Author note:

If anyone takes offense or is sensitive to the subjects of religion, deviant sex, crime and abuse, violence, or a strung-out father getting the ultimate revenge against his child’s abuser, go ahead and skip this story. For those of you who make it up to Zeke’s apartment after he helps Layla with her groceries, the story goes in a completely opposite direction. This was not a “shock piece” or meant to offend anyone. It’s the story of a father’s redemption, an idea I had that grew limbs and started to haunt me, until I had to write it, so it would get out of my head. In lieu of this challenge, I couldn’t think of anything I had that was more cringe-worthy, or anything I could think to write at the moment, or would want to write at the moment.

__________________________

Into My Arms

He walked up 18th and crossed Everett. Spring was starting to bloom, but the air was cold and the rain was still taking its turn on the city. It had been a particularly brutal winter, one of the worst they’d seen. Zeke made it up the sidewalk with his bag—he’d lived in the building exactly three months, in that apartment. He had the chance to move in to a different unit right away, but went ahead and waited for the place he wanted, the place, the apartment that faced the church. He got to the steps and looked up, then hurried to help Layla. She was a sweet old lady and she loved Zeke, she’d known his family when he’d had one. Over the last few years Layla had come to look more and more like a question mark, bent and losing herself, losing answers, looking for the things dementia was taking away. The manager moved her to the first floor before winter. She was the only one there long enough to keep the old rent, and when Zeke was moving in she looked surprised to see him there. He helped her move from the top floor in back to the second unit inside the front door.

He ran up and set his bag down, “Mornin’, Layla, I got it.”

She looked up and smiled. She noticed his eyes were dark and heavy, not that she could blame him. The demons he was handed came without reason, and they came fast and hard, hard enough to keep him in the bottle, to get him fired from the Boys and Girls Club. She watched him fumble his keys and she smelled the liquor. In his bag she saw a bottle of vodka and a bottle of peroxide, on top of another bag. She watched his hands shaking while he found the keyhole. She glanced across the street and then back to the open door. Zeke heard something from her, but it was fuzzed by his drunk. That old sink in my kitchen’s still hissing, getting one in a week, new. He looked at her face, “I know.”

He didn’t know, but it worked on her. He got her into the front door and set her grocery bag on the counter, and started putting them away for her. She took off her scarf and sat at the table.

“Well, thank you, Ezekiel.”

Zeke, he said to himself. Zeke. His proper name only fed the fire in his skull, it only fed the pain. She watched him set the cans and boxes in their places, and it occurred to her there at the table how abruptly life changes. She would have never imagined Zeke in that building, his wife in the mental ward, their boy in the ground. Nobody else knew the reason for the boy’s suicide. Zeke and Ana didn’t talk about it. Ana lost her mind in the summer. One morning Zeke kissed her before going to work, and when he got home that night she was in the same spot in the living room, standing there in her bed clothes, unblinking, looking at the floor. She was breathing and nothing else. He carried her to the car and made it to Providence, and she’d been a resident since. Besides needing the apartment facing across the street, he waited for the third floor place because the one for immediate move-in was on the fifth, the same floor of the mental ward where Ana lived now. He folded Layla’s bags and wedged them between the fridge and the counter.

“Need anything while I’m up, doll?”

“No thank, you, Ezekiel, but you’re a very sweet man.”

He planted a liquor-soaked kiss on her cheek. He’d been awake for four days. He grabbed his own bag from the doorway and closed the cage door in the elevator. He’d gotten used to it. For the first few weeks it made him leery, the age and size of it, so he took the stairs. Now he didn’t care. If for some reason it broke, he figured he could survive a fall like that, he’d survived a lot worse in the last six months, but all of it started seven years earlier. He hit the button and reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the speed and did a rail. He swallowed the drip and stared at the doors beyond the cage, and he heard his boy’s voice again, little Zeke’s voice, strong in his mind. I feel like it’s my fault, is it my fault? No, buddy, it’s got nothing to do with you. You can’t let some weirdo like that get to you. —But it got to him, it got to little Zeke, ate at him. It got to him in the worst way. Zeke reached down beneath the vodka and pulled up the bottle of whiskey next to the scissors and salt. He opened the bottle but the cart stopped at his floor. He stepped out, walked to his door and put the key in. He listened to the music on his computer, Into My Arms had been on repeat, but it had been on repeat four days, maybe more. His thoughts drifted to Layla, the static from the stoop removed itself and he heard her clearly. Inside he took a drink from the bottle and glanced at what was normal now. Layla’s cracked voice replayed clearly in his mind:

“Poor father Kitchens is still missing. Been almost a week now.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out his little blue pills. He’d never needed them before, he had no problem with erectile dysfunction, he was only 41. He popped one and downed it with the whiskey, and looked across the living room. The priest was naked below the waist, facing the window that looked dead bang across the street at the large doors of the church. The clean shaven strip up the middle of his ass cheeks, otherwise thick with black hair, was starting to break out. Zeke took another pull from the bottle and stared at the back of his head, “You know what I just took, right?” He tossed the pills onto the floor. The container rolled between the cinder blocks and hit the heater. The priest’s hands were tied to anchors in the ceiling, his mouth taped, one nostril plugged with garlic. He let out a muffled scream. Zeke took another drink and walked over. His laptop was on the kitchen table, and the song was somewhere in the middle. The priest had every second of the song memorized, to the point where he didn’t hear it anymore, yet he did, and it was torture for him. His wrists had stopped burning because his hands were blue now, his feet and legs had gone numb from stabilizing himself on the cinder blocks, and the bottoms of his feet had lost their pain about 36 hours ago, if his body was speaking clearly to his brain. When he started to faint, Zeke was there to stop it, when he started to cry, Zeke was there to stop it. The fear in his mind, a fear he’d never known after the shock of the pain and the penetration gave way to normal pain: the fear that came with regret, the fearful regret of not listening to his instinct, to his self-preservation when he walked out of the church Saturday night, his night of preparing for the next day, being responsible for the salvation of all the people who drove in from the suburbs to hear his hypnotic deliverance of the word, to trust him with their souls. He walked out of the church that night, nearly made it to his car, felt the odd sensation of a grown man’s forearm around his neck, inhaled a breath to scream out, but the chloroform taste sent him to a blackout, and when he came to he was hanging from the ceiling, looking out the window at the church, the large doors, the crowd out front, the clergy talking to the police. He felt the cinder blocks beneath his feet, and the careful measure of his bondage, just high enough to where he needed the blocks, but too high to kick them over. His head was pounding from the chloroform, and his wrists were on fire from the rope and tape. He was a short man, balding and white-haired, a disgusting face, really, a face that once exposed to Zeke would haunt his sleep for two years.

