nature of the operation was obscured by the shadows. But this wasn’t the work of a syndicate, Rune confirmed. No, this was far more insidious, far more cunning. It wasn’t simply a gang or group, but an operation that wore many faces, blending seamlessly into the fabric of society. It was everywhere, lurking in the most unexpected places, dipping its filthy handsinto countless sources—money, power, control. And through it all, it remained hidden, its true nature concealed behind layers of deception. What we were facing was not just a crime, but a beast with many heads, each one feeding the other, its reach endless and its hunger insatiable.

Like a headless chicken, his body quacks one last time before collapsing, a final, desperate sound. The stupefied bliss that flares inside me could ignite a field of wheat, burning through the calm, scorching everything in its path. His screams, excruciating and filled with terror, twisted in my ears, a grim assonance that danced in the air like a cruel melody. But nothing,nothingcould compare to when I leave my syringe embedded in the lifeless man and stand back, taking in the carnage before me. It is a scene born from some nightmare, the destruction too beautiful, too terrible to fully comprehend. And yet, I am caught between satisfaction and dissatisfaction.

I want more.

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