Cathartist

John always knew his past would catch up with him. Just he never expected it like this. If you like this please check my other stories :)

Blood. Blood splatters everywhere. They fill the room, all up the white walls and on the ceiling. Next room, entrails. Guts and unidentifiable organs litter the floor. Intestines pinned to the wall slowly wind their way horizontally to the floor like an impossible maze. There's a chill in the air, impossible to know if it's the refrigeration or the horror of such a macabre sight.

The third room, similar to the first. In the centre lies a table, clotted blood stalactites hanging from the edges. Chains with iron bands hang off the four corners, one giant hinged iron band lies open in the middle. John could feel the bile rising in his throat at the memories.

One woman had already been sick, the attendants actually had buckets with them, it was a common occurrence. They were ushered out of the rooms and into one big hall. A man stood upon a raised platform with a microphone and a smile. His teeth were white, straight, perfect, and yet so wrong. John couldn't place it, but the man was creepy. Maybe it was his skin, whiter than snow, maybe it was his hair, blacker than coal. Maybe it was the way his eyes twinkled, or maybe it was the way he saw death as just another form of art.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he started with a smile, “I'm so glad to see you all here at the Newman's Art Centre. My exhibit is one that many people find rather disturbing, but it is the shock factor that makes it so effective. I would also like to impress upon you that none of it is human, my good friend at the abattoir helpfully provided me with my 'paint'.” Another smile. The crowd shared a chuckle, a silent weight off their minds.

The man carried on, talking about his life and his experience and how it was all reflected in his art. John wasn't really listening. He knew he shouldn't have come here, he knew it would screw things up, but he couldn't help himself. He thought maybe, if he could see it again, see how others saw it, he could have some peace. He realised now he was wrong, a room awash with blood was always a room awash with blood, no matter the circumstances. This wasn't art. This man was a child with a crayon, and this crowd was its smiling mother, heaping praise where it isn't deserved. He was still talking, John just wanted him to shut up, he wanted to leave, but he couldn't just walk out. That would look too suspicious, people would begin to talk, they'd figure it out. He couldn't risk that.

He looked away from the speaker, peering back into the rooms. He could see the blood splattered up the walls, the same way hers had. The pools on the floor, just like hers. He remember what a sickening experience it had been. He'd read murderers' confessions, they'd all felt power, found some kind of sadistic joy. He'd just wanted to vomit. And now he was just racked with guilt, unable to forget it. He had nightmares, woke up screaming. Sometimes, he could see blood running down the walls. He'd shut his eyes, but then it would just run down his eyelids. It was ruining him, driving him insane, making him paranoid. He looked back to the speaker, trying to shake his thoughts.

“That's enough from me. Feel free to look around the other exhibits, you can get tea and coffee and other refreshments from the cafeteria. Thank you!” He smiled yet again, stepping down from the platform. People clapped briefly before the crowd dispersed. The artist walked through the crowd, smiling, nodding, shaking people's hands and thanking them for their praise. He stopped in front of John. Panicked, John said the first thing he thought of, “Your exhibits are very graphic,” he sputtered out. Why had he said that? Of course they were graphic, it was an art exhibit in an art gallery, what else would it be? Oh god, he was an idiot.

But the man just smiled and nodded, “Thank you very much,” he said, “I saw you took quite an interest in the blood room.” He gestured towards the room behind John.

John's eyes narrowed, suspicious, alert. But the man's unnerving smile did not falter. “Uhm, yeah, I guess it really spoke to me,” mumbled John, looking away.

“How would you like to discuss my exhibit after hours? Come back here, say, eight?” The man smiled again, John was starting to get annoyed by it.

“Sorry, I can't, things to do, you know how it is,” he replied. Why did the man want to talk to him? It was ridiculous. Why had he singled John out, out of the entire crowd? He knew. He had to know.

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that, maybe another time,” he said with a final smile before departing gracefully.

And so at 7:45pm John was as surprised as anyone would have been when he found himself walking through the art gallery's doors.

“I knew you'd come” said the artist, his trademark smile firmly fixed on his face.

“Yeah, well, I thought you might have something to say,” John said nervously.

“Oh but I do. I do, John, I do. I know what you are,” he said.

John panicked. Fear wrenched his gut, he turned and hurried away. “I don't know what you mean!” he yelled.

He couldn't see him, but he knew the man was smiling. “But you do, don't you John? How old was she, 17?” The fear wrenched again, started to swallow him.

He turned around and began to walk back. “How do you know?”

“I can see it in how you act, how you walk, how you talk, how you looked at my exhibits.” The man said, that damnable smile still on his face. “I can help you, John.”

The man knew. He'd have to die. But maybe he had something helpful to say.

John weighed it up. “Okay then,” he said.

