Post 8: Podcast Outline

Intro

 

Story

Love that Lasts Beyond

I walked down the dark streets to my home, the one I take every day after work, once I get off the overcrowded subway. These streets were never lit. Always dark. 

I walked up to the steps to the door like I always did, put in the keys, unlocked it, entered, took off my shoes, and dropped my suitcase on the floor, like I always did. It was late. I was thinking of going to bed, to be wrapped around my warm blanket, in the dark. But some strong force pushed that desire away and instead replaced it with one that compelled me to go downstairs, down to the basement, like a bee lured to sweet honey at a family breakfast out in the patio.

The basement felt a lot cleaner than what I expected. It felt empty somehow but I could not quite put my finger on exactly what was strange. The room was different. But it wasn’t.

At the end of the room, at the very far front, there was the fridge I was familiar with at least. So I ran towards it. I ran and ran and ran and ran. I had to check if no one had touched it – my prized possession! I ran my hand down the handle, fingers wrapping around it, firmly grasping, anxious to open it. I wanted to know but I didn’t. I was afraid to see what was behind the door, inside the fridge. 

But I had to.

So with a swift tug, I opened it. And as soon as I did I deeply regretted doing so, despised myself, despised the bastard who had left it. I would’ve closed the door but the horrific sight in front of me paralyzed my body. A young woman, decapitated and butchered to pieces. The arms and legs were crossed with one another to create a pedestal-like form for the trophy that was placed in the centre. The eyes were closed, no creases on the forehead – a peaceful expression. Her straight dark hair was let down around her arms and legs, frozen in place. If I had touched even lightly, stroked a small part of it, I was sure that it would chip off. At the top shelf was the remainings of her upper torso, with holes and scratches where I could see the insides of her body, of the strands of muscle underneath the smooth skin. Her left breast was missing and as well as her dead heart. Only a huge hole was left behind where I could see the other end of her torso, her back that still had some meat on her. I could see a few parts of her rib cage if I were to lean in just a bit closer. Her right breast was still intact but her nipple was perfectly removed because it left a nicely shaped circle behind. A delicate procedure with a sick motive. 

Cold air flew out from the fridge and smacked against my face. The stench. The stench of her. The stench of rotting flesh. It was revolting. She was not taken well care of. To be put in such a state! Oh! My pitiful beloved, beautiful, little sister! 

Sorrow is what I felt first until it was overpowered by anger and rage. Revenge is what my heart longed for, what it ached for. It was what drove my rush of adrenaline. I wanted to find the bastard who did that to her. That wretched bastard! 

Ahhh. But I did not need to look. I was fortunate because as soon as I turned around I saw a dishevelled look: worn-out filthy white clothes, a scruffy white beard, sunken, hallowed, tired eyes – his eyes! Filled with madness. Around his neck was something like a necklace, and whatever was tied to the lace was what he played around within his mouth, between his teeth. At first glance, it seemed like he had not just one, but two! pacifiers in his mouth. It wasn’t until he let them drop from his dry, chapped lips, a string of saliva clinging back until it fell, did I notice that it was a pair of pink nipples. 

Aaahhhh, I felt my sanity shatter into pieces.

“Did you do this?” I asked. but he didn’t respond.

I kept asking, again and again, “Did you do this?” but he wouldn’t reply. He only laughed. He was mocking me. My patience was being tested. And out of the blue, he attacked. He sprinted towards me and pulled out a knife from somewhere — I don’t know where! — and just lunged at me.  It surprised me for a bit but I reacted quick! I wasn’t going to let him have his way. I wasn’t going to let him have me too!

The wretched thing thrust the knife from up above, and my reaction was to throw my hands up in the air and hold them in place. Both of us struggled for power. He pushed on me and I pushed back. We both wanted to prevail. But I just wanted to know. I wanted him to answer my question. So I asked him again, one last time, slowly: “Did you. Do this?”

A laugh escaped through his chapped lips. It got louder and louder as he kept laughing and laughing. His madness was consuming me, but I didn’t want to give in. I wanted to fight. I wanted to win the fight. I wanted revenge. I wanted it so badly.

I screamed straight at his face. I tried to show him my strength. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t weak, that I wasn’t cowardly, that I wasn’t afraid. But he pushed again. He screamed back at my face, catching me off guard. His strength overpowered me. It overwhelmed me. All I could do was shrivel back into my shell.

Finally, he replied. “Mine!” And the last thing I saw was the necklace that tied my sister’s nipples to his disgustingly yellow, deteriorating, and hallowed teeth.

 

I jolted out of bed, my heart palpitating, pounding out of my chest. I could barely catch my breath. I looked around. I was in my room, somehow. I recognized my desk with my messy pile of papers and my mug that balanced on a stack of books that I was supposed to throw away. My eyes darted outside. It was dark. No clouds. No stars. Then to the clock. It was 3 in the morning. 

I quickly sprinted off my bed and ran down the stairs to the 1st floor, the floorboards creaking and shrieking at me, as if they were telling me to hurry, to hurry and check if everything was still, if nothing had changed. I flung myself behind the stairway with the round globe-shaped wooden piece of the stair pillar, opened the basement door and tumbled down the steps, creaking, and shrieking still. The room this time felt familiar, the worn-out desk that I’ve had for 7 years was still at the corner of the room that held the weight of many empty and full boxes with papers, books, albums that I’ll never look at again. Every step I took there were cords and wires at my feet. And for a perfectly good reason, for at the very end of room, at the far back was the same fridge I’ve had for 3 years. In the same spot for 3 years. Working for 3 years. 

I calmly approached it. stepping but not tripping on any of the thick and thin wires and cords on the floor. Gently and slowly with patience, I slid my fingers down the handle and wrapped them around it. And after taking a deep breath, holding it in for just a bit, and letting it out slowly, through my perfectly white teeth because I brush every morning and night, I opened the door. And in the fridge, with the cold, freezing air blowing on my skin, sending pleasing shivers up and down my spine, I examined for any blemishes, scratches, any torn skin on my beautiful, beloved little sister’s body. Nothing. She was perfect. Perfectly still. In her full non-decapitated, unbutchered slim pale body. 

She stood with her long slender arms by her side, her long dark hair frozen in its place behind her back. Her petite breasts and tiny pink nipples were where they should be. The frozen tips of her lashes stitched them together to help her eyelids keep tightly shut. Her short legs and tiny feet and neatly cut nails remained as they were for 3 years. 

I wished to be able to take her out of her cage and cover her in the warmth of my embrace. But if I did her body would deteriorate, decompose, and I would be left with nothing but the stench of an ugly corpse, not my sister. So I must lock away my desires to keep the fresh beauty of my beloved sister, my beloved sister who continues to keep me company.