Page 94 of Savage Keepsakes

I lean against the rotting wood, captivated by the grotesque transformation of her once peaceful features. I finish my cigarette and flick it into the metal barrel, then, using the stick, push the fragments around, adding more to the collection.

I return inside, the grunge blaring through the barn. Taking a sip of my energy drink, I stretch before heading to the stall. Two down, two to go.

“What the actual fuck!” I yell as I enter the space.

Nikki is moved into the corner and Cotton-Candy Whore looks at me with blood leaking down her chin.

“You a cannibal now?”

She raises her eyebrow and shrugs.

I grip Nikki’s shoulder and pull her out of the stall.

“She’s fucking crazy,” she mumbles. She walks willingly to the killing room without me even leading her.

I then stand in the stall, a red haze covering my vision, and kick Leah in the ribs. Fucking bitch ruined everything, and I grit my teeth.

With a firm grip on her grimy hair, I deliver a powerful blow to the side of her face. She turns as I walk away and spits blood and tissue at me.

I lock the enclosure and walk to the killing room. Nikki is already standing by the soaked wooden table. No matter how much I clean, it’s never going to be as sterile as the metal one in my shop. I’ll have to get another one, eventually.

“Why do you do this?” Her long dyed red hair lies above her head as I help her onto the table. Her face is calm, and I despise all aspects of this. At this rate, it’s only for product.

“Bad childhood I guess,” I say.

Picking up the restraints, I tie her in place. When I pick up the scissors, her eyebrows raise, and her breathing quickens.

“You shouldn’t blame everything on your childhood. You can change, you know. I had a shitty one, but I don’t use it to be a piece of shit.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, then.” I cut off the dirty clothes she’s wearing.

She’s a mid-size woman. I drag the scalpel over her skin, and she gasps and closes her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” she utters.

“Unfortunately for you, I do.” The first slice beads blood. Her skin is lax as I cut it off her obliques and the tops of her thighs.

“Be right back,” I say.

When I return, she quivers on the table. Shock will set in and soon she’ll pass out for the rest of the work.

I pull on one side of her body to turn her over and that’s when I see the damage that happened. Long scratch marks cover her entire back, chunks of flesh missing from her shoulders and the backs of her thighs.

Anger is a funny thing. They say it’s the flip side of grief, and, in this instance, I guess I’m sad that my product has gotten so fucked up.

It starts in my lower belly, like when you have a cramp, and climbs through my intestines until it circles my stomach. Its tendrils filtrate through my lungs until the talons of rage wrap around my throat and enter my mind where I can’t do anything to stop my actions.

Using my other knife, I slice her up, reaching for my spoon while I carve out every ounce of fat that is available. Flipping her over, I repeat the process until my bucket is full.

Nikki is gone, but her eyes are still open. It’s as if she’s trying to judge me after death.

Checking my watch, I realize I don’t have enough time to do any exploring, so I grab thebone saw and cut her up the best I can, then head out to the fire to add more stump remover and grab the empty wheelbarrow.

Disappointment curls through my intestines, knowing I’ll never be able to send gifts of these last three kills to their loved ones. All of it has been ruined.

I lift the mask up and light a cigarette. Watching the flames lick up the barrel, I add pieces of Nikki.

Leaning against the barn, I stare at the night sky, thinking about the one question I’ve never wanted asked and have no fucking answer for. Why do I do this? Simple, but so complex.

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