I want to knock someone out, cold and unconscious. Just with a hard, blunt object to the back of their skull, cracking the back just enough that some blood drips out in a steady stream spiking my senses. Then as their body limply falls to the ground making a loud thud, I look around to check no one was around then drag their unsuspecting body to my chosen place of torture. Just a small shack I found off in the woods, with no one around for miles, I can do as I please. Laying them down on a metal table I strap down their arms and legs tightly enough that the blood gets cut off. Above the victim on the ceiling is a large mirror I had hung a few hours before. This mirror is so the victim can watch their torture being played through and watch as I slowly bring pain upon their body. They can watch as the flesh is slowly pealed from their worthless body and the blood flows from every cut that I inflict upon them.
As I wait for them to wake up I set up my tools, freshly sharpened and clean. As soon as they wake, I start off by slowly dragging a scalpel down their face, watching the skin slowly split and the blood following not far behind after the skin is slowly pulled apart. Their screams sound like a symphony to my ears, the blood slowly oozing out on to my hand. The pain and pure agony behind each and every scream that escapes their pathetic mouth just makes me cut faster. I want to watch the blood slowly leak from the wound and fall down there face just like raindrops slowly roll down a window during a rainstorm. I want to watch the blood fall from their face upon the floor, making a quiet noise as the drops of blood settle upon the hard ground underneath my unlucky victim.
I put back the scalpel upon my tray of tools to help me inflict as much pain and torture upon the worthless body before me, beautiful when covered in blood, but still worthless. I lean in close just to smell the blood seeping through the cuts on her body. As I smell the blood I can feel my grip on sanity slipping. I lean in close to her neck watching the panicked heartbeat throb through her veins, and feeling my fangs appear in my mouth I lick the stray line of blood on her neck, and lose it. I sink my razor sharp fangs in to her neck tasting the coppery liquid pump right to me with every panicked heartbeat. I release her neck and smile at her with her blood on my lips while I grab a carving knife, such a knife your father or grandfather would use to carve the turkey on thanks giving. Using this knife, I put it in her mouth, touching it at both ends where the top and bottom lip meet. Dragging the knife up to make the victim appears to be grinning ear to ear. Giving the victim a Chelsea grin. The victim screams while I create the smile, their screams make the flesh peal faster and split even more as they open their mouth to let their screams of agony arise into the cold, still air.
Reaching into the victim’s mouth to grab their tongue between two fingers, I cut off their tongue. No way for the victim to speak. All the victim can do is attempt to speak, but their sounds now cannot be understood. Once more holding the scalpel in my grip, I slowly push my way through her eyelids and twist pulling out her eyes just letting it hang their by her mouth. I start cutting through the thin, tender skin of the victim’s neck, starting at the small puncture wounds I made in the soft flesh. Exposing the trachea, cutting through veins, all while listening to the screams. As the heart beats, every pulse blood comes squirting and leaking out of the split veins within the victim’s neck. Minutes, seconds of life left, I wrap my fingers around the victim’s trachea and pull. Pulling out everything attached, lungs, stomach, hearing the victim scream, wasting their last supply of oxygen to their worthless lungs. They scream as loud as possible, the sound waves bouncing off of the hard walls around into my ears. Yet, as the victim screams, I’m still pulling the trachea and everything attached. Blood spraying everywhere, my face red, my arms, hands, body, everything; blood red. The scent of blood, the iron metallic smells arising from the precious liquid of life.
The blood begins to slow its flow; the victim’s screams die, my fangs retract and my eyes go back to normal, the victim lays lifeless upon the table. Blood, everywhere. Standing over the victim’s body, looking upon the gutted neck, the grin from ear to ear on the blood-covered face of the victim, a laugh emerges from my lips. Starting quietly, then growing louder and louder each second. Knowing deep in the back of my mind, will not be the last person to experience my wrath.