He hung there and looked at the pills on the floor, the container of pills, and screamed out again beneath the tape. He felt Zeke’s fingers reach between his thighs, and slowly rip the tape from the base of his testicles over his prostate and from the wine cork he had up the priest’s ass. He felt the cold plastic of the bucket between his knees and the cork being pulled, his cock being aimed down and back. Zeke slapped his ass, “Shit, cocksucker.” But Kitchens was empty. He pissed a few drops, felt a few hard punches to his kidneys, and he felt the sounds of it, the dull thuds. He coughed and choked for air, the garlic was packed into place to where it wasn’t moving with any force of breath. Zeke walked back to the counter and reached into the bag below the peroxide and vodka. Kitchens heard the water filling, the footsteps growing closer, the tip of the bottle going in, the water filling him from the enema bag. Zeke pressed his ass together, “That’s it, cocksucker, gonna get that ass clean for Big Papa, aren’t we?” The water from the bag burned the tears above and below his asshole. Zeke had a big one, just the way it was. Zeke let up on his ass and the flush sprayed down into the bucket. Today Zeke had to better yesterday, so after he held the speed under Kitchens’ nostril and slapped him across the face until he snorted, he disappeared and came back, showed the priest the knife, and looked into his eyes while he carved into his stomach, just enough to break the skin, to draw blood, to bleed the Catholic pig. Kitchens imagined a cross, the burning of a cross, but it wasn’t. There was no cross. He felt the Z being finished.

Zeke stepped back and eyed the letter. Kitchens burned in pain. Zeke gave him a thoughtful stare, “Right, no, you’re right, too much like Zorro. Here.” He walked over and carved an L that ran from under the right armpit and across his belly button, over to his left side. The pain was unimaginable. The speed had hit his blood and kept the stinging at full level. “Wait,” Zeke said, and brought the blade’s tip down pulled back and jabbed it once below his waist, an exclamation point. Kitchens lurched and jumped in the restraints. The song was almost ending. Zeke went to the bag and pulled out the peroxide, then appeared in front of him, “You make a good point. The knife wasn’t clean. Here.” He criss-crossed the wound until the bottle was empty. The pain was heightened, and it pushed tears down Kitchens’ face. Zeke dropped his pants, sat at the table and spat into his palm. The blue pill was taking effect. He’d raped the priest at least a dozen times in the last four days. It was the least he could do. He stared at the tube of lubrication on the table. He’d only used it when he was feeling too raw at the base. He wanted Kitchens to feel everything. Zeke was as far from gay as a straight man could get, but this was different. He was wired on speed and hard liquor, and he stroked his cock and thought about Ana, her long red hair and smooth skin, or he thought about what she used to be, what life used to be, before Kitchens did what he did to their boy. Now Kitchens hung there burning, he wouldn’t leave the room alive, but Zeke wasn’t so sure he would, either. He stroked his cock and poured a tired sweat.

Kitchens heard Zeke from the table, “Hey, it’s your favorite song.” He cranked up the volume while the first verse came in, and Kitchens felt it again, the length of Zeke being buried up in him, the burn of it, the long time it would take for Zeke to shoot, to blow inside of him. He felt Zeke go in slowly, felt his stubble against his cheek while Zeke gripped his neck and fucked him to the song.

I don't believe in an

interventionist God

But I know, darlin’, that you do

But if I did I would kneel down

and ask Him

Not to intervene when it came

to you

He felt Zeke softly kiss his ear and fuck him like a woman. The meth and fatigue had faded them both, but it only sharpened Zeke’s aim, and the slowness Kitchens took as a sign of Zeke finally dropping, for enough time to give it one hard pull of adrenaline and escape, was only Zeke’s anger growing with the effects of the speed. He went in and out of Kitchens, and he stroked the sides of his hair.

Not to touch a hair on your

head

To leave you as you are

And if He felt He had to direct

you

Then direct you into my arms

It dawned on him hanging there, in every type of pain and fear, that he’d never once prayed to God for control over his own indulgences, for control over his compulsion for boys, and not just any boy, but boys like little Zeke, seven years old, innocent, handsome of eye, full of light and life. Zeke gently backed out almost all the way and put it half way in.

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms

Zeke buried it in and held it there, and then moved in and out of him, and remembered the phone call at work from Ana. Two years to the day from the police station, when Kitchens was released because the other boys were too embarrassed to step forward, and there was no physical evidence because Kitchens hadn’t went that far with little Zeke, not yet, but as Zeke told the school nurse, Kitchens had used his fingers and mouth down there, and made Zeke do the same. It had been going on for years, every Wednesday after school, when he and the other boys would play basketball on the covered courts beside the back of the church, and father Kitchens would pay them to clean the church, to sweep, to wipe the marble, and he would disappear with one of the boys, depending on his mood, for an hour. When little Zeke was ten, he was too embarrassed to tell his parents, namely his father, because like Ana, big Zeke was atheist, despite the name, or in spite of it. Zeke’s parents were in the faith, but by the time Zeke was fifteen, he’d stopped going with them on Sunday, and they let him stay home. Little Zeke didn’t buy the stories either, but he went to the church with his friends until he was ten, and understood what father Kitchens was doing was wrong, and it had occurred to little Zeke all at once, when he got an erection staring at Lisa Fisher in homeroom. It fell, a wall upon him, and after school he told the nurse about it, because he figured she was the one to talk to. She immediately called the police, who sent detectives down to the church, but Kitchens went to the station willingly, and talked his way out of it. He was well respected in their community, and he explained to the cops that little Zeke was angry because he had closed the courts, which he had, as his luck would have it, the weekend before little Zeke went to the nurse. When the cops asked him why he closed the courts, Kitchens said the church had to cut back on their bills and occupancy during the time of non-worship, which was a decision from the main church, but the boys were fine with it. Anyway, they were starting to get too old for Kitchens, and he was starting to get afraid of going to prison, his instinct was sharp, always had been, always served him well. There were other ways for him to feed his sickness, other places, other options. The world provided plenty.

