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Post Mortem

post mortem

Estimated reading time — 8 minutes

I wouldn’t say it was instantaneous, I was always more open to the depraved thoughts the brain forces you to think about when you’re alone. The kind of thoughts that creep into your conscience out of nowhere, as if some sick fuck had planted them there with a wide grin and brazen sadistic pleasure. I always welcomed it. You could blame it on my childhood or my upbringing, but it wouldn’t lead you anywhere close to what could resemble a solid conclusion. Maybe it was a mixture of things. I dwell on these thoughts from time to time, when nights are too still I find myself shaken up by my past clawing its way into my present. Like a selfish shadow waiting for me to once again succumb to it’s gloom.

I remember the first time I got cut. The pleasure it brought me, like a swarm of ecstasy engulfing my head, leaving it in total catatonic bliss. Amy Pickford. She sliced me with a shattered ruler after I teased her sudden weight gain from a week-long holiday in Cancun. I didn’t let out a scream, just a long moan followed by a crouching forward motion to hide my erection. The other kids laughed and mocked as the blood slowly trickled down my thigh, this just made things more erotic for me. From then on the internet was my late night obsession. Before I knew it, my actions were minutes ahead of any comprehensive thought and like that, I got addicted to any perverse website you could think of. It pissed me off when sites would upload movie scenes of course, I could always tell when it was fake. I’d look deep into the pupils of the victims and see their world views shatter before them. That’s when I knew it was real. Knowing that just before their demise they did not see a god or a light. No savior, only glimpses of what they assumed were achievements that would amount to some spiritual currency in a so-called afterlife. Seeing the blank hope in their eternally despondent eyes. That’s what got me off the most.

Years went by of me doing this, I did a great job of concealing it for all that time. There were a few close calls of course, my dad wondering what a ‘live leak’ was, my mother wondering why there were razor blades near my bed. But these were easily explained with believable excuses, my parents were very naïve. By this point I was a 19-year-old in college. I worked a job as a fry cook at a local McDonald’s which was uneventful, at times I would fantasize about inserting my hand into the fryers or grilling my cock on the stoves, that seemed to get me by. When pain is the only thing that can get you off, you’re immune to the so-called hardships of basic suburban life. Mean bosses become fully realised fantasies and mean wives become dream women. My tastes had grown more depraved and my mood soured with every waking day. Like the scars that have been on my legs and arms since I was 12, less harmful desires had started to fade.


Desperation hit, I began going through chat rooms finding anyone who could torture me in the way I needed. That’s when I found him on a warm Sunday afternoon. Thomas Belton.

I wasn’t even sure if this was his real name or an online alias, I knew it must’ve been a creep but he was a very dedicated member of the forum I had stumbled upon. Possibly even an admin. He caught my attention with one of his posts stating that he had died fifteen times and returned, stating it was the greatest form of pleasure and that he was touched by a ‘new God’. I had grown accustomed to these kinds of posts of course, but there was something that drew me in. I messaged him, simply asking if he could say hello to my grandparents next time he was killed by his Domme. He replied with a smiley face emoticon and a link to a video file that lasted for five minutes. Although I was cautious, I began to watch it. I saw CCTV footage of him tied up to a radiator fully nude, winking slyly through the distorted image, fully erect and with a constant smug look in his eye. A man wearing nothing more than a black hoodie and a white ski mask approached him quickly and knifed him three times in the neck, twice in the stomach. The static became erratic and blocked the full view of the spectacle, although his shrill, blood curdling scream pierced my ears like a thousand pinpricks grazing a blackboard. The experience was unforgettable, the pleasure seared through my body, completely numbing my limbs. I panted like a hypothermic dog scrambling for air. There he laid for the rest of the video, his guts slowly protruding from his bellowing stomach coated in blood. The sounds of him slowly choking on his blood, now flowing out of his neck like a broken faucet was enough to get me off again. I knew then that I had not seen enough. I needed more.

I asked who the man was to which he replied it was he who starred in the video and that he was healthy and living a ‘millionaire playboy lifestyle’. I cackled and asked for part 2. He sent the next video instantly as I watched in disbelief. He began by gently inserting his small intestine back into his torn out abdomen, assembling the pieces of his insides like a disassembled automaton. His facial expression looked calm and collected as his body slowly began to seal any open wounds and cuts on his sweat coated body. After a few minutes of this, the smug smile returned as he looked directly into the camera and gave a wink. After I closed the video I realised he had sent many more messages asking if I’d like to meet and kill. Judging from his throbbing member in the video, he enjoyed the pain and violence in the same way I did. I agreed to meet him in a disclosed place, although the idea of getting mutilated by a stranger online was already sending shivers of excitement down my spine.

