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The Death Chamber

By mikeroberts1003 All Rights Reserved ©

Horror

The Death Chamber

His hand trembles as he fights against the resistance, unusually aware of every muscle and bone in his fingers. His knuckles glow white from the fear filled excitement with which he grips his chosen tool. Anxious sweat still managing to seep through the crushing grip.
He realises he hasn’t taken a breath, and suddenly, as if the knowledge itself broke his spell of stillness, a huge breath is sucked into his lungs. The magic being momentarily broken causes him to step back from his work, take a few more calming breaths, and admire his skill so far. He is filled with pride, terror and excitement every time he looks at his subject.
The grey duct tape has started to bleed black where tears have fallen down her face, her eyes red with fear and pleading. The metal and leather bonds around her wrists showing slight red leaks of blood, drawn from the tension brought from her ceiling suspension. Her naked body pulled tight as she hangs there, his plaything, his victim, his first.
Months of planning had gone into this, the first step on a trail of infamy, planning that would allow his work to continue for long enough to make him a legend. This basement chamber is designed for his mission, prepared with tools of his trade, tiled all round to be easily cleaned, and a drain in the centre for the blood to flow away from the room as it drains from their worthless bodies. Worthless in life, priceless in death.
He returns to her side, his grip on the knife’s handle tightening again. He expected the resistance to be felt as his blade went into the skin, but he was feeling it now. Before metal has even touched flesh. His own human instincts, hidden in the depths of his mind, fighting against this atrocity he was about to commit. Calming himself with thoughts that next time will be easier, he breathes in and pushes the knife against the soft white skin of her stomach.
She tries to fight, but he knows her strength is drained. He has kept her here for almost three days with no food, hanging from the solid bolt in the ceiling, the noose tied around her neck so that if she should slip her bonds somehow, she would simply cause her own hanging. He smiles at his genius. The added ego boost filling him with strength.
The knife slips through the soft weak skin, deep red blood filling the puncture immediately, a thin drip running down her stomach, down between her legs, dropping to the floor as it reaches her most intimate area. He watches this and smiles, feeling like the blood is enjoying being freed as much as he is enjoying freeing it.
Spurred on, and hungry for more of that deep red liquid joy, he draws the knife across her stomach. Not deep enough to disembowel, not yet, but deep enough to allow a cascading fall of deep red to start to pour down and paint her dangling legs. He withdraws the knife and steps back. Smiling he quickly runs behind the tripod and camera he has set up.
The camera click echoes in the white walled death chamber, the only other sounds down there are her muffled moans and cries, and his excited breathing. After five clicks he leaves his lens and takes the bloodied knife in his trembling hands again.
Stroking the deadly tip up and down her skin, he ponders, as a painter would, on where the next brush stroke should fall. He rests the sharp point against the outside of her thigh, aiming to avoid the large leg bone. Such fear and excitement rages in him he cries out as he plunges forward, the knife slipping easily through the soft fatty leg tissue, he pulls the knife out and watches as the dark slit leaks life slowly from it.
His desire for death grows, he knows this slow torture cannot continue for long. He needs to see her life drain away. He looks at his hand, the knife now feeling like an extension, like he was born with this appendage but never saw it till now.
His blood lust rises and peaks. Holding her still with one hand on her side, he pulls back his hand, and after pausing slightly to watch her eyes, his tension filled hand slams against her, the side of his hand connecting with her skin as the knife slides home. Internal organs pierced, ruptured, cut as he punches the knife home over and over. As the floor quickly becomes flooded with blood, he sees his last chance for a finale, and takes it.
Before the life can leave her completely, he lifts her head by the hair, and with one strong slash, takes the knife across her throat.
He basks in the crimson spray, bearing his teeth as it covers him, his white room becoming red. The spray slows and stops. He smiles horribly, and panting with excitement throws the knife across her still stomach, completing the earlier incision and allowing a portion of her intestines to cascade out.
He steps back, admiring his first of many masterpieces. He walks to the camera and clicks it ten, twenty times.
He breathes a sigh of relief that it’s done, the first step is taken. He rubs his hands over his bloodstained face, and through his blonde hair causing blood highlights to appear there. He breathes deep and begins to prepare the clean up.
He unfolds a thick plastic sheet, and lays it below the feet of his prize, lazy blood drips still spilling from her toes. He removes the noose, and with one arm around her breathless waist, starts to undo her now needless restraints.
He is surprised by the weight of the corpse as it falls into his grasp, her lifeless arms fall onto his shoulders, causing him to stumble. His foot steps back for support, but finds a pool of her precious blood instead.
His legs slip from beneath him, a moment of panic as he crashes into the hard tiled floor, her murdered body on top of him. He tries to move but can’t, from the corner of his eye he sees a blood pool extending across the floor. His blood.
He feels his life pouring away from his shattered skull into his purpose built blood drain, unable to move his body, he moves only his eyes.
He meets her eyes, and stares into the dark stillness, the last few drops of her blood dripping onto him from the gaping throat slash he inflicted.
He wants to look away from her deathly stare, but he hasn’t got the strength to move them. His life is ending, his work barely begun. A small tear falls from the corner of his eye, not for his victim, but for himself. His final act of selfishness.
As that last tear falls, he dies. In a room he spent so long preparing, so well hidden no one will ever find it. His body lying on the hard tiled floor, surrounded by the combined blood of him and his first, and now only victim. Destined to spend eternity there, embraced by his sin, his still eyes staring back into her lifeless accusing eyes forever.

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