101 Psychos #6 – Playmates

Psycho #6 – Playmates
© S.B. “LullaDIEs”

A Tale of Behavioral Addiction:

Refers to the compulsion to repeatedly engage in an action until it causes negative consequences to the person’s physical, mental, social, and/or financial well-being. A pathological relationship is often formed between the individual and the action, giving a sense of happiness to the person when partaking in the addictive activity.

I giggled quietly to myself. Each time I tried to stop, I’d laugh even harder. I couldn’t help it. I had a playmate and we were going to play a game. I loved games.

I giggled again as I watched him from across the old wooden table top, still stained with my previous playmates blood. He looked like a Jock, which was why I picked him in the first place. The boy wore a nice leatherman jacket with his team name and number embroidered on the back and front. I didn’t have a clue what sport he played but I thought he might like to learn a new game regardless. Not one played with a ball like he was use to, but one played with a blade.

He slumped over in the rickety wooden chair provided, still sleeping from the chloroform I’d used on him earlier. His feet were chained to the concrete basement floor tight enough he couldn’t lift his foot, but his hands were unbound. You can’t play a game if you can’t use your hands after all.

I picked up my favorite knife and laid my hand flat on the dingy, wooden table between us, spreading my fingers wide. Gripping the hilt firmly, I stabbed downward, landing the dangerous point between my pinky and ring finger. I smiled and lifted the blade before plunging it down to the table again. Another perfect miss between the ring and middle finger. Over and over again I repeated the motion, becoming faster and more violent with each thrust. I grinned like a mad man and laughed like a maniac each time I missed my hand. They say practice makes perfect, and I’d practiced this game a lot.

After another hour I became bored with playing by myself. I stabbed the knife into the table and leaned forward. Resting my elbows on the table and head in my hands, I pulled at my short, shaggy, unkept hair in frustration and impatience. It was probably already standing on end, but it didn’t matter to me anyways. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a shower. I just wanted to play.

How much longer? I wondered. I desperately needed my new friend to wake.

Suddenly there was a moan across the table and I snapped my head up. He was finally coming around. I chuckled uncontrollably, but tried to stifle it. The resulting noise can only be described as maniacal. When the young man looked at me in confusion, I lost control of my excited laughter.

“What the fuck?” he pondered out loud as he looked at me in disgusted awe while wrinkling his nose.

This earned another fit of laughter from me and it took a few minutes to calm myself back down enough to talk.

“Hello friend! Hehe. We’re going to play a game. You like games, right?” I inquired cheerfully.

He stared at me in groggy disbelief before replying, “Who the fuck are you?”

A chuckle escaped my mouth before I answered. “I’m your new friend, and we are going to play a game. Have you ever played Five Finger Fillet?”

I was always a bubbly person, laughing more than not most days. Having a new friend to play with seemed to make me extra giddy. I was just so happy, I felt as though the giggles would cause me to burst like a gore filled bubble if I held them back.

“Five What?” he asked while looking around the room, taking in our gloomy surroundings for the first time.

Laughter erupted from me and filled the decent sized, unfinished basement. The sound bounced off the stained cement walls and created the illusion that I wasn’t laughing alone. There was a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling, above the table we sat at. It’s light was unreliable; the bulb was loose in the socket, causing it to flicker from time to time. It kept my new friend from seeing the rooms interior clearly.

“It’s ok. I’ll show you.” I replied gleefully.

As I picked the knife up, I became very serious. All laughter aside I spread my hand and began tapping the knife between each finger slowly, so the boy could comprehend how to play.

“You see,” I explained, “Its very simple. Don’t cut yourself. If you do, you loose that round. There are five rounds, and at the end of the game the winner decides the next activity.”

I looked up into the sports player’s face as I continued moving the knife around my hand, tapping between the digits. I played this game so much, there was no longer a need to visually see where the blade would land. You could go as far as to say that I was a master gamesman.

“You’re crazy.” the guy stated simply. “I’m not playing your stupid game.”

Instantly I became furious at his refusal. I threw the knife across the table with expertise and stuck him in the shoulder. I’d always been good with knives. They were the only friends that didn’t talk back, didn’t argue, and didn’t die. They were reliable, durable, and always there when I needed them most. They loved me and I loved them.

