He used to tell himself not to lose his cool in front of the guests. In front of his friends—
BANG!
In the beginning of his teen life he had to deal with being the child of a tumultuous marriage which ultimately ended in divorce. The mother had enough, and left. His sibling, as annoying as she was, was sorely missed. He was walking a crooked path to the road of uncertainty. It seemed sure that he found his true calling on campus grounds. But this didn't matter… The boy couldn't forget where his roots were grounded in. Tonight, PJ would come to disown them… To dispose of him.
"Haa, ha—" There was more than this to fan the hate.
A bulking feline twitched on the ground a couple of times before using up strength just to lift his head up again. His eyes bloodshot and glazed over in fear. It would be the last time he boasted a disheartening laugh.
It wasn't very good for a kid, to have a tyrant governing you in the way you dress, eat and sleep. Governing you in which types of friends to make and who to avoid like the plague. Conversations void of any communication; a one way command with no hope of understanding or compromise.
To not follow this man's rules meant the strike of a belt or the razor sharp tongue of an overbearing father…
Could he not understand that perfection was simply out of reach?
Don't tell me what to do.
"No, Pete—Peter. I'm not going to be a slave to your whim any longer."
A knife emerged from the young man's back, disfigured and rusted at the handle and blade. Would do for the time being. Pete's face blanched as his only son continued, "Not when I'm through with you."
Maybe if he wasn't so ambitious. So precarious. Irresponsible and all demanding. A greedy slob at heart. A slight chisel was made on the left cheek. Bits of the crumbling iron melded in perfectly with the blood composition.
"OW!" Things would be so much easier to kill him right then and there. But there was so much more to be explored! Kicks to the face skinned the forehead and chapped lips. Exhausted and short of breath, Pete collapsed on the throw rug, unconscious.
It seemed as if an hour passed right when a stinging sensation teased the open wounds. Pain soon sharpened as the energy mustered tried to shake it away to no avail. But that wasn't all—scathing hot weights pelted at the body made the father cry out in anguish; one of them fell right into his shirt, finding a place of rest close to the navel. The salt only added to this strange wail. For all the struggling, it was obvious that he couldn't move any which way. Bound and gagged, up against a wall; hands tied behind his back on a rickety old chair. And still within the confines of the living room. A display for tourists to admire, although all the curtains were drawn, shrouding the area in darkness.
"I just thought this would be more interesting, Peter."
What scared the captive more was that he couldn't even see a foot in front of his face. Only able to hear and smell, and feel more pain.
"Peter" wanted nothing more than to get exactly what was churning through the gears of this college boy's mind. This was definitely NOT the son that he was quick to be rid of upon admission letter of the state college—"Go on Son! I can't miss 'ya if you don't leave!"'
The strangest laugh escaped a usually heartwarming character, "You can't see?
Was it really a good idea to answer that? "… No." Through cotton folds.
"They're not here" What wasn't here? The kid mused; the older cat heard a scraping, realizing that the hot coal in his shirt was peeling off the surface of his stomach. Just a tad. "Oh, dear Peter. How have we ever lived with you all this time? We can't even stand you. And look here! You're bound tight, so frail and helpless!"
… What's all this "we" business?
"Dad." The tone of voice reverted back to familiarity. "Peter" didn't know why his heart beat suddenly quickened, "Som! G'ff fme off of f're! I'mh f'orry!" A sharp backhand struck him cold, followed by the cock of the gun. The impact tore open seared skin, and underneath the bulging sack burst. Something foul welled up inside the prey's sore throat; it could only slip through the crevices of the makeshift gag. Everything else had to be swallowed down via gag reflex. Bile and crimson liquid. The scream went full blast as soon as the gag was ripped out—
"Why are you doing this to—!" throwing up some more of the viscous chunks, "Me?!"
It was impossible to tell what PJ was feeling, to not even have the luxury of seeing his face. A random, dissociative flashback brought Pete back to a time where he used to swindle the blind out of their money; taking his sight for granted. Now, it was gone, as was his gut.
