Salvation Through Mutilation I

My hands felt the vibrations when my crowbar connected with his jaw. Teeth, blood and spit spewed from his mouth as he fell down on the small utility room's cold concrete floor.
I pressed the straight point of the crowbar against his neck, gently.
"Girl. Where is she?"
He coughed and moaned. I slid my hand down the crowbar and then slammed the curved end into his knee. He snapped upright in pain. I then grabbed him by the hair and stepped on his fingers, and put as much weight into my foot as I could.
"You don't want to answer me. Keep it up, I'm going to become very frustrated and swing this bar into your throat, and it's going to crush your larynx. Then you won't be able to speak. Then I'm going to get very angry," I said, twisting my foot on his fingers. He groaned again, a little more loudly.
"Because I know you know where she is. And then you won't be able tell me. Right now you simply can tell me. So, let me ask again."
I pressed the crowbar against his neck, hard.
"Where is the girl?"
He coughed up what sounded like "less wind."
"West wing?" I asked.
He nodded.
I let go of him, and he slumped to the floor. He opened his eyes, only to see my crowbar go straight to him, straight through his eye and sink into his pinkish gray matter.
I pulled out my crowbar and ran out of the room, and headed towards the west wing.

It was a pedophile convention, basically. There was no official host, just a series of fake paper trails and websites with broken links. They contacted registered sex offenders, certain NAMBLA members and other people through various internet liaisons.
Don't ask me how, because I don't know. I'm not a detective. I just got lucky.
They assembled these people into a hotel, booked under some fake men's group. For the most part, it was revolting... but harmless. They were just looking for kinship, I guess. A bunch of middle and old aged men, circle jerking and conversing about bullshit, their fantasies and crimes.
Revolting, but harmless. For the most part.
I don't know what it is about mob mentalities, but there's always those few that take it to the next level. A small group of five men grabbed a little girl and brought her to their room. Just thinking what was going on made me sick to my stomach.

I had entered their fake convention using my own fake names. I made my way through, small talk and conversation, learning and listening, 'till I found what I was looking for. A thin, blond and nervous young man named Jones stood in the corner, away from the crowd and the socializing. I slipped a small note underneath a full glass that a waiter was bringing to the other side of the room, then headed towards my man.
"Hello, Jonesy," I said.
He looked at me, and panicked. He tried to run.
I grabbed him in a tight hug.
"You're not going anywhere."
Of course, to random onlookers, it would seem like friendly comradery, not the brutal murder that was about to happen. (Not that it makes a difference, but I hadn't planned on killing him at that point.)
What I had planned, however, happened exactly on time. About three seconds after I grabbed Jones, a fight broke out on the other side of the room between one of the waiters and one of the guests. All eyes turned towards the scene, save two pairs.
"I need to know something, Jones."
I opened the door to the utility room, grabbed the crowbar that lay inside on the door frame, and dragged Jonesy in.
As you know, I got my answer.