Zeke gave Kitchens a hard pump and stalled there inside of him, reached back to the table and grabbed his baggie, did another line and leaned his head back, eyes closed, and remembered little Zeke’s spiral. The nightmares, the sexual confusion, all of it. The case became a hushed civil compromise, and the church paid them off to keep their mouths shut. The money was enough to get ahead on their bills and put enough away for little Zeke’s college. He leaned back and remembered promising Ana that he wouldn’t hurt Kitchens, and he’d kept that promise until the demons broke him. His thoughts drifted off to little Zeke’s crying face, I feel like it’s my fault, is it my fault? And what ten year-old should have to ask something like that, and what kind of father let the cocksucker who molested his boy walk free? The money, the promise to Ana, and the sudden realization that Ana’s mind wasn’t lost or stolen by Kitchens, it was gone because of her guilt. A smile crossed Zeke’s face, a catharsis, a breakthrough he could take to her whether it would help her or not. He pulled halfway out of Kitchens, the song had played again and was in the exact spot it had been two minutes earlier when he was going half in and half out like a man in love.

And I don't believe in the

existence of angels

But looking at you I wonder if

that's true

But if I did I would summon

them together

And ask them to watch over you

To each burn a candle for you

To make bright and clear your

path

And to walk like Christ in grace

and love

And guide you into my arms

The existence of angels, the thought of them in Zeke’s mind. Was he wrong about the soul? Was little Zeke an angel now? His mind was wired, and the natural LSD his body had been producing since the day before yesterday brought his subconscious to the forefront. When little Zeke hit the water, did his soul rise from his corpse with angel wings? Did he float up to Christ? Was he watching his father now?—raping the priest to his death, feeding him just enough, getting ready to remove the fingernails with the scissors, the fingertips next, then on down the line. He thought of little Zeke’s shoes leaving the edge of the bridge, watching the black and cold water of the river through his eyes, getting closer to him, his little body fighting to understand its end while the surface slapped the life from it, while his little brain received its last signals, while his light was snuffed out. Zeke reached around and masturbated Kitchens until he grew hard from biology, when the sex from behind and the stroking surpassed even the pain of his wounds, the fear of death, changing arousal and torture. Kitchens watched the doors of the church while he remembered his life, while he felt his tissues changing, his chest getting heavy with pain.

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms

Zeke heard Kitchens’ heart beating from behind him, felt it pulsing around his sex. Kitchens started to panic, his breaths short, his skin twitched by failing nerves. Zeke reached up and pulled the clove from his nostril, and Kitchens breathed easily for a moment, but the moment wasn’t enough. Zeke pumped harder and faster, punching Kitchens in the ribs. The feel of Zeke’s knuckles and hips landed in rhythm with the song, while the pain left his body and his flesh tingled by his heart failing.

And I believe in love

And I know that you do, too

And I believe in some kind of

path

That we can walk down, me and

you

So keep your candles burning

And make her journey bright and pure

That she will keep returning

Always and evermore

Zeke went harder, pulling on Kitchens’ cock while he fucked the life out of him, while the last four days of speed and pain and deprivation took its toll, no, exacted its toll. Zeke heard the phone call again at work, Ana’s voice screaming:

“OUR BABY’S DEAD! HE JUMPED OFF THE FREMONT BRIDGE AND FUCKING KILLED HIMSELF! HE FUCKING KILLED HIMSELF!”

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms

There was the body identification, the funeral, the first viewing, the service, the nights of no sleep, the unreality, the gnawing of the son of a bitch who did this to his boy still walking around, breathing the same air little Zeke knew no more. Then the fall, all the things that dropped off and died, the life that would never again return. Zeke felt Kitchens about to go, the screams had gone from muffled cries of pain to muffled high-pitched screams of fear while his heart gave out. The pitch of the screams drove Zeke faster and deeper inside him, even after Kitchens died, after Zeke felt the body’s final excretions running off the sides of his sex, down his legs, the stench of it. Kitchens was limp now, and Zeke pumped until he shot, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Kitchens’ neck. He rested his head on the corpse’s shoulder and stared at the church, the large doors. The body dripped and the song repeated, and Zeke fell into a deep sleep.

Another bite

Blood collected in my mouth

Veins tangled in my teeth

Another bite

Skin sliding down my throat

The sound of meat tearing from bone

Another bite

Now I know what my flesh taste like

And I craved more

Crossroads mall had been abandoned for a number of years. Knickknack stores made their use of the place for a while, selling eclectic paraphernalia amidst sparsely populated hallways. Now it stood in silence, a chain on the door, waiting for someone to either renovate or demolish it.

He moved in like a wraith. His shadow crept over the walls. The place was barely dilapidated yet, beyond a bit of dust. There was nothing particularly haunted about it save for the emptiness. It was a vast sort of thing, stretching out to an apex at the food court near the center. The glass ceiling there arched high, and he slid his way down from it, hands moving with ease over the lowered rope. He had done it many times before.

And as before, he’d lowered his bag first.

He walked. The large duffel, enormous and black, was like a slug on his back. Like the cocoon of some hideous worm. And it was, really. When he thought about it he realized that was exactly what it was. A chrysalis that would soon burst and let forth the ravishing butterfly.

The store was further in than most. It was a Hot Topic, but it had long since been cleared out so only the jagged logo remained. That, and the mannequins, who stood faceless in the dark. He walked inside, his breathing quickening as he passed through the doorway.

The lights had to stay off. That was critical. The others couldn’t see his big reveal, not until it was finished and perfected. They all had to be on equal footing or there would be fighting, and he so hated it when they fought.

