I Don't Break Easy

by RoweenaC

The crimson stickiness flows down along my bruised arms, the weight in my shoulders unbearable. Blood mingles stingingly with the omnipresent sweat pouring down my body. The cuts and stab wounds where the salty liquid pools until it flows over and continues its descent are by-products of my job. Self-inflicted. Exertion has more than once led to painful attacks on my own body, just because I was too tired to control the blows and slashes.

Wincing, I try to shake off the never-ending weariness. I have to carry on. They are always watching. Invisible eyes prying on my every move, on my every thought. No privacy. No pause. Constant torture.

I look around hoping against hope this is one of those rare moments where I get to breathe and relax. I risk it. I hunch my shoulders a little as if hiding from their surveillance, the hook and the hatchet swinging limply at my sides, spraying deep-red patterns on the greenish floor. I allow my eyes to close for the fraction of a second and then try to blink against the sweat gathering on my eyelids; balancing on the tips of my lashes, small, ripe droplets drip down on my cheeks, tickling as they wind their way down my stiff neck to reunite with their salty companions on my chest.

I shake my head in an attempt to clear my mind and gather new strength for my perpetual task. Straightening, I watch as the bloody, sticky mass in front of me shivers slightly. A moan wafts up from the roughly human outline and it works like a starter's gun, my cue to recommence. My eyes search for the place where the mouth would have been a few hours before and they find five white pearls - mother-of-pearl gravestones - framing a dark, almost circular hole with a squishy, flat piece of flesh at its center. The flabby meat wriggles and curls wearily, incapable of forming screams or pleas; no vocal chords allowing sound to emanate from the living corpse. Its throat is ripped open, another mouth-like hole silently cursing me, its creator.

I swallow hard.

I raise my left hand above my head, aware of the familiar weight of the hatchet, its blade chipped in many places now after five years of connecting with bones and - on the odd occasion - with the chains holding the bodies in place.

I remember how the shiny, silvery steel reflected my anxious gaze the day Alastair handed it to me together with the hook. My new toys, as he put it. I remember the tremors wracking my body and the acrid bile rising in my throat, the moment my hands wrapped eerily comfortably around the handles, subconsciously making themselves accustomed to the new weapons like on every other hunt. I remember the vindictive sneer plastered on the demon's inhuman face as he watched me retching.

I huff out one last breath before I close my mouth against the spray my blows will scatter, clamping my jaws shut and pressing my dry, blistery lips painfully together. My nose is used to the stench - a combination of sulfur, blood and bodily fluids I try not to think about – but I can't stop from frowning in disgust as the first red drizzle covers my face with a fine sheen of blood. The body whimpers hissingly through the open gash in its throat and I am a little surprised that it is still conscious.

I raise my right arm to shoulder height – the motion drilled into muscle-memory by a million repetitions – and let it come down in a half circle slashing deep into the gory middle of the former torso. The hook becomes entangled with one of the ribs and I wrench hard at the butcher's implement in one swift movement knowing it would be less painful than wriggling it out. The ensuing crack of the bone reverberates in my arm, whirring in the over-strained sinews.

My left arm comes down in another mangling blow and connects hard with the skull splitting it open causing grey brain matter to ooze over the steel.

I gag.

This one sight still is too much for me. It is the last barrier I still can't cross. The brain representing the person, their past, their memories, their dreams and fears. It always gets to me, reminding me that I am torturing people not bodies. Real people. That I am actually ripping them apart instead of saving them.

My stomach lurches and I have to stop for an instant to steady myself while my conscience catches up with me.

My weakness apparent, I cringe at the memory of the moment I surrendered to the ceaseless torture, nothing left of the cocky, arrogant demeanor. A whimpering, pleading, crying mass of bones and muscle mumbling, half-insanely, an unconditional surrender.

I wince and gasp as I relive the moment.

My fingers cramp painfully around the tools of torture I was appointed shortly after my capitulation, chipped fingernails furrowing deep, bloody crescents into my palms. The sharp pain breaks the spell. I breathe deeply one more time, ignoring the hitch in my chest or the tears streaming down my cheeks. What's the use in crying? I don't even feel embarrassed anymore. Nobody cares.

I don't care.

