Dr. Arcana - Butchered in Effigy

>Arcana “Is it possible to miss something that never existed?” The one thing Dr. Arcana strived for in life was to invoke terror in everyone. If you were able to ask him why, he would most likely blame his desidious father, but in all actuality it was from abandonment. It may be hard to believe such a callous, hideous cerature could in fact be so human, however, such is the case. If a viper could speak he would say only this: “Can you understand living life to only exist. To wake up every morning to just wake up, and after that there’s nothing. It’s not a matter of apathy or motivation, it’s not the years of surmounted pressure. It’s nihilism. Sledgehammer hurling through the air, expanding synapses adjusted to the pulse of your still beating heart as you get blind sided by a massive hammer, thrilling. To wake up without feeling, total disinterest in the modern man’s daily ritual. The hunter-gatherer dies out, the jackyl comes out. Animal, vile and wretched with snarling teeth and emotionless fury caged inside the mind. Desperate for release in the languid vessel of bottled aggression, cold courtrooms could be built around me, the prison cells growing around my bare being”. Diluted madness. “Eviscerated, locked away for an eternity better spent dead. Dead because living has actually become worse then the fear of dying. Out of deperation a new philosophy is born, a scream in the middle of the forest of falling trees that nobody will ever hear. Eclipse the waning moon, give me salvation through my tiresome diadem of broken thoughts and release the sober ferocity. There is no scream without a voice, there is no beast if not a heart and in me; I am nothing, heartless and without a voice. Pity fallen for the disgraced exile, everybody please get one last look before it all becomes a headline. National acclaim of a D.O.A., international credit for a morgue statuette. One last breath before the fall, a final thought passing and the euphoria’s exposed. The last seconds of life are the most bittersweet, the precious grasp of fleeting sensory unkempt, gasping for vanquished emission to solitude. Blacked out forever, a curtain falls over the body and the show is over. The show with no critics, no audience, nobody. The show is over, the blood leaks off the stage and a minuetto performed. A baroque death for a broken soul, a kiss left with ill-fettered prose. Bindings and chains disappear, if only the memory perceieved their existence, then perhaps I was never chained. Possibly, this whole art of death and garbage of life is a lie I’ve coerced, been dealt to face, and plotting against myself is my only game. What’s said is said, and actions cease - the dream is dead and the curtains crease”. But animals don’t have that capability, silence forever remains. And to the world, a cold callous man stands vehementally, angered only by his own measures of living. Dead and gone to everyone he’s ever known. His life goal, having been to invoke fear in all those around him, fate - it seems is not without a sense of irony, the one thing in the world which he treasured and loved most was the one thing that feared him more than anyone else. He used to say during slaughters, or sessions as he calls them, “It appears as if everything around me is dying, in reality I’m the only one afflicted”. While taking a hand saw to a man’s jugular, men in speculation vomiting, tearing bowels out of cadavers only to feel. Sadistic perversion of the most immense disease, Arcana possesed this. A precision cut with a scalpel along the mandible, lifting flesh from muscle tissue and filleting the nerve endings of the victim, then in a non-sequitor, an iron rod beaten against the corpses cranium. Sickness exists, indeed. Is there no salvation from suffering, Arcana hoped to prove there was but became a victim of bloodlust and post-humous fixation. Not so serial, but rather invigorated by the ceasing of life. Then again, aren’t we all attracted to the morbid. Terror is not an adequate reason to look away. Butchered In Effigy “There’s nothing like the loss of hope to awaken a broken dream and resort to tragic extremes” Insomnia, the growing burden of existence without rest pounded him hourly as time passed beside him. The fact of the matter, insomnia, being a disease was a likely enough justification to break into small doctor offices late at night and steal small doses of prescription pain killers to sedate him enough to resolve his calloused mind. The scales weighing his addiction, however, saw his diadem a bit less lavish then he had. The time had come to face inevitable pennance for his actions; not to mention the man’s daily life. He worked tirelessly in the court system, reknowned as “The Man to Set You Free” due to his underhanded way of blackmailing the opposing party in court and thereby having a clean 72 - 0 record, but