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 into the 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 sees me for 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 lack thereof, that the abyss of death came to me as an invitation. Death would bring me peace, but also acceptance. However, ever since I stepped foot in Jasper’s presence, every fiber within my body buzzes with life.
He leaves me with Patrick as he goes outside to grab something, and returns a few seconds later with a small axe, the one he uses to chop the wood for the hearth. Patrick’s arms dangle to the sides, blood dripping slowly from the wound Jasper created. He made sure to avoid any veins.
“Let's see if this wakes up our guest,” Jasper says with a boyish smile.
He lifts the axe, and it lands into Patrick’s knee with a wet crack, splintering bone once more.
Jasper raises the axe for another round, hacking at the joints and ligaments, as if he were cutting up wood.
The lower leg falls with a thud on the concrete floor, blood seeping from the severed flesh.
With a small blowtorch, Jasper cauterizes the open wound.
The amateur amputation did make Patrick’s eyes fly open from shock, but the sensation of having his flesh singed shut, made him pass out again.
The other leg doesn’t evoke any sort of response, and for a second, I worry his heart might have given out, but when I press my finger beneath his ear, I still feel a faint pulse.
It’s incredible how much the human body can endure.
Jasper isn’t finished yet, he shows me some fishing wire, moving it in front of me like a magician revealing a hand of cards.
I smile at him, eager to see what he’ll do next.
With quick movements, he wraps the wire around Patrick’s wrists and ties it in a tight knot.
To keep the wire from moving, he uses the staple gun, shooting multiple staples into Patrick’s flesh to secure it.
Then he attaches the wire ends to two planks and secures them again.
Jasper lifts Patrick as if he weighs nothing, his arms swinging loosely, the stumps still attached to his torso, unmoving too. He carefully sits Patrick down and secures him with a cargo strap to prevent him from shifting or sliding down.
He grabs a wooden plank and pulls one up, moving Patrick’s attached arm, and Jasper makes him wave at me.
“I’m naming this project, Our Flesh Puppet,” Jasper grins.
I let out a loud, barking laugh. Patrick slowly opens his eyes, no longer fully aware of his surroundings, but his eyes widen at the sensation of his stumps, the flesh still angry, swollen, and red.
Jasper moves the planks for both arms, and it reminds me of a baby bird, flapping its wings desperately to be fed by its mother.
Patrick is pale from all the blood loss, and I doubt he will stay with us much longer.
I take my camera and begin to shoot up close shots of his barren tissue, the gashes, his ruptured lips, his eyes reminiscent of distorted glass.
All of it carries its own macabre beauty, and I fear I will never be able to do it justice, no matter how many photos I take.
Through my lens, I study Jasper, who’s covered in red streaks, blood smeared everywhere contrasting with the dark ink, something I only notice now.
It’s sexy, and I snap a picture, savoring the moment.
I take a quick look, then take a few more. He looks like a God, and he’s all mine.
“What would you have done if you weren’t saving him for me?” I ask curiously.
Jasper glances at me, his lips curling in delight. “I would have gutted him… I mean, I still can… Imagine shooting that… A waterfall of organs that spills to the floor, creating its own piece of art. A mist of blood that follows.”
I lick my lips. I want to see him delve into it all.
“Do it,” I whisper.
Surprised, Jasper looks up at me.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to take away from what you had envisioned, my love. I already took too much to begin with…”
“Do it,” I whisper again. “I want to see it.”
Not one to need further encouragement, Jasper grabs a knife lying next to him and, in a swift movement, he slices Patrick's stomach. Maggots fall to the side, the writhing fuckers crawling over the floor. The clean, horizontal slash splits the belly open, the cavity beneath lay bare—slippery folds of yellowed fat drape over the edge first, clinging like wet cloth. Lost larvae dive into the wound, their greed knowing no bounds. A slick mass of organs writhes, as though the body resists its undoing. It’s grotesque, and I can’t take my eyes off it as I raise my camera and begin to snap away.
Patrick’s head hangs forward, the last bit of life stolen from him by us.
Jasper and I both watch his body take its natural course, his deceased organs finding their way across his blood-ridden skin like a river breaking through a dam. It’s sensational.
“You truly are an artist,” I gently murmur to Jasper, not hiding my admiration.
My eyes remain fixed on the corpse before me, slowly emptying itself.
It doesn’t matter that I can't practice my traditional death photography, as the Victorians had intended; this experience was still worthwhile.
A modern take on an old, barely forgotten art.
It brought me closer to Jasper, allowing me to revel in his madness and immerse myself in it.
Everything felt natural, as if sharing this moment allowed me to truly shed my former self and become who I was always meant to be.
A kind of consecration. Our own private ritual.
“What is done with the bodies?” I ask.
“I let them return to Mother Earth. First, I’ll remove the staples and any other potential hazards that could harm wild animals, and then I’ll prop him up. Whatever the animals don’t take, the insects will.”
“You do this every time you kill someone?”
He nods, and I let the words sink in.
“So, does this mean your property is covered with human bones?”
He smirks at me. “Does that bother you?”
Again, I think about it and conclude that no, it actually doesn’t bother me. “No… It doesn’t.”
“I knew you were perfect for me the moment I said hi to you,” he smiles, pulls me flush to him and kisses me.
My body is on fire after our make-out session and I wait impatiently as Jasper grabs a pair of pliers and begins to remove the small clamps embedded in Patrick’s lifeless flesh.
I kneel silently and start to untie the wire without a word, not disturbed by the blood that clings to my skin.
I softly hum as I pry it free. The planks are already on the floor, and when I’m done, the wire curls inward as it lands on top of them.
My skin is coated in the gore and blood that adorns the floor, and when I get up, my knees, thighs, and lower arms show smears of dark crimson. My socks hang loosely around my calves.
Jasper glares at me hungrily. The bulge that’s visible through the fabric of his sweatpants is evident.
Without a word, I unclasp my bra, and step out of my thong.
I suck in my lower lip, as his eyes narrow into thin slits.
I feel the dampness between my legs, my pussy is drenched from his possessive stare.
He tosses the bloodied pliers aside, and closes the distance between us with a few strides.
His warm torso is hard against my chest.
He grabs my ass firmly, his fingers bruising my flesh. I let out a delighted yelp when he bites my shoulder.
It seems Patrick’s body will have to wait.