Slowly, Jasper begins to make incisions across Patrick’s chest and stomach, none of them too deep, but enough for the flesh to part a little, the edges curling up, and blood runs lazily. Patrick groans with each cut, the sound muffled. When his upper body is adorned in scarlet strokes and gashes, we decide to let him be for the night. Tomorrow we’ll return to see how he’s holding up.
The moment Jasper steps back, a new fly arrives, eagerly scurrying over the open wounds, drawn as if by invitation, stitching their eggs into every moist seam of flesh. I grab my shirt and bra, but Jasper takes them from me, forcing me to stay half-naked. We turn off the light and leave the shed door slightly open. Big enough to let bugs in, but small enough to keep predators out.
Chapter Eight
“Good morning, beautiful,” Jasper nuzzles my neck, and I let out a contented sigh. “Are you ready to see how our little art project is coming along?”
I giggle, feeling instantly awake. I slept like a baby, and I want to lie a little longer in the warm blankets, but the idea of inspecting Patrick motivates me. I rub the sleep from my eyes, sit up straight, and get out of bed. Jasper follows me with a curious look as I move around the room and start getting dressed in a black lace thong, padded bra, and woolen socks that go up all the way to my thighs. It doesn’t take long before I feel his strong hands on my hips, chiseled chest pressed against my back, and his warm breath brushing my skin, while his excitement presses into me.
“That’s enough clothes, Darling. I’ll keep you warm.” His low, dark voice is a promise I can’t resist.
“Does that mean, you’ll only wear those black sweatpants and nothing else as well?”
He nods, letting out an amused snort, then nips at my earlobe. His lips trace the line of my neck and he kisses me. Goosebumps prick up on my skin. In only underwear and thigh socks, I follow Jasper to the shed, where a cloud of buzzing flies welcomes us, and my lips curl up in disgust. I ignore the slight shiver that creeps across my skin.
“That’s fucking gross,” I murmur.
Jasper lets out a croak of amusement.
“Come on, Starling, let's see how he’s doing.”
A soft groan, and barely there movement startles some of the flies and other critters that crawl across Patrick’s chest. Jasper swats at the flying insects, trying to chase them away, their removal revealing the writhing mass they created in our absence. Pieces of flesh move like bloated sponges, a convulsing tide of larvae bubbling from the open wounds. Jasper slaps Patrick on the cheek, and his eyes fly open; his eyeballs look like frosted pudding. A brittle crust of blood and mucus sealed the corners of his eyes as though sleep itself had tried to stitch them shut. Parts of the toothpick are still stuck in his eyelids, nasty little splinters refusing to let go.
Jasper takes a pair of wire cutters and rips open the staples that held Patrick’s mouth shut. Fresh blood begins to well, as his lips are ruptured apart. Without saying a word, Jasper pinches Patrick’s cheeks, which opens his lips, and pours water from a bottle. Not expecting the fluid, Patrick begins to cough and heave, trying to swallow the water down at the same time. I have to admit I respect his perseverance and his ability to bite through the pain Jasper inflicts on him.
This time, Jasper pats him softly on the cheek, murmuring, ‘Good boy,’ which still makes Patrick flinch and wince. “Can’t have you dying on us just yet.”
Jasper turns to me. “Would you need his hands or arms visible? Or the legs?”
I mull over the question. “No legs should be fine. I can take pictures of the upper body. And arms… I mean, I can cover them up.”
The coldness in my voice even surprises myself. There’s no tremble, only steadiness. Patrick depends on us to show him any sense of mercy, yet I feel no empathy for the shadow of a man.
Jasper lets out a throaty laugh, a hint of pride shining through as he takes me in. He rummages through a toolbox, then shows me a box cutter.
“I’m a bit of an artist myself,” he grins cocky, his eyes locked with mine, as he reaches for Patrick’s hand and unties it.
He pulls the lower arm taut and twists it, showing the inside’s paleness and blue veins that snake underneath the skin, then ties the hand once more. Patrick lets out a gurgled groan when Jasper begins to put his weight on his arm. It doesn’t take long before the joint gives with a sick, grinding snap; bone splinters beneath the skin, the elbow gone soft and malformed like a snapped hinge. Ignoring the pathetic sounds that escape from Patrick’s throat, Jasper loosens the hand, pulls it once more, and reties it. Sharp edges of bone, reminiscent of a chainsaw, poke out beneath the skin, trying to perforate it.
With the box cutter, he makes a clean cut in the arm and begins to pry and probe the skin until a ridge stands up. He pulls it up and, with the blade, carefully slices through the membrane, peeling away the skin. Below the skin, pale fat gleams like wax. He makes another cut, and the first layer gives way intothe sickly yellow tissue. Veined and wet, a trembling sheath stretched tight over the muscles below.
With his fingers, Jasper begins to push aside the fat and flesh, reaching for something, and I watch in fascination, my mouth open, and my eyes wide. He digs his fingers beneath the glossy sheath and tugs; muscle cords peel away in slick, crimson strands. As he moves the blade inside the tight workspace, he carves along the sheath, and the red cords spring free in slick ribbons. Patrick no longer responds, lost in the abyss of his own mind. His chest still rises slowly, the pain too intense.
Triumphantly, Jasper holds the muscle cords in front of me, then proceeds to perform the same actions to the other arm.
“I’m going to dry them, then braid them. It’s a keepsake,” he explains.
I look at the gleaming scarlet ropes in his hands, and part of me understands the appeal. They remind me of funeral tassels—ropes of defeat.
“Like Victorian death jewelry,” I say.
“Exactly.” He kisses me, bending over Patrick’s unconscious body.
“Should we wake him up? So, he has the full experience?” I grin.
“Trust me, what I have planned next will definitely wake him up,” Jasper says, and an equally malicious grin spreads on his face.
Everything about this feels right, as if I've finally found my place, and someone sees me—not just watches me, but truly seesmefor who I am. Anyone else would think me a monster, a sick individual, but not Jasper. He and I are the same, bound by the same dark shadows that live inside us. It dawns on me that the clinging loneliness that had fused itself with my soul, was not because I wanted to die, but because I had failed to find someone to match the darkness that lay within me. And it was the lackthereof, that the abyss of death came to me as an invitation. Death would bring me peace, but alsoacceptance. However, ever since I stepped foot in Jasper’s presence, every fiber within my body buzzes with life.
