Post by Necrotising Fasciitis on Aug 11, 2011 21:50:04 GMT
Cleaners
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I reside in a world littered with violence and death; anarchy and suicide; a collapsed government. The streets are broken; concrete layered in shards of shattered glass, buildings cracking and crumbling down. It is unsafe and unwise to step a foot outside, generally on the risk of being brutally murdered. Everybody's crazy here, hundreds of murders taking place each day, for no apparent reason; people just like to kill. A sick, sadistic world. The constant dread of having your family or yourself killed drives you insane. The suicide rate - thousands per week. A bullet through the brain being the most used, and effective, as it seems.
The only reason I know this: I'm a cleaner. Not a janitor mopping up a cafeteria floor; I destroy and dispose of the corpses left behind by those who choose to kill themselves. I am a witness to many suicides; they take place anywhere, any time. Just pull the gun out from the pocket of a tattered old jacket, press it against the temple. Bang. Dead. The end. Nothing to worry about anymore. Why don't I kill myself? I'm too dedicated to my "job". Us cleaners, most of which have an intense fascination with the human body, but we're too wimpy to kill a man ourselves. We tend to have a bit of fun with the body before it's disposal; examine it, feel around a bit, and in some cases... we... well, you know. A spot of necrophilia here and there.
I'm not the necrophilic type; I just have an obsession with the human torso and chest. I love to feel the curves on the body... such soft, cold skin. Now, after we've had our time, we destroy the body and its clothes. We each use different ways; burning being the most common. Sometimes, acid is used (I'm still curious as to where you even find acid...) and in some cases, cannibalism. Food is pretty hard to find, so if you think about it, this is actually a pretty damn good idea. Mind you, I don't think I could eat a person with its little glazed eyes staring up at me.
I've noticed that the average suicide victim is the caucasian male, aged from around 18-30-something. If you live past age 35, you're god, so it seems. A lot of women die in childbirth, as there's no-one to help them. Hospitals? No. There's none. Not a single one. Illness is another big killer, but it's usually death-by-gun before any illness reaches peak point. Another little thing I've noticed; fathers of children tend to bring their little angels along with them when they decide to end it. However, it's not sad once you've seen it hundreds, thousands, of times. I just burn the bodies, get on with the job.
It's a daily part of my life, and every other cleaner's life. Hiding behind dumpsters, waiting for the bang. Day in, day out. I enjoy it. I genuinely enjoy it. We ALL enjoy it. The strong metallic smell that fills my lungs each time; touchy-feely with the corpse; mmm. The smell of burning flesh... Maybe I should try cannibalism after all.
Usual Day
-
Today, I walk into the sitting room of my home after waking up. A kicked over foot stool and my wife, lifeless, hanging from the ceiling greets me. Oh dear. I'm late for work. Better get ready.
Dressed in my usual work clothes, suit and tie, and gripping my briefcase tightly in one hand, I walk into the office. Lights are off. Odd. Ah, the whole power system is off. Pretty chilly in here. I walk over to the main desk in the hall where the receptionist stays. She is limped over the desk, blood trickled down her arm and the desk, onto the floor. Guess I won't say my usual hello.
I hurry on over to my own desk. Since the power's out, I best do some paperwork. The curtains are all drawn and there's enough light shining in for me to see well enough. Big windows, see. It's really damn quiet in here. I peep over at my co-worker's desks.
One worker is clumped in a heap over his desk with a gunshot wound to his head. Another is laying on the floor beside his desk, with vomit and blood all over the ground. And a bottle of pills on his desk. I just shrug and get back to my paperwork.
The light outside is dimming a bit. Is that the time already? I'd better pack up. I need to go grab a packet of smokes before I go home.
The streets are pretty empty today, just the occasional corpse lying face-first on the concrete. I walk into the local papershop. The shopkeeper, Robert, isn't behind the counter. I need to use the crapper. I know there's one round the back of the shop, but I usually have to ask Rob if I can use it. Oh well. I hope he'll forgive me.
I pop round the back and open the bathroom door. Since Rob actually lives in this part, the bathroom has a bathtub and such. And the bathtub's full. Overflowing a tad. And Rob is face-down in the tub. Fully clothed, too. I can see why he was taking a bath, it smells like death in here. I back out to go grab some smokes. I'll just use the crapper at home.
Aah, back home. I'm not feeling particularly hungry today. I think I'll just go to bed early. Get some rest, I need it...
Today, I wake up, and walk into the sitting room where my wife hangs from the ceiling. Yawn. Late for work again...
Social networking (a practice)
-
Their twisted, mangled heads stare up towards me. Their eyes interlock with mine, staring at me as I had stared at them. I stalked... they knew... I watched them, by day, by night, I knew their routine, what they did, where they were... I followed them... And now they stare back at me, the same ferocity burning in their eyes as mine once did. I press their rotting faces into a thick, flat book, and I leave them in the warmth of the burning sun, so they may become permanent imprints upon the plain, dry sheets of paper.