"This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you." Another clang of metal against metal, and the hissing of a nearby source of heat. A scorching incision danced along the circumference of the man's face—to which he shrieked like mad. The rusted blade, red hot, made jagged cuts into his arms, shoulders, a little more into his open stomach, to the calves of his legs. Down to his bare foot,
"This little piggy went to market" Agh! "This little piggy went home—This little piggy had roast beef—
No more toes to curl to ease the pain, "This little piggy had none."
Even as the ex-Dad shivered and sobbed in his front row seat, sweat beading on his brow, his son held onto the satin of his beefy hands,
"Your fingers next, Sir." Whirling the chair around to have its back showing for easier access.
Pete still didn't know how he was able to breathe—gasping for air getting lost within seconds in his ribcage through a damaged diaphragm. He grew numb to the appendages being ripped out. A bit more of the liquid trickled onto his lolling tongue… This could be an interesting change of palate, trading in those well done hamburgers for extra rare.
More than physical malaise in a pit of darkness, there was a lost and confused man, wanting nothing more than the boy whom he had a goal to raise. The right way. That's all he wanted: Raising an obedient, civil being… Not this monster.
The knife wriggled its way back into the fire to have it glow, cleaning off the gore.
Back into flesh it went—right into the cavernous gut, "Ugh!" Pete felt the metal make countless shapes overlapping one another, leaving behind a trail of fire, lava—skin jarring itself open—Now, it was getting hard to speak. Another clang of metal and a small whimper as a red hot fire poker dug its way in and pulled itself out just as quick, intestines pouring out—like a vat of worms. All attempts to give a wail were drowned out by a new wave of acid. A sizzle disturbed the confines of his temporal lobe.
"It's a shame, really. We don't have a rotisserie big enough to stick you in." He should talk; Peej was almost just as spacious. In this madness, Pete suddenly felt the need to crack a random joke; it was as if his son could read minds—
"Cat got your tongue?" The exposed muscle tasted the last of its owner's flesh before being sliced off. No toes. No fingers. No tongue. An overly scarred body with an open stomach and a flapping face still glued on tight.
"Oh, man.." Oh man what? All tissue suffering an unstoppable hemorrhage. The carpet around the victim was dyed to a subtle shade of umber. It matched the wall perfectly. "What's going on?!"
Limbs moved on auto pilot as the fat feline's face was damaged even more, blow for blow. The chair was kicked violently and soon its supports broke away; sharp splinters teased the tender flesh of his fur coated legs. Back of the head slammed a pillar of the mantle before sliding down to the floor—palms still tied behind his back, pressed under the wood.
The fire was inches away from his pulp of an appearance. Ashes tickled the dying nerves…
"Hey, old man! I found them!" A failing heart leapt in curiosity until something slimy sprinkled upon his face. Chapped, split lips involuntarily sucked on a slippery surface with a liquid dribbling underneath—
"Want me to sew your eye back on?"
There was no way for Pete to answer this question.
The iron fire poker rammed into the left side of his ribcage for the final blows—
"For me! For them! And for YOU, Peter! You scumbag—
The boy just let himself go for the last—"You piece of SHIT! I should have done this to you ages ago!"
The weapon was thrown clear across the room, shattering another expensive vase along the way. Shaking fingers clenched the pulsating temples, one breathing heavily after this strange rush of adrenaline. PJ stared, wide eyed in disbelief at the carnage before him—another scream flew out of his own mouth—
"What did I do what did I do what did I—
"QUIET!" He bellowed, "Finish the job!" Tears welled up in his intact eyes, traumatized now and forever. Highly unaware of these past few hours. Only a tinge of a latent and confused rage remained,
"Finish it!" went the voice in his head. It would not cease until its demands were fulfilled.
And they were. Another: Simply overjoyed.
The body hung on a strong rope under the enormous horns of the head of a severed moose. Its vacant gaze saw absolutely everything within hours of this spacious living room in the man's summer home.
An obvious failed attempt at trying to bond together after years upon years of neglect and distrust.
PJ, the once beloved son, took off and ran out of the estate in the early morn under a blanket of violet and orange skies. Wind howling; a thunderclap followed by a pouring rain… The weather had decided to be unstable for a while longer.
He tried to duck under the dancing branches of the trees, tripping over the mossy soil; a root in the way caught his stride—falling face down, he swore he heard yet another disheartening laugh.