The familiar, conversant numbness returns to my mind and I turn back to my task. Now is the time to put the crude tools aside. Now the carving and slicing starts. The process of torture follows a strict order, like a macabre, choreographed dance. This next section is composed of less brutal actions. It consists of tiny, nerve-wracking, maddening assaults. Like pin-pricks.

I remember how I always wished for the first part to continue further, dreading the ceaseless, small and annoying attacks. Like mosquitoes whirring around a desperately tired man who would never find rest. After these sessions I'd be wrecked and I'd welcome death as my only escape. But then, I would be whole again, knowing it was inevitable to relive every bit of it over and over again. To wake up whole quickly became the worst moment of it all. The knowledge that I was condemned to start over, suffer through it again, to find no rest.

This much-desired rest still evaded me because even as a torturer I never pause. They watch me, waiting for mistakes or hesitance, for mercy or neglect. For any sign of human emotion still coursing through my body.

Mechanically, I reach for the scalpel and the ice pick while my eyes scan the human heap. Subtle shivers run through its still connected parts, the moans have ceased with the last blow of the hatchet. Yet, I know it is still aware of pain.

My eyes find the head again and it hits me with a jolt.

I drop my tools, my knees buckle and connect jarringly with the brimstone floor. Long, brown bangs flop above the slushy mess, unruly, blood-soaked strands surround it like a dark, distorted halo.

A stabbing pain lashes out at my heart as it threatens to burst with painful longing. I feel my heartbeat speed up, staggering, skipping and tumbling as I reach out with one shivering, blood spattered hand to gently brush the hair away from all the gore. All the time hating myself for the selfish hope of him being here.

My hand stops halfway through the motion as I feel black eyes burning holes in the back of my head and I gaze up into Alastair's unforgiving face.

He doesn't need to say a word, the menacing sneer chills me to the bone. I fight desperately to compose myself, to not let my guard down again and show my weakness. My hands clenched into fists, knuckles standing out white against the rusty colour of the slowly drying blood on their backs.

I redirect my emotions.

Forcing them outwards and changing hurt and loss into wrath. Wrath, which I will use to process my pain. Wrath that will carve and slice, slash and mangle. I smirk up into the face of the demon and slowly rise to my feet again, consciously making an effort to conceal the shivers in my hands by wrapping them tightly around the dropped tools. I swallow against the sob constricting my windpipe, knowing I will be punished for any sign of weakness. I force my eyes to refrain from blinking, afraid the tears gathering there might spill over.

A content hiss crosses the silent space between us and Alastair turns away again. I roll my shoulders and dare to breathe again, allowing the air to flow gently between my quivering lips. My eyes finally win the battle against my will and close, causing thick teardrops to soak my haughty features. Wiping one hand across the lower part of my face, I turn around and I recommence the task of disemboweling the nameless and painfully familiar body.

I surrender. Every single day I surrender.

My hands dig deep into the warm, sticky meat. I squelch and mash the tissue, my fists glad to find the relief of punching human flesh, albeit dead and unresponsive. I relish the familiar resistance when my fingernails finally make contact with the backbone. A sick feeling of satisfaction grips my body when I snap the vertebrae piece by piece, my hands covered with nerve tracks and transparent liquid. Today, I won't use the scalpel. Anger boils my insides, my heart - raw and bleeding – screams for deliverance, unheard.

I dig my way deeper into the body.

My nails scrape along bones, decorating them with insane runes.

I am unaware of the maniacal laughter and howls escaping my hoarse throat. I delve into the carcass, acting out my pain, my loss, my hopelessness. I give in. I enjoy. I succumb to the charms of hell, irrevocably.

My surroundings blur into a mixture of red and green. The putrid, fetid stench evolves into a welcome perfume. The screams echoing around me become music, the rhythm that defines my life, now. I lose track of time, unconcerned, eternity has no need for measurement. The tools truly turn into my toys and fear into a weapon I happily use.

I adapt.

The bodies vary, yet none stands out anymore.

Humanity is indifferent.

I don't care. Not anymore.

Satisfied eyes caress my body, content with what I am doing. I excel at each and every new task, honing my skills. I feel them, patting my back, applauding my prowess, gripping my shoulder...

...gripping my shoulder, scorching it, blisters forming instantly, and wrenching me up...