2. Killing Yourself to Live

2

KILLING YOURSELF TO LIVE

LESTER

ABOUT ONE MONTH AGO ― June 19th, 1975

The need.

It builds like a rising tide, the pressure climbing higher and higher, until it feels like I'm being swallowed up whole. It consumes me. My body, my mind. My marred soul.

I let myself bathe in the agony, balancing on a knife's edge. A practice of control, willing my body not to snap. It festers like a wound; it becomes infected.

I become infected.

Only once every year do I let myself satiate the burning hunger. Let myself prick at the gangrene lesion, tearing apart the dried, hard scabs with my fingers.

Letting my true self out.

It's like a never-ending tickle. Never healing. Never fully gone. Just a battle of waiting. Self-discipline. Prevalence. Ascendancy. Then finally indulging, before letting the wound heal again.

Until the cycle repeats.

Tonight, the new cycle starts.

Tonight, I make art.

Muffled sounds filter through the empty barn. My unwilling victim. He doesn't understand. People like him will never understand the beauty of the darkness. The artistry of the macabre.

They throw money at things they don't understand. Because that's what's expected of them. Rich, obnoxious fucks. They attend art galleries, places that are on my turf, feigning interest. But it's all about status. A display of who is the richest and who has the most power.

I pick my victims like I pick my mediums. Only selecting the finest materials, with the most effect.

Archibald Caddell.

Despite the meaning of his first name, which means ‘bold and brave', he's anything but . Bloodshot eyes from the unrelenting terror, tears running down his pale cheeks. A piss-stain on his light gray slacks. Even the smell of shit.

He shakes, his limbs regaining strength. His muscles waking up.

That's no good.

Something I hate even more than pretentious, rich snobs: politicians.

The man before me is a so-called philanthropist. A humanitarian.

Lies. Delicious lies, which make him adored by the public. They don't have a clue of all the crimes that have been swept under the rug, that have been erased from history.

The names of the girls he's hurt―forgotten.

What is money for if you can't use it to get away with murder? To get away with abuse? With hunting girls like sport?

He's running in the election for state council of Pennsylvania. I've followed him for over nine months, through the news, articles, and the occasional trip I take when I'm not bound to the university.

My future victims are pretty much presented to me on a silver platter, all thanks to the information my dear twin brother provides me with.

Landon and I are cut from the same cloth. We come from the same hell; we escaped it together. Unlike me, he didn't obtain the same urges. He does have a lust for blood―he just handles it in a different way. He's not interested in the dirty work, in bloody hands. He's not an artist like me.

We're a team―he infiltrates the inner circles by doing the same kind of work our dear old father used to do. He's assistant to Hendrick Salinger―a well-known politician based in Nevada who is currently working his way up to Washington. My brother has the ability to mimic these kinds of people, making them believe that he's one of them.

He's damn good at it. But that's only logical, because our father trained him to.

Not me, though. He had different jobs for me.

Those jobs resulted in his demise.

Being so close to it all, to powerful men like this, Landon gets invited to some really depraved places. Dark, evil stuff he sees. I don't know how he does it.

Anyhow, Christmas break, spring break, and part of summer break―those are the times we spend together. We're both busy men, so we can't see each other much more than that.

I listen to the inside intel he provides me and soak up all the information to later create havoc with. It's all part of the progress. Setting everything in place, preparing the materials and tools, the scene and the workplace. Just like I do when I make my sculptures.

Summer break is when the magic happens, when I finally release my inner demon. The sadistic deviant.

That time is now.

I like the ripple effect a murder like this causes. The mayhem. The fear. It's an artform all in itself. A challenge. And I am not satisfied if it's anything but.

I let myself wait for 365 days, so it needs to be remarkable enough that it lives in my mind and satisfies until the next time comes along.

Sighing, I crack my neck. If he's moving, it means I haven't given him enough of the tranquilizer. Without speaking a word, I step forward and push another needle into his neck.

The drug works fast―succinylcholine. It paralyzes. It keeps the mind awake, but the body shuts down. So when I create my masterpiece, my victim can do nothing but watch as I carve into his flesh. Can do nothing but hear the sound of his skin getting flayed off, piece by piece.

