Page 30 of Savage Keepsakes

She’s fucking skittish, like a beaten dog from the side of the road. I grab her by the wrist and pull her into the shop. Closing the door, I leave her to cower near it.

I walk in and grab the usual restraints.

Her cries make me smile, and with a swift motion, I pick her up and lower her onto the table. I make quick work of tying her wrists and securing her ankles.

Tears run over her dirt-stained face, her hair spanning out under her head like a pillow.

Twirling on my toes, I head to the storage cupboard and grab my silver mask, then secure it on as I grab the scalpel and a pair of scissors.

Moving back to her, I cut the length of her dress. Medium-size tits lay flat against her chest and simple white panties cover her pussy. Char’s body shakes.

“Men are all the fucking same. Gonna rape me, too?” Her voice is shrill.

I glance into her eyes and laugh.

“What the fuck is funny?”

“Char, you shouldn’t accept rides from strangers,” I simply state, which isn’t wrong.

“You’re fucking crazy. You looked like a nice person. Someone trustworthy.” Her voice raises as she thrashes on the table.

“Funny thing aboutnicepeople: you can’t see what they’re hiding. Sorry, it has to be this way.”

She flinches when I pull out the scalpel.

“So, what’s your story?” I wait for her to talk, although with the way she’s trembling, I’m not sure she will have a lot to say.

“Mom died, dad’s a drunk. I wanted to take off.”

In the end, honesty prevailed, but the trade-off was a less thrilling experience. I’m putting down a beaten dog, though I’d never harm an animal.

Her thighs are nice-looking, but her stomach skin is too thin. I start to cut off pieces of flesh from her legs, laying them at the end of the table.

I enjoy the melody of her screams, like a long-awaited symphony for my ears.

Filling up the solution, I glance over at her face. Her eyes are closed, her breath having gone shallow. I’m going to have to find a new way to keep ‘em going.

“What the fuck? Just kill me, you sick fucking bastard,” she gasps. The warmth of her fear wraps me in a hug like a cozy blanket from the dryer.

The metallic tang of blood fills the air as it cascades down the edge of the table. Her muscles are tense and I roll her onto her stomach. I slide my scalpel across her upper back, where the skin is firmer.

Once I’m done, I move all the flesh pieces to the tub and glance at her body. It’s like one of those paper snowflakes you cut as a child.

I scrape over the fat on her back and move the sharpened spoon along her sides. I’ll sell this as organic soap—the laughter bubbles inside of me.

Char has long since passed out, and based on her breathing, she isn’t far from death’s door.

My hands are crimson as the blood drips down the table, staining her once flawless skin. Setting my finger over her throat, the beat of life is done. I clean off my scalpel and lift the mask off my face.

The sun is starting to set as I get the fires started out back, the crackling of burning wood echoing through the air. Armed with a larger saw, I diligently work to break her into more manageable pieces.

The fire comes to life when I pour stump remover into it, the flames dancing and flickering as they change from a vibrant orange to a brilliant white.

I add her limbs first, and once they’ve burned, I add the two chunks of her torso. I continue this process until she is all gone.

Shifting my attention to the table, I add the fat to the stainless-steel pot and stir in the lye. It’ll be my first time making soap. I’ve read enough about it to have a clear understanding.

With the last pieces of clothes, hair, and bone in hand, I walk outside and toss it all in the flaming bin. I rip off my shirt and throw it in the fire, too.

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