Returning to the table, Roger opened and closed the scissors in front of Bob’s face, grinning at him for second until the lack of fear in his victim’s eyes sucked the fun away.
Perhaps with what he had just endured the fat fuck simply didn’t care anymore, Roger mused.
He would care again – very soon…
Bob’s scrotum was lobster red and massively bloated by testicles that were no longer ball shaped, just a bubbling stew of boiled jelly. Roger placed the dirty dish beneath Bob’s scalded ball-sack and sliced through the skin beneath the rusty nail. The blades were not as sharp as he thought and it took several attempts to hack his way through, the poached testicles eventually plopping into the waiting receptacle, a twisted, spaghetti-like mess spilling from the ruptured skin. Roger grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer where he had found the scissors and stirred the sick stew around for a few seconds before scooping up a spoonful and walking around the table to offer it to his host.
Bob barely seemed to notice the spoon that was proffered towards his mouth. His eyes were vacant, his breathing slow, as if his mind was elsewhere, hiding from reality, seeking refuge from the excruciating torment he had been forced to endure. Roger pressed the spoon to his lips and tried to force it between them but Bob’s jaws were clenched, his teeth creating an impenetrable barrier.
Perhaps he needed a new agony - fresh screams to get his jaws unlocked, thought Roger.
The pan of water was bubbling and steaming on the stove once more. Roger picked up the scissors and plunged them hard into Bob’s bloated abdomen, twisting and tearing at the fatty flesh until he had opened up a rent in his gut. Flicking his gaze to Bob’s face he was pleased to see a flicker in his eyes, a little recognition of pain. He opened the blades, widening the hole further and poured some of the scalding water inside.
Bob screamed loudly, mouth gaping wide. His body bucked, loosening the scissors from Roger’s grip and forcing water out of the steaming hole in his gut. The fetid stench of boiling bowel quickly filled the air in the small kitchen. Roger quickly grabbed the bowl and ladled the contents into his victim’s open mouth, jamming the steaming jelly down his gullet with the spoon. Bob’s screams turned to gurgles as he choked on his stewed scrotum and Roger pushed his fingers deeper into his open jaws, forcing the spoon further into Bob’s throat. Within moments Bob was still. A soft splat sounded as his sphincter gave way and a watery stool hit the linoleum.
Ignoring the stink, Roger returned the pan to the hob and turned off the gas. The moment he did so, his legs almost gave out from underneath him and he suddenly realised how tired he was. The dead who had been controlling him for the last couple of days seemed to have let him go and the exhaustion they had been keeping at bay flooded every part of his body.
He stumbled into Bob’s living room and crashed onto the stained and battered sofa, falling into a deep sleep before the groaning springs had even ceased their protestations.
18
Steve slammed his hand blindly onto the bedside table before finally rolling onto his side in order to reach the alarm’s ‘off’ button.
“Bastard,” he cursed under his breath.
It was Wednesday.
Both he and Sam were back at work today - the novelty of their new home about to be swept aside by the grim return of nine-to-five normality.
He shook Sam gently. “Come on, babe. Time to get up…”
“Christ!” his wife groaned, “My head is killing me – did we get drunk last night?”
Steve’s own skull was pounding as well but he was certain they had only had a couple of glasses of wine each the previous evening – nowhere near enough to bring on a hangover. Forcing himself out of bed, he accidentally placed his weight on the creaky floorboard. Sam immediately covered her ears with her hands, screwing her face up tight.
“Fuck…that squeak is going right through me.”
“Sorry, babe. The bloke’s supposed to be coming to fix the thing later so hopefully it’ll be sorted by the time we get home tonight.”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t forget to drop off a key at the sales office before you go.”
Steve tutted in annoyance and left his wife hugging her pillow as he padded into the en-suite. Perhaps a morning shower would wash away his headache.
*
Margaret Brown sat up in her bed and looked at the clock.
Eight minutes past seven.
She frowned – she had been used to early starts when she was an army wife and even after Robin retired, his years of conditioning often had him up and about at the crack of dawn, inadvertently waking her at the same time - but since her husband’s passing she had gradually settled into a more leisurely routine, usually not stirring until at least nine.
She could vaguely hear the young couple next door moving about, a toilet flushing.
Perhaps the new-home-honeymoon was over, she mused, the pair of them up early for work.
She shook out her pillow and tried to settle down again, grab another hour or so of sleep, but her head was throbbing at her temples and she just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. After only a few minutes, the elderly woman decided to get up and make a cup of tea. She was a retired widow, after all – no firm plans for the