When I twist and turn. When I carve and stitch. When I decorate his skin in a way so disturbing, nightmares couldn't even come close.

Archibald is completely still now, only his eyes blinking rapidly, begging for mercy.

Despite the barn being on its way to decay, the wood rotting, the place is sturdy enough to use for my scene.

I concentrate on my work.

Always the same, yet somehow always different. What am I an artist for if I always do the exact same thing? Art is born out of inspiration, out of life and circumstance.

I move Mr. Caddell until he's flat on his chest on the floor, his cheek placed on the wood. Watching him silently, I grab a long rope out of my suitcase and let it glide through my hand, feeling the fibers, the roughness.

More muffles and cries are audible, and drool leaks out of his mouth.

I sink to my knees beside his head and bind his arms together on his back.

A desire for spectacle, that's what I have. In this part of the ritual, I'm the performer. A provocative dance between the victim and the killer. Between the medium and the artist.

All gory and ghoulish things aside, bondage is something I find great pleasure in as well. In some settings, sexual gratification. Not in this one, of course. That would be too revolting, even for me. There's a sense of communication through rope. An exchange of power and submission. When I'm with a sub, and she gives herself over to me, that's an occasion when I feel the sexual aspect of it. In this moment, it's all about the art.

When I've tied his ankles with another rope, I throw the ends over a large wooden panel in the dark barn. I walk around my victim and pull the rope that's attached to his wrists taut, until his upper body is lifted into the air. Once I've secured the knot, I do the same with the rope around his ankles, pulling this one up a little higher, about an upper-body's length. Blood will flow to his head the longer he hangs there like this, but it will definitely not be as agonizing as what I'm going to do to him next.

"Ah…" I let out on a deep sigh, taking a step back and admiring my handiwork. Taking another step back, I reach for my suitcase, which contains all of my tools. Beautiful blades and brushes, colorful threads and fine materials like paints and chemicals.

I put on a pair of fine leather gloves and start by carving a large piece of flesh from his stomach, slicing a rectangle shape and leaving it attached on his side. I don't do it too deep―just enough to flay his skin off.

I turn again, switching out my blade for a large needle. I pull a thick red thread through the eye, then return to my victim and grab the piece of bloody flesh, sticking the needle through on the bottom corner. Repeating the move, digging it through again on the same spot, I secure it with a tiny knot.

Sinking down to my knees, I pull the red thread tight before I step on the end with my leather shoe, keeping it in place as I grab a nail and hammer from beside me. I push the nail through the thick thread and secure it to the wooden floor.

I do the same thing three more times, until the left side of his torso is skinned off. Making way of his right side, I repeat the same process, the only difference being that I pull the threads upward and secure them to the wooden panel.

His entire upper body is splayed wide now, revealing beautiful bloody pink flesh. He continues to be as still as a statue because of the drugs, only more tears and muffled pleas audible around us. Blood drips onto the floor, along with more piss.

Still, I don't speak a word when my eyes lock with his. He knows what he's done. And if he doesn't, he will soon enough.

I move my gloves over his chest, gathering his thick, sticky life's essence. Massaging my hands over his, where they're still gathered on his back, I coat them with his blood. Metaphorical― I have blood on my hands… More forms of art. I'm not only a master of the fine arts―I occasionally indulge in the art of words, too.

I'm a visionary, in every single way.

The drug will wear off soon, which means the last few finishing touches need to be done now.

I walk to the back of the room to open another suitcase, one which contains my film camera. Taking it out, I place the Auricon on a tripod with perfect range of the scene before me. I've already loaded film into it, so all I have to do is turn it on and get Archibald's confession.

Once the tape is rolling, I slide on my handmade mask and a long, black coat that conceals every single part of my physique. The hem stops at the exact height of my feet and the sleeves are long enough to hide part of my gloved hands.

For every kill, I create a new mask. Masks out of different materials, such as clay, wood, wax, iron, gold, and silver―the list goes on. The one I'm wearing now is one of my finest ones, which I sculpted out of clay and painted with a mixture of brown, dark green, and ochre shades. It resembles the incubus of one of my favorite paintings― The Nightmare , by Johann Heinrich Füssli.

I make my way back to my victim, walking into the frame of the camera.

