‘SAY HELLO TO THE MONSTER’ by Richard David Lawman

When they finally caught me – trying to dissect my seventeenth victim – they knew that the standard punishment protocol wouldn’t be enough. For I was special and I needed something special.  They kept me caged for most of the time, with usually two or three guards staring at me from behind the criss-cross window, and fantasising about all the things they would want to do to me.  Nothing was painful enough. Nothing would last long enough.

I heard the state judge actually wretched as he was read a list of my crimes – to each one I had confessed, supplying every detail I could remember – which was all of them.  When he took the case to his seniors in the Department for Justice, they agreed that I wasn’t fit to stand trial and I should be sentenced immediately.  The truth was it was they who weren’t fit to stand the trial – I had been rehearsing my performances in my cell, practicing and labouring over each and every word.  They had even given the guards ear plugs to stop them from hearing the disgusting details. 

After three weeks I got word from my lawyer – via letter, I might add – that they had turned to an “outside consultant” to find an appropriate way of dealing with me.  They didn’t want to execute me, they wanted me to experience hell on earth.  This consultant was a horror writer, unpublished, relatively unknown, but whose imagination was left to find a solution to this predicament.

Eventually, the keys jangled and the heavy door lock snapped open and in stepped a gaggle of riot guards and the prison warden.  They chained me, cloaked and bagged me up and carried me on a stretcher out into the long hallway and into a waiting prison van outside.  I felt the undulations and vibrations of the rough tarmac as I was rolled outside.  I inhaled violently against inside of the body bag to suck in the fresh air one last time.  I was sure they were going to torture me, maybe even crucify me. 

We drove for nine hours straight. 

It was dark when we arrived, the cool night air smelled sweet and the insects triumphantly announced my arrival – filling the darkness with a hiss of excitement.  I was known throughout all species.  I was the devil on earth.

They laid me down on the muddy ground and unzipped the body bag, hauled off my hood and unblocked my chains before stepping away.  “What is this?” I asked.

“Hell.  You’re in Hell.  A Hell we have created just for you,” snarled the warden. 

I clambered to my feet and arched my back to take into view the house.  A decrepit, old wooden house shrouded in dying oak trees which pre-dated the industrial revolution.  The paint was peeling off the walls, panels of wood splintered open here and there.  I laughed and stepped inside.

“What’s in here?” I asked as they followed me – going nowhere further than the porch.  The warden looked anxiously at the ground and then the horror writer – whom I presumed was the older guy with the beard and the glasses. 

“A monster.” He answered.  And with that they shut the door.

I gazed across the darkened hallway, allowing my eyes to adjust to the poor light.  I saw dozens of darkened figures staring back at me.  I stumbled over to the wall and groped for a light switch and found none.  Eventually, I found an oil lamp with matches and brought light to the room.  I held it up to see the dark figures staring back at me were mine.  I laughed.  I was the monster they were referring to.  I broke every mirror in the house.  Punching, kicking and head-butting with grotesque delight.  When I was done I slept, giddy from the rage, on the floor in the back room.

The next morning I awoke to find every mirror had been replaced.  I shouted out insults to the men watching outside.  And once again I broke every mirror in the house.

They promised me that the monster would come, and with time, it did.  After four nights I began to go insane.  My bloodied, scab-crusted, evil reflection found me in every room, round every corner.  I smashed and begged them to stop.  Each of my seventeen victims tortured me with eyes each day.

But not their eyes. Mine.

————————————————————————————————————————–

Richard David Lawman is the chief Writer/ Director/ Producer of ‘The Putty In Your Hands’ production company. He can be found and contacted at  http://richarddavidlawman.com/ and http://uk.linkedin.com/pub/richard-lawman/24/966/182



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