He set her up. Getting her out of the bag was the easy part. He cradled the new addition in his arms. Smaller than usual, and unmade like clay unmolded. That would soon change. He took a stand out of the closet and hooked her to it, her arms held forcibly out, her feet dangling, her head lolling. That wouldn’t do. With a strap, he hooked her skull against the metal bar securely.

She was pale and bloodless. Of course, that was because he’d drained her. So the makeup had to go on first. A layer to give her face life, some blush to make her cheeks rosy. She wasn’t old enough for full on lipstick, no. It wouldn’t do to have the baby of the family looking like some slut, now would it? He went with a more natural color, to give them merely the fullness of youth.

Then her clothing. Yes, he’d brought that too. A nice sundress full of flowers. He fixed her golden girls about her head, smiling all the while. How beautiful she would look when he was finished. Prettier than she ever had before. The others would simply adore the new mannequin.

When it was complete, he pulled out a small flashlight, cupping her face so that the others couldn’t see, giggling. Just one more thing. He used to spoons to clear the holes, and then inserted the glass eyes, blue eyes that shone even in the dimness. The lids sagged down over them, but that was fine. In time they would shrivel and she would always stare out, always smiling.

Grinning from ear to ear, he danced over to the wall. He grasped the kerosene lamp there and lit it, before moving to another, and then another. Light splashed on their faces, all their teeth forcibly born with twine through their cheeks.

“I want you all to meet a new addition to our family!” He sang out, before running towards the oldest woman present and kissing her on her rotting lips. Her he kept naked. It made things easier. Taking off the clothing every time they made love had been causing her to fall apart faster. Besides, he knew she wanted everyone to see how lovely she was. "Meet Maggie!”

He waved his arm excitedly towards the dead little girl, saying sweetly, “Welcome home.”

"Kill you?" Gabriel smiled "no. After what you did to Lily? Death would be too nice for you." Gabriel grabs the man's hair pulling his head back to stare into his eyes. "No. You will beg me to kill you. You will feel pain you never imagined. The same pain you inflicted on her only ten times worse. I am going to do things to you. You never even knew another human being was capable of." The man screams against the ball gag in his mouth. Drooling down the front of him. Forcefully lunging trying to break the chains that bound him. "First, I will show you what it feels like to be raped." He pulls a baseball bat out of his bag setting it next to the bed. "Next" he pulls out a cheese grater, a knife, and a rubber band. "I will make you completely worthless to any woman consensual or otherwise. Then" He pulls out a pair of pliers, brass knuckles, and a cattle prod "lastly. I will make you into the monster that you are." The man's screams louder. "Boys flip him over and remove his pants." Laughter drowns out the screams as Gabriel walked toward him with the bat in hand. "That's right. Scream. Like Lily did. Fight with all your strength." Gabriel jumps on the bed leaning in close. Whispering into the man's ear. "Relax. Or I am going to rip you apart" a blood curtailing scream echoes against the walls.

My stomach churned as I looked down. Blurs of vehicles speeding by. Rushing to get to where they're going, having no care and paying no attention to what's happening above them. I look over to the thirteen year old girl peering down, fear and determination consuming her face. She breathed unevenly as she began to climb the fence that separated the bridge and the road below. The fence starts shaking and rattling, just like my insides are doing now. I begin to climb as well, trying to double her speed and catch up with her. What will I do if I get to her?

She reaches the top but doesn't go any further. She just stands there, just above the fence, looking out at what I'm not sure. I reach the point she's at and stop too. I look over at her face but she's looking away, the setting sun catching on her tears, making them glisten like stars.

"Hey," I say, trying to think of something, anything, to get her to talk to me. She let's out a shaky, pain induced laugh.

"Hey?" She looks over to me but doesn't meet my gaze, instead her eyes flitter down to the road.

"Can you tell me why you're up here?" I ask, but knowing right after I said it that I shouldn't have.

"I mean-" I let out a frustrated sigh and move my hand to my head, making me loose balance slightly and falter, causing me to flail and try to catch my balance. My heart just about leaped out of my ribcage and almost splattered into one of the cars. She laughed at this. "You're not use to this are you?" She asked, seeming to loose some of the depression that blanketed her eyes. "No, not at all. Wait, are you?" She smiled a tired smile, something I'd never seen on someone her age before. "I've been up here seventeen times. Every time getting closer and closer but never able to make the jump." She said matter-oh-factly. I couldn't hide the surprise on my face. "What's made you want to come up here all those times?" She sighed and stared aggressively below.

"Why do you want to know? Why do you even care?"

"Because you deserve someone to listen to you."

She seemed to be fighting whether to believe me or not.

Finally she sighed in defeat. "Alright, even though we don't know each other like at all," she seemed to try to concentrate on doing something mentally. As if trying to put up a wall so what she says doesn't affect her. I didn't have the heart to tell her that doesn't work.

"Well, my biological father is a completely asshole for starters. He raped my mom when she was sixteen, I was two at the time. He had sex with her when she was fourteen and her parents made them keep me. He told her she would never be good enough and that she should lie down and take it like the bitch she was. I remember hearing it all a couple years later, all of it just getting worse. When I was five I heard her begging him to stop through the thin apartment walls. Pleading that he wouldn't do this anymore, for my sake. He said he didn't care about me or about her, and that we were lucky to have him. I remember knocking on their bedroom door one night. I heard him curse and try to get out of bed. Mom crying, saying no and that she could handle it, but he reached the door anyway, glared down at me and slapped me across the face. A stinging sensation that felt like needles pinning into my cheek. He told me I was a worthless little cunt just like my mother. He grabbed me by the arm and shoved me into the bathroom down the hall. He turned the water in the tub on with the hot full blast. He started stripping me of my clothes, beating me whenever I told him to stop. My mother came in, red rimmed eyes and bruises all over her body. Some a purplish color others fading into a nasty yellow. When she begged him to leave me alone he punched her in the face. I remember that awful sound, like cement cracking. He turned back to me and put his fingers inside me. It hurt so bad. I cried out for mama, now looking back I wish I hadn't. Me doing so just gave her more guilt. He rubbed his other hand along my body while he went deeper inside. Once he stopped he picked me up and flung me into the boiling water. It seared me instantly. When I tried to get out he'd hold me underwater, dousing my whole body, covering every inch of me in scolding pain. Blood started to mix in with the water. I was so frightened, not to mention being is incredible, flesh peeling pain. He pulled me out, causing me to fall and hit my head on the floor. Everything burned and felt numbed. My skin turning red. He cursed again then left. Mother couldn't take me to the hospital without telling them what happened and she couldn't do that so she tended to me. I'm not sure how she did it.