Showtime…

The first word I speak to him is a sinister whisper. "Confessssss…" I let the word slither through my teeth like a serpent.

His eyes widen, and I see his lower lip tremble, which means some of the drugs are wearing off. First his ability to speak will return, then the feeling in his limbs will follow.

"Confess…" I tell him again.

No coherent words follow yet―that always takes a while. I take this opportunity to reach inside my pocket to take out a roll of glossy papers that are held together by a red ribbon. I unknot the bow, then fold it open, and take one sheet between my fingertips as I place the others on the wooden floor.

I don't speak―I can't. No one can ever know my real voice. An anonymous call will go out when I'll be on my way back home, and the police will find this scene, along with the tape.

It's important to keep this part of myself hidden in the shadows. They won't ever catch the invincible Sculptor of Death―that's what the public named me. A tad dramatic, perhaps. But art is all about the drama.

When more splattered words leave his mouth, they finally seem to take shape. He knows what to do. Once again, I don't need to tell him. Confess your sins and you'll be put out of your misery.

I walk around his body, taking place behind him and giving the camera a clear shot of my mask. "Confesssss…" I whisper in his ear once more.

I hold the photograph of the woman beside his head, then move closer toward the camera and hold it in front of the lens. When I turn back around and face the picture Mr. Caddell's way, he finally complies. "I―I… killed her," he admits with a panicked voice.

"Confess. Confess. Confessssss…" Satisfaction washes over me as I keep repeating the words. Such power I have right now. Every nerve inside my body is an electric wire, the sparks nearly bathing me in an inferno of ecstasy.

"She… she th―threatened to destroy me," he chokes out. "I couldn't―le―let that happen."

I nod my satisfaction and let go of the glossy photograph of the stunning young girl that was once full of life. I grab another photograph and repeat the process―I first show the picture to the camera, then have Archibald confess.

Three women he has murdered. Three young ladies who were in the peak of their lives. They had so many wonderful things to look forward to. They were smart. That was his thing―destroy women who were capable of living life on their own terms. One was an intern at his office, the other a girl he lured in with promises of academic opportunities. Another a mistress, of whom I don't know the exact backstory.

It doesn't matter.

He's admitted to murdering all three of them now, and I have it on camera.

More minutes have passed, each second on the ticking clock promising more pain. His limbs are waking up, no longer subdued. His screams are getting louder. Agony intensifies.

Delectable. Titillating.

I whisper in his ear once more. "Confessss… Where are the bodies?"

Gibberish. Wailing and weeping and begging a higher power for mercy is his only answer.

I let him.

No need to shorten the pain.

I walk out of the frame and take a large syringe out of my suitcase. It's already filled with a concoction I cooked up myself. Black paint, adrenaline, more chemicals to blacken his flesh. In my other hand I hold one of my sharp silver blades and return to my live sculpture.

When I meet his eyes through the holes of my mask, he finally concedes the location of the missing girls. They're buried somewhere on a large block of land he owns.

I'll let the police handle that.

I give him a curt nod, and without a moment of hesitation, I dig the knife into his chest, where his skin is already flayed off. I carve deeper this time and blood squirts all over my torso and my mask. I keep slicing, revealing his ribs and his organs.

His heart is what I need. When it's uncovered, no longer restricted by thick skin, I let go of the knife, the blade clattering when it reaches the ground.

I stab the thick needle of the syringe into his beating heart and watch him gasp when the adrenaline takes over every single vein in his body. At once, he feels everything. Every slash into his bare flesh. Every piece of skin that's pulled taut by the red threads.

Oh, the sweet, delicious suffering.

I disappear out of the movie frame, giving my audience the privilege of seeing my masterpiece unfold. His heart darkens, every single inch of the organ turning to literal black. Another gratifying metaphor. A black heart―a black soul.

Now all that remains is blackness, as his heart explodes inside his ribcage. I'm far enough out of reach that the pieces of skin, guts, plasma, and blood don't hit me.

He dies instantly.

When I walk to the camera, I turn it off. Preparing a projector, I point it at the art piece before me. When all is done with the film and it's time to run, I let the movie play out.

His confessions. His agony.

The justice.

Now the cycle will be repeated again. And next summer, it will end. Then start again. Then end.

Endlessly. Infinitely.