Why?

Gothic Fiction

Gothic Fiction

 

I feel compelled to answer the question that has been long been asked. In my experience, it is the one I hear most often of all. Why? Always…why? Whether their sulking in the corner or as their blood streams down from their chest, they always ask me why? I wish that I could give you and them resolute answer but alas, it evades me. The only way I justify the piles of human waste I find myself responsible for is this…its fun. Truly, I cannot think of anything more rewarding than murder. Take this as an example, for at least one moment in your life I’m sure you played the innocent game of scaring someone. Try and imagine that feeling of anticipation as they round the corner, that delightful giddiness as you, hidden are ready to pounce. But instead of simply yelling out boo and sharing a laugh, you grab them by their throat and drive their skull into the pavement. Dazed from the concussion you surely just gave them, you pull the zip ties from you back pocket and string up their arms and legs. If you have done your job correctly this disoriented person is yours and there is nothing, absolutely nothing they can do about it, no matter how much they plead. But you do not want to be quick with this person, any amateur can pull a trigger or drive a knife into another’s heart. No, you’re not just some whore, this person has yet to fully satisfy the hunger. Dragging this pile of fat down to their basement each step causes your heart to beat a little bit quicker, then it’s going faster and faster until your chest begins to ache. You can hardly stand another moment of this cruel anticipation. Depending on your mood this victim can expect a variety of different tortures, but today is special. Unlike the other nights where an entire kit of supplies awaited, this time there is nothing but one object. From afar many would claim this tool to be a simple needle; those people are fools. This apparatus is longer, sharper, and created with a purpose much grander than sewing up a child’s jacket. You probe the victim’s body with the fine prick, small streams of blood leak from their disgusting husk. They wake up screaming. You cannot blame them, anything less would be strange. You can’t harshly judge a concussed person from yelling after waking up in a pool of their own blood; they are being reasonable. But you are not finished with them and their screaming could cause unnecessary attention. You’re a professional. Clenching the needle in your hand you stab downwards and connect with their neck. But not just once or twice, you stab and you stab until the call for help has ceased. And then you examine your work. Their throat has been shredded to red ribbons, they gasp desperately for air, and their limbs lay defeated; fist unclenching. Death is quickly approaching… that much is obvious. The human is a surprisingly durable creature but it can handle only so much abuse. You meet their straining eyes directly. Even though they choke on their own blood their incoherent screams ask the same boring question…why? If you have not yet found the answer to the question in my words then you never will. It is a strength few possess. Either you stand triumphant over the corpse. Or you are the pygmy body bleeding out.

 

more by FRANCISCO LEYVA

Photograph by Israel Sundseth

 

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