mary’s smile

he was dying and he knew it.
he was imagining things, truly a bad sign.

not enough oxygen left to keep the brain functioning.

he tried to calm himself, to keep his breathing shallow.

whatever you do, do not hyperventilate. do not hyperventilate.

Mary on barbecue-sunday with a purple flower in her hair, smiling the smile of a thousand suns. how beautiful she looked in her thin dress, flapping in the light breeze, outlining her slender frame.
his woman.
she laughed and pointed towards the cooler, told him to ‘go, have a treat’.
he licked his lips.

pearly water droplets ran down the tinted glass of a dozen bottles – fleeing the hot sun beating down on them… heading for the cooler; more inviting touch of the ice cubes below. the air smelled of burgers, slowly grilling. he could hear the meat juice drip onto the coals, leaving hisses trailing through the air, announcing their surrender to heat.
mmmh perfect.
his mouth started to water.

he opened his eyes.

the flashlight they had granted him had given out a while ago.
how long ago, he could not tell.
he couldn’t remember.
he could hear the quiet ticking of his wristwatch.

how ironic. the one time you remember to put it on.

he licked his lips again, grateful for the bit of moisture his brief escape had given him. thirst gnawed at him, but he tried his best to ignore it.
his brief escape.
there was no escape for his body… but they would not imprison his mind.

he felt the cold creeping through the wooden box surrounding him. imprisoning him.
dry earth.
he was sure of it.

he had screamed his lungs out for what seemed like days; until his throat was raw and dry, until he could scream no more.
no answer.

his kicking and thrashing hadn’t done him any good neither, he had tried… until his hands and feet were bloody and bruised. other than the occasional trickling of dust and dirt, he hadn’t accomplished a thing.

he had cried.
how much he had cried.
he had panicked.
he had kicked and thrashed some more.
… he had cried some more.

that had been then… when he still had hope left.

he had given up.
there was no escaping his prison… his box in the ground.
he would die here.
lost and alone.

it didn’t matter anymore.
nothing mattered.
not thirst, not hunger, not longing.
nothing mattered.

his memories… were all he had left.
he embraced them with his soul.

he yawned, didn’t deny himself the deep breath that came with it.

so tired now. so tired…

darkness surrounded him, crowded his eyes, made his skin crawl.

so tired.

he would go to her.
he would close his eyes and see her. see her smile again.
just for him.

i love you, baby.

he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
he dreamed of her face…

he never woke again.


inspired by the movie “Buried”. if you’re claustrophobic, do not watch it.

photo credits:

the artist

*x-rated* Happy (belated) Halloween!

it squirms.

he can hear the shifting… the thrashing, coming from the next room… faint, but unmistakable.

he had left the door ajar after his last visit a couple of hours ago, figuring he would need some time to prepare, to get into an artistic state of mind.

he had been right.

a delicious treat awaits him.

muffled whimpers in the darkness. how they reverberate off the walls… through the cold, dank cellar.

the sweetest music of all.

he closes his eyes, inhales the familiar scents.
stone, disinfectant, mold, rotting wood… and something sweet, metallic.
the tickling, tingling scent of blood, barely noticeable, still lingers in the stale air.
he savors it, slight smile curling the corner of his mouth.
soon, there would be more.

much more.

he had forgiven himself.

he hadn’t been strong enough. strong enough to resist.
earlier, he had taken the knife to its left calf; just a quick cut. not too deep.
he had longed for it.
craved it.

he had cursed himself for not being strong enough to resist, but after seeing the precious, deep dark Red welling up, trickling down pale skin, he had forgiven himself. earnestly.

after all, he was only human. he had his faults, his weaknesses.
life blood.
all mortals falter, facing the divine. he was no exception.

he checks his arsenal one last time, runs loving fingers over every single piece.

butterfly knife.
his variety of scalpels.
rubber tube.
bandage scissors.
razor blades.
rib retractor.
soldering iron.

cleaned and polished to perfection.
he had even oiled the serving cart’s little wheels – last time, the squeaking sound had ruined the mood. he would not have it this time.

one last, deep breath.
anticipation causes his fingers to shake, but he steels his nerves.
he would not let it see him tremble.
it might laugh, might scorn him… and he doesn’t want to make quick work.
no… he waited too long for this.
he will take his time.

he steps over to the door, swings it open.
he flicks on the lights, keeps his eyes on the ground.

not yet. do not look at it yet. restrain yourself!

the wheels of his serving cart do not distract him this time.
he did a good job. no squeaking.
he maneuvers the cart with his precious tools over to the operating table.
slowly, he lifts his eyes, takes in the sight.

it hadn’t soiled itself… yet.

a little spittle had escaped the corner of its mouth, running along the gag, down the side of its face.
not bad, it can be wiped away.

the fastenings at its wrists and ankles hadn’t broken the skin.
the padding has done its job.

learn from your mistakes.
he smiles.

carefully, he removes the small bandage he had applied to the small cut in its calf a few hours ago. a faint whiff of dried blood makes him shiver briefly.
it winces at his touch.
the cut looks clean, barely visible.
he sighs in relief.

it isn’t spoiled.

he stares at it for a little while, takes in the delicious scent of fear… sees it thrash, the movement limited by the firm grip of padded steel… enjoys the terror, the agony, reflected in its eyes.
naked perfection.
a clean canvas for his artwork.

he picks the smallest scalpel of them all, takes it into his now steady hand.

start slow…
right side of the navel. what an intriguing spot.

to its muffled cries, he begins his work.

he would paint the world red.
he would bathe in divinity… tonight.

I am surprised to encounter the disgusting things that seem to be hidden in my mind. Too many Horror Movies perhaps… but hey, allowed on Halloween, right?!  Hope you “enjoyed” this twisted piece – as much as something this disgusting can be enjoyed…

photo credits:


feet pound on pavement.
his eyes, wide with fear; haunted.

do not look back!

his breath comes in gasps as he rounds yet another corner; as fast as he dares.
he can still hear him. him… The One Who Lurks Behind.
his trembling legs scream for a break, for rest, for relief.

not far now… run! RUN!

the freezing night air makes it hard to breathe; he sucks in breath after breath, feeling the icy knives dig deep into his straining lungs. sweat stings in his eyes, makes it hard to stay focused on the soft, warm lights in the distance.
sheer terror resides.
terror keeps his body functioning, keeps him moving; ignoring the exhaustion gnawing at his bones, his mind, his heart. the will to survive is all-consuming. stupendous.

please, don’t let me falter… please…

a loud crack echoes through the night; the source not far behind, bouncing off the narrow alley’s grimy brick walls. he stumbles, blinking.
his legs no longer able to bear his weight, give out from underneath him. he sags to his knees, gasping.

what happened? i don’t unde……

a dark red spot appears on the front of his shirt. small, wet… slowly extending.


heavy footsteps behind him.
a low, smooth chuckle.

and then… blackness.