Razorblade

by Henry Gallows

  “Mrs Johnson, oh Mrs Johnson, come out come out wherever you are.” I sing out like I am playing hide and seek. In a way I am, the sickest game of hide and seek ever, a savage and deadly game of hide and seek, a game of life or death.

  “Mrs Johnson, can I have my ball back?” I coldly joke, as I start to search each room, kicking open the doors one at a time.

  First, the spare room. I switch on the light and search all over. My deadly intent is becoming an unbearable and desperate lust for blood. She’s not here.

  I kick open the door of the master bedroom. All I see is darkness. I flick on the light. I search under the bed then turn out the wardrobe. I throw the chair against the mirror on the dressing table. Once again, the sound of breaking glass momentarily warms my soul. But the warmth doesn’t last. My soul yearns for blood. My anger burns, my frustration grows more with each empty room.

  I head out back into the hallway and head for the door at the end. I turn the handle and push. The door is locked. She must be in here, the bathroom.

  I knock gently and call out through the door, “Mrs Johnson, it’s little Tommy from next door. Open up, I need your help.”

  There is no response. I press my ear against the door. I can hear her whimpering and cowering inside. Yet again, my heart warms. I’ve found her. My intent is to taunt her, to torture her, to make her scream.

  I bang harder on the door. This time I can hear her crying inside.

  “Mrs Johnson, can you hear me?” My voice is playful and teasing. “I know you’re in there. I can hear you.”

  I bang again. Each time I bang harder, she whimpers and jumps with every sound.

  ‘Oh, this is so much fun.’

  Now I kick the door. She screams.

  Lucy walks up the stairs. Her clothes once again drenched in thick blood. They cling to her skin. It looks almost black. I’m so proud of her.

  We both start to kick and bang. And then the voice tells us to stop.

  She’s speaking to someone in there.

  “Why won’t you answer?” she says. “Please answer.” She is begging. She’s got a phone in there with her. She’s trying to call for help. It doesn’t sound like it’s going too well.

  “Answer, please. Oh, fuck you!” she yells, as I hear the phone smash against the tiles.

  I smile.

  “That’s just so typical, Mrs J.” I taunt her through the door. “There’s never a cop around when you need one.” I laugh from deep in my belly.

  “Go away. Get out my house,” she cries in a shaky voice.

  “Now, now,” I say. “That’s not very welcoming. Shame on you.”

  “GET OUT!” she screams.

  Again we both laugh.

  “Lucy, go downstairs and get something to break the door down with,” I say. “Go to the garden shed, my love.”

  “Okay, Tommy, I will.”

  “I know you will. You’re such a good girl.”

  She disappears out of sight.

  “What do you want from me?” Mrs Johnson asks.

  “Oh, I want everything. I want it all. I want your fear, I want your blood, I want your soul.”

  “Get out of my house!” she yells again.

  She fuels me with her terror.

  “Yes, scream, scream,” I encourage her.

  Then I hear Lucy coming back up the stairs. She has something heavy with her. It clunks on every step as she goes. She appears in the hallway, a smirk on her face, a pickaxe in her hand.

  I smile. “Well done, my love,” I say, and I stroke her cheek.

  I hand her my blade. I hate to let it go but I need both hands.

  “Now, you know you’re the only one I trust with this,” I tell her, as I take the pickaxe from her. I feel immediate discomfort, like I am naked without my razor. It is the first time it has left my side since it called to me in the bathroom. It seems a lifetime ago.

  “You know what I love about a pickaxe, Lucy?” I ask, in a matter-of-fact way.

  “What’s that, Tommy?”

  “They’ve been the same design for thousands of years. It’s never changed. It truly is an ancient tool.”

  “Wow,” she says, as she looks at me, as if I am the font of all knowledge. She looks at me like I’m her hero. Maybe I am.

  I take one more glance at her sweet face. Then with a roar I swing the axe with all my might. There’s a crack as the heavy blade splits the wood.

  A loud scream comes from inside as Mrs Johnson sees the crack appear. I lever it out of the wood and swing again. I peer through the hole. She’s trying to climb out the bathroom window.

  I swing again. I can’t let her escape. I don’t need to worry. She’s far too fat to get through it anyway. I swing for the last time as the door crashes open.

  She backs away, shaking, as I grin at her. She has a nail file in her trembling hand.

  “Look at her, Lou Lou. Look how sad she looks.”

  Lucy pokes her head round from behind me.

  “See how weak she is? See how scared? Promise me that you’ll never be like her.”

  “I promise, Tommy.”

  With her sweet words I rush forward and swing the axe. I hit her in the side of the head. I crack her skull. I break her neck. She slumps down dead. The terror in her lifeless eyes tell the tale of her final moment.

  We stand side by side staring down on her. We take a moment to soak in the feeling. The moment won’t last. We smile at each other. I drop the pick axe and Lucy hands me back my precious blade. We set about doing our bloody artistry on her fat wrinkled old corpse, slicing her up, ripping her flesh off her, the bathroom floor thick with scarlet liquid and body parts. We bathe merrily in her blood, as once again our joy overcomes us. We laugh and play with her flesh and jelly-like fat as we frolic. We are caked head to foot in blood and chunks of flesh. We have never been so happy.

  THE HAZE

  Darkness descends around me like a wall. It covers me like a curtain. The shadows close in and swirl like smoke around me. Haunted whispers enter my brain over and over, the whisper of a million voices calling out. They’re a kafuffle, unclear. They speak as one from somewhere inside.