Train station, 12AM:-

I waited impatiently, smelling the dried urine and gasoline that had permeated the desolate train station for years on end. I didn’t know what to expect from this man, nor did I even expect him to show up. I had grown accustomed to these visits that led to nowhere, usually a submissive type that would meet me from a foreign country. Some claimed to have cannibalistic tendencies but these always turned out to be fabricated lies, people living out their Hollywood fantasies of imitating a Hannibal Lecter type. I waited another fifteen minutes and, with a long sigh, began to walk towards the exit of the train station and back to my home. While waiting by the entrance, I felt a cold breath on my neck and a tug on my coat. I turned and saw him. He was wearing a very worn lilac trench coat, blackened at the tips of the cuffs like a burnt dishcloth. A stained white T-shirt with the slogan “Jesus saves” printed in big black font. His eyes widened, facial expression crazed, pupils fully dilated with swirls of red veins closing around the whites of his eyes. I knew it was him.


Our conversations were short but concise, he had a cardboard box filled with metal tubing and wiring. I asked what they were to which he didn’t give a reply other than him stating it was “a special gift”. As we arrived closer to my house his stench became almost unbearable, like old frying oil mixed with dirty drain water. I felt bemused by his title of ‘millionaire playboy’, but still entertained the idea of him letting me torture him. Or even better, him torturing me. The house was vacant, both mother and father had idyllic jobs in healthcare and telecommunications respectfully that lasted normal working days so today we had complete freedom until six o clock. I had taken a month from work, holiday pay was no issue as I had not taken a holiday since I started my menial job. I made the place immaculate with cleaning equipment neatly placed by the bookshelf, anticipating this day. All types of wipes and antiseptic creams were neatly prepared and organised.


As we approached the spare room fit with plastic wrap on both the walls and the floor, Thomas smirked. He slammed the cardboard box down, slowly took his trench coat off and glanced back at me. Without a word I understood that he needed time to prepare, so I left the room and waited downstairs with eager anticipation. I forgot to tell Thomas about my parents’ eventual arrival but the thought of Thomas simply throwing fake blood at the plastic encased room only made me less anxious about this. I was almost certain this man was not legitimate. By this point I had waited for four hours, I impatiently began shouting for Thomas from the living room with no reply. Suddenly I heard a muffled gasp followed by a faint scream, I instantly got hard and sat back down. Enjoying the wonderful sounds coming from upstairs made me lose track of time. Thomas at least offered me this small momentary bliss, for whatever he was doing upstairs was real as I could easily decipher a fake scream from a real one. Suddenly I heard an inhuman, cybernetic gurgle that quickly led to what sounded like a malfunctioning iron lung. I quickly ran upstairs, swung the spare room door open and saw it. My mouth was agape as I felt a sudden numb overtake my body.

There Thomas was. I stared at the rusting grey metallic pistons oscillating in an out of his chest, blood spurting with every pump. He breathed through a large plastic air pump placed above his head, barely managing to take a breath through the gurgled spit and blood choking his windpipe. The muddled wiring jammed into his cranium now connected to a laptop from the corner of the room projecting texts of unknown origin in fast, almost hypnotic flashes. His limbs completely detached from his abdomen, now seemingly bionic with flesh pulsing around the cybernetic scrap heap that surrounded him. His blood trickled and gushed around a tin container containing his legs and detached phallus submerged in the mixture now leaking among the scraps of electronic hell. His penis constantly ejaculated blood and thick wads of semen. A large bronze pole replaced his spine, his flesh tensed and shook around it. His face was now barely recognizable, soaked in blood and metal. I could still make out a faint smirk on his face, his eyes whitened like two translucent marbles as he whispered something about his second coming.

I stood there slowly digesting what I was seeing, but every time I got closer to comprehending I would then see something beyond explanation. I could not vomit. I could not speak. I closed the door and clambered downstairs. I turned the stoves on in the house, without even thinking about our possessions or the sometimes happy memories that this house once contained. My mind became preoccupied with what I had witnessed. Without even thinking after an hour of waiting outside for the house to eventually fill with gas, I lit a match and threw it in. The house was aflame. I turned away to hear muffled sounds of pleasure. Thomas was pleading for more pain while burning slowly under the flames. The sight of thick, amber gusts of heat embellishing the house brought an unknown emotion to me.


The police and fire department arrived. They asked the usual questions, I said I had gone to get some groceries and forgot to turn the stove off. They seemed to buy into my quick lie, all the while they tried to dull the flames of the raging fire. After this me and my family stayed in a nearby hotel owned by my aunt Emma, a quiet woman with excellent culinary skills. Something changed in me that night. The idea of normalcy no longer made me want to die, I felt at peace with a lifestyle far away from the depraved nature of my past. We never talked about the fire. No bodies were found at the site either, Thomas was never found. All that was left were the remains of the scorched laptop left from the wreckage. Apparently an officer turned it on and opened it once. All he found was a black webpage with words that read:-

““He has risen.”

Credit : S. Bailey

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