Falling into the Siphon; [19]

Few people notice the absence of Victor Lewis, an Urbex that targets one building a month, taking pictures and recording video. Two weeks ago, he targeted an abandoned mall, and told friends of his plans – only they made the connection to his plans and disappearance, and share it on a small local forum. As the rumors spread, more follow after Victor’s footsteps.

Mature | Death; Body mutilation; Body horror;

How long has it been since I died?

I peel the shredded, stale coat and shirt and dropped them in a corner with a wet plop as the teenager sobs on the other side of the wall. The prickling in my cut telegraphs the movement of the knife sank deep into my gut, it lays within and I fall backwards to sit.

Has it been a week since I died, or has it been two; they talked like the thread was still up. Is that the reason more people still come, are there more people to come? The circling of blood twirls among the glass shatters, making a spiraling drain in the middle of the floor. A flinch forces the knife out of me, clanging on the floor and sitting still in the blood dripping from my fingers and exposed arms. They’re so grey, something more suited for a corpse, but I am one that won’t stop moving. Alive but dead, like a zombie, or a vampire, what in the hell am I really. Was the driver of the dark car and the owner of a dog that saw me one of the girls upstairs, or was she still out there with this information?

I… I don’t know if it’s good or not, the driver has come here three times, circled four times in one night, talked with people that came in here. What does he or she know, how much. Does the person know about the thread, has the person read the thread, is the person planning anything? Oh god, holding my head, curling over, I’m starting to cry. What if someone I knew comes in here, am I going to feed them to the darkness, am I going to pop their eyes, am I going to taste their pearl. What if Sarah tries to find me. What would happen to the children, what would I tell her, should I tell her if she came. Should I try and talk with anyone that shows up?

Hi, I’m Victor Lewis. I’m a living corpse!

I can’t even say two words without choking on my blood clots, could I even make a sentence if I wanted to, would they even listen?

How many more times will I be stabbed, shot, ridded, smashed, until I meet death. How long would it be till everyone else dies; the girl with a chair taken to the face, the pair stabbed constantly, the girl slashed while she cowered, the ones who felt their eyes split and popped, the girl who had to watch her own eye get pulled out and eaten. What in the fuck am I on, how could I do all those things?

Sarah, I am so sorry. I am so fucking sorry you had to deal with my shit.

Drunk calls in the middle of the night, drinking until the brink of dawn, coming home drunk, being a piece of shit to the kids, didn’t make them dinner, didn’t make them breakfast. They had to deal my fucking drunk ass self, why did no one get me help.

I needed it so much.

The knife. Could I harm myself with it and become like them?

I hold it in my right hand, hold my chin back and press it against my throat. Breathe, let the blood bubbles draw down the knife, and exhale. It’s forced up, piercing through the cut along the neck, through the empty cavity behind my tongue – I feel the top of the knife on the back of my tongue – and push again, deeper. Pressure tickles the back of my head, and I push again, letting it slip through my brain and through the pre-cracked part of my skull. Blood is pouring down the back of my head. I can still breathe, feeling it wiggle in my brain while I swallow, rubbing against the wall with the back of my head moves the knife deeper into my throat. I shouldn’t be able to speak. I should be dead.

Do I have to carve out my own brain for this to end?

A sharp tug gets it to slide from my head and again it’s held In my right hand and I stare at the ceiling. How did they feel when their eyes were split?  Lids are held by two fingers and the knife rises in the sight of my right eye. Slowly, the knife makes its path around the outside – like how the first person experienced it. I saw the blade against the faint light and of a shiny at it’s overhead angle. The blade gets closer, my hand and blade shakes. I breathe calm with my eye still held open, the blade still hanging overhead.