without the slightest emotion he defeneded pedorasts, drug kingpins, scum bags, murderers and even a few corporate schmucks caught with DUI’s - and all with his knowledge of their wrongdoings only to release them back onto the streets. The address on the doctor’s office that night is not important, the sterile atmosphere of the medical building is irrelevant but what is key about that night is when the man set to break into the office, he was greeted by an open window. He thought as a “turn of luck”, yet rather his opening into a world of pleasure beyond synapse (in the right mindset anyways). He crept through the hallways, scanning thoroughly to find the prescritptions. As he neared this disturbing looking door a sour feeling crept over him, as if fate was stricken with disgust, and then it passed - he opened the door and walked inside. Feeling along the wall for a light switch, the door closed behind him. Surgical devices over a restraint chair with three small lights shining right over it. He walked towards it with a peculiar interest, he examined the small tray with stainless steel surgical instruments aligned so precisely as if arranged by a machine. A footstep. He turned around to see only a pair of goggles and a white mask. “Hello, what have you come in for” the goggles questioned. The man hadn’t prepared an answer. “Drugs? Is that what you want? Have a seat, I’ll fix you right up”, the doctor said. The man glanced at the shiny objects which seemed to stare back at him with a precocious obscurity. “Oh… Don’t mind the toys, they’re just for show.. Sit down” The man sat. “So, what’ll it be this evening?” the doctor said with a tinge of giddiness in his voice. “Anasthesia? Morphine? You came to the right place, we have it all here..” A pause. “Not much of a talker, eh? That’s fine, I prefer my patients like that” The man squinted through the bright lights with a indecisive stare. “Lay back, I’ll give you my personal favorite - works everytime”. The doctor arranged a tank full of some unkown anasthesia, the tube was fed into a jointed seperate tube which was hooked up to another tank with a different gas. He continued fiddling with the apparatus’ for a moment and then brought up a mask hooked up to the two tanks. “Here you go, try that one on for minute or two”, he said as he placed the mask over the man’s mouth. “Breathe deep”. Several hours passed, the man’s mind swirled about in a lucid dream state but he unfortuantly returned to a semi-concious state. His jaw and face tingled, as did his abdomen and thighs. He looked up towards where the three lights had been shining to see one light directly over his reclined state and a mirror with a direct view of his torso. He gasped as he tried to contend with the notion that his stomach was flayed open and gaping with full function to keep him alive. The very sight off the skewed nerve endings and ripped veins would have made him shudder if not for that tingling feeling in his jaw. Another mirror moved towards his face, there in that poloraid horrorscape he focused his eyes on his newly constucted self. The skin around his eye sockets was stripped off, his nose severed like a pig carcass, his ears also detached and his lips literally ripped off. Half of his tongue flopped around in his mouth as he tried to shriek yet only managed to gurgle mouthfuls of sanguine blood, his eyes moved frantically about the room. He looked fearfully back into the mirror of his abdomen, his intestines tourniqueted out of his body, he assumed he couldn’t survive through the night (not that he would want to after this). “The plight of the world is centered in our cultivation of aesthetic, in fact, we do not cultivate - we scorch the plains and burn the skies. Plight indeed”, the doctor moved about him. The manner of his precision ought to have been questioned, but surely not by our patient, he was in no state to point out his errors in surgery. “Quid Pro Quo, my good sir. In Latin, ’something for something’. Tongight you gave me something for my gift to you, you were sedated and I was infatuated by your anatomical design”, he said as he moved his bare fingers over the man’s exposed ribcage. “I’m so delighted you stopped by this evening, I wanted to pay my respects to you - you see, you had defended me just a few months ago. Seems like you may have bargained for much more then you were expecting by merely winning another case. Actions, they speak much louder than words - no you can prove that”, he grinned on that last note and now baring his face as the known “executioner” for several brutal slayings which he couldn’t be “tied to”. The bitter twisting of fate leading to the climatic irony of being spliced after saving the doctor from a possible life sentence into his own demise. “You will live on past this, I fear by allowing you to die would be inhumane and I just don’t have the stomach for that..”