  ‘Who are they? Are they calling to me?’

  I wonder if I’m going mad. But then, I went mad long ago. The voice drove me crazy.

  I don’t care any longer. ‘Am I sane? Am I mad? Am I me? Am I the voice? What does it matter? I don’t give a fuck anyway. I’m happy. I’m happy where I am. I’m happy where I’m going. I know my destiny is waiting. My path has never been so clear, even if the goal is nothing but a blur.’

  ‘Take me there, please take me,’ I beg.

  “I will.”

  The voice reaches out to guide me again. ‘Is it a god? Am I nothing but its puppet?’

  “You’re mine,” it tells me.

  I already know.

  ‘Lucy, where’s Lucy?’ I ask silently.

  “I’m here, Tommy,” she says.

  I look for her but she is nowhere.

  Like a wave, electricity surges through my veins.

  ‘Drift away, drift away, my child.’

  Lights flash all around. The warmth surrounds me. I feel it on my skin. I feel it in my soul. I feel as one with my fear, my anger, my hatred. I feel alive. For the first time ever, I know what it is to be alive. Truly alive, not just existing but answering my call.

  ‘How could I have been so blind before, how could my humanity have been so blind?’ I can’t hear it now. I am the strong and it is the weak. I am free but it is a slave. It’s dead but I’m alive. It is a weak fool, destined to crumble to dust.

  Through the haze I see a wall of blood, a wall of terror. The scarlet river flows not only around me, but inside me.

  I see the shadows of a million people. I feel the blood in their veins. I see their pathetic hearts pump the shit around their bodies. I want it. It lives inside but I want to spill it. Set the blood free. Let it flow across the streets of this nation, of every nation across the world
.

  “Lucy, my love, are you still with me?” She doesn’t answer but I know she’s here. ‘Are we lost in the same dream, in the same haze?’

  The silence makes way for the screams I’ve heard. That is my creation, my art. It calls to me. I remember their faces, their pathetic fucking faces, as I make the life drain from their bodies. The human, so weak.

  ‘Have I found where I belong? Have I found my calling?’ I look to my blade, I love it so much. It’s my tool of destruction. I only care for it and my dear sweet Lucy.

  The shadows twist around my body, snake around my soul. My eyes glow like fire, they burn bright like stars in the darkness.

  The voice is still with me. I no longer fight it. It is my friend. It loves me.

  “KILL!” it says, echoing around my mind.

  ‘I will, the blood will flow.’

  “Good, my child. I want the blood.”

  ‘I’ll get it for you, I promise.’

  I wake from the dream as the light once again enters my eyes. It flows in and nearly blinds me.

  I see a blur next to me.

  “Lucy, is it you?”

  “Yes, Tommy, I’m here.”

  Once again, I take her hand. I smile at her and then we stare out into nothing.

  I know we’re waiting, I can feel it, but what are we waiting for?

  “Blood!” the voice screams.

  And then we know.

  CHILDREN OF BLOOD

  “Leave this place. Find blood, spill it!” the voice calls out.

  “Come on, Lou Lou. We’ve got to go.”

  We are powerless to resist. Hand in hand, we head down the stairs and out of our neighbour’s house. We open the front door and step slowly out into the orange glow of the street lights. The smoke from our house and glowing sparks fill the street. The crashed wreck of the fire engine sits there, lights still flashing. The street looks like a war zone.

  Body parts and blood are all over the pavement. The carnage, so sweet.

  We look around through the smoky haze. We don’t see anyone.

  I pull Lucy’s arm. We must move on, we must find blood. The panic starts to set in. What if we can’t?

  We walk through the smoke and through the carnage, endlessly searching, until we reach the park. The icy breeze blows across us. The moon shines bright.

  I see a flash of silver beside me. There’s someone there. I point towards it. Lucy looks at me. She nods. We know what we must do. We hold our weapons tightly. We ready ourselves for the deadly fight.

  The shadow figure emerges from the darkness. Then another appears and then another.

  I make eye contact with the nearest. He smiles at me. I smile back.

  I know this boy. It’s Paul from my school. His clothes look black, black like blood. His face and hair shimmer in the deep redness. He’s covered from head to foot.

  I look down. There’s a hammer in his hand. The voice has taken him too. I feel close to him, a connection. We are brothers in our quest.

  The three of us laugh as the voice demands that we carry on, carry on with our deadly trail of destruction. Who are we to argue?

  The backdrop comes alive before us, as more and more shadows emerge, each bloodied, each clutching their precious weapons. Children from all over the town. They smile crazily at us, eyes wild, and we smile back at them. Each is proudly adorned with the blood of their parents and their neighbours and every blood-filled flesh bag that needed to be set free.

  That is our goal.

  ‘It is perfect.’ My voice inside my head speaks again. ‘The perfect society. We care not of race or religion, we care not of rich and poor, we care not of time or space. We yearn only for blood.

  ‘We stand together as one. We love only the voice, the blood and each other. It’s perfect. We have every child from town. Could it be we have every child in the country? Could we have every child in the world?’

  Head lost in a dream, the voice has brought us here. We are part of something bigger than me, bigger than any of us could ever be.

  The voice says the word and we march together. As one, we march into the night. As one, we march forward with our deadly intent. We’ll consume all who dares stand in the way, all who dares to be against us. We will spill their blood, all of them. For now, it is our time.

  THE END