by Joshua Weston
His face was somewhat attractive. He stared at the mirror into his own eyes. He didn’t think he was ugly. Why did he hate himself so much? He cocked his head slightly to the side and back upright. He dug his fingernail into his cheek. His face was now completely numb. The empty needle in the sink took care of that. He stared down at the sink for several seconds, second guessing himself. No, it had gone too far now. He had to finish.
His life was not wasted in any way. He was a successful attorney, had a nice car, spacious apartment, and was never a stranger to the ladies. On the surface, he lived the perfect life. Underneath, however, was a completely different monster. A monster that was never satisfied, that had broken down every shred of humanity possible. He was so fucking ugly underneath his skin, it was now time to show the world his true face.
And with that he got to cutting his flesh. Scissors started it off, snipping at his lips in triangles and rectangles, the fat pieces of flesh slapping the sink with sickening thuds. He worked fast, knowing full well what he would feel when the drugs wore off. It hurt like hell, burned even, but was nothing compared to what was really happening, and his mission needed to be done before that pain was fully realized. After both of his lips were nothing more than piles of bloody meat in the sink, he stopped to take a look in the mirror. Technically, his mission had been accomplished, as no one would ever look at him the same way again. He wasn’t even sure if one could survive for long like this. But he wasn’t done.
Next, he took a filet knife and scalped himself. It hurt a lot more now, and it wasn’t because the drugs were wearing off. No matter what you’re on, it’s impossible to do this and not feel it. He felt it, but it turned him on. The women at the bar would flock to him if they saw the erection he was carrying right now. Then three cuts down the front of the face and he resembled a chart in a Biology class.
The scissors came back for the ears, clipping them down to little stubs on the side of his head, resembling radio knobs. If only he could’ve tuned these in to another station years ago. He then sliced his nostrils up to the eyes, letting the flaps of skin slap him in the face.
The pain came rushing now, he had to finish. He hadn’t prepared himself for this. Tears poured from his eyes, mixing with the blood and splashing on his hands, sink, and floor. He screamed louder than he ever had before, and was so mad at himself for sounding like a girl. If nothing else he figured his last vocalization would be somewhat manlike.
He had to abort, he couldn’t stand it. He said his goodbyes to his pistol as it entered his mouth and blew his brains onto the wall behind him. The pain was immense. His head hit the toilet, throwing out more chunks of brain matter, and he slumped on the floor. He could feel the blood encompassing his dying body. Then, he felt nothing.