The utility room and the door to the west wing were right next to each other, so I had no problems avoiding the crowd, which thankfully were still watching the ongoing show.
All the wings connected to the main building via these small little annexing hallways, which were basically just a stretch of carpet, windows and white ceilings with low lighting.
The actual west wing was at the end of this hallway, and I knew the next asshole would be waiting behind those doors.
I stayed in the shadows, hunkered as low as I could. I could see the back of someone's head through the small window pane.
The head turned around and looked frantically into the hallway. He saw the door close at the other end, but he didn't see me come in. If he would've come in right away to tell me that section was under renovation right away. Or hid from the doorway's window if he knew I knew where I was going.
But he didn't. He didn't even see me coming. He didn't know I was there until a few instants after I slammed the door open, smashing his body into the wall, sandwiching him with the door. I grabbed his shirt collar and let go of the door.
"Where's the girl, asshole?"
I threw him onto the floor and kicked his ribs. I turned his face towards my crowbar.
"This is stained with your friend's blood, eye juice and brain grease. I'll be less patient with you. Where is the girl?"
He spat on my face and grabbed my feet and tugged. I lost my balance and fell downwards. He was on top of me, lashing my face with fists. He was a lot stronger then I was, and weighed a good twenty pounds to forty pounds more then I did.
Every time I tried to get him off me, duck or block punches, he just got me harder. I felt my skin breaking and bleeding all over my face.
Then and there, I don't know why, but I thought of the girl. Playing in the park. I was sitting down, enjoying the sun. Then the guy with the leather jacket and sunglasses, swooping down to pick her up. Then running after him. Then the blue jeep driving off fast. The girl peering through the back jeep window, brown eyes wide and big and scared.
I grabbed my crowbar and shoved the straight end upwards into his armpit. He twitched, groaned and slumped to my right. It was just for a moment, but it was enough to get momentum to get him off me.
I swung the crowbar into his kneecaps as soon as I stood up. I stomped on his right hand and squeezed the crowbar against his throat.
He smiled a smile I didn't like and wheezed out "room twenty one."
I let the pressure off his neck slightly, and realized my mistake too late to kick my reaction in gear in time.
In a flash, he swung toward my leg and I felt a prick and a tingle at my calf. Immediately I stumbled and rolled away from him. I looked down and saw an empty syringe stuck in my leg. I ripped it out and threw it away.
I got up and proceeded to turn his insides into bone and muscle mush meal. After I got my anger out, I dragged his body into a room. I was glad they weren't locked. I left his body on the floor and went to the bathroom to clean my face. I wondered, with a little shiver, what he was smiling about. Was I too late? Did they already fuck her and kill her? I started for the door.
Did they already ram themselves into that sweet flesh?
I stopped dead in my tracks.
What-?
I was both intrigued and revolted by that thought.
I looked at the body. It was still warm. I stuck my fingers into his mouth. It was warm. I was enthralled.
I looked away, disgusted by my sexually compulsive actions. I also had a raging hard on. I thought about ramming my dick into his wounds the same way he fucking stuck me with the syr-
and it hit me with obvious clarity.
He drugged me, and I was high off an aphrodisiac.
I couldn't go to the girl. The compulsion would be too strong. I punched the mirror in the bathroom in a rage.
That's why he smiled when he told me the room number. He knew what I would do. And I couldn't allow the possibility of another monster in the same room as her.
I thought of the clarity the pain of the broken glass on my skin brought, so I grabbed a large shard of the broken mirror and ran a deep scar down my arm. I could feel the flesh ripping, and the adrenaline continuing to pump hard... But after a few seconds, that burning want came back. And buried beneath it, my despair.
If I couldn't beat the lust into submission, I would cut it out.
So I pulled down my pants, grabbed my penis and my testicles, and pulled them out as far as I could.
Lorena Bobbitt popped in my head, and I smiled.
I swung my arm and let the sharp shard hack at the base of my genitals. Pain screamed at me, so I screamed back at it. The first cut was deep, but only about a fourth of the way through.
So I swung again. Blackness swam at my mind, and I pushed it back.
Almost done.
I thought of the expression, 'swaying in the wind,' and laughed weakly.
I swung a third and final time.
Relief and dull ache flowed through me as I struggled to keep conscious.
I wiped the blood off my arm. I unconsciously brought it to my mouth and licked. I licked again. And again. I slobbered my tongue over my entire arm, and began to sob.
I just wanted to eat. And lick. I had only done half of the job.
So I pulled out my tongue, and a weak, trembling hand pressed the shard against the back of my mouth. I fought the gag reflex, focused and brought my hand down and out. I felt the shard slip and my tongue burned with intense fire. Again the blackness came, stronger. My reflection shocked me into focus.
I stared, in horror, at the botched operation I had just done. In what remained of the mirror, I saw that I hadn't sliced my tongue off. I had cut off the upper portion, from the back to the tip. My tongue looked like a grotesque oyster that opened at the tip. I yanked in fury at the dangling flesh, tearing it off from the few strands of muscle it hung from. I thought of licking metal poles in the winter as a kid.
I was bleeding profusely from my mouth now. Blood was overflowing at my jaw and spilling down my neck, onto my shirt. I spat (with pain,) and grabbed some clean cloth from the first aid cabinet. I balled it up and put it in my mouth. I couldn't feel any blood leaking into my throat. That was good. I was also lucky as fuck that I didn't damage any nerves. My lips and jaw could remain closed.
I grabbed some gauze and wrapped myself up like a sumo wrestler. The sting was intense.

