Monday 30 March 2015

Hangman - MWBB

I went really dark for this last weeks Mid-Week Blues-Buster - the song required it. A creepy death call. So I wrote, no holds barred, just horror. Although I decided to skip the gruesome details. It didn't get ranked, but then there are loads of awesome writers writing for MWBB these days making it far more of a challenge - which is a good thing. Ups your game. 

The prompt song was:
“Dance the Hanged Man’s Jig”, by Aghast Manor

Vanessa moved methodically round the cellar, making sure she had all she needed. Images of surgeons collecting their tools ready for surgery and laying them out on the tray flicked through her mind. They helped block out the sound. It was like a whining, buzzing in her ears. She no longer heard the words, just the noise they made. It would be over soon though.

She pulled on one of the ropes of the system she had built, checked its tautness. It was still good. She had sourced the right type of rope to carry the weight. It was thick, but flexible enough to manipulate into the pulley system she wanted. And now in practice she could see what the salesman had meant by it working with you.

Touching them had caused the sound to rise again, and this time she listened. There was no emotion in response to what she heard. She felt literally nothing. She had even nicked herself with the scalpel she had used earlier, and even though it was a deep cut, she felt no sensation round the wound.

But then she had felt everything for too long, hadn’t she? All the rage, the sadness, the grief, the hurt, like it was a physical pain. And not at any time during that period had an emotion been reciprocated, whether of shame, guilt, regret, sadness, or care. Once that realisation had dawned all her feelings ceased. Some would say she shut down, but she would say she had done the opposite. She had understood. She had realised that words were not enough. She had seen what action was needed, to bring the point home.

The noose she’d weaved had fit well, the use of it bringing about the unconscious state she’d desired to be able to tie the rest of his body into place without resistance. When he’d come round she had winched the pulley system tight, splaying him out just enough to make it uncomfortable. Now it was time for the next stage. To be fully redeemed he needed to be emasculated. He needed to purged of what had caused his infidelity.

She turned to face him, a face she knew well. She had caressed the lines on it, run her fingers through the hair that framed it, and probably touched every inch of it with her lips at some point in the past twelve years. Although not in the past year, not since it had found someone else to kiss it, to caress it, to do all the things that she used to do.

Vanessa let him finish his sentence, full of desires to ‘put things right’ and ‘give her the love she deserved’, but she wasn’t stupid, she knew he was only saying those things to try and placate her so she would set him free. And the moment she did he would run, probably to the police.

She didn’t want that, it would ruin the plans she had meticulously worked on; plans that wouldn’t start them looking for him for more than a month; plans that wouldn’t put her in the picture once they did, but might suggest his lover; and plans that gave her an alibi should anything on his body be linked to her, but the chances of that were slim if she followed these next steps carefully.

She pulled on the latex gloves, snapping them for effect. It worked - he quieted. Then she picked up a pair of industrial ear muffs and put them on. She picked up a deep incision scalpel, and moved towards him. She could see his lips moving fervently, but there was no sound. She smiled, and made her first cut.

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