TDV 29: The Fragmented

November 6th, 2008 by Sharkchild

Pieces here, pieces there—it was one sick, twisted mess. I had never before seen such an awful and visually tormenting way to die. It looked like some almighty hand of gargantuan size had grabbed the poor man along with the ground, the chair he was sitting on, and the desk he was sitting at, and mixed it all together in a contraption of Picasso-death. Nothing was as it should have been, and yet, the pieces of it all actually formed a cohesive thing: the chair protruded from the man’s lower torso; desk drawers were rammed through the man’s abs and chest; hands, arms, legs, and feet were flattened like scrapbook material and hastened to several floorboards that were fanned out like the feathers of a peacock from the man’s back; and the remnants of the desk were everywhere in between. The man’s head was equally as appalling. There was no trace of his face, and that, most unsettlingly, was because it had been completely removed from his skull. There were no fluids, muscle, tissue, blood, brain, or any other matter that should have been there on or in that head; there was only bone, only skull.

I lost the contents of my stomach when I first saw the poor soul. I did not know the man—I was absolutely relieved that I did not know the man—but that did not in any way lessen the perpetual rot beginning to erode within my mind, haunting each image and thought with the residue of coagulated perversion. Looking away was easy, but what remained could never be erased.

(Listen to the rest)


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