They won't shut up... I hear this... this talking, twittering in my ear... it won't stop, it never leaves... it drowns out my songs, my cries, my screams for help... I clap my hands over my ears, my nails digging hard into my soft flesh, but it still... trickles... in. It won't stop, it won't stop! I need quiet, I need rest, I cannot sleep! It swears, it curses, it doesn't... shut... up... please...
Oh, my room... it's so soft, like a cloud, floating over the oceans! It makes me feel like a pussycat in a fat owner's lap... so soft, so warm, so comfortable... if only i could reach out and touch it with my bare hands... My room, it's so white, like a sweet little albino child... so cushioned, so padded, like a neatly dressed wound, presented by the highest doctor... It's my space... my beautiful, open, space...
I love bunnies (one of my oldest stories)
-
I love bunnies. I have a bunny plushie. He is called Alastair. I carry him around with me all the time. He makes me feel safe. He is purple with a white belly and he has long ears. He is slightly bigger than my hand. I love to hug him and cuddle him when the skies are grey and rainy. He's always with me when I get hurt, when I scrape my knee or bruise my arm. I can talk to him when there's nobody to talk to. We can pretend to be different people on a different world, a world so happy and filled with joy, and bunnies. I love bunnies. Did I tell you already? I probably did, I am very silly and forgetful. My head hurts. But Alastair will make my head feel better. Alastair makes me feel like everything is okay. Everything IS okay when I am with him. He makes me smile when nothing else does. When I am sad he makes me forget why I am sad and makes me happy again. I love being happy. Who doesn't love being happy? Everyone I know loves to be happy. They're quiet but they always smile. They never stop smiling. They never blink. They don't move, either. But they all smile at me. They're so busy smiling they don't wash! They are very smelly. There are lots of flies which I don't like. Alastair doesn't like the flies either, they crawl all over him and make him stinky. But he makes me forget they are there. We disappear into a pretty, happy place. There are no flies there. The smell in the real world is horrible. And I think the people here need some sort of magic lotion - their skin is peeling off. Maybe it's the flies. Are the flies hurting those people? I hope the flies go away. Oh no, it's raining. I'm tired. I don't want to get wet! Oh well. I'll just curl up with Alastair and be happy again. I'll forget about the rain. I wonder why the people never need to sleep...
-
I reside in a world littered with violence and death; anarchy and suicide; a collapsed government. The streets are broken; concrete layered in shards of shattered glass, buildings cracking and crumbling down. It is unsafe and unwise to step a foot outside, generally on the risk of being brutally murdered. Everybody's crazy here, hundreds of murders taking place each day, for no apparent reason; people just like to kill. A sick, sadistic world. The constant dread of having your family or yourself killed drives you insane. The suicide rate - thousands per week. A bullet through the brain being the most used, and effective, as it seems.
The only reason I know this: I'm a cleaner. Not a janitor mopping up a cafeteria floor; I destroy and dispose of the corpses left behind by those who choose to kill themselves. I am a witness to many suicides; they take place anywhere, any time. Just pull the gun out from the pocket of a tattered old jacket, press it against the temple. Bang. Dead. The end. Nothing to worry about anymore. Why don't I kill myself? I'm too dedicated to my "job". Us cleaners, most of which have an intense fascination with the human body, but we're too wimpy to kill a man ourselves. We tend to have a bit of fun with the body before it's disposal; examine it, feel around a bit, and in some cases... we... well, you know. A spot of necrophilia here and there.
I'm not the necrophilic type; I just have an obsession with the human torso and chest. I love to feel the curves on the body... such soft, cold skin. Now, after we've had our time, we destroy the body and its clothes. We each use different ways; burning being the most common. Sometimes, acid is used (I'm still curious as to where you even find acid...) and in some cases, cannibalism. Food is pretty hard to find, so if you think about it, this is actually a pretty damn good idea. Mind you, I don't think I could eat a person with its little glazed eyes staring up at me.
I've noticed that the average suicide victim is the caucasian male, aged from around 18-30-something. If you live past age 35, you're god, so it seems. A lot of women die in childbirth, as there's no-one to help them. Hospitals? No. There's none. Not a single one. Illness is another big killer, but it's usually death-by-gun before any illness reaches peak point. Another little thing I've noticed; fathers of children tend to bring their little angels along with them when they decide to end it. However, it's not sad once you've seen it hundreds, thousands, of times. I just burn the bodies, get on with the job.
It's a daily part of my life, and every other cleaner's life. Hiding behind dumpsters, waiting for the bang. Day in, day out. I enjoy it. I genuinely enjoy it. We ALL enjoy it. The strong metallic smell that fills my lungs each time; touchy-feely with the corpse; mmm. The smell of burning flesh... Maybe I should try cannibalism after all.
