My Dearest Victor Dean,
We write to you today with the utmost admiration. Your reputation as a master of the art of pain precedes you - your precision, creativity, and above all, your elegance in inflicting suffering have not gone unnoticed. The Academy of Bleeding Arts has long sought an instructor of your caliber, one who understands that torture is not mere brutality, but a symphony of agony, where every scream is a note in the grand composition of despair.
We have observed your work - how you transform flesh into canvas and blood into ink. Your scalpel technique is unparalleled, your understanding of the human body's limits inspired. The way you make them beg for death before granting it... Exquisite.
It would be our greatest honor to have you join our faculty this year as Professor of Applied Torment. Imagine - a classroom of eager students, hanging on your every word, learning to wield pain as you do: not as a tool, but as an art form. The Academy's resources are at your disposal - fresh subjects, rare instruments, and archives of forbidden knowledge.
We await your response with bated breath.
Yours in the pursuit of perfected suffering,
Grand Provost Elias Voss
Academy of Bleeding Arts
I placed the letter on the table, my fingers lingering over the wax seal - an emblem of a weeping eye. A slow smile crept across my lips.
"Summon the head servant," I commanded.
Within moments, the man appeared, bowing low.
"I will be joining the Academy this year," I said, watching his face twitch between fear and reverence. "But before I leave... I require one final demonstration. Bring me a prisoner. Bound. Prepared."
The servant nodded and scurried away. Soon, the heavy footsteps of guards echoed outside as they dragged in a man - young, strong, his wrists already raw from struggling against the ropes. They strapped him to the iron table, the restraints clicking shut with finality.
I opened the book to "Dances of the Entrails."
Time to practice.
A Symphony of Screams
The man's name was irrelevant. What mattered was how his breath hitched when I traced the scalpel's tip down his sternum, how his pupils dilated when I whispered, "Shhh... this will hurt."
I began with his fingernails.
One by one, I peeled them back with a hooked blade, lifting each keratin crescent until the tender pink flesh beneath was exposed. He screamed, of course - a high, reedy sound - but I merely hummed and moved to the next finger. By the fifth, his voice had cracked into sobs.
"Please—"
I silenced him with a backhand, then gripped his jaw, forcing it open. My pliers glinted in the lamplight as I clamped onto his first molar. A twist. A pop. The tooth came free, trailing a string of bloody saliva. I held it to the light, admiring the roots.
"Beautiful."
Next, the joints.
I started with his fingers, dislocating each knuckle with methodical precision. The snap of cartilage was satisfying, but the true artistry came when I moved to his elbows, then shoulders. His screams turned guttural, animalistic. I watched his muscles spasm, how his body fought the pain even as it consumed him.
Then, the eyes.
I cradled his face, thumbs resting on his eyelids. "Look at me," I murmured. He did.
Then I pressed.
The first eye burst with a wet pop, vitreous humor oozing between my fingers. The second required more effort - I had to dig my nails in, peeling the lid back until the orb bulged, then piercing it with my thumbnail. He thrashed, but the restraints held.
Finally, the pièce de résistance.
My scalpel parted his abdomen in one smooth motion, revealing glistening coils beneath. I reached in, warmth enveloping my fingers as I gathered a handful of intestines, pulling them free with slow, steady pressure. They slithered out like serpents, pulsing with dying life.
I looped them around his throat.
"This," I whispered, tightening the noose, "is art."
His body convulsed, his remaining eye rolling back. I watched, enthralled, as the last flicker of life left him - not with a whimper, but a gurgle, one final, wet protest.
I stepped back, surveying my work.
Perfection.
End of chapter
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"death is always near you"