"He'd come back every other night, drunk and pathetic. About three years after the tub incident things got really bad. He beat mama so bad one time. She told me to go to my room but he told me to stay. At the time I was more afraid of him than what was happening. He told me to watch daddy as he put mama in her place. He looked at her with the most mechanical, sinister grin. He punched her in the stomach and slapped her in the face. He grabbed her by her hair and thrusted her face into his crotch. He told her to undo his pants, and she did. With shaky hands she unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down. He pulled her by her hair again and shoved her back at him. He was looking at me the whole time, telling me to watch carefully and that I was next. When mom apparently wasn't pleasing him anymore he throw her aside and came at me. He pushed me up against the wall and started pulling my jeans down. When I tried to speak he forcefully pressed his hand over my mouth and started tearing my panties off. He put his knee in between my legs to spread them open, harder than I thought possible. When he inserted himself inside me it felt like a butter knife going through my hand. Pressing harder and harder until you could hear me scream through his hand. I felt blood trail down my bare legs. He didn't seem to care. He removed his hand from my mouth and took my cheeks between his fingers to open my mouth, then forced me to suck. It was vile and I felt like throwing up but I knew that would only add to his aggression, so I did what I was supposed to like a good little girl.

"I remember coming home from school one day when I was eleven and seeing blood smeared across the wall. A knife laying lifeless on the floor, blade lined in red. I dropped my backpack and ran to find mother. The blood trail went into their bedroom, which was cracked open slightly. I was shaking all over and had a terrible feeling. Worse than all the years of torture and abuse combined. I peered in and about collapsed in agony. Mother was lying there, beaten and bloody faced, strewn across the bed like some rag doll. She was naked and bruises seemed to cover her whole body. Arms, legs, neck, stomach, wrist, face...

"I went to her and held her, covering myself in her blood and covering her in my tears. She never deserved it, you know? But that bastard took her from me anyway. She took her own life because he put her through so much pain and all I can think about is being back with her."

I sat in silence as I tried to let it all set in. So much trauma at such a young age which has led her to this point. To be standing right here, about to make a life ending decision.

"Can you do me a favor?" I ask.

"Yeah, and what's that?"

"Don't do it."

"Why do you care?"

"Because you have so much to offer this world. You aren't worthless."

"Yeah and what do you know?"

"I know that if I had done what you're about to do I never would have met you."

"What's so great about meeting me?"

"Come down from here and I'll tell you."

She seemed to contemplate this. She looked back down at the road, then back up at me.

"Deal," she said. She went to move down but her foot missed and slipped. She leaned forward to catch her balance but she leaned over too far. She toppled over top of the fence. Her hands caught on the barbed wire, trying to hold on. She screamed out in pain as the spikes went into her palms, blood spilling down to her elbows. I lunged to grab her arms but she slipped through. She fell to the ground, cars ramming on breaks but not being fast enough. Her body landed with a jaw clenching thud. Blood splattering everywhere, on the street, on the cars. You could smell the sickening smell of blood and flesh. The rest came in a blur. Sirens and screams. Me, climbing lifelessly down from that fence, vomit rising without effort.

All I saw before me was red and I'm afraid that's all I'll ever see.

I awoke to total darkness all around me.

I couldn't tell whether my eyes were opened or closed. Was this all a dream?

It didn't take long before I realized I was trapped.

Where was I anyway?

Then, I remembered. I had been hit by a bus. Everything else after that went blurry. Had I really died? It all seemed so unreal.

I had to get out of there! I just had to! I went into complete hysteria! I clawed at the surface with all my might. Somehow, it was working. Blood ran down my fingers, but I still kept going. Finally the wood of my coffin cracked open, now all I had to do was dig. Dirt piled up in a matter of seconds; it wasn't long before I was free.

Yet something wasn't right. There was no way any ordinary human could have done that. Impossible. But it didn't matter now.

I was hungry, hungrier than I'd ever been in my entire life.

How long had I been down there? I could barely think. Instincts began to kick in. It was like I wasn't myself anymore. I started digging up other corpses from their graves, shoving them down my throat and eating them whole. What was I doing?! What the Hell had happened?!

None of that mattered now. It tasted so good!!!!! And yet I couldn't help feeling utterly disgusted at the same time. What had I become?

I ran over to a nearby pond to see my reflection. Pure horror came over me. My skin had turned sallow with scabs all over, and my body was hunched down like an old man. I hadn't totally decomposed yet, I could tell by some of the muscles left on my festering legs. I was totally bald (save a few tufts of hair that stuck out). My arms had become strangely elongated and my fingers were practically claws. No wonder I'd been able to dig myself out of my own grave!

It was clear now what had happened. I had become a jikininki, a monster of the undead cursed to prey off the flesh of corpses.

Why was it that only now I realized how foolishly I'd lived my life?

My name is Shigeo Tsukino. I was the CEO of a major company, had an enormous fortune, a beautiful, loving wife named Azumi, and excelled at everything I could possibly put my mind to. But it still wasn't enough. No matter what I accomplished I always wanted more. Not to mention I lived only for myself and myself alone. Everyone else was merely a pawn in my game. Even my dear Azumi was more like a trophy than a wife.

If only I had realized how blessed I truly was back then, maybe none of this would have ever happened.

It wasn't long before I had eaten all of the corpses in the entire graveyard. It seemed I was always hungry. Nothing I ate ever seemed to fill me up very much.

For months on end I traveled from cemetery to cemetery.

