Page 42 of Caution Tape

The scalpel digs into the soft, gummy flesh of the eyelid, his lashes crushing and splintering apart, a few fluttering down and landing on his cheek. He weakly cries out, and starts to turn his head, but the scalpel catches and drags further, making him howl in agony.

“This house of corpses starts with you,” I say softly. “You’re one of my first.” I sever the eyelid in a quick motion, cutting from the bridge of his nose over to the side of his eye socket.

The scalpel makes a drygrrrksound when it hits bone. Michael sits up as much as he can and unleashes a scream that vibrates my eardrums; I can hear it shaking the walls of the shipping container.

I slap the top of his head and force him back down. His bare eye glares at me, and I find it kind of frightening. The side of his face is coated in blood. I wipe it away with a rag and start on the other eye.

“No-no-no-no-no!“ Michael is beside himself, quaking in terror. I hear something dripping and look up to see a thin line of yellow urine extending from the silver of the tabletop to the floor below.

This is so sloppy. I should have coated the walls in tarps. This will take forever to clean.

The second eyelid is cleaner; it’s like cutting wrapping paper. You have to pull the skin taught and get the blade toglide.

I take both eyelids and place them on the tips of my fingers and waggle them in front of Michael.

He doesn’t like this.

There’s too much blood on his face and that bothers me, so I place the eyelids on the tray of tools and clean him up with a rag.

More blood gushes out, filling his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t think there was that much in there!”

I cut some of the tape and turn him to his side, where he chokes and sputters, shaking his head, blood spattering onto the table and floor.

This isn’t going smoothly, but it is so exciting.

Leaning one of the totes is a metal baseball bat. It glints in the dim battery powered lights, catching my eye. Between Cora’s stab, and the shock of what I’ve done, he’s probably going to pass out or die soon.

There’s never enough time to do what I want.

“You took advantage of her.”

“Please—“

I grip the bat, rotating my wrists and swinging it around, then set it against the table. I scoop up the detached eyelids. I flatten them in my palm, flaying them out. They look like wet, limp, flesh-colored potato-chips.

I kneel in front of Michael’s wide, jack-o-lantern gaze. I can see how much eyes move now, bouncing back and forth in the socket like pinballs.

“You abused your power,” I shout in his face, pinching his nose shut and stuffing the eyelids in his mouth. ”Chew,” I order in a simple, disinterested voice.

He whimpers.

“Chew,” I whisper.

He gags but does as he’s told, still chewing when I start hitting him with the bat.

A while later—and I do mean awhile—I’m shirtless, sweating, and very frustrated. The temperature in the shipping container seems to have doubled. I’ve taken off my belt because it was digging into my waist as I leaned over the table. My forearms are glistening with sweat and my shoulders are aching because of the angle I’m leaning at.

Michael’s face still refuses to separate from his skull.

I had an idea on how to do it. A thin knife slicing a line under the throat, cutting with short, severe strokes, tilting the knife so it digs into the skin.

From there, simply circle his entire face with the knife, slip under the skin, sever a tendon or two, and it’ll slide right off.

I kept thinking it’d be like a soft tortilla shell. I would be able to scrunch it together into my fist and rip it away.

The muscles around his mouth cling to the skin. I peel it back a bit and begin sawing at it, but the blood keeps pouring out of the wound, welling up and spilling onto the table in thick spatters.

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