Usual Day
-
Today, I walk into the sitting room of my home after waking up. A kicked over foot stool and my wife, lifeless, hanging from the ceiling greets me. Oh dear. I'm late for work. Better get ready.
Dressed in my usual work clothes, suit and tie, and gripping my briefcase tightly in one hand, I walk into the office. Lights are off. Odd. Ah, the whole power system is off. Pretty chilly in here. I walk over to the main desk in the hall where the receptionist stays. She is limped over the desk, blood trickled down her arm and the desk, onto the floor. Guess I won't say my usual hello.
I hurry on over to my own desk. Since the power's out, I best do some paperwork. The curtains are all drawn and there's enough light shining in for me to see well enough. Big windows, see. It's really damn quiet in here. I peep over at my co-worker's desks.
One worker is clumped in a heap over his desk with a gunshot wound to his head. Another is laying on the floor beside his desk, with vomit and blood all over the ground. And a bottle of pills on his desk. I just shrug and get back to my paperwork.
The light outside is dimming a bit. Is that the time already? I'd better pack up. I need to go grab a packet of smokes before I go home.
The streets are pretty empty today, just the occasional corpse lying face-first on the concrete. I walk into the local papershop. The shopkeeper, Robert, isn't behind the counter. I need to use the crapper. I know there's one round the back of the shop, but I usually have to ask Rob if I can use it. Oh well. I hope he'll forgive me.
I pop round the back and open the bathroom door. Since Rob actually lives in this part, the bathroom has a bathtub and such. And the bathtub's full. Overflowing a tad. And Rob is face-down in the tub. Fully clothed, too. I can see why he was taking a bath, it smells like death in here. I back out to go grab some smokes. I'll just use the crapper at home.
Aah, back home. I'm not feeling particularly hungry today. I think I'll just go to bed early. Get some rest, I need it...
Today, I wake up, and walk into the sitting room where my wife hangs from the ceiling. Yawn. Late for work again...
Social networking (a practice)
-
Their twisted, mangled heads stare up towards me. Their eyes interlock with mine, staring at me as I had stared at them. I stalked... they knew... I watched them, by day, by night, I knew their routine, what they did, where they were... I followed them... And now they stare back at me, the same ferocity burning in their eyes as mine once did. I press their rotting faces into a thick, flat book, and I leave them in the warmth of the burning sun, so they may become permanent imprints upon the plain, dry sheets of paper.
They won't shut up... I hear this... this talking, twittering in my ear... it won't stop, it never leaves... it drowns out my songs, my cries, my screams for help... I clap my hands over my ears, my nails digging hard into my soft flesh, but it still... trickles... in. It won't stop, it won't stop! I need quiet, I need rest, I cannot sleep! It swears, it curses, it doesn't... shut... up... please...
Oh, my room... it's so soft, like a cloud, floating over the oceans! It makes me feel like a pussycat in a fat owner's lap... so soft, so warm, so comfortable... if only i could reach out and touch it with my bare hands... My room, it's so white, like a sweet little albino child... so cushioned, so padded, like a neatly dressed wound, presented by the highest doctor... It's my space... my beautiful, open, space...
I love bunnies (one of my oldest stories)
-
I love bunnies. I have a bunny plushie. He is called Alastair. I carry him around with me all the time. He makes me feel safe. He is purple with a white belly and he has long ears. He is slightly bigger than my hand. I love to hug him and cuddle him when the skies are grey and rainy. He's always with me when I get hurt, when I scrape my knee or bruise my arm. I can talk to him when there's nobody to talk to. We can pretend to be different people on a different world, a world so happy and filled with joy, and bunnies. I love bunnies. Did I tell you already? I probably did, I am very silly and forgetful. My head hurts. But Alastair will make my head feel better. Alastair makes me feel like everything is okay. Everything IS okay when I am with him. He makes me smile when nothing else does. When I am sad he makes me forget why I am sad and makes me happy again. I love being happy. Who doesn't love being happy? Everyone I know loves to be happy. They're quiet but they always smile. They never stop smiling. They never blink. They don't move, either. But they all smile at me. They're so busy smiling they don't wash! They are very smelly. There are lots of flies which I don't like. Alastair doesn't like the flies either, they crawl all over him and make him stinky. But he makes me forget they are there. We disappear into a pretty, happy place. There are no flies there. The smell in the real world is horrible. And I think the people here need some sort of magic lotion - their skin is peeling off. Maybe it's the flies. Are the flies hurting those people? I hope the flies go away. Oh no, it's raining. I'm tired. I don't want to get wet! Oh well. I'll just curl up with Alastair and be happy again. I'll forget about the rain. I wonder why the people never need to sleep...