I pulled my pants back up and hobbled out of the room, and down the west wing. I turned the corner and continued down the rest of the hall.
Seventeen.
Sore beyond belief.
Eighteen.
Could I do it like this?
Nineteen.
Twenty.
No answers. Only the girl.
I screamed a garbled scream as I smashed through twenty one.

The door splintered open at the jambs. I saw three men turn around. There was a fat one, a man with a scar, and the dark haired man that took the girl. The fat man yelled something. He turned again, and I saw her.
Her shirt was torn, and her face was scrunched up and wet from crying.
I clenched my crowbar and raised it to swing.
The scarred man was faster then I was, and punched me in the gut. I brought my arms down as hard as I could, but it was no where near strong enough. He grunted at the curved end hit him in the shoulder, and he faltered, but didn't fall.
The fat man lunged at me, and I swung to him, harder. The crowbar caught him in the face and he tumbled sideways. I turned back to the scarred man, only to find the dark haired man ramming into me. I fell backwards against the wall. A kick in my ribs kept me from getting up. I saw the three of them surround me. Kicking. I shouted and kicked one in the shin, and slammed the crowbar in between another one's legs. The fat man and the dark haired man fell. The scarred man tried to get on top of me, but I rolled and put myself behind him. I grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him into the wall, pulled him back and threw him onto the fat man, still trying to get up. I grabbed the lamp that fell from the dresser next to the bed (the girl) and threw it at the dark haired man as he came towards me. He fell backwards again, screaming.
I noticed the scarred man and the fat man still struggling to get up. I helped the scarred man up, and kicked the fat man in his chest, aiming for the nipple. The burst of sound he made suggested I was pretty spot on. As for the scarred man I was still holding in my right hand, I threw him into the bathroom. He tripped over the rug and hit his head on the corner of the sink. I grabbed his hair and slammed his head onto the toilet tank, then dunked it into the bowl. He began to lift his head up, his arms on the seat, shaking as if he was lifting a great weight. I grabbed the lid of the tank, and rammed it into the back of his head.
At that moment, the fat man was running into the bathroom with my crowbar. I had dropped it when I threw the scarred man into the wall, and I barley had time to curse myself for leaving it lying around so carelessly. I lifted my leg to kick him back, but pain grabbed my crotch (or what was left) and pulled me down, making me fall towards the fat man. He bounced me backwards, and I fell through the glass curtain of the shower, spraying shards everywhere into the tub. I wondered briefly if I was going to get used to breaking glass with my body parts. That thought was interrupted by my head smacking the tiles of the shower. I opened my eyes and saw him ready to kiss my face with the crowbar, like a cue hitting an eight ball. I grabbed a handful of shards and threw it at his face. He cursed as he shielded his eyes. I grabbed his shirt with my left, a shard of glass with my right and aimed for his jugular. I missed and sunk it in between his shoulder and the neck. He squealed and I went to grab my crowbar that he dropped on the floor. When I stood back up, the dark haired man's fist swing into my jaw. Stars splattered across my eyes after the white hot flash exploded in my skull.
I fell onto the fat man, and I felt a hand pull me up and throw me out of the bathroom. I rolled on the carpet, and began to get up. I noticed the television on a stool-like stand to my left. The dark haired man saw me look at it.
"Let me at him," the fat man grunted as he bolted past the dark haired man.
"No, you idiot!"
He warned him too late. I grabbed the legs of the stand and, as hard as I could, swung it towards the fat man. He flipped as the television connected at his thighs, landing on his head, rolling onto his back. I was still holding the stand. I proceeded to bring it down on his face, and then again, and again.
