The Office

        This is wrong to say, but I am thoroughly enjoying this.

The scalpel separates the flesh perfectly and effortlessly.  It is so sharp that it traverses nearly the entire perimeter of the base of his foot before he can even feel it.  When he does, however, the scream is otherworldly.

I suppose the foggy ether of dilaudid and the basic human instinct to retreat from pain has caused him to forget the conversation we engaged in mere minutes ago. I warned him. I swear.

He pulls his leg back to remove it from the blades vicinity, only to receive a quick reminder of the vicious little trick I have played on him with the piano wire.  I wanted him to have the ability to make choices.  He has—to this point in his life—made some rather bad ones and rarely afforded those around him the same opportunity.  It is only fair that he be given the opportunity to minimize his pain.  To be honest, I am hoping he makes all the wrong choices....

The table to which he presently finds himself fastened has seven tiny holes drilled through it; one under each ankle, one under each wrist, one under each ear, and one directly below his manhood.  A piece of piano wire is lopped through each hole—around each appendage—forming a slipknot on the underside of the table.

We laid him carefully on the table when we first brought him to this place.  One at a time the makeshift shackles were fitted over their corresponding body parts.  I tightened them gently to snug—enough to restrict movement, but not reduce circulation.  I made him fully aware of his predicament when he first woke and before he had a chance to move.  Arrogance got the better of him and he tested my honesty.  Needless to say the wires are tighter now than when I affixed them.

The wire is firmly gorged into the flesh around his ankle now.  Small purple mountains form as his blood flows up against the makeshift road block in his skin.  As he sees my intent to inflict the same incision on the base of his other foot his eyes well with tears.  This time, however, he does not make the mistake of trying to pull away.  The cut is much easier with less movement to deal with.  Oh the strength of will he must be summoning to keep from pulling away.  The tears flow over his cheeks, and his body shutters violently under the duress his mind is placing on it.  Every fiber of his being wants to convulse his entire body in hopes of freeing him from the ties that currently bind him.

Why—you might wonder—does he not?

The simple answer—one that he would never have admitted to me—is that—once the initial shock of his current predicament had worn off—he had recognized his current surroundings.  The plantation blinds on the window had been his first clue.  I saw his eyes affix on them the moment they had opened.  The wild dance began from there, his eyes darting—left first, then right—around the room to take stock of his surroundings.  The mahogany shelves filled with softball trophies. The pictures of him and the prized bucks he had slain.  The large mahogany desk with the dell computer sitting directly in front of the aforementioned window. And—finally—the clock.

Yes that was the most important piece.  His wife had given it to him as an office warming gift on the day he had opened his practice.  The important thing now, however, is that the time it now reads is exactly eight forty five am.  There are only ten short minutes until his office staff will start to shuffle through the front door…ten short minutes until he can scream for their attention and, hopefully, survive the horror that he is currently living through.  All he has to do is wait—and hope that I am in no rush.

I see this realization in his eyes and my heart smiles.  This is going to go much better than expected.

His eyes twitch nervously as I gaze into them.  Fear and hope make love to each other there.  Pain—he knows—is unavoidable, but death might be held at bay.  All he has to do is endure ten—fifteen minutes at most.  There are at least three girls on the schedule today.  There is no way for me to get them all before one of them makes it to the street.  From there the jig will be up and he will be saved.  Never mind that one—or more—of them might have to die to set him free.  Trust me when I tell you that a thought such as that is not crossing his mind.  All he knows is that HE can survive this situation…and—for a person such as himself—that is enough.

The irony, I suppose, is that I need him to ‘beat the clock’ as much as he desires to do so.  That, after all, is the whole point.

I place my left hand on his right ankle and grasp the newly freed flesh at the base of his heal with my right.  I begin to push down towards the table with my left hand and—though it is, no doubt, uncomfortable for him—the relieved tension on the piano wire strangling that ankle seems to ease him for a moment.  Glancing back I can almost detect a hint of gratitude in his eyes.  The sudden, upwards, jerk of my right hand removes that look completely.

The skin separates easily at first.  Then it becomes taught.  A tendon at the center of his arch is hanging on for dear life.  I pivot myself on my left hand in order to make headway with the right.  The force is too much but the crack of his ankle shattering is barely audible over the tear choked wail now issuing from his mouth.  The skin begins to slip between my fingers—blood lubricates, and flesh is flimsy.  I bunch what flesh I have already managed to loosen into the palm of my hand to get a better grip.  The tendon gives way and the rest of his flesh departs.

I wait a few seconds while he gathers himself.  Once the tears subside and his breathing abates he composes himself enough to look directly at me.  He is trying to place me; thinking to himself that there must be a reason for this thing that is happening to him; thinking that he knows me somehow.  It is his arrogance that is keeping him from placing me.  Five years ago when we met last he was triumphant beyond all compare and staring down at me from a position of perceived omnipotence.  Now he is looking up at me—and I have all the power.

He is also thinking that he only has a few more moments to go.  I can see it in his eyes and it pleases me to know.  The clock is directly behind me and—as he pretends to look to me, helplessly, for answers—what he is really doing is biding his time.  Somewhere—deep within him—all of the hatred of his miserable life is culminating into a determined will to survive.