Later I decided to go back to the old graveyard where I had been buried to see if any new graves had been made. I had hidden myself behind a tombstone in case anyone came by. I saw Azumi walk up to my grave. She laid flowers and candles around a photo of me.

"Happy birthday my love," she said softly.

Is that really how long it's been? I couldn't believe it! Days and nights all blurred together now like one hellish nightmare.

"Guess what? I'm pregnant." She smiled. "The doctors say it's going to be a girl. I was thinking about naming her Atsuko. It will be a beautiful name for our little girl won't it?"

The smiled faded. She broke down and started to sob.

"I'm sorry! I promised I wouldn't cry, that I would be strong for you and the baby. But it gets so hard! I just can't do this anymore! I need you! Why did you have to leave me?! Why?!!"

I sprang out like a flash of lighting and ran over to her.

"Azumi! Azumi it's going to be alright!!! I'm here now!! You don't have to be alone anymore!" I desperately tried to say, but all that came out was grunts and shrieks.

She screamed, terror clouding her almond eyes.

"It's me Azumi! It's me! Don't you recognize me?!" Nothing.

She was completely paralyzed with fear.

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close to me. I heard the sound of something cracking; I'd crushed her.

She lay there dead, broken like an old doll, the love of my life, the mother of my child.

Then I remembered how hungry I was. It felt like ages ago since I last fed. The Shigeo I once was was gone, it was the jikininki who was in control now. Before I knew it I'd eaten her whole.

AZUMI!!!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!?!?!!!!?!?!?!! I KILLED THEM!!!! I KILLED MY OWN WIFE AND DAUGHTER!!!!

I saw images of women at hospitals, giggling babies, and smiling families. This was something I could never have.

Azumi! Atsuko! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! If I could do this all over again I never would have harmed any of you!!

"Yes you would have," a voice whispered. "You would eat them like you did just now. They were delicious weren't they?"

NOOOOO!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

"But you did. Remember, you're a monster now."

Monster? Is that really what I am? Am I really doomed to wander forever feasting on the flesh of humans?

There had to be some way out of this! There just had to!

Then I remembered hearing stories about jikininki when I was a boy. The only way to break the curse is to perform the segaki service. If I could find some monks to perform it on me, then I would be free from this.

I scoured the land for the nearest temple, which didn't actually take that long. I was in a cemetery after all.

I wrapped at the door until one of the monks noticed me.

"Another jikininki came back! It's time to perform the segaki service!" One of them called out.

"What do you think this one's name is?" One of the monks asked.

"I'd recognize that suit anywhere! Even when it's torn up and filthy. It must be Shigeo Tsukino!" Another exclaimed. "I always knew this would happen to you if you didn't change your ways." He nodded solemnly.

All of the monks gathered around and began to meditate. Several days later offerings of rice and water were placed out for me on alter next to a holy image of the Buddha. People began to approach the alter two by two, one sprinkling water from a pine branch, another burning incense.

"We call on you to consume these offerings!" They cried.

I instantly started shoving it down my throat. Never before had anything tasted so sweet or been so filling. Finally, I wasn't hungry anymore.

They wrote my name and all my sins down on papers and began to burn them.

I was free at last! I saw my wife and child smiling. Atsuko looked to be about a toddler now.

"Daddy!" She squealed as she ran towards me. But then I realized, I wasn't the one they were smiling for.

His face was wrenched by agony. A mixture of blood and sweat dropped onto the cold concrete floor. In his distress he looked up from the dark corner of the solitary room he was in to see a figure walk in the door and up to him. It was a woman. She was tall and lean, and her face showed years of torture with scars and burn marks and red blotches of skin. She wore just a plain white t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. Her hair was everywhere, as if she had just awoken from a long, well-needed nap. He recognized her. He had seen her at out and about a few times, and after he was kidnapped, she stood in the corner and watched as two muscly men kicked and punched and cut and hit and threw things at him.

She squatted before him to put her at eye level with him. Sweat ran from his forehead and into his eyes, making it hard for him to keep his eyes open for too long. She just stared at him. Minutes passed of her staring, making him feel slightly uncomfortable. Then she finally spoke up.

"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Morris?" she asked.

He literally had no clue why. "No, I don't," he replied. "I have no idea as to why I am here or what your purpose is."

"Let me explain," she said. "You see, I have been watching you over the past months." She then sat beside him. "I've watched what you've been doing, who you've been talking to, where you go, how you manner yourself, and such. I've planned this out all along, Mr. Morris. I intrica-"

"How do you know my name?"

"Shut up and let me finish!" she snapped. She sighed. "Anyways, I intricately designed a way for me to finally catch you. You see, I'm what many people call a bounty hunter." Her eyes focused on his and his on hers. "People pay me to find and kill other people that they don't like or have a problem with. In the case of the initiator of this specific bounty, I was payed a hell of a lot of money, an amount I'm not going to share. So, this person wasn't me to make sure that you suffer an insurmountable amount of pain, tortured beyond the point of repair."

"Who is this that wants me dead?"

She thought for a moment. "Well, it's not a specific person but a group of people, an organization, if you will. They know what your company has planned to do. They know the secrets you're not willing to share with the public. They even told me what your company is going to do, and frankly, I think of it as a noble act for me to kill you. It's a terrible thing to try to rid the world of such a beautiful national landmark just to build a plant."

She then pulled out a small switchblade and forcefully stabbed him in the gut. He wailed in agony.

"You know," she began, "I'm a big fan of old methods of torture, those seen crude and outdated. An example would be the Judas Cradle. Do you know what that is?"

Between heavy breaths he said, "No, I don't."

"Well, let me explain it to you. You see the Judas Cradle was a medieval torture device that consisted of a pyramid shaped piece. Above it was the victim attached to a harness. By lower roped connected to the victim, the victim would be lowered down onto the pyramid piece. It would be inserted into the victim through the anus or vagina, and as the victim was lowered, muscles and tissue would begin to be torn. Then, the victim would die slowly from infection or by being impaled."

