Torture

Old piece, 2006

Torture
Printed on the stained carpet, the shadows stood immobile, reflections only in shape, of the archaic thick bar windows. Shelves upon shelves of books were perfectly aligned, coated in years and dust, smothered with mystique. A twisted yet elegant chandelier tapered into a needle point, hung, poised to strike from above.

I hate them. Their perfect porcelain faces, faintly blushing cheeks, sweet, know-it-all smiles of deception. Their perfect, lush blond brown ringlets, twinkling eyes. The pristine beauty, ugly with hidden guilt. It was their entire fault. I want to kill them, make them pay for what they did. They deserve it, they deserve to die.

The girl was small for her age, with a vacant, dumb expression and piercing, strangely discoloured eyes. The face was a smooth expanse of cream, marred by a fresh wound, a pale pink scar that cut through the cheeks down to the edge of her neck. She stared out of the open doors, at the man and woman.

"We won't be gone long, darling" he said warmly, waving goodbye.

"It'll just be one night" the woman smiled, lovingly tender. She reached down for one big hug. "Take care."

Curls of hair fall to the ground in a shower of plastic. I drop a bald, severed head and turn to another defect-less face. Her expression is so serene. Irritably so. With a scream of rage, I deal a blow to the stomach. It fractures. The porcelain cracks on contact, the shards flying into my face, burying themselves in my flesh. Blood runs freely from numerous wounds but pain is not a problem. Hate blinds me. Repeatedly, I watch myself puncture the fragile porcelain with the sharp end of the hammer into her bared torso. Silken dresses are ripped to shapeless cloth in fury. I fling her aside, cast my eyes on the ground. So many more revenges to wreak. So many wounds to widen, deepen and heal. A cadaverous skull, eyes gored out, side of the face burnt, legs hanging askew. Another, with the lower body scorched to a black, charred stump, hair melted into a mess of indiscernible wax. But still, faces of perfection, of mockery. I scream, scratch and claw at my face. Lines made by nails, red streaks under the ice, a volcano prior to eruption. Another face and another, expressions of smug victory, awash in a sea of mutilated exteriors, limbs, burnt hair, silken rags and perfect, perfect memories; another and another and another…

A face leers at her from the looking glass. A face of distant eyes, in shades of red. A face of cuts and bruises. A face of sleepless nights, framed with tangled, uncared for hair. A face of evil. She yelsl out in pain, vents her fury, her endless hatred and suffering.

The scream holds, wavers, then dies.

She clutches the limp doll in her hand. Her mischievous blue eyes flash in symphony with the dying light of the day. Again, resentment and enmity bubbles up. She feels her cheeks burn as another off key shriek bursts out.
Littered on the floor, a myriad of porcelain pieces, shattered, and broken beyond repair. Colours of red, gold, blue and brown blend with the rich greens and purples. A gradient of the rainbow, dead, on the floor, beside a small, cross legged girl. The disgustingly thin and wasted creature, vulnerable from mind and reality.

I see myself.

Bloodlust fills my eyes. I grab a poker from the cold fire grate. The metal clashes with the hard surface of porcelain, the notes almost musical. Again, the poker hits down on the torso, the limbs and finally, the face, cracking her. For good.