Ficlets

Torturous Johnny

“Scream all you want. We’re in the basement. No one can hear,” the son’s red eyes were widened in maniacal euphoria. His wide, leering grin showed yellow teeth, and the words that dripped out of his mouth were even worse than his apperance.

“No, no, Johnny,” the mother sobbed, wild with fear and anguish. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Please,” she wailed,”please!”

The son circled around his mother, who was collapsed on the blood-stained carpeted floor. Her bruised wrists and ankles were tied together, and were duck-taped to the ground. He held a knife loosely in his left hand, as his right arm had recently been severed below the wrist. Blood seeped out, cascading to the floor, but the son seemed impervious to it. He created a trail of blood around his mother as he continued to stalk, circling, circling, until the ring of blood around her was so thick it looked the carpet’s natural color was a deep burgundy.

“You knew this was coming. You always knew,” his eyes crazily roved his mother. “Always.”

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