“Fuck!” He screamed in manic fury, flinging the knife up into the air. “I have to do this! Shut up! I have to do this!” He brought the knife down, aiming for her heart but missing and stabbing into her shoulder, a crunching, scraping sound as it splintered past the bone. She shrieked in pain and thrashed on the bed, the ropes around her wrists and ankles digging into her skin. Crimson blood flew up onto the walls as he pulled the knife up again.
“I have to do this! I have to do this!” He screamed it over and over, until it was no longer words but a twisted sort of mantra, stabbing the knife up and down into her flesh until her chest became a mangled mess.
Her teeth were bared, their bloody, sharp points gnashing in agony. The claws that topped her fingers scraped the headboard of the bed, despite her wrists being tied to the bedposts. The spines growing out of her back dug into the mattress and the needles and pins sticking out of her legs clinked together, unheard under the screaming, both hers and his.
More. More. All he knew was that there was more work to be done, something else he had to do. Keep slicing, keep stabbing, keep gouging until he had drained her of all her blood, her background, her story, her future.
It. He repeated over and over in his head while he screamed at her; it. Not she. It. It was a thing to be destroyed. Mutilated, torn to pieces and sewn back together. And then shredded again; like paper.
The bed that his wife was tied to was drenched with her blood, the walls splattered with it and the metallic, stale odour of it polluted the air in their bedroom.
She was no longer screaming, he noticed. Blood poured out of her mouth and garbled words seemed to form through the dark red stain that she vomited onto the bed. She was lying on her back with each arm and leg tied to a bedpost, her torso bloodied beyond recognition.
Her claws twitched, flinched, when he drew the knife down again. She was still alive. There was still some of her left. He must destroy her. For him, for everyone. He must save the world from this menace; he must destroy her before she destroyed everything.
He loved her. Fuck, he loved her more than anything. But she had become something even he couldn’t save. So for the good of the world he had to destroy her before she destroyed everything.
He slashed and stabbed at leg, half severing the limb until he reached the bone. Bringing the knife down with as much strength as he had, he attempted to break through the bone. The knife cracked into the bone, and he dragged it out again.
Bit by bit he snapped and cracked the bone until it was splintered to shards. He threw the knife down on the bed and pulled on the shards of bone sticking out of her mangled leg.
She bled so much. She was surely dead by now, but he had to make sure. He had to make sure she couldn’t come back to life. He had to make sure there was nothing left.
The next day was spent making absolutely sure that she was destroyed. And when he had finished screaming, he was crying. Sobbing, then absolute hysterics.
Men don’t cry. He shouldn’t be crying. Besides, if he didn’t kill her someone else would, and that wasn’t their job to do. She belonged to him. Only him. She was his.
He hated every fucking second of it. Every slight movement of the knife he cringed. He would have traded places with her in a second.
Finally, it was over. She, or what was left of her, lay splattered around the room. Fragments of her bones splintered out of the mattress. And the blood. Fuck. There was so much blood. He didn’t know that much blood could come out of a person.
It seemed that there was nowhere in the room that wasn’t covered in the crimson stain of death.
Suddenly his heart started pounding. His head began to spin and he felt nauseous. He grabbed at the wall to steady himself as the waves of confusion washed over him, and he stumbled into the bathroom, blindly grabbing at his pill bottle and washing a good handful down with water from the tap.
Two weeks later, police went around to his house to check up on a complaint of a foul odour. They found: his dead wife, or what was left of her mutilated corpse, her blood staining practically every surface in the bedroom. They also found the man, who had died in the bathroom of a medication overdose. And they found his medication bottle. Which, on the side, had the small print ‘may cause hallucinations’.
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