He gasped in pain and shock as the foreign metal forced it’s way deep into his flesh, and a kind of feral growl emitted from his mouth at the same time. He leaned forward from the sting of the initial blow, but sat up quickly to stare at the knife resting a good five inches inside his shoulder muscles. Stunned from the sudden violence of the attack, it took him a few moments to react.

“You fucking bast-”

“P-p-play the game or I’ll m-ma-make you look like a f-f-fucking p-porcupine!” I screamed at him.

The stutter always entered my voice when I was upset. I hardly noticed it anymore, but knew the speech impairment made it difficult for others to understand exactly what was being said. Their inability to comprehend my words always made me irritable, and I secretly hoped my new friend wasn’t as lame-brained as they were.

The Jock glared at me from across the table, but said nothing. Blood started seeping through his brand name shirt and fancy jacket, leaving a thick streak of red down the side. The smell of iron mixed in the air with my own sour body odor and the reek of what hid in the basement’s shadows, but my senses had become immune to the stench.

“Pull it out.” I ordered, while trying to calm my temper. When the boy didn’t flinch I yelled at him again. “P-p-pull it out!”

Still he didn’t budge. I stood quickly, knocking my chair down as I did, and marched across the table. Fury pumped through my veins as I stood next to him and clutched the knife’s handle.

“Pull. It. Out.” I hissed slowly, while removing the blade at the same pace.

The knife stuck to the sides of the wound as if the skin had fused to the metal, causing a tearing sound as I attempted to pull it free. The Jock took in a sharp breath and reached up, grabbing my wrist. It must have hurt something awful for him to prefer to keep the knife embedded. I gave the weapon one quick twist, which caused the boy to yelp in agony and tighten his grip on me.

Once the blade was free, I grabbed his injured hand and placed it on the table. Then I pried his other hand from my wrist and forced him to grip the knife. Holding both his hands in place, we proceeded to play my favorite game.

“Like this.” I said as I forced his hand to come down and stab the table between his fingers. “See, easy.” I told him as I continued until we had touched each space between.

“There.” I declared while releasing him and going back to my own toppled seat. “Now, you try all on your own.”

He glared up at me, and I returned it with a smirk. Slowly, he began playing the game. I watched intently as the blade came down, missing his fingers each time. He was moving excruciatingly slow, and I had to remind myself that this was his first time, so he was allowed.

“Good.” I said when he finished his turn, chuckling slightly as I spoke. “My turn.”

This new friend was quirky though, and quickly stood from his seat, knife in hand. He leaned as far across the table as he could and sliced the blade through air. His feet were still fastened securely to the ground, and his knees were bent the wrong way. Try as he did, he couldn’t quite reach. The Jock was close enough I could feel the breeze against my skin as sharp metal sped past. I began laughing at his failed attempts and instinctively leaned forward just a fraction of an inch to cuddle my gut. It was enough for the Jock to nip the flesh of my arm during his wild swungs, causing it to trickle a light crimson. The bleeding didn’t last long. It was just a graze.

“Stop it.” I spurted, “You look re-ridic-c-c-culous.”

Suprisingly, he did stop his useless attack, but still glared up at me with venom in his eyes. I shook my head at his childish fit and muttered to myself that he was being a baby. My behavior earned a puzzled expression from my houseguest, who’s rudeness seemed to be escalating each passing minute.

“Sit back d-down.” I instructed softly.

He nodded his head as if processing the defeat he faced, while slowly sitting back into his own unstable, wooden chair. After staring at the knife as it laid in his open palms for a brief moment, he gave it a slight toss to the center of the table. I reached forward, took the knife, and finished my own turn in record time. When I slid the toy back over he looked at me with awe. I gave him my winners smile.

“Faster this time.” I directed through a slight chuckle.

He picked his speed up slightly, but it was still embarrassingly sluggish. To help put my new buddy at ease, I decided to sing a short jingle. Using my hands as if I were orchestrating a full symphony, I belted out the words to my favorite song.