A itch crawls over my eye as the blade rests upon it, my sight almost completely black except for the bottom. My breathing, a slow in and out, shakes on exhale. I press and pull. The knife drops, I hold my face and feel the rush of fluid fall through and into the blood swirling below. Oh god, that fucking hurt. How could I think it was fun? I did it to so many people, I licked a guy’s eye before cutting it open, I tore an eye out of someone’s face, with a knife that is probably completely dull at this point – her eyebrow is among the light across from me. How in the fuck could I do that.

I don’t want to live knowing that.

Why the fuck can’t I just die.

Why the fuck are they still alive?

Why, in the fuck, am I still breathing!

The knife isn’t far, laying just over by the dropped back of one of the two girls. Ignore it, I want the knife. With it finally in hand, in both hands, I arch my back and hold my stomach forward. I pull it fast, it tears into my insides, then out again. The knife tears into my liver, twists, then ejects. My stomach jolts in another stab, then another, and another. Over, and over, I stab, twist, and pull out. I puke blood a couple times and let it roll across my carved stomach and into the holes. Slowly, I can’t feel them anymore. The stabbings slow, my sight fades.

Am I finally able to die?

I see Sarah in the kitchen, when she was pregnant with our second child, she’s making something in a pot. Walking to her is easy, my arms wrap around above her large belly, I rest my head in her hair.

‘I missed you,” I tell her, closing my eyes, smelling and holding her close.

‘Dinner will be ready soon Vic. Can you get Rebecca and clean her up? She’s been playing with the dog again.’

‘Sure honey,’ I hug her again and inhale the soup on the stove – then I open my eyes.


Still in the darkness, still lying among the dust and glass with the knife embedded in my hands. The grip is still tight. Glass still shines on the other side of the room, the barely lit center fountain is still there. The teenager is still sobbing and screaming on the other side of the wall, still calling for Jessica. The man is still gurgling.

I wasn’t gone for long.

It changed nothing.

I can cry, but it doesn’t change anything. I could stab myself several more times again, but it won’t change anything. I may try to kill myself, but I’d just come back again. How fast did I snap out of being an eyeball popping, person stabbing murderer to… this? How fast would I go back to killing people. How many would I end up killing? Five, ten, twenty more?

The second girl’s bag is still here, I can stave off some time by looking through it. Keep myself from stabbing someone else, taking someone else’s eyes and tearing into their stomach. So I open it, pulling out bags of chips and a few pieces of paper. Of course since I’m in the dark I can’t read them. But inside is something heavy wrapped in a blanket. Sitting up, setting it in my lap, I pull the folds back even though blood still stains it.

It’s a laptop. Could I try and talk to the outside?

Thankfully she hadn’t put a password on it. I get to her desktop and a dog stares back, taken by a crappy camera, so it may have been hers, or her parent’s. Several icons line the sides, the taskbar flashes a few times and blood stained fingers roll across the track pad in jittering jumps to the bottom of the screen. No internet connection, of course this area isn’t covered.

I still roll around her computer, picking through her files and pictures.

She was in high school, graduating next year based off her school work. Her name was Erica. She was excelling in math and history, delicate about her work, scanned her textbook to take with her. Did she move around a lot? She had written a paper on the great depression, which she notes on the bottom, reduce to one double page, in red text. Erica had a hobby in collecting scarves, based on an album on the desktop that read ‘want to buy!’.

How could I kill her like that; I stabbed her in the fucking head.

Tears are falling and mixing with blood on the keyboard.

It’s a struggle to open a new text file, the mouse shifting horribly, the right mouse button filled with blood and tears. I don’t even think I can make the right words appear on screen, or be able to delete any. Eventually it opens, the white box staring, me down.


I am victor lewis

please kill me

I dont want to hurt more


One more struggle, just need to save it, then I can leave the laptop somewhere, so someone else can find it. It saves to the desktop automatically, I name the txt file ‘please’ and let it be – when it’s saved the laptop closes, and I put it down. Then I hold my head and curl my arms, bring my legs up and lock them tight. Crying, weeping, however it can be described.

I don’t want to kill anymore



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