The sun-rays shimmered through the broken window panes. Illuminating the dusty insides of a mausoleum, they seemed to be the greatest enemy of the two living inhabitants of the house, darkness and him. The position was same as it had been for the last decade, smoking the same cigar on the old rocking chair, a sad excuse of living man was lost in his thoughts. Thoughts of a bird which had flown away years ago.
Chuck had not been always the corpse he was now. The above-mentioned scenario was not the result of life smashing a man on the ground again and again relentlessly. It was the result of that man’s life revolving around a single scenario.
It was as if it happened yesterday. The sound of leather hitting his skin still afresh in his mind. He could see his 10-year-old self-clenching his teeth, to drown out the wailing. As the demon slowly ripped away the flesh of lil Chucky’s back, crimson dripped from his chin, each drop marking a piece of soul tearing away. Chuck’s mother had passed away a few years ago. While Chuck was too young to come to terms with the loss, his old man turned to alcohol for comfort. It didn’t take long for comfort to turn into a dependency, and dependency to turn into a disease. The father toiled hard during the day to earn his ‘comfortable’ nights. And when the poison didn’t hit too hard, surgery came in handy. Where Chuck was the operating table and his father, the surgeon.
Chuck’s neighbors had heaved a sigh of relief when his father passed away too, to no one’s surprise. Alcohol had been a loyal companion, ultimately giving him the comfort, he had always been longing for. But to Chuck, the world was still the same grey wasteland. The only difference being that now, he had to forage on the wasteland without the blades of grass turning red. As he skipped from social centers to foster homes, life didn’t really wait for him to get over the nights. Sleep became a luxury and melancholy, a friend. One would normally think that after going through what he did, a child would become a mortified recluse. Much to the contrary, his childhood had sowed the seeds of sadism deep in his psyche. Chuck started enjoying others’ pain, often belittling others’ circumstances after comparing them with his own. Pleasure at the cost of others’ pain, emotional or physical, became an obsession. As the years went by, having lived through a stagnated career in accounting and known only the companionship of strangers, it was mornings like these that he would lament over his sociopathic lifestyle and psychopathic tendencies.
But this had become more of a routine. His regret too weak to topple the addiction. He got up from the chair and walked towards the fridge. His heavy steps in sync with his breathing. Upon opening it, the carcass fell right on the floor. His eyes glistened as he dragged his lifeless neighbor across the room. It had taken a hell lot of practice for Chuck to master this form of surgery. The first meal at one of his foster homes. O how innocent Ms. Petunia had been. But she would have been proud of him, he thought, as he had perfected his craft and satisfied his hunger. It was time for his last supper. His insides rumbled as if screaming in hunger. As the clock struck twelve, his hands began making not so immaculate motions. After all, it was skinning time, and Chuck was hungry.