daisydeadpetals
Forum Newcomer
- Joined
- Jul 31, 2013
- Messages
- 11
- Location
- USA
It's your day off, and you are home alone, relaxing in the basement. It's a beautiful day, breezy and cool, and you've left all the upstairs windows open. After all, what could happen? You'll hear if anyone tries to break in.
You've finished lunch, a sandwich and a big glass of lemonade, but you're still hungry. So you go upstairs to make a salad. You get veggies from the fridge and then walk towards the pantry. When you step out with a bottle of vinaigrette, something drops over your head and around your neck.
You have no air to scream with, and you drop the bottle so you can bring both hands to your throat. It shatters, spilling dressing across the tiles. Scrabbling at the cord, smooth and white and thin - good God, it's your laptop cable - you manage to work the fingers of your right hand beneath it. Your attacker yanks it tighter, but you tug with all your adrenaline-fueled strength and manage to loosen it enough for a few gasped breaths. You have almost worked your entire hand beneath it when you slip in the vinaigrette, and your attacker uses the weight of your fall to cinch the cord closed once more, this time knotting it at the back of your neck.
Your fingers are trapped beneath it, but you have no leverage now, no way to work it loose. You can feel your blood pounding in your head, and your mouth is open wide in a desperate effort to breathe. You scratch at your attacker's arm with your free hand, but it's to no avail. Your eyes feel swollen, and soon your tongue begins to poke from between your lips. Clear mucus runs from your nose down over your mouth and chin; you can still taste it when it drips onto your tongue.
You are tiring, your struggles slowing. Maybe you shouldn't have had that lemonade - as your limbs grow heavy and uncoordinated, a sudden stream of piss runs down your pant legs, joining the vinaigrette on the floor. Your chest feels like it's on fire, and your vision is giving way to random spots and flashes. The pain and fear and suffocation are too much, and your mind shuts down as more brain cells die. Finally, the agony is over.
Your body still lives, but your struggles are reflexive and weak and serve only to use up the last of your blood's oxygen. You begin to sag against the cord, until you are slumped with all your weight on your neck, your killer still holding you so your knees are ten inches off the floor. The show is over, and all that remains is the epilogue - the three tiny shudders that pass through your body before you go still.
Your killer gives the cord a final yank, counts to sixty, and lets go, dropping you carelessly to the wet floor. You land with thump and then a crack as your head slams against the tiles. Your killer fetches a bag from behind the pantry door, creeps through the house, and takes everything of value before leaving through the torn window screen.
You do not hear.
You do not stir.
You do not breathe.
They find you the next morning, face-down on the kitchen floor, cold and stiff as a plank, still lying in a pool of vinaigrette and your own urine. With no heartbeat to pump it, your blood has settled with gravity, and your entire front is swollen and blotchy purple with lividity. Your protruding tongue has gone dark and leathery, and your vacant, reddened eyes are filmy. The first three fingers of your right hand are still caught between your neck and the laptop cord, and when they turn you over your arm remains in the position, elbow crooked upward toward the ceiling. It makes lifting you awkward, but they place you in a body bag, wrap you up, and take you to the morgue.
Soon enough you are on the autopsy table, cord removed, and the coroner runs a finger along the groove in your neck before slicing you open. Your secrets spill out, from your missing appendix to your lunch of turkey and cheese on rye to the tattoos your parents do not know about. Your hyphoid bone is broken, cracked in your desperate struggle against the cord and your killer's strength, and the agony of your death has gone fingerpainting over your body, betraying your killer's methods. The coroner sees it all and dictates notes, which assistants hurry to write down.
They finish, and you are sewn closed by steady hands and a silver needle. The black thread trails up your chest like railroad tracks, halting at your chin. You are hosed down and patted dry, and a tag is attached to your toe. Then careful hands push your eyes closed and move you to the freezer. The chill begins to set in, and ice crystals form on your skin. Eventually the cold penetrates to your very bones.
Another body is brought in the next day, shot in the head during a robbery gone wrong. Or perhaps a robbery gone right; that's what the store owner would say. The burglar made off with no loot - nothing but a bullet in the brain. Death was instantaneous.
