“…There’s no Sex in your Violence…” -Gavin Rossdale

Malcolm’s chest was kicked as he hoisted the victim into the air with one hand, slamming the victim into a white-draped wall. Malcolm tightened his fingers; two were drawing blood from the eye sockets while the rest kept a grip on the face. The victim was contorting violently as he tried to bite into Malcolm’s palm. Malcolm bit his lip as he stared above him; he pulled out the pocketknife, unfolded the sharpened blade, and stabbed it behind the victim’s ear. The knife drew a geyser of blood and Malcolm stabbed again, through the victim’s neck. Malcolm screamed, lost control, and began a vicious repetition of stabs until the blood was oozing down the victim and Malcolm’s arm. As the victim fell limp, Malcolm lowered him against the wall; there was a tear in the white drapes, revealing a new crack in the warped wood behind it.

Malcolm hoisted the man back into the air and slammed him repeatedly. Now, the blood was streaming like a geyser through Malcolm’s fingers and the brand-new dent in the wall was a bloodied mosaic resembled a morning sun above a white vacuum as its surrounding streaks created the aesthetic of a doomsday aurora. The streaks were beginning to drip into a lower chasm Malcolm created. It seemed as if there should be townspeople surrounding the chasm like it were a sinkhole. Little red Aztec people that would bask in fear at the doomsday aurora. Malcolm thought about lovely little temples to create the ground floor with the little figures. Malcolm smashed the head midway between the two chasms. A thunderous crack echoed the room as a sting caught both of Malcolm’s eyes.

After the meshing and mixing, there was a red disk mixed between the two chasms. There was no recognizable portrait on the tapestry anymore and Malcolm’s fists were clenched solid.

“That wasn’t right.” He mulled to himself.

Malcolm grabbed the legs and carried the body away to the staircase. Still half-blind, he treaded across creaky floorboards, he ascended the warped stairs before emerging behind a front counter and display case inside the run-down shop; it had once operated as a gas station until the end of the nineteen-eighties before traffic on this road was consolidated to the local Highway.

The wide display case held several used matchbooks, one bent tire iron, a scalpel named Pee-Wee, a bone saw, used syringes, a machete named Michael, a bowie knife named Jason, a curved dagger purchased at an Afghani market named Halleck, a gasoline-powered saw, a nailed bat named Rick and a short Japanese wakizashi named Vince. The map on the wall next to the stairs showed the location to be outside Baton Rouge.

Malcolm carried the body into a bathroom where the floor was covered in grimy tiles. At the center was a massive bathtub sitting where the toilet was supposed to be. Malcolm plopped the carcass down into the tub, drizzling blood all over crusty rims which had trickled across the scratched floor beneath him. Malcolm could finally see himself in the mirror on the wall. Malcolm’s features were indistinguishable as he huffed in the reflection; only his black-brown eyes were absent of crimson.

I fucked this one up again…I should’ve stopped! I FUCKED it up!

He scrubbed his face off as best he could with his dirty palms. He stormed out of the rusty privy. When he returned to the basement, he walked to the corner where Malcolm climbed a set of steps and untapped his water-resistant camera. Sitting on the steps, Malcolm licked his fingers off so he could work the screen and buttons.

The camera had been set to take pictures on a timer. Starting with the most recent: a single shot of the room’s chair at the center, Malcolm’s ruined mosaic had been a one-dimensional shape; the following photographs were the same. Following that, was Malcolm standing over the body in the aftermath of the killing. In the final picture Malcolm could be seen climbing the staircase with the body.

The Beast’s endings are chronically incomplete. Once upon a time and now again, I let the Carnal Beast take control of me. I tell myself that there’s beauty in annihilation...That state of euphoria is fake; bright dreams diluting into the grey reality…How many different sessions have there been? I still don’t have any control over the result. I completely lost it and ruined my clothes.

…What’s the point of me having this anyway? It’s not like I can ever share this with anybody…Not my grunts…Clearly not Meryl…Do I confess in my will?

Malcolm returned to the bathroom with his folded clothes left on the counter. He had his bone saw and took another look at his reflection. He pulled back his black hair once more while standing directly over the body. The tub’s surface was completely covered in blood and slowly draining through a plastic system that Malcolm had connected to the old toilet pipes on the floor. He picked the legs first and started on the Lateral Malleolus, connecting the feet to the lower leg.

