screams as he slid the box cutter blade up and over Misty’s forehead, from one temple to the other. Misty became lucid enough to try and jerk free; blood flew out from the movement, giving her flawless complexion a dappled appearance.
Red grasped her by the back of the neck with his left hand and retrieved the pliers with his right. Misty screamed out in agony as Red dug the pliers into the cut, gripping the skin of her forehead and pulled downward. The muscle and tissue exposed, Misty struggled for a moment longer before being overwhelmed by the pain and losing consciousness. Red dropped the pliers.
“Well, now,” he commented. “She did better than the barbarian, did she not?”
Priss realized that her screams were no longer audible in the least. Her throat was raw and she was breathless from her efforts. She sobbed into the gag and felt her heart break as her stomach turned. This was the most horrific thing she had ever seen. It didn’t make sense. Why would Casey do this? He was literally insane. That had to be it. He was torturing her friends right in front of her. But, why? What purpose could he possibly have for his actions?
Priss blinked the tears away, noticing him moving Misty’s body. He looked at her pointedly, showing her the switchblade. He was torturing these poor people and then ending their lives. Was it mercy or a simple, sadistic show performed post-desecration? She couldn’t make a sound as he swiftly sliced into Misty’s neck and laid her back on the carpet to die.
Priss watched him as he stared at her with those eyes of different colors. He seemed to hesitate, but then he blinked and he shifted position to sit between Misty’s corpse and Greg, who had dressed as a gymnast from Cirque du Soleil. She remembered Greg, now. He was only nineteen and he was Misty’s cousin. He had been well over his drinking limit and was still completely unconscious, his wrists bound to his ankles like the rest. With her eyes, she pleaded with Casey not to hurt Greg.
“Two down. One to go. Now comes the interactive part of the evening,” he stated. With that, he looked over at the sleeping boy and then back to Priss. He reached down and retrieved the box cutter in his right hand and the switchblade in the other. Holding them up in front of him, he looked to each and then nodded to Priss.
Priss held her breath at the realization of what he wanted. She was to choose. On one hand was the element of torture and, on the other, swift death. She refused to play his sick little game and turned her head away to show her disgust and declination.
“Uh, uh, uh,” he said, shaking his head. He held the tools up a little higher and then placed them both behind his back, making a show of shuffling them between his hands out of her sight.
Even though he probably could not understand her, she called him a sick bastard and told him to fuck off. The scarf in her mouth muffled her commentary far too much for any kind of comprehensibility and that frustrated her even more. She had already lost two friends tonight to this madman. She would not be party to the loss of a third.
“It’s very simple. You choose,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect,
“or, I choose. And, trust me, you won’t like my choice.” Priss thought about the consequences of not making the choice. If she chose wrong, Greg would be mutilated in the same manner as Misty and Thad. If she did not choose at all, the same would happen. Outside there was no sound of sirens or any sign that help was on its way. She looked at Casey, with his ridiculous makeup and bloody smile. How could things have gone so badly so quickly? It seemed that one minute they were all enjoying a friendly party and the next, people were being tortured and murdered. It was all too much for her. She wasn’t certain what to do, but she knew she had to do something.
Priss nodded her head in the direction of the mad clown’s right hand, hoping for the best. She felt the world slip away when he brought his hand around, into sight. He held up the box cutter. She felt light-headed and swayed from side to side. He reached into his pocket for the smelling salts, but Priss fought for lucidity. She tried to refocus on him, to see if there was any way possible to stop him before he tortured the young boy beside him.
She found herself shaking the tears from her eyes. She had to be strong. Her mind ran through all sorts of scenarios, none of which proved any success in stopping this madman from killing again.
It was then that Priss stopped still, stared at Casey and realized that there was a good likelihood that she was next, after Greg, to face the mad clown’s blades. She was pondering her own mutilation when he cleared his throat.
“Hold on a second while I make this call,” he said, retrieving a cell phone from his pockets. She found herself wondering what he had in those bottomless pockets of his. He pressed a few buttons and then began to speak, slowly with exaggerated enunciation. It seemed it wasn’t as easy to talk so clearly when you had safety pins in your cheeks. “Hello? Yes. There have been some murders. Three dead. Hurry.” He gave the 911 operator the correct address and laid the phone aside, still connected to the service.
Priss stared in disbelief. Now, what the hell was he doing? He looked down at the box cutter in his hands. He looked back to her and spoke as he lifted the blade to his own face.
“It only seems fitting,” he stated, the blade cutting into his cheek, edging along the outline of the red paint that exaggerated his smile. “After what I’ve done, I suppose I would’ve been a bit disappointed had you chosen the hand with the switchblade. Nothing memorable ever comes easy, right?” He continued to run the blade along the outline of his smile. As he got to his upper lip, he had to spit out the blood running into his mouth, in order to keep speaking. Priss could only stare in horror.
“You were the only one, Priss,” he said through his bloody visage.
“You were the only one who ever made me smile. When you said those things, it felt like I died right then and there. Maybe I did.” He had completed cutting around his smile and now reached down to pick up the pliers. Priss began to shake and scream through the scarf in her mouth. He cried out in searing agony as he gripped the edge of the skin by the safety pin on his left side and pulled with all of his might.
The flesh tore away, but not wholly; there were stray strips that did not come away clean. Priss continued to scream, unable to truly believe what she had just witnessed. The pain must have been horrendous, yet Casey still sat there with his calm demeanor, a permanent bloody smile etched into his face. Bits of flesh hung haphazardly, and drops of blood fell into his lap, mixing into the red of his clown pants. He was crying, now.
“Every moment we ever spent together,” he said, the pain of speaking increased a thousand fold, “I remember like it was yesterday. You were the one good thing that I ever had in my life, Priss. You were the light at the end of my tunnel. I remember the day we met on the playground. We were only five years old, but I remember it clearly. I remember the first time we kissed, just to experiment with the idea. It was playful and embarrassing and perfect. Every one of those memories is burned into my mind and heart forever.”
The pressure built in Priss’ heart. She remembered those times, too.
Though, perhaps, not as vividly as Casey did. She had never known how important she was to him. And, now, this. What was she to think? How was she to deal with this? Sirens screamed in the distance. It was almost over.
She stared at Casey, with his bloody smile and sad clown eyes.
“I wanted you to remember me, Priss. That’s all. I just wanted you to remember me.” He reached for the switchblade. “And, now, you’ll never forget.”
The switchblade entered his neck, through his jugular and into his esophagus. He coughed out a gush of bright red, as he ripped the blade away.
Drastic Red sat motionless, staring at Priss, as his own life bled from him without a sound. Priss maintained eye contact with the bloody clown as the door burst open to shouts of the police. Her vision focused on him, narrowing down to a pinpoint on his different-colored eyes.
FUNSIZE
Jack Lloyd
Jack Lloyd started writing years back partly for his own enjoyment and partly to cope with his own inner demons. If someone can take his words and find something in them that makes them laugh, or cry or connect with
