My Ghost

Karma

Looking into the terrified eyes of my nightmare, and knowing that I have become his nightmare, was the strangest, yet most gratifying, feeling in the world. I had all the power, he had none, and never would again. I felt like I could take him down, even if he somehow managed to break free and stand up, simply because I had sucked all of that power right out of his mean, sick, little soul.

I took my time, standing over him with that broken bottle in my hand, just letting him soak in all of the fear over the pain he was about to endure. Evil? Maybe. But this man had every ounce of evil I could give him, coming to him. Karma was right by my side the whole time, encouraging me. Begging me to do things to him. I did not let her down.

Cutting up his face, slowly, with the jagged glass, was precious. The muffled screams and horrified look on his bloody, grotesque face, was priceless. I carved into his cheeks so deep that the glass went right through, and even nicked his tongue. I did this to both sides of his face. Then I knelt down low with my mouth almost touching his ear and whispered, "Karma's a bitch, honey, but just take it like a man."

I stood up and decided I wanted more to work with. First I ran back to the car and checked the trunk. I rummaged around and found a tire iron and a screwdriver. Not bad. As I was heading back to him, I remembered the dump truck, as it was in my view from the headlights of the car shining on it. I thought I might check the door and see if someone left it unlocked in case they might have some more toys in there. I used my shirt over my hand to try the door handle. I didn't want to leave fingerprints. But just as I suspected, they had locked it up. I saw the little side panel on the driver's side of the truck, which I know, is a built in tool box. I lifted the handle on it, and guess what was left unlocked?

I couldn't see inside very well. The headlights from the car didn't light up the inside and I didn't have a flashlight. I felt around and pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid, but nothing to get excited about. And I was having trouble feeling around with my shirt over my hand. But the last thing I expected to find, was the best thing I had found so far. A box cutter.

I was almost skipping with delight, as I returned to my wonderful husband. I felt as happy as a child with a brand new toy. I showed him what I had found. He didn't seem to be as happy about it as I was, though. In fact, he panicked. He was about to hyperventilate, which was quite funny considering his mouth was stuffed and taped shut. But he managed to calm down a little before erupting into a total panic attack. Although, within a few minutes, he did get to have his panic attack.

I started my playtime with the tire iron. I drew back with it, as though I was about to strike a golf ball with a golf club. With all my strength, I struck him right in the side of his left kneecap. He screamed out through his nose with great pain. I kept striking that same knee until I saw a lot of blood coming out through his pant leg. Then, curiosity got the best of me and I cut open the pant leg with the box cutter, so that I could see what I had done, exactly. And to my surprise, when I pulled the fabric away, his kneecap fell out. I would have never imagined that would happen.

As much fun as I was having with the tire iron, my arms were tired. I dropped it in the dirt and picked up the screwdriver. I began lightly stabbing him in the stomach, punching holes throughout his abdomen. He cried like a baby. I found it so amusing. I had never understood why he seemed to enjoy my pain so much when he would beat me. Now I understand quite well.

I used the box cutter like anyone would imagine I would. A box cutter is designed for cutting, and that's exactly what I did with it. I cut him up, all over his body, with the box cutter in my right hand, and the broken bottle in my left. I cut his flesh with no rhyme or reason. I just cut and cut. I made some rather deep and painful gashes in his arms and legs. I even cut the top of his head open, exposing his skull. I took off his shoes and socks, and cut off his toes, one by one. He had a panic attack and almost killed himself from the lack of enough oxygen, so I widened the gashes in his cheeks, and put my fingers inside, carefully not to let him bite off my fingers, and pulled on the sock inside his mouth enough for him to get more air through the holes in his cheeks. I hadn't realized that the sock had almost gotten in his throat. I didn't want him die yet. I wanted him to experience the pain of a lifetime.

He started breathing more normally, still panicked, but better. I sat down on the ground beside him. There was blood everywhere. The smell of blood was overwhelming. I loved it. It's strange how incredibly sweet blood smells when it has adrenalin pumping through it. The sweet smell of the adrenalin overpowers the metallic smell.

I didn't leave an inch of him untouched, so, I picked at some of the hundreds of wounds, with the box cutter, cutting wounds even more, and deeper than they were. I didn't want this to end. I wanted it to last forever. If only I could keep him alive and continue to torture him anytime I wanted. But I knew daylight was coming soon, which meant those workers would be back. Besides, he had endured so much pain, it was a matter of time before he would pass out. But at least there was one more thing I could do to make him suffer even more. Light him up.

I took the bottle of lighter fluid and stuck it in my jacket pocket. I cleaned off the tire iron, screwdriver, box cutter, and broken bottle with my shirt. I laid the tire iron and box cutter across his chest. I stabbed the broken bottle and screwdriver into his gut. He grunted and jumped a little, but I had taken all of the fight out of him.

Then I squirted the lighter fluid all over him. Tears ran down his face. He wasn't dumb enough to not know what I was doing. I would almost want to let him live just to have to live with all of these scars, but that was not an option.

I felt like I should say something, a few last words. But I really had nothing to say to him. So, I didn't say a word. But we looked each other in the eyes as I struck a match from a matchbook I always kept in the car for an occasional smoke that he knew nothing about. I took that match and lit the whole matchbook on fire and dropped it on him. In seconds, he was engulfed in flames. He screamed and screamed while trying to roll around. I can only imagine what that kind of pain must be like. I was so fascinated by his horrific pain that was giddy with delight. After his long painful fight with the flames, he went limp after a few low cries, and then silence. It was over. He was dead.

His flesh popped and crackled, like smoked sausages in a microwave. The smell of burning and charred human flesh is something so horrible, I cannot describe it. But I stood there, anyway. I stood there and watched my monster burn.