His mind had snapped.



“You.., you don’t need to hurt me, please,” the voice was barely above a terrified whisper, the mouth it emerged from quivering. Shivers crept over his entire body, covering him in tiny bumps and filling him with shudders.

   The man, boy, was bound by the wrists to the chair leg behind him; his ankles were no better off – tied tightly to one another, the leather cuffs cutting deeply into his flesh. The teen was stretched out, pulled to his full length by the bindings. It had been merely an hour since they arrived, and already he felt himself about ready to pass out in terror. How had he gotten himself here? How did he fall for such obvious tricks?

   The room in which they held their proceedings was dank, oppressive; the carpet on which he lay, stained and covered by over ten years of bloodshed. It was plain to see how much the owner of the house cared about keeping up appearances to the outside world – not at all. The drapes were not drawn; the room visible easily from the street, if one were to look. The only fabric that obscured the view was the greying net-curtain.

“Oh? Why ever not, Matthew?” he asked politely. His British etiquette got the better of him in spite of his past deeds - in spite of the situation at hand. A tilt of the head – Caleb humoured him. He withdrew his hand from the table and the array of implements that lay there waiting. Included were a screwdriver, a cleaver's knife, and of course the obligatory corkscrew, just for the fun of it.

“I-I—I’ve done nothing to you!” Matthew exclaimed, trying to reason with the obviously unhinged man above him, “I’d never m—met you before tonight!” His voice was pleading, horror-struck – his widened eyes matched the tone with perfection.

   Caleb knew that expression well. He had seen it countless times before – on a young girl, an innocent boy, a doting, loving mother – to name but a few. All gave in to the inevitable eventually; they knew they were going to die. A sigh fell from Caleb’s lips, low and indifferent. He let his hand dust lightly over the many devices he had displayed on the table, pausing over the screwdriver. Slowly gripping the tool, his drew it up to his face before replying.

“You won’t understand my reason, dear boy, but I suppose I could detail it to you anyway,” he smirked, his voice calm, collected. With a sudden burst of speed, Caleb turned, brandishing the weapon, and knelt heavily on Matthew’s legs. He brought the screwdriver to the boy’s face, staring intently into his eyes momentarily before jamming it hard into his mouth – through his cheek.
“You look like him,” he shrugged, sitting back on his heels, watching the captive struggling to escape, struggling under the influence of the freshly dealt pain.

   It was the shock that hit Matthew first – the pain came a little after. In less than two hours this man had enslaved him, tricked him and begun to torture him. How was this fair? Barely capable of coherent thought, Matthew, not yet nineteen years of age, kicked out hard at his assailant to no avail.

“Hey now, that’s not nice,” Caleb grinned, yanking the screwdriver from its bloody resting place and swiftly embedding it into the thigh of Matthew’s left leg. It was with a light, exasperated groan that he realized how quickly he had expended the use of the tool.

“I—Wh—Who do I look like?” Matthew stammered out, the pain coursing through him in waves. His face was scrunched in agony, but still he let the words out.

“My darling Jamie, of course,” Caleb smirked at him, nodding slowly. He was seemingly oblivious to the sniveling panic of the other – well that, or disinterested. Stretching out his arms, shoulders, back, he stood. He slowly made his way over to the table once more, his hand straying over the cleaver for a moment.
“No.., no,” he whispered to himself, before grabbing the butcher's knife that lay beside it.

   By this time, Matthew had abandoned all hope – much as Caleb had done with speed. Slowly, the man approached the writhing youth, the blade glinting sharply in the light of the streetlamp outside. Matthew quieted himself to a whimper as he eyed the knife, his eyes open, staring.

“What are you.. Wh—?” he cut himself short as he tried to speak. His mouth burned with the pain that had finally truly set in, the blood trickling slowly from the wound in his leg.

“You have no right to look like him!” Caleb exclaimed, punctuating the emphasised word with a slap of the blade against his hand. “He was.., unique. He was one of a kind, mine,” It was clear that Caleb resented the loss of this ‘other’ - clear, plain, obvious.

   Kneeling at the feet of the teen, Caleb slowly peeled away the sock that covered Matthew’s right foot. Tossing it aside, he absently traced the sharp edge over the fragile bones. He gazed up at him, uncaring, smiling. Pulling roughly at the smallest digit, he brought the knife to its base. 

“How would it affect you, really, to lose a toe or two?” he smiled, raising his eyebrows at the youth. He spoke conversationally, as though one would with a friendly hypothetical. Inclining his head, he frowned. “Well?”

   When the boy did nothing to reply, Caleb shrugged, and instantly began to push and slice his torturous tool through the skin, flesh and bone of the extremity. The silence of skin breaking contrasted greatly with the grinding, scratching noise associated with the sawing of bone.

And the screams - Of course the screams. You can't miss the screams.

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