🎵 OH, I’ve got all my fingers,
The knife goes chop chop chop,
If I miss my fingers in between my fingers will come off,
And if I hit my fingers,
The blood will soon come out.
But all the same I play this game,
‘Cause that’s what it’s all about.
OH, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop,
I’m picking up the speed,
And if I hit my fingers,
My hand will start to bleed. 🎵

The words bounced off the shadowed walls around, and the light tap of metal against wood gave me a beat to sing to. He finished his turn just as my tune came to an end. Within a minute my turn at the game was successfully over and I slyly placed the blade back in the center of the table. Reluctantly he picked the knife back up, and slowly played. I tried to be patient, but his prolonged movements were agonizing.

I sighed, “Faster.”

Still he was too slow, but his turn came to an end none the less.

It wasn’t until the fifth round that he made a mistake and sliced his finger clear to the bone. The skin folded over onto itself backwards as blood poured from the fresh wound, forming a small puddle on the tables already stained surface.

“Ouchy.” I teased as he muttered a few swear words under his breath.

My turn was next, and I executed it flawlessly; as always.

“Now, I win. That means I choose what we play.” I stated matter of fact like.

He said nothing when I pushed the knife back to him. He only played.

I like this friend, I thought while watching him cut himself for the second time. I sure hope he doesn’t disappoint me.

We played the game four times. Each time he would get a bit faster, but his hands looked like he’d been caught in an industrial garbage disposal.

Skin and flesh had been filleted on almost all his digits, reminding me of pirate flags as the loose pieces flapped when he moved. His dark red blood covered everything from his wrists down, staining the wooden table. There were many areas where the bone had become exposed, and the white almost illuminated against the red in the dim lighting. He was shaking violently, and holding the knife seemed to become a difficult task for him.

“I’m not playing anymore.” he announced at the beginning of our fifth game.

“Yes you are.” I responded knowingly.

“No, I’m not. Stab me all you want. Turn me into a porcupine. I’m not playing.” he sounded weak and tired.

“Fine.” I spurted while standing quickly and storming off into the darkness surrounding like a toddler throwing a tantrum. My tantrums just happen to be very sharp.

Once I got near the wall I had to step carefully to keep myself from tripping. Sometimes my friends disappointed me… and I couldn’t just throw them away no matter how mean they were. They’re my friends, right? Plus, I really didn’t know what to do with them. I mean, how do you dispose of a body without getting caught? I started off stuffing them in a hole in the wall, but eventually I just couldn’t get any more to fit. I guess they’ve just been piling up since. I don’t like to clean much. It interferes with my game time.

In a drawer near the wall behind them was my extensive knife collection. It didn’t take long for me to reach those. Randomly I pulled a knife free from the drawer, turned, and slung it at the jock. It embedded itself perfectly in his other shoulder, causing him to gasp in pain.

“P-p-pull it out and p-pl-play!” I screamed across the room.

“No!” he hollered back. “It’s not fun to play a game if there’s no chance of winning!”

“P-p-play the g-game!” I screeched from the shadows while sending another blade flying through the air.

“No!” he yelled right before the knife sunk into his abdomen.

After five knives he stopped answering my demands, and simply sat staring down at himself. One of the blades punctured his lung, causing him to weeze heavily with every attempted breath. Blood began to trickle down the corner of his mouth, as well as pour from the multiple wounds littering his body.

I sighed out loud while sitting back in my own chair. After studying my friend from across the table, I concluded that he wouldn’t be able to play for much longer.

“Y-You D-d-disappoint me.” I stampered in defeat.

Picking the knife we played with back up, I threw it at him one last time and stuck him in the neck. He gurgled and choked, coughing up blood and spraying the table in a light, red mist as he did. I cocked my head to the side while the thick liquid seeped from his mouth and ran down his chin.

“Pull it out.” I demanded through giggles.

The Jock’s eyes expanded and swimmed with confusion as his airways failed him. His lungs filled themselves completely full of blood, until he eventually drowned on it. Slowly, his body slump down to lay on the table.

He looks nothing like a porcupine. I thought sarcastically to myself. Spontaneously, I raised my arms and began to lead my solo orchestra again, singing as loudly as I could.

🎵OH, I’ve got all my fingers,
The knife goes chop chop chop,
If I miss my fingers in between my fingers will come off,
And if I hit my fingers,
The blood will soon come out.
But all the same I play this game,
‘Cause that’s what it’s all about…🎵

© Sitarra “LullaDIEs” Sefton


One response to “101 Psychos #6 – Playmates

  1. Pingback: 101 Psychos Table of Contents | LullaDIEs

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