Twelve hours earlier…
He had fought back but the killer in front of him was stronger. He felt a fist connect with his jaw and his nose. He heard the sound of bone crunching as his mouth filled with blood and his tongue brushed away pieces of tooth. He thought he’d had the upper hand when he punched, kicked and clamped his mouth around the killer’s ear, bitten hard and pulled. He thought he’d won when he heard the killer scream but then something hard had connected with the side of his head. He couldn’t remember being dragged across the floor. He didn’t remember being stripped naked and propped up against a wall.
‘You’re awake. It’s about time.’
He recognised the voice, but he couldn’t turn his head. Every muscle in his body was frozen. All he could do was look straight ahead into the dimmed light of the room. There was a window in front of him, but the curtains were closed. He wanted to raise his head. To open his mouth, to tell the killer that he was sorry, that he could leave and he wouldn’t say a word to anybody, but he couldn’t move.
‘You must have wondered. What it would feel like,’ asked the killer, ‘to have no control. All you can do is watch and listen to the voices in your head and ask yourself repeatedly, why me?’
He could feel the tiny muscles in his eyes straining as he tried in vain to search for the killer, to find the danger, but then he stopped looking as a pair of legs appeared in front of him. He watched as the killer raised his right leg but he didn’t feel a thing as the foot connected with his chest, knocking him onto his side. He wanted to say, ‘Don’t do it. Please don’t do it.’ He willed himself to speak or to just move his little finger and then he felt it. Sharp pins and needles prickled his neck and jaw. His body was waking up. He opened his mouth. ‘No,’ he whispered as he looked up at the killer. ‘No,’ he said again as the killer’s hand grabbed his legs and pulled him across the floor.
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to speak up,’ said the killer.
‘No,’ he repeated.
‘Hmm, I’m afraid that it’s a bit late for that. I can’t really deviate from the plan.’
He struggled to raise his head and follow the sound of footsteps around the room and then he saw the sharp teeth of the blade.
‘No,’ he said again as the blade waved teasingly in front of him and then he heard laughter.
‘I thought that I would start with an arm,’ the killer stated. ‘I’ll end up cutting a major artery if I start with your leg and the last thing that I want is for you to miss out on all the fun.’
‘Please. Stop,’ he begged. He should have been grateful and considered it a blessing that he couldn’t feel any pain; but he knew what was being done to him. He bent his head back and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling of the skin on his right arm being gently tugged and the river of vibrations as the saw went back and forth. He couldn’t shut out the heavy groaning sound as the saw made its way through bone. Then it stopped. There was no movement, but he could hear heavy breathing and then a loud grunt of satisfaction as the saw was thrown onto the ground.
‘Look at that,’ the killer said calmly.
He recognised the horseshoe-shaped scar on the inside of his detached arm. He had fallen off the shed roof when he was nine. The bone had stuck out from the flesh. He didn’t listen when his mum had told him to get down. He never listened. He could see the bone now as his arm hovered in front of his face. He recognised his fingers. He didn’t close his eyes as the blood from the severed arm fell onto his face. He let the blood fill his eyes. He wanted the darkness, but he couldn’t stop the sound of the saw as it began to make its way through his leg.