She looked at him, and mortification rattled through his very soul. She bent down, grabbed his cheeks with one hand and made him look straight into her eyes. "We're going to try out the Judas Cradle, okay?" He began to squeal and squirm, trying to free himself from her grasp, but she only gripped tighter. "Guys! Come in her and take him to the Judas Cradle!" The two men who had beaten him up were there and walking towards him. One raised him boot and slammed his booted foot into his face, knocking him out instantly.

When he awoke, he was in a dimly lit room. He was completely naked, and he was strapped into a metal harness around his waist. He instantly felt a giant pressure at his anus, where the Judas Cradle's top began to pierce his raw flesh. Ropes were attached to his ankles and wrists. His left ankle and wrist were held by one of the men on one side, and his right ankle and wrist were held by the other man on the other side. The harness around his waist also had ropes that went to each man. He frantically looked around the room, and in one corner was the woman. She was dressed the same. As he looked at her she smiled and began to chuckle. She motioned her hands downward. Then the two men began to pull down. Instantly, the pain grew immensely. He shrieked loudly. Blood trickled from his anus, and tears swelled up in his eyes.

He couldn't help but cry for them to not kill him. Over and over he shrilly begged them to have mercy on him, and but neither the men nor the woman payed attention to his pleas. He tried to convince them by mentioning that he had a family and friends and a job to go back to. They said nothing. Slowly, the pain grew worse and worse, consuming all that he was. Scream after scream, none of them did anything about it but worsened his pain. Eventually, the pain gripped him so tightly that he couldn't feel it anymore. He became numb to it, and all he could feel then was how tortured his soul felt. He had much planned in life, and now it was all gone. He couldn't help but think about all the loved ones he was leaving behind. Then his mind began thinking about the fact that he felt his life was unaccomplished. He wanted to do so much good, to turn his life around. Now, redemption was meaningless. Blood at that point was spewing everywhere, and the suffering he felt was unlike anything he had felt before. As the tip of the Judas Cradle ripped his insides, he began to lose consciousness and felt himself drifting into the oblivion and void that is death.

I am not fond of stories that tell of intense pain and suffering. I have always found these matters quite repulsive and upsetting, and such extreme negativity kills the creative flow and stifles my imagination. Nonetheless I have been tagged in this challenge, so I will try as best I can.

The following tale is a true story, it happened at a very early stage of my development, at a time when I was perhaps most impressionable. It is not difficult for me to recall these events, though it may prove difficult for others to read of them.

My mother was on her own now as my father had departed the family some months prior, leaving her to provide for myself and for her. It was a testing time for us both back then.

The year was 1958, and Liverpool was slowly getting back on its feet after the devastating effects of the war. I was very young, just six years old and had few friends other than the kids that lived on the same street. It was an old terraced row of workers houses, back to back and side to side, and what little there was of play areas for us kids was thin on the ground, so we made do with what we had.

Kids just do not see ghettos, or poverty because kids are too busy having a good time to notice such things. We could learn a lot from kids if we only tried. Kids don't see skin colour, or infirmity, or ugliness, kids are kids, shame they have to grow up huh?

Anyway, one day my mother found herself a job working in a small cafe in Liverpool centre, I believe it was called the Kardoma Cafe, though my spelling may be a bit hazy here. She and I would travel by bus to the city centre where she worked, and she would deposit my innocent self in an all day cinema were I would quite happily watch the Three Stooges and whatever cartoons were being shown. Later, when she finished her shift she would pick me up and we'd head back homewards, her cheery and smiling and me bubbling over with tales of what I'd seen. This routine went on for several weeks until that fateful day that would change me forever.

The day dawned as usual and while mother was upstairs getting ready for her shift, I was downstairs and looking forward to my movie matinee, as I always do (and still do to this day, I love the movies). She came downstairs and we departed to catch the bus.

I remember the very movie I was watching.

It was a documentary on sea life and in colour too. I was sat alone in a row of seats totally absorbed in the magic that played out on the screen, and did not notice that a man had come and sat beside me.

Some minutes after he sat down, this man who I had never seen before turned to me and said those words I will never forget;

'You want to do a job for me son and earn some money?'

I was not at all afraid because in those days grownups were to be trusted, so I said 'Yes'.

He took my hand in his and led me out of the cinema, and onto a bus that went a short distance to where he lived, I followed him and trusted him implicitly. We arrived at a three story building and went inside.

It was dusty and dimly lit, he led into a room and closed the door behind him. The room was quite poorly lit with just a single window that had been mostly hidden behind curtains. There was a bed to the side and a chest of drawers and that was about it, apart from something I had never seen before, it sat atop the chest of drawers and was like a small box with a glass front.

'What's your name?' he asked, I told him my name was Steve.

'Do you like that?' he asked, referring to the strange box that I was staring at.

I asked him what it was and he said it was a television. Now I had never heard the word television before so I still was none the wiser.

'Steve - take your clothes off'

I thought to myself that that was a very strange request, but I could see no wrong in it, so I did as he asked. The thing is, he had taken his clothes off also, and stood before me as naked as the day he was born. Now, I had never seen a naked man before, so I didn't really know how to react, but I do recall starting to feel a little scared at this point.

Well, at this point in the tale I feel I would rather not go into the detail of what followed, as you all are no doubt well aware of paedophiles and the sickly trade that they ply.

But, when he had finished, he took me back to my seat in the cinema and left me there unharmed, on the outside at least.

My mother duly picked me up at her shifts end, and failed to notice the change in her son, who was now silent and fearful.

That's my story.

We were three days deep in the biggest white water race any of us had competed in. An outrageous purse awaited us at the end, and we had our sights set.

Brice and Derek went ahead to scout what route we should take over the falls or if we should hike around. An hour later they returned.

"We got this. The drop is only 20 feet, my only concern is for the gear boat. I'm thinking Marcy, Shawn, The two of you can pack the gear out. Brice, myself, Zack, and Class Five Rick here can take the run."

Marcy and I looked over at the mound assessing our task, then to each other and nodded.

"Sure you wanna take that line, Derek?"

He rolled his eyes at me and smirked.

Derek was a good guy, crazy daredevil of an SOB, but a stand up guy. I knew he had more experience than any of us and could handle this.

It was getting late, and this situation called for full daylight and coffee.

