Bloody Seconds — Greg Dixon

Alone. Trapped in a dark room. Escape is impossible. Your senses are paralyzed. Worried thoughts plague your mind. You try to cry for help, but your mouth is clamped shut by a fearful, intuitive force. Your nightmare, no, your torturous awakening, is over. Or so you thought. Burning candles now illuminate the room. You arrive at the sick realization that your body has been unmercifully ravaged. Stabbed, sliced and slashed. Devastated. Completely destroyed. Tossed on a table. Torn in half. Your intestines and blood spill out in front of you. The mangled flesh of your torso is fresh; the incisions still ripe from the cutting blades of pervasive madness. A disgusting decision suddenly confronts your conscience. The table has been set. Utensils sit before you. Your mind aggressively thinks that it can't be true. But it is. The initial installment of agony was not enough. You grab a sharp, serrated knife and a fork. Your hunger for severe brutality has not yet been satisfied. The jagged edge of the knife cuts its way through the sloppy mess. You shove the needlelike tips of the fork through the chopped up viscera. Torn up pieces of your life are guided into your mouth. The thick, slimy blood of your tortured existence stains your teeth red. You chew. You swallow. You gag. You are finally full; the horrifying ardor of satisfying your loathsome appetite resurrects your senses. You are strangely pleased that you have come back for your Bloody Seconds of Paradigms of Suffering. You salivate heavily. You want more. You lick your lips, hoping to get one last taste of your nasty disembowelment. You pick your teeth, desperately attempting to dislodge a lone bit of chewed up self-cannibalism. You firmly clutch the knife and fork in your hands. Go ahead. What are you waiting for? Dig in.