Autopsy Of A Mind

It was oddly familiar. The smell of spoiled food, urine, and fecal matter. I pressed my hand against my nose to block out the intense wave of nausea I felt rolling through my body. My gut clenched as I took my first step in.

Mr. Butler had moved aside to make room from me.

I looked around the room from where I stood. I could see every corner. There was no one lurking in the shadows. There were no hidden traps ready to hurt me. I let out an involuntary sigh as I took another step forward.

The rush of nausea slowly dissipated and I felt power course through my veins.

Why did he kill those people?

What motivated him?

Bottles and packets of snacks were strewn all over the ground. If I hadn"t known better, I would have thought it was a college dorm and nothing more. The small one bedroom flat was not enough for the murderer to have committed a crime in. Yet, he had somehow managed to do it.

I could see the kitchen. A concoction that seemed to be bubbling lay on the countertop, presenting a grim image of the condition of the person who had been living there. It had to be a couple of weeks old.

My eyes flitted towards the kitchen tools. The rack with all the knives was empty. A fine layer of dust had acc.u.mulated over it.

"Did he use any knives to hurt the victims?" I deadpanned.

"No."

"Then why are they gone?"

There was a high powered grinder on the same counter, which seemed to have been used recently.

He has no sharp objects in his house. He eats pre-cooked meals or blends them and consumes them.

I moved away.

"Will he be questioned?" I asked in a small voice.

"The evidence against him is overwhelming but he will definitely be interrogated and a psychiatrist will be evaluating him." This was said matter-of-factly.

"He is trying not to kill himself," I whispered.

"I couldn"t hear you."

"HE"S TRYING NOT TO KILL HIMSELF!" And it sounded more like a question in my ears.

"Yes. He will be watched. He will not have the opportunity to escape punishment." I felt a lump in my throat forming. It grew bigger, choking me.

The questions overwhelmed me. I had so much to ask. I needed answers.

"Come," he beckoned me further.

The bedroom.

The door was ajar. The stench had changed. It was no longer filth. It smelled like torture.

Something hanging from the ceiling swayed gently. The sound of chains broke me out of my reverie. I looked up to see sharp blades forming a box.

"This is where he kept them locked." Mr. Butler had a strange expression in his eyes. He leaned over to a trunk kept in the corner of the room and unbolted it. It squeaked open, the rust making a deafening noise.

In it lay a long rope: dirty and b.l.o.o.d.y.

The filthy mutt had not even had the civility to wipe the room clean.

The blood had dried on the table. The death machine hanging overhead was clean. It grated on my nerves. It wasn"t new blood… it was old… weeks, months old blood. The putrid color stood out against the dark wood of the execution table.

"Do you want to experience it for yourself?" I started. I turned to look at Mr. Butler, who had his hands on the long chain keeping the machine hanging from the ceiling. The pulley squeaked at the touch.

"Death?"

"No, how it feels to let go of the chain." His eyes were glued to mine.

"No," I barked. "Never."

Who was I trying to convince? Myself?

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I answered firmly.

"Then get comfortable." He removed his hand from the chain and left the room. I wondered if I was supposed to follow him.

There was no bed in the apartment, only an old couch in the living room. That must have where he slept in peace as his victims struggled to breathe in that locked trunk. He must have been watching TV as those children prepared themselves for death.

What must it have felt like to be tied to that table, vulnerable, waiting for death?

I looked at the execution table, wild curiosity clawing at me.

In a moment of madness, I reached over to the table and pressed my palm against it. The cold surface made my palm itch. I slowly faced away from it and made the decision.

"I was going to do it." I touched my back to the table, placed my palms on it and propped myself up. Not letting myself back out, I lay down.

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath.

Everything will be okay.

I was greeted with a sense of vulnerability when I opened my eyes. Something was amiss. The feeling of being tied down overtook my senses.

I lurched forward, but my body remained stationary. My hands were bound to the side, my legs equally secured.

I had not thought it possible for me to feel like crying, but the question of how I had ended up being tied down disgruntled me.

"You really are stupid." I heard someone taunt. I gasped as I felt a feathery touch on my arm, but I saw no one there.

"Help!"

"You dare ignore me?" I heard it again. This time it was a growl. It was unlike anything I had heard before. But the direction of the voice had changed. I whipped my head towards the direction to catch a glimpse of the culprit.

No one.

No one was there.

"Help," I crocked. "Help." I struggled. The restraints dug into my flesh. My body had grown unaccustomed to such terrible fear, to the repulsive grip of ropes on my limbs.

"No one can help you now." And this time I saw the person.

Her brown hair flowed to her waist, it was knotted in places, her hands were dirty, her black eyes bloodshot. There was something eerily familiar with her. Her bones jutted out as she grabbed onto the chain dangling beside her.

She slowly started unwinding it, right in front of my eyes.

"Why?" I cried.

"Why did he leave me alone?"

"Because you didn"t obey me!" the girl screamed. Her taut skin stretched over mouth as she gaped at me. The glare she fixed at me froze me. I didn"t struggle.

"I will not obey you."

With a furious scream, she let the chain go. My eyes went to the machine hanging over me.

Time slowed down.

As did my breathing.

I waited for it.

Greeted it.

I screwed my eyes shut as I waited for the force.

My body jolted.

I felt no pain.

There was no pain.

There were no restraints.

There was no girl.

The chandelier still squeaked overhead.

The sound of rhythmic footsteps outside hadn"t changed.

The monster was back.

And she was going to kill me.