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The blood pooled faster than it could drain and Malcolm’s fingers were deep as he severed the last limb. Afterward, Malcolm sat beneath the mirror. The shrilling sounds of the drain’s whirlpool echoed through the room as he found himself drifting away from the present time.

I’ve just annihilated nature’s most complex work of Art…and for what? My Own morbid depictions. Ideas I can never hold onto…How many people would see past the surface of my ideas if I got caught?

…Nobody. If your behavior were openly tolerable, civilization would have been impossible.

Colonel McElroy wants to fast-track me through his command chain and together, we’d conduct Geopolitical Art. But if I can never depict the ideas properly, how could anyone else under me? Will I earn a National Monument? Even then, will I be able to help myself?

…There is no Art…just acts of self-indulgence…This impression on the world will be perceived as apish rage…Graduating Candidate School was an accomplishment you never deserved.

…And I never deserved Meryl…Yet she wanted me, to the point of supporting my graduation in person.

Visions of the ceremony started to flash, and Malcolm could see Meryl sitting in the reserved seats in a simple black dress; she had to retie her brunette hair with their little Connor on her lap.

Malcolm’s swollen eyes shriveled and teared as he remembered the moment Connor was born. Hearing Meryl’s pain made his fists clench to the point of tearing, yet they shared prideful joy when Connor opened his eyes at them.

…My Child is the only receivable addition I’ve made to the World. Now, I can only justify myself if Death is a barter for his life…But now that I’m at it again, why won’t Meryl come back with him?

…You know why; they left because of you…

The aroma of death crawled its way through Malcolm’s nostrils as he returned to the present time. The sensation of the cold panels could be felt again, and he unstuck his head from the wall. Dizzy, yet fully energized, Malcolm stood and looked at his darkening figure in the mirror; it grinned like the Beast it was, yet Malcolm knew he wasn’t grinning. When he exited the bathroom, he set the bone saw down while noticing the change outside.

How much time did I lose again?

Malcolm had to adjust to starlight. In front of him were the four rusty gas pumps where Malcolm’s Pale Sierra was parked. Taking care not to step on any snakes that might be lurking in the overgrowth, Malcolm turned right and saw the swamps where the gators lurked. He could usually see the light reflect off their eyes as they peeked above the water. Instead, the surface was void. Malcolm haplessly walked into the cold void’s embrace. The dark crimson washed off him, he scrubbed his hair thoroughly and dug at the shore for mud to scrub along his body before once again it rejoined the void of the swamp. He walked out of the water, stained, but without blood; Malcolm walked to the bed of his Pale Sierra.

There was a metal utility box behind the red towel at the front of the bed. In one of two duffle bags next to some fishing rods, Malcolm kept his toiletries and fresh sets of clothing. The other duffle bag contained Max, Malcolm’s Ruger Precision Rifle with a Vortex Scope, along with handguns Charles and Dance. From the toiletry bag, Malcolm pulled out a fresh set of underwear and black denim pants. He dawned them quickly before pulling out a jungle-camo long sleeve; afterward, he pulled his fresh boots out the passenger’s seat and was tying the laces while staring into the sky.

…You already know how to control yourself…you spent five years doing just that for your family; all you gotta do is stop…Don’t admit it. Don’t deny it…Just stop it.

Malcolm crossed to the side of the truck and grabbed his emergency gallon of gasoline.

And just to make sure that you don’t come back here…

Malcolm marched to the depot entrance and rammed the front door open. Malcolm unscrewed the cap, then trickled gasoline across the wooden floor like it were a lawn sprinkler. Making his way down the stairs and he allowed the steps to become coated; when he made it to the center of the bloodied room, he did dancers twirl, spinning the gasoline everywhere. The air was thick with the warmth of fuel and rotting meat.

By the time Malcolm took the can back up the stairs, the stench had exfoliated through his clothing and into the pores of his skin. At the top of the stairs, he grabbed one of the several dozen matchboxes from the middle display case. He struck one and threw it back inside, sparking a blaze that Malcolm took no time to enjoy, he haply marched through decayed lawn. Malcolm hopped in the driver’s seat after putting the canister back into the utility box in the bed. Once he turned the ignition, the orange blaze could be seen through the stained windows. He slowly rolled out onto the potholed main road and picked up speed. Malcolm kept his eyes on the mirrors for a black smokestack, and when it became visible, he banked right onto a familiar dirt road that formed a fork. Malcolm escaped deep into the winding bowels of the woods.