The plan is working perfectly thus far.  He is too smart for his own good—that is what I had counted on.

In his mind the body can be repaired as long as it is still breathing.  That is his only line of thought and—if you were lying bound on a table in your own office—you would think exactly the same thing.

Human nature—especially in crisis—is far too predictable.

He is now beginning to understand the rules of the game.

Yes—make no mistake—this is most definitely a game.

The rules—as he understands them—are simple.  The lunatic in the room with him wants to have some sadistic fun for as long as possible before someone comes to stop them.  He figures it does not matter whether or not I intend to kill him before that happens.  In fact, he is gambling on the fact that the shear lunacy that it would take for someone to undertake an operation such as this in a prominent businessman’s office—moments before the start of the work day—all but guarantees the fact that I do not give a flying fuck whether or not I get caught.  All he has to do is survive the onslaught…

…and to be sure—the onslaught is coming!

Having the flesh stripped from the bottom of his feet is the least of this man’s worries.  Trust me when I say that—given a choice—he would gladly chose that over any of the events that come next.

Time is short now.  The time to relish the moment has passed.  All of the damage to be done must be done now.

I place the tip of the scalpel at the corner of his right eye and—lifting the flesh of his eyelid away with my free hand—draw it smoothly towards the bridge of his nose.  His scalpel is of the highest quality and the flesh separates with ease.  As I liberate him of the second eyelid a queer thought occurs to me; I’ve heard it said that upon losing a limb a person continues to feel the presence of that limb long after it is gone.  I wonder if the same holds true for an eyelid.  Personally, the thought of something that is constantly moving involuntarily being felt as though it is still there is nearly crippling in my mind.  I hope it is having the same effect on him.  My mind has been crippled for some time now.  This is the first I have been at peace since this all began.

His lips are next.  The presence of more fatty tissue than the eyelids makes the removal a little more difficult, but they come of just the same.

Now his nipples—a quick flick and they are gone—and finally his belly button.  I rotate the scalpel like I’m coring an apple.  The amount of blood that pours from that newly cut orifice is shocking.

He has yet to make a pronounced move to break free from his wire thin bonds.  I am astounded, to be honest, at his ability to comprehend the consequences of doing so even through all his pain.  And yet my actions, and his reactions, are accomplishing the afore mentioned goal beyond my wildest dream.  Though he has the self control to limit large movements his body is subconsciously and involuntarily, writhing minutely with every cut.  The loops of piano wire have cinched considerably and all points of restraint have begun to turn purple.  His feet and hands appear as if they were covered with purple socks and gloves.  The tiny package between his legs has swollen to three times its normal size with engorged blood.  His ears, though, are no longer purple.  It appears as though the flesh is to flimsy there.  The wire has severed both of them and is halfway to removing them completely.  The top of both lobes has bent towards the table due to gravity and a lack of attachment.  His lidless eyes are darting comically around the room and still—every few seconds—they focus briefly on the clock. 

I decide I want him to see the purple and black monstrosity between his legs so I cradle my hand under the back of his head and lift.  The wires finish what they started and his ears fall to the table.  His scream is ear piercing…pun intended.

All this madness has drawn me ever so pleasantly away from the life sucking vacuum of time.  The last ten minutes have rolled by as though all of the pain of the past and despair of the future were the mere musings of a lunatic mind.  Make no mistake…there is neither lofty message to be had, nor feel good ending waiting in the wings.  I am removing pieces of this man’s body one at a time for the sole purpose of making him suffer as much as humanly possible before time runs out.  It is the epitome of selfishness but it is what I need.

Our friend, on the other hand, has enjoyed no such luxury of easy time.  Moisture pours copiously from his tear ducts in a futile attempt to keep his lidless orbs clean.  It is comical to watch the muscles above his eyes twitch furiously in an attempt to give movement to the flesh that no longer resides there.  His eyes have lost all pretenses now.  No more pretending not to be looking at the clock.  With mere seconds left till the strike of eight the abomination before me fixates on the second hand as though it was the hand of God.  He is so focused, in fact, that he does not even notice the scalpel moving towards its final cut.

His scrotum is swollen like a macabre black water balloon.  A tiny flick of the scalpel’s tip right at the seam where his two testicles meet brings a violent gush of blood strong enough to coat most of the wall that stands a full six feet away.  The sack withers and fades to obscurity in no time.  The sudden reduction in size sets the piano wire free and unleashes the flood of red that was built up on the other side.  He realizes what has just happened and arches his hips upwards in a spasm of pain and loss unleashing a second wave against the wall that is home to a myriad of family photos and letters of accomplishment.  As the gusher fades to a heart beat mimicking flow between his legs the second hand ticks its final tock in the land of seven and brings everything to a sudden and almost cacophonic silence is the much anticipated world of eight.

Both of our gazes break from the clock at the same time and meet somewhere between my fervor and his fear.  Something that looks like victory begins to grow behind the grotesque pools of blood and tears that are passing for his eyes.  He can barely contain it and if he were still in possession of his lips I am certain he would be grinning at me.

