Disfigure = 410 = Lust
Disfigure = 410 = Lust
I stood within the heart of an infirmary ward, its atmosphere so bloated with debris that it precipitated against the stone walls. A single fractured window illuminated this decrepit space, glassy jaws permitting only traces of vespertine light to scrape past its teeth, accentuating clots of dust wafting like pathogens through blood.
I lifted my visor and dropped my armet to the bloodstained floor, picking up an avian mask that had been discarded at my feet. Thick, befouled glass distorted my vision as I slid the leather visage over my head, my own breaths becoming turbulent gusts of humidity.
Beds lay equidistant against every wall, each holding a victim of assorted ailments. Many lay unconscious while others were coughing, lamenting in pain, steeped in puddles of their own sweat and piss, or vomiting onto the floor. The rancid stench of blight pooled in the air, its fetor hardly diminished by the mask. I could see the disease as it molested them—the viscous, crimson soup of pathogens that crawled from nostrils to lips to gaping wounds.
Not a sliver of joy remained since pestilence made its hive in the city, save for the arousal pulsing beneath my skin, accelerating the rumble of my own breaths. Such a foul place could not be labeled a hospital—erroneously dubbed a site of healing when it was nothing beyond a mass grave for the sick to find out if their faith would skeletonize before their flesh did.
A gaunt male creature lay unconscious before me, wearing only tattered chausses with arms splayed wide like the puppet to endure its fever. An instrument cart sat beside—a flimsy three-tiered rack of iron padded by cloth—both immodestly stained with blood and rust. Scattered across it were blades of varying length and cleanliness—syringes with crooked, plague-tainted needles, scalpels and saws encrusted with blood so old it had turned brown, and vials with a myriad of bodily fluids caked against their glass.
The morbid arrangement lay on the antithetical pole of medicine, closer to that of the plague it aimed to cleanse—an assembly of malign impostors attempting to delude the ill into furthering their pestilence. It seemed each instrument was crafted not by earthly beings out of steel, but by demonic forces with corporealized affliction.
I picked up a scalpel that appeared clean enough to cut deep, treating a surgical instrument as a catalyst of war as I thrust it at the vermin’s face. And as demonic steel impaled flesh, its skin howled with a terror that could only be summoned by contact with the infernal. The wound spilled a dark spectral breath that was not nebulized blood nor hatred, but the venting of miasma that bloated its vessel.
Until I saw the blade lodged into the creature’s chops I had nearly doubted its presence—a fertile piece of flesh to slice apart without resistance. But the red tears crawling down its face sent images of fantastical artworks spiraling through my head—decadent paintings of blood, exquisite monuments of bone, perhaps multiple copses stitched together when just one was not enough.
I tempered my savage urges into concentration, smearing blood with negligence as my focus lay solely on carving lithe ribbons out of skin. My arms seemed to move beyond my agency—possessed by a being with even darker sadism than I, hypnotized by the sight of disfigurement. I skewered each eye and used the vermin’s nose as a fulcrum to dislodge them, pinching muscle-sheathed nerves between my steel fingers as I tore them out. And my precision began to degenerate as I peeled back its lips and incessantly punctured the gums beneath, teeth falling one by one into the puddle of blood at its pharynx.
Even as I expected the flesh to become pale, its blood ran in plentiful oceans until the sheets began to swell. To coax such a decadent volume of fluids requires obsessive and deliberate peeling. Veins must be exposed and severed until the corpse is fully agape to vomit gore without friction.
I tossed the scalpel back—now drenched from blade to hilt—and grabbed a bonesaw in search of greater destruction. A far deeper corrosion scourged this device, abrasive tumors of rust clinging to its blade. I dug the teeth into my patient’s upper arm and began gnawing through flesh, slicing into deeper layers as I excavated towards bone.
Blood swirls in your nose.
Gore melts on your tongue.
Heed the growls of your gut,
And peel back every layer.
I hoisted the creature’s arm against the downward force of my saw, thrusting back and forth until bone fractured with a ligneous snap. As I ripped through its remaining flesh, the limb struck the floor like a sack of grain, still gushing as though it expected to be promptly reattached. And with comparable ease I severed the remaining three, my dedication keeping me galvanized.
Flesh is your canvas.
Agony is your brush.
Paint them the color of death,
And cum in their wounds.
I could fuck any one of these cuts—slide my cock inside and desecrate every wound—leave every aperture dripping with cum like satiated maggots. This flesh could tease me no longer, its linens peeled back so that my eyes could molest every muscle and every organ. And with my own violent lust I’d made it cum, perverse fluids dripping down what little skin remained.
Such a massive quantity of blood exceeded what the sheets could absorb, the surplus forming a stagnant, crimson sheen before dribbling onto the floor. I observed my opus with such wonder that my fingers began to loosen, the saw falling into the puddle with a splash. Smeared ribbons of flesh hung from a nude torso, scored with so many lacerations it appeared more cutting board than living entity. Only a few bits of skin clung desperately to the creature’s mandible—otherwise alone on its bloodsoaked skull. Limbs lay scattered on the floor—bent like a puppet with its strings cut—blood rapidly evacuating its obsolete vessels.
In time, whatever anaesthetic vapor the creature inhaled had finally surfaced. Consciousness returned, though with every lesion in the observer came wounds in its reality, axes of perception blacked out until only the marrow of existence remained—suffering. My patient gagged feebly and expectorated the blood in its throat, wet scarlet teeth rolling down its face and landing in the puddle below.
As though I’d just stabbed the beast with my mind, a scalding howl of agony emerged from its throat—loud enough that the mask offered no quelling of its fury. Its spine began to writhe and contort, struggling to vacate its prison, truncated stumps thrashing as though failing to notice their missing flesh. The screaming tapered into a panicked wail, expressing some ratio of agony and grief. I wondered if the beast could comprehend what I’d done—some terminal clarity piercing the nightmare—or if its mind was too charred to realize what had burned it.
With frozen detachment I watched the creature’s hysteria, feeling as though I were not the cause of this agony but only a mute observer, screams permeating my body like thin air. Perhaps I was a god of death—an all-powerful voyeur of agony for nothing grander than my own joy.
The prospect of more hostile infections and disfigured bodies severed me from my delirium, luring me forth like gaping thighs. I peeled the mask from my face and tossed it into the gory mess, fitting my helmet back into place.
At an arm’s length from the next doorway, the stench of blighted feces, rancid meat, and decrepit blood smeared my nasal cavity until effluvium trickled down my throat—a miasma so heavy it had confined itself to this space. I halted my lungs and gritted my teeth to avoid gagging as curiosity dragged me onward.
This chamber appeared nothing more than storage—filthy beds scattered between carts full of tainted equipment—crammed inside without regard for order. Linens, rags, and a few nude corpses lay among the clutter in dark pools of blood.
But hanging from the ceiling were thick ropes of entrails—chains of stomachs and intestines and wads of shredded fat from whatever blade had excised them—glazed with fresh blood that left the beds dappled crimson. A rat dug its claws into one of the chains like a tick, fur smeared with blood as it chewed neck-deep into glutinous flesh. I lifted my face and saw that the ceiling lacked much of its framework, wooden beams struggling to hold the weight of what could have only been the hospital’s morgue.
The Antithesis unleashed a maniacal laugh, its excruciating volume unimpeded by the stone walls. Vines flailed around like hanging corpses, some drooping lower before splattering against the beds and the floor.