The Gradual Abortion of Humanity - Ch 1

The Gradual Abortion of Humanity - Chapter 1

She was staring aimlessly at the dustless cabinet in which they kept their fine crockery. Cold domestic rows of finely crafted and completely unused china plates and crystal glasses. The dim light barely lit her dry expression. Her eyes were completely blank and her demeanour was marked only by the stressed lines that were etched into her skin. Beneath her feet a brief case lay open with it contents strewn across the floor. She wore a grey skirt and a black jacket with an emblem stitched into the pocket.
Beside her the muffled sound of a mans erratic breathing and anxious sputtering faded in and out. She sighed lifelessly and began to speak. Her tone was sombre. Unchanging in it’s pitch.
“There’s just no pleasing him.” She dragged a weary hand across her face. “He’s just never happy, you know. I’m good at my job. You know that, right? I work hard and I’ve been working at that fucking pit for ten years longer than him. Little up start with a management degree comes in and thinks he knows more than me. I know that job inside out and all he knows how to do is hand out blame. I mean, what the hell does he do anyway. It’s just meeting after meeting after meeting... He just mags away with the rest of those judging arseholes while we sit out there and slog away like donkeys.” She pressed her index fingers to her temples and winced. A gagging sound came from her left.
“Oh, and he never makes mistakes. Management? No, they don’t make mistakes. They could never make a mistake and do you know how that can be? Cause they don’t fucking do anything, that’s how... You know I key an average a hundred and fifty odd orders a day. That’s a good thirty to forty more than the best of the pack of bimbo sluts that he‘s so obviously hired for their tits. You’d think he’d appreciate that, wouldn’t you? A hundred and fifty orders. I make a couple of mistakes here and there, sure, but that’s what happens when you have a pile of paperwork up to your chin, isn’t it?” She reached down to the scattered heap of paper beneath her and produced a business form.
“But the cheeky little prick has the hide to put this in my evaluation. Could improve on accuracy he says. Well, I for one would love to see how accurate he could be punching a hundred and fifty orders a day. Bet he’d fuck it right up. Yeah, I’d love to see that. In fact, I’d love to see him trip down the stairs and crack that filthy little scull of his on the landing. Just dash his brains all over the concrete in the fire escape.” With this she smiled vaguely and put her hand on the butt of the blood smeared butchers knife that lay on the table beside her.
“Wouldn’t you like to see that, sweetie?” She turned to her husband on the left side of the table who also facing the cabinet. His torso, arms and legs were bound to the chair with thick, silver duck tape. On both of his hands several of his fingers had been severed and a puddle of dark red blood had gathered on either side of the chair. From his forehead down to his upper lip, he was wrapped tightly in cling wrap, so that he could not breath through his nose. Through his mouth he gurgled and coughed up large quantities of blood, as he attempted to clear his only breathing passage. He could not speak as his tongue had been removed.
“You wouldn’t write these sort of lies about me would you, sweetie?” She went on, gripping the knife tightly and staring vacantly at the cold steel. “No, you’re a good man. A good honest, hard working man... My man.” She released her grip on the knife and slowly moved her hand across to a filthy, rusted hacksaw that lay beside it. “Now.” She rose to her feet and turned her head so that her gaze was fixed upon him. “Lets see what we can’t do about that troublesome snoring problem of yours, eh?” Another dazed smile into her expression and she moved around the table to stand behind her panicked, struggling husband.
“Hold still now... It‘ll be all over in a jiffy.”
With this she reefed his head back violently, with a fist full of hair. His body twisted and writhed in agony and his constricted throat let a series of muffled groans fill the room, as she hacked through the thin layer of skin that covered the bridge of his nose and erratically began to saw through the bone.
At the window a deep red glow vaguely lit the face of a sinister spectator. His expression was one of pure sadistic elation as he watched the debauchery unfold before him. The red glow emanated from a strange crystal which he held delicately between his fingers. The colour pulsated with the rhythm of a most unnatural heartbeat. As the violence escalated, so too did the pulse of the crystal.
Later that evening, the neighbours would find Mrs Eggart wandering in a shocked daze on the front lawn of her Windsor home, covered from head to toe in her deceased husbands blood, completely unaware of how she came to be there. She remembered nothing of the murder. The neighbours would report to the police that they had witnessed an old, beaten up, grey Commodore, leaving the premises not long before they had found her on the front lawn. It would seem that it was that description of the car, that would lead the police to the voyeuristic onlooker of the grizzly murder. And it would be the case that he was found rather quickly, as only four kilometres away, on a dark windy stretch of road that weaved through nearby bushlands, they found the car matching the description wrapped around a telegraph pole with the dark stranger crushed to death inside.
No license or valid form of identification was found on the body. The only indication of the strangers identity in the search of the wreck that night was the license plates, which were registered to an Ilene Fitzpatrick. She resided, according to the RTA records, in Cranebrook which was the apparent direction that the car had been travelling prior to it’s fatal collision with the pole.
No mention was made in the initial police reports of the bizarre glowing crystal.