Day 371

Steve taps on the wall in a secret combination. His figurine case

turns around to reveal a secret passage. The room ascends upwards in
a spiral from the basement to the top floor into a small minaret
shaped dome, an addition Steve's 12th daddy Sheik "C4" Al-Walami
installed into the house. Steve smiles and walks up the staircase
turning a small pumice stone in his hands. Steve is now whistling
"sweet Georgia brown" as he flips the pumice stone in the air. Feathers
appear scattered around the stairs, visible chunks of what appears to
be animal like meat scatter the long spiraling staircase. As he scales,
the whistles are slowly suppressed by an eerie low murmur rising in a
steady crescendo until his happy go lucky melodies are defeated by a
droning, deep growl. The stench of meat, various bird and human
feces, and acidified material fills the air. The gloom in the area is
palpable, only the moon illuminates the final end to the staircase, a
dim periwinkle hue faintly touching the room via an Islamic rosette
aperture with the words "Allah," cast into it.
"Oh boy," Steve grinned slyly. He stood in front of a draped object.
The eccentric folds in the fabric lent no knowledge as to what
lied underneath it. There were wires poking above the cloth that
suggested they were tethered to something in the room. The low growl
returned as a soft undertone accompanying the creaking caused by
Steve stepping around the room. With two hands Steve grabbed the
blanket and tossed it into the aether. It vanished somehow, even
though the room was clearly enclosed.
Steve stared into the visage of what lie before him. A contorted
being drew before him. Steve could not contain his excitement. He
was not sexually aroused surprisingly, just incredibly happy, having
looked forward to this all day. His only means of catharsis was nigh.
The being was mangled into a pretzel in the air, the an arm
snapped behind its back, another arm paralyzed in place in a spastic
position. The limbs and torso were hooked via medium sized industrial
meat hangers and ProBass fishing hooks. The legs, where to begin.
One was bent at the knee permanently folded to the back of the
thighs, it was the upper most point hoisted in the air, with a hook
viciously crammed into the hard cartilage of the kneecap. This could
not have been Steve's handiwork, but the possibility of her bones
being brittle from years of marasmus and lack of treatment pointed in
his favor. The other leg displayed a massive compound fracture,
where, after a kneecap insertion was not fruitful, it shattered the
entire joint and a cracked femur protruded visibly out of the knee

stump. The rest of the leg dangled haphazardly like a turkey drumstick
off the side of the knee, which was blackening and showing early signs
of necrotization and various fungal rots.
Stephen had strung Auntie 5 feet into the air. About 30 hooks
were placed carefully in different parts of her body, some in muscle
tissue, some in tendons. The wounds were heavily infected, and
merely brushing against them wrought visible drips of sweat from
Auntie's brow. The tetanus had long since set in, and she was unable
to make any fine motion apart from flails and quick twists of her limbs.
Stephen poked her, upsetting the balance she lay in and causing one
of the wires to snap and reveal a fresh wound. He could almost feel
the adrenaline shoot into her bloodstream. Not wanting her to simply
lay there limp, Steve took great care in also provide a counterbalance.
A 45 lbs weight in the form of an iron belt was strapped around her
waist, meaning that auntie would have to carefully shift her center of
gravity every once in a while and dwell on the reality of the hooks vs
the iron girdle. Some of the hooks were hanging on visible striation of
muscle ready to snap at any uncalculated movement from her.
Steve muttered something about how his friends were
mistreating him angrily into the wall, as he turned around and looked
at the void in his aunt's face, the pallor so tangible, it seemed to seep
into the very room competing with the subdued white of the
moonlight. But no more thoughts. No more reflect. It was time to
begin; Stephen has his playthings with him, it was only a question of
how he would spend quality with his aunt first.
Steve had taken some old thermometers from the chemical
waste bin at Mass General after his last checkup. He took the two
longest ones and thwacked them against her skull.
"You like that Jason?" "Huh? You little stinker?" Then he furiously
jabbed them into her scalp, shattering the glass bulbs.
He forced open her eyelids with his Cheeto dusted fingertips,
digging into her cataracts with his untrimmed, festering sepia
fingernails. He poured the mercury into her eyeballs. Auntie's head
recoiled involuntarily, which caused the hooks to flay her, thus causing
her to wittingly choose the lesser pain. This way, Steve knew that
Auntie was constantly forced to consciously be aware of her pain. No
passing out here! No sweet embrace of shock and relief from pain.
This gave Steve much pleasure, knowing his torture methods caused
her unparalleled physical, mental and emotional pain. Auntie was now
stephens macabre marionette, a ragdoll of a human with which he
could do whatever he pleased. He was her master, and she was
nothing.

