I will die. You will die. We all will die.
But not today.
I stand under the lone yellow bulb with my hood up. You can see me, but you can’t scream. Mummy has told me times without number to always dress properly. She wants me to wear gloves and aprons and all that scary stuff.
I never listen, rebel that I am. I don’t know why she doesn’t like my fashion sense, when she doesn’t dress properly herself. She’s always wearing bandages. But then again, she’s the mummy.
And that is completely irrelevant to the task at hand. I like my hood up, it makes me look like a real killer. My knife is touch-and-tear sharp. I know what I have to do.
I have dropped you onto the hard wooden floor.
I run my hands along your rear. I do not squeeze or pinch. I just caress and leave the hands there, so you’ll understand that I own you.
I own you and your sweetness. Lawd, I love your skin.
I love you, I really do. You just don’t understand.
Next, I bring in your brothers. They are already half dead.
I let your brothers see me. They want to scream, but they cannot.
I arrange it so that you are the last.
I want to watch you watch everything that I do.
I lick my lips, then I sink my knife into the first brother. No, not too deep, just beneath the skin…
He cannot scream. Pity.
Slowly, I push the blade back. Slowly, I peel off the skin.
I read once, that a woman in Australia did this to her husband, flayed off his hide right down to his hairy bottom. Apparently, the man was something like a toothpick and the wife was so fat, it’s not even funny.
This cruel woman, when she was done, hung the ‘suit’ of her husband’s skin on the front door, for their kids to see when they got home.
Eventually, she was arrested…
But listen, I’m not that wicked.
You curse me in all the languages you know and I don’t even pause. I cannot hear you.
When I’m done with skinning your brother, I place my knife on his tummy and slowly, ever so slowly, cut him open.
You let out another silent scream, but I’m humming Bruno Mars’ Treasure.
I dip my hand into the belly. I remove everything I see there, till it’s almost like I carved it.
I lick my lips and move to the next.
You scream. You do not have a mouth, so you just fire mental expletives at me. I shall not talk about blood and gore here. But I shall paint you the portrait.
I go through your brothers, one by one.
I skin them, cut them open.
Skin them, cut them open.
Skin them, cut them open… Until mummy comes in, singing an Egyptian lullaby.
I whisper into your ears: “My friend, you are next.”
Mummy shakes her head. “No, ‘Hannu. Put them in the fridge.”
I pack the skins and seeds away.
I too like my paw-paw chilled.
Written by Johannu Afere