The next morning Marcy and I finished maneuvering the gear for the hike down as the guys topped off the rafts with the K-pumps.

"We shoulda named our team Deez Nuts, that way we could call out, 'Deez nuts pounded the hole!!'"

"Dumb ass, Derek", I playfully chided.

The party split ways, the guys up river, Marcy and I down. I had dry bags clipped to my waist for when we got below. The guys agreed to give us a 30 minute head start so we could pull rescue if there was a swimmer.

I was ahead, "Watch your footing, make deliberate steps!!", I called. "These boulders are loose!!" The trek was steep and unstable. The damn pack digging into my neck, i gritted my teeth and kept on. It wasn't much farther.

Certain words make you just react,

"ROCK!!" Was one of them. Marcy's shrill voice rang out. I instinctively dove at the only crevasse I saw. Gear smashing my face into the unforgiving volcanic rock as I felt the full weight of the boulder crush my shin bone as it bounced down the steep passage.

Below the first raft was making the falls. Their angle on point, but they hadn't the speed. The raft nosed straight down. Derek and Rick leaned back with a tight grip on the perimeter rope as the R2 plummeted beneath the roiling wash. As the raft shot back out, only Rick emerged with it.

"SWIMMER!", Rick's cry echoed off the tight canyon walls as he scrambled for the throw rope. He stood on his knees anticipating Derek's neon green helmet to surface.

Derek shot back up gasping for air as the second raft breeched the lip of the falls only to come crashing down upon him in perfect carnage.

Rick's second cry, "SWIMMER!!!"

Zack and Brice scrambled to eddy out and waited at the ready with throw bags in hand.

It took Marcy a frantic ten minutes to make it below. She scrambled the last boulder to find the three men standing at ready to throw the rescue rope.

The river took it's time releasing Derek from his life and from her clutches.

The evac crew arrived late, but it was still light. I'd soaked through all of our dressings, and couldn't feel anything below my right knee.

They clam shelled me and lifted me into the helicopter and I passed out.

I awoke two days later, shy half my leg and all of my heart.

The annual kindergarten’s winter visit to the local animal farm was the most anticipated trip at Our Lady Of Sorrows Elementary School, and I always enjoyed volunteering for it. Watching the kids milk the cow, hold the baby chicks and pet the llamas was usually delightful. Usually.

As the children were marched into the parking lot, we moms huddled around Rich, the only father who ever volunteered. Holding out our travel mugs, Rich poured a generous glug of Jameson into our coffees from his hip flask, carful not to get caught by the principal, Sister Mary Margaret Anne. Hey, don’t judge us…it’s cold on the farm!

The teachers divide the kids among us and we all piled onto the bus.

We’d barely gotten on the road when I noticed one of my charges was quietly crying, her head resting against the seat in front of her.

I got down on one knee in the aisle and put my hand on her arm. “What’s the matter, Remy?” I asked.

“I told my mom I didn’t feel good,” she whined, “but she said I had to go to school anyway ’cuz she had something to do today.” She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her parka.

“Do you have a headache, honey?”

“No, it’s my…” Before she could finish her sentence, the splash of her projectile vomit hit my cheeks and chin, dribbling down the inside of my mock turtleneck. Hot and chunky, it smelled like rancid nacho cheese dip. I called upon my sheer force of will not to return the favor.

The rest of the passengers turned and stared at us, their mouths agape. I snapped at them to mind their own “bee’s wax” as I wiped the puke off of myself with some dirty tissues I’d found in my coat pocket. Remy cried even harder as she sobbed an apology.

“Take it easy, honey.” I tried to sound soothing between my dry heaves. “What’s your mother’s phone number?” I asked her.

Remy pulled out a cell phone that looked to be about three times more expensive than my own. She dialed the number and handed it to me. After it rang and rang and rang, a gravely voice ordered, “Leave a message.” No pleasantries. No, “Please.” Just a barking, “Leave a message.” I tried five more times as we bounced along the bumpiest of country roads. No answer. No call back.

By the time we arrived at the farm, I was fragrant, damp and mad as hell at Remy’s mom. But the fresh farm air seemed to put some color back into the kid’s cheeks. It seemed the worst was over until Remy told me she thought she might have diarrhea, and asked me to take her to the bathroom.

Now, on the farm, they don’t have bathrooms, only Port-O-Potties. Fun fact about me: I will “hold it” for two days before I’ll get within 50 feet of one of those things. But, I was responsible for this child and had no choice. I took her and waited outside the door. Normally, I’d pull my shirt up over my nose, but since it was now drenched in cold bile, I buried by face in my sleeve instead.

“Mrs. Rosner!” she called though the door. “I dropped my cell phone!”

Grimacing, and with my voice full of hope, I asked, “On the floor?”

“No!”

Oh. Dear. God.

She opened the door with fresh tears running down her cheeks. “I dropped it in the toilet! My mom’s gonna kill me!” She looked terrified.

My first thought was, "kids always say their parents will kill them," but then I made a mental tally of the only things I knew about Remy’s mother: 1. She bought a 5-year-old a $400 phone; 2. She sent that 5-year-old to school, knowing she was sick; 3. She ignored repeated phone calls from her sick 5-year-old’s $400 phone and finally, 4. She burdened a sweet little girl with a name that brings to mind strippers and cognac.

After quickly assessing these tidbits of information, I deduced that Remy might very well be in danger of a whooping when she got home. There was only one thing to do…I’d have to retrieve her phone.

I sought out a farmhand for a pair of rubber gloves. Long rubber gloves. Rich saw me putting them on and asked what they were for. He turned a little green when I told him. “You’re not seriously gonna stick your hand in there, are you?” he asked.

“Not if you’re willing to do it for me,” I said.

“You’ve got the wrong guy, sweetheart,” he laughed. “But may I offer you a little more liquid courage?” He sneaked the flask to me with our backs turned to the others, who were running around the grounds and not watching us anyway.

I took a quick gulp and handed it back. “Here goes nothing,” I sighed.

“Aw, fuck,” I could hear him whisper to himself as I turned to go fishing in a great big bowl of excrement stew, but not before adding my own puke to the mix.