One Last Caress

There is nothing like taking a life.

He remembered exactly how the man looked after: how the bones bent in ways they shouldn’t, how the bruises slowly, delectably, crawled out of the yellow skin, but the mouth…the mouth he remembered the most. For an orifice always in motion, it always followed a certain structure. Speaking, chewing, fucking, it always had an expected shape. But the way his victim lay there, mouth slack and ajar, without form, framed by the faintest trickle of lush crimson…that stirred Michael in a way he didn’t know was possible.

A taste. Nothing more.

Yes, he remembered the outcome of beating the man. The act though… it was as if he tried to recall a scene from a movie he watched five years ago. Yes, he could paint broad strokes of what happened, but the details? Those were gone. Michael remembered how he felt though. Oh god did he remember how his toes curled and his heart raced in a way that had nothing to do with his physical exertion.

The police said he barely had a pulse, but he’d make a full recovery it seemed.

Alas…

But how did it feel?

It did feel good. Better than good.

The thought, the admission, rose bile in his throat. It was a thought contrary to the very fibers of his being. He swallowed as he sat alone in the interrogation room.

It had been his plane, his compromise. It didn’t stop the voice.

Good, but not quite good enough, Michael. You know it’s not good enough.

By his nature, Michael had always been around death—seen death, more times than he could count. How many hearts had he held? How many had he broken?

There’s only one solution.

Of course not long after, the cops snagged him. He beat a man within an inch of his life.

He also wasn’t an idiot.

The camera feeds, carefully scoped, clearly showed Michael’s victim accosting him first at the bar, in a seat carefully chosen where there the fewest ears were present, then in the back alley. There was no one to give testimony to the goading Michael gave his victim.

You’re so close Michael.

His high powered lawyer, worth more in an hour than the detective made in a month, took care of the rest. It was difficult to keep his excitement controlled as he watched it over and over again on that grainy interrogation room TV.

“Look, do you really want to do this? My client is an upstanding community servant acting in self defense…”

“We’ve got him on video.”

“And if memory serves me correctly, they have you on video gunning down a kid in cold blood, or did you forget about that incident already, officer?”

“That was self…”

“Quiet,” The DA interjected.

“Thank you both for this outstanding waste of time. Michael, let’s get out of here.”

He heard none of the exchange.

Don’t you really want to feel?

The voice intensified the moment he stepped out of the station–charges dropped, obviously.

You’re empty. It’s time to feel.

He did. He wanted it.

But he needed the voice to stop.

Michael lay awake staring at the ceiling. No matter how many sleep aides he took, it didn’t help.

This isn’t good enough. I know you don’t just want it Michael. You need it.

Over and over again he replayed the scene in his mind. The bead of crimson… an open mouth…

You know what you need to do.

“Get out of my head!” He wrapped his head in his arms, cold tiles mingling with the cold sweat on his back.

Do it Michael. You know what you have to do.

Not bothering with a glass, Michael pulled deeply from the bottle of ornamental whiskey on his bar. He didn’t even feel a burn.

Stop it Michael.

He had never been a good man–his ex-wife and his ex-mistress would almost certainly have used stronger language–but this… this was too much. He laid in the bath forearm raised, willing his courage, or lack thereof, to win out.

Don’t be silly Michael. There’s only one way out of this and we both know that’s not it.

He could barely open the bottle with how much his hands trembled. When did he get up? What time was it? Fuck, where was he even? He looked around frantically, trying to figure out if he was in his house, in the ready room, or back in that dingy tavern bathroom. Pills scattered across the floor, the bottle hitting soon after.

You know those won't help.

Just do it.

You need it, Michael. Feel it.

He screamed, then cried, then screamed until the two were indistinguishable.

Ready?

Are you ready?

“What?“ His eyes were puffy; nothing that would raise any suspicion, but enough for him to notice in the mirror.

“I said, are you ready Michael?” Katie said, watching him. He liked his partner, there was a certain something about her and her… agreeableness. It gave him the briefest moment of calm clarity. Normally, he hated the rest of the team being so overly familiar–the pieces of paper lining his office earned him certain privileges. Not today.

All was still.

Today was the day.

Come on Michael, you’re delaying.

“Before…before we begin everyone. I just want to say thank you for your hard work today, and always remember our creed to first do no harm. Nurse?”

He nodded at Katie, his anesthesiologist. She nodded back with that gentle smile. As he did a hundred times before, Michael adjusted the light. It glinted off of his perfectly cleaned scalpel that he placed against the patient's chest. Thomas Petrie from East Barrington. Stock Broker. Divorced wife. Dead lover. Two estranged children. Valve replacement–his third one, the patient’s resistance to lifestyle changes thoroughly noted in the chart. A perfect choice.

The flesh gave way in the rigid yet tender way it had a hundred surgeries before.

Michael shuddered.

And for the first time since it first spoke, the voice inside silenced.

***

Mr. Thomas Petrie of East Barrington never woke up. It was an easy enough thing really. Even if his posterity managed to stop squabbling over the estate enough to put together a malpractice case, well that’s what insurance was for—to any outside observer, everything that happened in the theater was well within the normal dangers of getting cut.

It was over.

He lay in bed staring at his ceiling, the tingling in his toes still rippling up through his core and into his chest. His heart beat in his head and Michael basked in the clarity of mind he’d yearned for ever since…

Now…wasn’t that nice, Michael?

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A/N:

Loosely inspired by a Misfits song and a famous podcast. Written for the following challenge:

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