If you could move, or see, or think, you might feel that this was an inadequate level of suffering for the burglar, for if you turned your head you would find your killer lying dead in the freezer beside you, the two of you wrapped together in soft oblivion, forever.
You've finished lunch, a sandwich and a big glass of lemonade, but you're still hungry. So you go upstairs to make a salad. You get veggies from the fridge and then walk towards the pantry. When you step out with a bottle of vinaigrette, something drops over your head and around your neck.
You have no air to scream with, and you drop the bottle so you can bring both hands to your throat. It shatters, spilling dressing across the tiles. Scrabbling at the cord, smooth and white and thin - good God, it's your laptop cable - you manage to work the fingers of your right hand beneath it. Your attacker yanks it tighter, but you tug with all your adrenaline-fueled strength and manage to loosen it enough for a few gasped breaths. You have almost worked your entire hand beneath it when you slip in the vinaigrette, and your attacker uses the weight of your fall to cinch the cord closed once more, this time knotting it at the back of your neck.
Your fingers are trapped beneath it, but you have no leverage now, no way to work it loose. You can feel your blood pounding in your head, and your mouth is open wide in a desperate effort to breathe. You scratch at your attacker's arm with your free hand, but it's to no avail. Your eyes feel swollen, and soon your tongue begins to poke from between your lips. Clear mucus runs from your nose down over your mouth and chin; you can still taste it when it drips onto your tongue.
You are tiring, your struggles slowing. Maybe you shouldn't have had that lemonade - as your limbs grow heavy and uncoordinated, a sudden stream of piss runs down your pant legs, joining the vinaigrette on the floor. Your chest feels like it's on fire, and your vision is giving way to random spots and flashes. The pain and fear and suffocation are too much, and your mind shuts down as more brain cells die. Finally, the agony is over.
Your body still lives, but your struggles are reflexive and weak and serve only to use up the last of your blood's oxygen. You begin to sag against the cord, until you are slumped with all your weight on your neck, your killer still holding you so your knees are ten inches off the floor. The show is over, and all that remains is the epilogue - the three tiny shudders that pass through your body before you go still.
Your killer gives the cord a final yank, counts to sixty, and lets go, dropping you carelessly to the wet floor. You land with thump and then a crack as your head slams against the tiles. Your killer fetches a bag from behind the pantry door, creeps through the house, and takes everything of value before leaving through the torn window screen.
You do not hear.
You do not stir.
You do not breathe.
They find you the next morning, face-down on the kitchen floor, cold and stiff as a plank, still lying in a pool of vinaigrette and your own urine. With no heartbeat to pump it, your blood has settled with gravity, and your entire front is swollen and blotchy purple with lividity. Your protruding tongue has gone dark and leathery, and your vacant, reddened eyes are filmy. The first three fingers of your right hand are still caught between your neck and the laptop cord, and when they turn you over your arm remains in the position, elbow crooked upward toward the ceiling. It makes lifting you awkward, but they place you in a body bag, wrap you up, and take you to the morgue.
Soon enough you are on the autopsy table, cord removed, and the coroner runs a finger along the groove in your neck before slicing you open. Your secrets spill out, from your missing appendix to your lunch of turkey and cheese on rye to the tattoos your parents do not know about. Your hyphoid bone is broken, cracked in your desperate struggle against the cord and your killer's strength, and the agony of your death has gone fingerpainting over your body, betraying your killer's methods. The coroner sees it all and dictates notes, which assistants hurry to write down.
They finish, and you are sewn closed by steady hands and a silver needle. The black thread trails up your chest like railroad tracks, halting at your chin. You are hosed down and patted dry, and a tag is attached to your toe. Then careful hands push your eyes closed and move you to the freezer. The chill begins to set in, and ice crystals form on your skin. Eventually the cold penetrates to your very bones.
Another body is brought in the next day, shot in the head during a robbery gone wrong. Or perhaps a robbery gone right; that's what the store owner would say. The burglar made off with no loot - nothing but a bullet in the brain. Death was instantaneous.
If you could move, or see, or think, you might feel that this was an inadequate level of suffering for the burglar, for if you turned your head you would find your killer lying dead in the freezer beside you, the two of you wrapped together in soft oblivion, forever.
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