The man stood up, walked closer to him. He was so pale he almost glowed in the darkness, his hair almost impossible to see. Almost like she had been.

“You see John, all first-timers make mistakes, they screw up, they leave evidence...” he began, still coming closer. John swallowed, feeling nervous.

The man was three feet away, “And that's where I come in,” he whispered. John was puzzled by that. Then he noticed the man's eyes. Violet. Just like hers. S**t.

Before he could react, he felt a sharp sting in his neck. His world began swimming. He swung his fist at the man, but now there were three of him and John missed them all. He fell to the floor, too slow to put his hands out he smashed his head off the ground.

“Messy,” he heard the man mutter, almost to himself.

When John woke up, he was staring at a red ceiling. Wait, that wasn't true, it was white. But it had red on it. That was when he realised, blood. He was in the exhibit. He scrambled to get up, felt the bite of metal in his wrists and abdomen. He was on the table. F**k.

“Aww, he's awake. How cute.” The man's voice was like silk but lacked it' earlier warmth. For all its mocking there was no humour. The man walked into John's vision, his smile had gone, like a ghost. There was no trace it had ever been.

“Let me out of here, you psycho!” John yelled, struggling against his restraints.

“Oh tut tut. You know, if you have to raise your voice you've already lost the argument.”

“There is no argument, you messed up freak! Let me go!”

“Like you let her go? So you can do it again? Oh John, I don't think so.”

There was the high-pitched screech of metal on metal, the man had begun sharpening a knife. John shivered at the sound, began whimpering.

“I didn't mean to kill her, okay? It was an accident, an experiment, I never wanted to hurt her.”

“But you did, John. And what is the intent to a deed so terrible? It doesn't matter, you killed her.”

The man came closer to John, held the blade in front of his face. “Does this look sharp enough to you?” He asked.

“When I get out of here I will kill you!” John yelled, anger and fear mixing in his veins.

“Well, it is very important to have hope. But I think that's what got you into this mess.” The man said, his voice infuriating as ever.

“You see John, I have a choice to make. I could slice your jugular, your own heart would empty your body of blood and it would make ever-such a pretty pattern. But then, you wouldn't suffer. And art, art is many things, but it always takes suffering. Depression, self-mutilation, poverty, ridicule, suffering always takes a form. I've always struggled to feel bad about myself, I love my body too much to ever think about cutting bits off. I was born into a wealthy family, and people are far too shocked by my work to insult me. So as an artist, I find my art lacks the suffering that makes others' pieces so successful. Of course, nobody ever said the suffering had to be mine.” His smile was back, but now John could see the truth behind it. John felt helpless, unable to move and forced to watch as the man continued to sharpen the knife.

“You're messed up in the head! Please, let me go! You can get help, therapy, pills, anything. I'll give you money!” John said, begging for his life.

“It's like you didn't listen to a word I said. I'm fine with how I am, I don't need therapy. And after my parents' mysteriously died last year, I find it hard to believe your money is worth anything to me. No, I'm afraid this one is actually rather personal, John. You killed my daughter. “

John began to shout his denials, but he found himself choking on a ball of cloth. Before he could spit it out, a piece of duct tape had been firmly sealed over his mouth.

“I'd recommend biting the cloth, I'd hate for you to bite your tongue,” the man spoke casually.

He looked at the knife blade and smiled. “I'm sorry John, who knows, maybe we could have been friends. But you brought this upon yourself.” John shook his head vigorously, his eyes pleading. The man simply answered with a smile. And then, with no warning he went into a frenzy, he slashed John's calves, then moved up to his thighs. He took his time and made very slow cuts across John's stomach. John could see it all, the way the knife gleamed, the way the blood welled up. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, he wanted to scream, to yell, to fight, but he could do nothing.

The man made one long, deep cut across John's stomach. Pushed his hands in, and took out his entrails. He looked at them for a bit, before cackling and looking at John.

“Would you mind holding these for me?” he said, placing them on John's chest. John was going to die, it finally hit him. Along with a huge wave of pain from his abdomen. Tears streamed down his cheeks. But more than anything, he just wanted it to be over, he wished the man would kill him. All he could see in his mind was the girl's face, screaming in terror and pain. He could hear her begging him to stop, but he hadn't. He was a monster. A final shockwave of pain passed up from his abdomen and it was too much, his vision faded to black.

Reviews

[Dean Kuch®]

This was intense, well paced and GRAPHIC, all the qualities I personally enjoy in a short horror story. You build the suspense well as John, bound to the table and helpless, awaits the wrath of the young girl's Father...and the blade!
Nicely done...

[Morenn]

Thank you very much!:)

[Dean Kuch®]

You are welcome. Keep writing, there are too few good horror writers here on WC!