I can see the tremendous will working within him and steeling him to fight the final battle.  It is readying him to do whatever must be done to live when that door opens and his secretary walks in.  Though he has no ears he strains to hear the unmistakable sound of the key unlocking the front door.  Though the blinds are drawn he attempts to peer through and affix his gaze on the glorious sight of his two nurses bouncing up to the door now that the secretary has unlocked it.  Though he cannot feel his hands or feet his subconscious flexes them in a desperate preparation for the fight or the flight.

All these things he does in preparation for a saving grace that—quite simply—will never come.  And the wait for that realization to dawn on him is excruciating!

Seconds tick by giving way to minutes—all the while his life’s blood fleeing its vessel from his eyes, ears, belly button, and the tattered sac between his legs—and still he rides high on the adrenaline rush provided by his perceived victory over time.

I want to tell him.

I want to laugh in his face and explain his error in judgment.

I want to draw my lips near to the blood trickling crop of flesh that used to form the bond between his ear and his skull and whisper gently ‘Nothing is as it seems”.  He would know what that meant though.  I would be ruining the surprise that I want—no need—him to come to the realization of on his own.  

So we wait together in that room of blood and torn flesh.  We wait and I watch.  I watch him watching me.  I can almost see the anticipation of rescue frothing like a tempest sea behind those hideously darting globes.  It is seething and building and waiting for the crack of the office door to set him free.  It is a crescendo of hopefulness and sudden desire to gain a second chance to appreciate the family that waits for him at home and to–at long last—be a better man.

It is all moving a million miles an hour in his head creating a cacophony of desire to live so loud that even I can hear it.  I have the power to grant that wish and, suddenly, he knows it.

He stares into my eyes and I see a flicker in his.  It is the flicker that comes before the glimmer of hope.  It is beautiful to behold and, truthfully, it is the result I have been seeking since I set this plan in motion.

Blood—and the spilling thereof—is and entirely earthly factor.  It spills, it hurts, and eventually—no matter how deep the wound—the physical pain fades.

Hope, however, is an entirely different story.  The destruction of hope cuts to the very core of ones being.  It is the teat from whence we humans suckle and—once removed—is the lack of nourishment from which our souls wither and die.  It is oppressive to the end of our days and—once passed from this mortal coil—damns us to an eternity of floating, uselessly, through the void forever marked as lacking and undeserving.

That is the fate this man suffered upon my six year old daughter after having raped her repeatedly.  He told her that if she behaved she would live to see her family again.  Then—when he had had his fill—he leaned into her ear and whispered softly ‘Nothing is as it seems” as he drew his scalpel slowly across her throat.

The video tape he had made of the ordeal was inadmissible in court due to a technicality involving how the police had come into possession of it.  The rest of the evidence was circumstantial and, without that tape, the prosecution had no case so he went free.

Now here we are in this moment and it occurs to me—as it has occurred to him—that I have the power to stop this.  The truth is I wish with all my heart and soul that I could possess the strength to make that choice and do the right thing.  My daughter would be horrified if she were to see what her mother had become.  She would beg me “Mommy. Mommy! Please don’t!”

But here is the cold hard brutality of that truth.  She is not here.  Her tiny, battered, body lies decomposing as we speak and all she ever was or would have been was obliterated by this monster with the whisper of five little words…”Nothing is as it seems”.

And so now—in the darkness and despair of this final moment—the soul killing rush of hopelessness will be his to bear for the remainder of his miserable existence and beyond.

Breaking his hopeful gaze, I turn and walk to the window.  He follows my movement and then shifts to follow my hand as it grasps the drawstring of the plantation blinds.  I watch the look of horror as I draw them slowly open and suddenly the worth of what I have done is upon me.

He always coveted the view received when opening those blinds.  He had paid dearly on a monthly basis for the last fifteen years since he had established his practice to get it.  The ocean vista sprawled before him always served to calm his heart no matter what the source of its agitation.  Now—as he gazed helplessly out that familiar window—his tortured eyes spied nothing but sand and unfamiliarity.

Panic sets in instantly and suddenly the pains which my husband and I had gone to recreating his home away from home in the middle of nowhere were all worth it.  The secretary and the nurses are not coming and this knowledge has set his soul on fire.

As he writhes’ in pain—both physical and emotional—I slowly make my way to the counter beneath the clock that has been his lifeline to hope for the past twenty minutes.  Once upon it and within reach I glance back to make sure he’s looking and smile to let him know I am at peace.  I place my finger gently before my mouth and urge him to “shush” just as he had done to my daughter in the video.  He quiets and calms—if only to see what I am up to—and I reach up and remove the replica of his favorite clock from the wall.  Behind it is an 8x10 photo of my beautiful angel taken mere weeks before he stole her away from us.  Underneath—written in crayon—the words nothing is as it seems.

He is as paralyzed by the fear of his fate and I am satisfied.  I climb down from counter and—with neither a glance backwards nor a shred of guilt for what I’ve done—exit through the door leaving him to die like a dog.  My husband is waiting—tickets in hand—to take me far away where we can live out the rest of our days with our own soul crushing loss of hope.

By Dave Beaver