A blur from the corner of my eye made me instinctively raise the stand in a defensive stance. I saw crowbar's straight end pierce through the flat part of the stand. The dark haired man pulled both the crowbar and the stand away from me, throwing it to the side.
"You piece of shit," he said.
I threw myself at him, and we struggled. We tumbled to the floor, and I was made painfully aware of my self-surgery once again. He headbutted me twice, and I rolled him off me, lifted and then brought my elbow down onto the bridge of his nose. I saw him reach over for something. Seeing the crowbar at my feet, still embedded in the stand, I reached for that, and stood up as fast as I could. I faced the dark haired man, seeing a shimmering knife in his hand. I couldn't tell how big the blade was. At least four inches. Maybe six. Something to be concerned about. If I swung at him, he could easily grab the crowbar/stand with one hand, and stab me with the other. So I did what he didn't expect and swung backwards until I felt it hook on the chair behind me. I put my foot on the chair and pulled as hard as I could on the crowbar, feeling it free just in time to meet the dark haired man's knife. I parried his stab, but he was faster than me and thrust forwards again. I tried to jump to the right, but his knife sunk into the far left of my chest. I slumped to the floor as an icy hot pain spread through my lungs. Breathing became difficult. He spat at me and walked toward the bed.
I ripped the knife out and half gurgled, half wheezed a sound of rage that stopped him dead in his tracks. To be honest, I was scared myself.
I lunged at him one final time, and he reared back a fist. I felt everything go so slow, I saw him twisting his torso, blink, bring his fist to me as hard as he could. I slammed my feet into the ground and brought my crowbar upwards, watching his fist miss me, watching the crowbar's curved end sink into the bottom of his jaw, like a fish hook sinking into a fish. I then turned as I continued the momentum of my swing, bringing all that fucking rage I had into it, and threw him to the other side of the room.
I turned to face the bed, and fell to my knees. I had to use a hand to hold onto the end of the mattress to make sure I didn't fall on my face, while the other held my stab wound.
The girl had curled up into a ball on the far edge of the bed, face buried into her hands. I hated myself so much for exposing her to such brutal violence, to such horrific gore.
I wanted to say I was sorry, that I wanted to stop them from hurting her, but the furious ache in my mouth reminded me that whatever sounds I would make would only scare her more. My hand fell on her knee, hoping she would understand. She looked up, and her eyes grew wide. I could see myself in those endless black irises, how my jaw was black with blood... as was the rest of me. I turned away, realizing that I was just another monster. I stood up and headed for the door, until I felt a small hand grab my arm. I turned around and she hugged me as hard as she could. I almost pushed her away as the memory of the syringe digging into my thigh flashed in my head, but let her stay as I felt only the need to keep her safe flow through me.
I didn't care how, or why, but whatever it was was gone. I picked her up in my right arm, and limped out of the room. I held her as tight as I could.

Red and blue lights flashed for a moment as I came out from the building's west exit. The next moment, my eyes were blinded by a bright, white light, filling everything I could see. There was shouting and a loud voice, but I couldn't hear anything. I only held onto the girl.
Two shadows came near me and tried to wrestle the girl from my arms. I continued to hold tight.
NO! I thought/screamed, as they pulled her free from me. I struggled and yelled as something cold snapped on my wrists and I was brought to my knees.
In the few moments that followed, my mind began to crawl out of it's state of delirium, and I realized the girl was safe. I began to feel calm. I smiled, and I felt a few tears stream my face. I got to her in time. I saved the girl.

How far would you go to save someone?