I'm Heinrich, And You Are?...

I am the void, the nothingness.

What makes a man? Is it the flesh and blood, the bones and sinew? Or is it something more, something ethereal, something divine? Perhaps it is a combination of both, a delicate balance of nature and nurture.

I am a product of my own thoughts, shaped by the forces of society and culture. Yet, I am also something more, something unique. I am a force of nature, a wild card, a wildcard.

I should Just Close The Door..

I closed the door to my apartment, the world outside is fading. It was time to embrace myself.

I stepped into the shower, the warm water washing away the day's dirt. As the water hit over my body, my mind wandered.

I emerged from the shower, my skin tingling with a sense of renewed energy. I moved to the kitchen, a familiar place. Today, I decided on a classic: a perfectly cooked steak, paired with roasted vegetables. I selected a prime cut of ribeye, marbling it with a blend of herbs and spices. searing the steak in a cast-iron skillet, the intoxicating aroma filled the air. The sizzle of the meat, the fragrant smoke it was a balance of senses. I paired the steak with roasted asparagus and a side of garlic mashed potatoes.

I sat down to eat, I turned on the television. A news report caught my attention. A young woman, Sarah Miller, had been found brutally murdered in Griffith Park. Her body had been transformed into a twisted statue, a chilling resemblance of the Laocoön Group.

"This is truly a horrific crime," the news anchor stated, his voice filled with shock and disgust. "The killer, a twisted individual, has once again defied the bounds of human decency."

Lieutenant Marcus Stone, head of the homicide division, was interviewed live. "This is a complex case," he said, his face marked with worry. "The killer is a skilled artist, a true master of their craft, might be a historian or a sculptor, possibly both, a man who can imitate Greek statue, there are some sculptor registered that have an obsession like this, We're working tirelessly to bring this monster to justice."

I watched the news report, I can feel the excitement. The Sculptor that's what they say, a "Talented" figure, fascinated me. Their twisted genius, their ability to turn human flesh into art, was both horrifying and inspiring. As I finished my meal, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was connected to this killer, bound by a shared obsession with the human anatomy.

Get to know me..

I washed the dishes, the rhythmic clinking of silverware against porcelain a soothing sound.

I returned to my bedroom, a sanctuary of order and precision. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes on anatomy, psychology, and philosophy. A mannequin, draped in a white cloth, stood in the corner, a silent observer. On my desk, a collection of surgical kits and also sewing kit they have story to tell.

I lay down on my bed, the soft sheets enveloping me. As I drifted off to sleep, my mind wandered to my childhood. A time of darkness and despair. A time when I first discovered me.

I remember a time when the world was a much darker place. We lived in a cramped, dilapidated apartment in a seedy part of Michigan. The walls were stained, the floors were grimy, and the air was thick with the stench of despair.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

My mother, Monika, a "victim" of addiction. Her eyes, once filled with hope, were now clouded with despair. My father, a violent and abusive man, had long since passed away from a drug overdose.

As a child, I witnessed the horrors of addiction firsthand. I saw the way it could destroy lives, tear families apart. I watched as my mother struggled to cope with the trauma of the past.

Later, I would discover a dark secret: my mother had been responsible for my father's death. She had intentionally overdosed him, a desperate act of self-preservation. It was a shocking revelation, but I'm glad she did it, I'm sick of that bastard.

The floor was always dirty, a witness to the countless cockroaches and rats that called our apartment home. These creatures, it seemed, paid rent just like us, their presence as constant as the peeling paint on the walls.

My mother, Monika, was a talented tailor, her nimble fingers crafting garments that brought joy to others. My father, a former surgeon, had once been a pillar of our community. But his addiction to gambling, drinking, and heroin had eroded his life, his career, and ultimately, his life itself.

I often helped my mother with her tailoring, learning the art of needle and thread. It was during these times that I developed a love for precision and detail. I even owned a small sewing kit, a proof of my budding interest in the craft.

One day, an incident occurred. I was eight years old at the time. As I was snacking on a piece of bread, a cockroach scurried across the floor and into my mouth. I hadn't noticed it until it was too late. The memory still makes me cringe, I guess it was a little, funny?..

Late at night, when the city was quiet, the rats would emerge from the shadows. Their squeaking and scurrying kept my mother and me awake. The landlord, a heartless man, seemed indifferent to our plight.

One night, I couldn't bear to see my mother suffer. I armed myself with a broom and a pair of rubber gloves, and I set out to hunt the rodents. After a tense battle, I managed to capture four of the pests. Now, what to do with them?

What did you do Heinrich?

I tied those four rats upside down, hanging from the ceiling of my tiny bathroom. It was a macabre spectacle, a grotesque tableau. I began with the first rat, a particularly plump specimen. I placed it on a hot stove, its tiny body writhing in agony. Its high-pitched squeals filled the room, a terror. I couldn't help but chuckle at its pitiful cries.

The rat's body, cooked to a crisp, was a sight. I picked it up, examining its charred remains. I stared at the lifeless creature, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. It was a small victory, a taste of power.

I turned my attention to the remaining rats. I grabbed my mother's sewing kit and a small knife from the first-aid box. I laid one of the rats on a flat surface and began to experiment. I sewed its eyes shut, a morbid act of creation. The rat struggled, its tiny body twitching. I was fascinated by the process, the way I could manipulate life and death.

Next, I turned my attention to the rat's internal organs. With a steady hand, I made a small incision in its abdomen. The sight inside of that rat, a tangle of blood vessels and organs, heart still beating, blood dripping, skin teared, u can see everything there, it filled me with a sense of wonder. I explored the rat's anatomy, dissecting it with a precision.

I worked, I couldn't help but think about the possibilities. What other creation I could make?

The third rat met a different fate. I skinned it alive, an act that filled me with a twisted sense of satisfaction. The rat cries through the silent room. I dissected the flesh, separating it from the bone. Each cut, each tear, was deliberate.

The fourth rat, however, was destined for a different purpose. I dismembered its body, severing its limbs and head. Then, with a sense of creativity, I sewed the pieces back together, creating a disgusting, stitched-together creature. I hung the dismembered rat from a hook, allowing the blood to drain.

I knew I couldn't keep the bodies. The stench would be unbearable, the risk of discovery too high. So, I wrapped the other three rats bodies in plastic bags and disposed of them in the apartment building's sewer system.

Back in my damned apartment, I turned my attention to the fourth rat. The blood had dried, the flesh had stiffened. I carefully removed the remaining flesh, leaving only the skeletal remains. now that I remember I never had a doll, my mother wouldn't buy it for me, but now I have a doll, I just created a doll, I just created a life, my own.

End

Thanks For Reading, Leave a Comment, Feedback or Critique For The Story