Auntie had long been passed the point of crying. She had
extolled every gutteral utterance imaginable, yet she had not cried for
months now. It is unknown whether physical ocular abuse or mental
stripping was responsible, but either way Steve was the culprit although, she had really brought this upon herself.
Stephen unhinged her dislocated jaw, a pain which she never
grew accustomed to, and expelled copious amount of acidic, chunky
vomit into her gaping maw. Steve had finally found a useful
application for his Gerd, having purposely drank half a beer earlier
that day.
"HeeHee," he giggled, as he patted him stomach.
"Mr. Tummy, I know we've had our differences, but you're alright..." he
squealed.
He vomited once more, this time more violently into her gullet.
Her shriveled esophagus could not stand the uptake. what's worse is
her throat was so parches from days without proper hydration that the
regurgitation from her nephew stuck to the sides of dessicated
mucosal epithelia, extracting what water it could from the barf in order
to survive.
Auntie choked and spat out giblets of semi digested chicken
tenders and ravioli bits. Steve's puke was stained with artificial food
coloring, which badly irritated and burned her insides. Some of the
expelled sludge oozed into her open wounds.
"There, there, eat up like a big girl!" Steve exclaimed.He reached for a
nearby shelf from where he withdrew an antique pewter spoon.
"Here comes the train!" Steve forcefully pushed the spoon into the
back of her throat, pressing as hard as he could against her uvula.
Auntie wanted to vomit as hard as she could. She so desperately
wanted to. Every fiber of humanity left in the listless array of organs
and tissue and conscience she once called a "body" yearned for
upheaval. However, she had made that mistake before. This was her
dinner. It was either this or her "just desserts," as Stephen aptly
named it. That is to say, she either eats his vomit or eat his, and her
own shit. Stephen would take great delight in pouring Auntie's bedpan
into her automated forced feeding tube.
"How's the grub, Auntie? For once, I did the cooking!" Stephen said,
chuckling heartily.
Auntie mouthed in agreement. This did not satisfy Steve. she
realized this, and so she drew upon what little remained of her

involuntary need to live and gurgled "ye-grglgrglgrgl-ssh...Shteeegrglgrglgrgl-vie!..."

"Attagirlllll Auntie!!!!" Steve said as he grinned.
Stephen enjoyed every minute of his playtime with Auntie, as
much as ever. Be it, 5 years old, or 23 or 30, Auntie would always be
his special friend. Nothing could severe their bond. Steve knew the
hour was drawing near and didn't want to keep his raid group waiting.
His "brb" had long since passed the point of polite withdrawal and was
beginning to imply a ruse absence from his guild's activities.
Stephen opens a filthy, mildewed chest lying in the northeast
corner of the room. In it was a bucket of chum. It had been sitting,
festering along with the mildew for several days now in the hot Boston
summer. He picked the pale up and examined its rancidity and
deemed it proper. He looked her dead in the eyes and without
hesitation he doused her in the hot sticky fish entrails and muck that
had been collecting in the cess-bucket. Stephen then took off his pants
and sprayed a deluge of piss onto aunties pathetic corporeal form. The
urine, being highly calcified and yielding very little water from his diet
of synthetic foods, proved to be extremely agonizing as they sept into
her wounds.
Stephen flung open the rosette, and he exhaled deeply. He was
happy, as the grand finale was about to begin. A flock of ravens, crows
and nightingales was on the horizon. It was obvious now why the
staircase was covered in bird shit and feathers. Stephen simply turned
around and left. Auntie was making loud mumbling noises of
impending doom and Stephen relished in it. He slowly descended
down the staircase, the birds entering through the opening rosette.
Feathers and bird shit, feathers and bird shit dropped down
incessantly. Audible screams were heard. The birds pecked at her
wounds and dug into every part of her body until every piece of chum
was consumed. Stephen knew they would do a thorough job of it.
Stephen closed the secret passage, sat down at his computer
and took a deep, satisfied breath. He put on his headsets and his guild
mates clamored about his extended leave but were about to begin the
instance. Stephen, still smiling, took out his notebook where he had
scrupulously outlined the ins and outs and schedule of his aunts slow
descent into human filth. He checked off a day after what seemed like
an endless list of daily check marks.

"Day 371," he muttered softly...."check."

____________________________________________________________________
About the Author:

Vid Jovanovic (1993- ) grew up in a small sleepy suburb 5 miles outside of Washington
DC in Bethesda, MD. He spent many days in his youth in the pointless pursuit of video
game dominance and from this he made friends with his good buddy and writing rival
Michael Hayes. Through Mike he met Stephen and Jason and developed a burning desire
to catalog the injustices committed by Stephen against his aunt.