GuNNhead

The knife cuts a deep semi-circle incision into the pelvis, from hipbone to hipbone. The knife re-centers on the bloody line, cutting upwards along the gentle navel, cleaving the soft, nubile flesh with ease, finally stopping at the base of the sternum. The one in control of the knife licks their lips in anticipation. Another semi-circle is cut along the bottom of the ribcage. Slowly and gingerly, the flaps of skin are lifted, pulled back, and pinned down.

This exquisite moment must be savored; the surgeon pauses, and takes in the aroma and visual splendor of an open abdomen. The moment over, gloved hands are thrust deep into the innards. The hands caress the kidneys, nuzzle the liver, pet the pancreas, snuggle the spleen, and stroke the stomach; lost in a visceral sea of velvet satisfaction. Up past the elbows, there begins an overflow, a spillover from the submersion. Blood and viscous fluid pour out onto the operating table and floor, the sound of splatter awakens, interrupting ecstasy.

The mind refocuses, taking in all once more. The hands take hold of the intestines, lifting them up out of the cavity, over their head, and onto their connecting shoulders, wearing them as a fine shawl. Feeling quite elegant, there’s a large smile, laughter, and tears of joy. Dreams are finally coming true.

The knife takes action again, disconnecting the apparel from their original proprietor. Knots are tied upon the ends, sealing them. Time is now of the essence, and one must act quickly and keep their poise. A shower is taken. New garments are put on; everything is readied, prepared, and pampered. A pronouncedly distinguishable vehicle appears outside.
“Curses, it’s too soon, I still have readying to do!”
Soon, a knock at the door. Then, another.
“I’m afraid I’m busy, you’ll simply have to wait!”
“Only a few moments, this is very important,” the large man says through the door.
Grabbing a few final things, and, of course, the gorgeous shawl, the figure heads out the door to the awaiting car, escorted, of course.

Arriving at the destination fashionably late, the man opens the door. Long, smooth, enticing legs come out one by one. An elegant pair of diamond-accented heels adorns the feet. Walking up the marble steps is no botheration as the mind only thinks of the entrance it is about to make. The hands stroke the intestines, as the skin can simply feel the silken beauty of this resplendent and magnificent perfectly matching dress. The large doors open seemingly of their own accord. As she walks into the giant ballroom, she notices it: the sickening, horrifying vision that nightmares are made of: curse her bones, that darn Margaret-Anne Merriweather wore the very same outfit!

This entry was posted on September 1, 2009 at 3:33 am and is filed under Fiction, Horror with tags explicit, gore, gorror story, graphic. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.