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He Must Die

Updated: Mar 26












His yellowing skin festers at the stitches, pulled so tight I can distinguish the workings of his arteries and muscles. The potent smell of rotting flesh surrounds him.


The skin that binds him does not reflect the beautiful truth of what lives within, a bright soul with a thirst to learn.


I try to brush away the horrors that plague my thoughts. Digging up the dead body parts I needed to create him. Cutting limb from limb with my sharpest scalpel, being careful not to destroy the joints that I intended to re-join.


Those gruesome moments disturb my sleep, a few seconds before I wake, I feel as though I am in my cellar once again sewing together the veins of his lifeless body. This bloody and gruesome work along with the electrifying revival of his heart meant that I could give him life.


At first, I considered him to be my finest accomplishment and for as keen as I once was to share my achievement, I have since become desperate to hide him. I know only true well that this could revolutionize the scientific world, once it has become a better place to integrate a soul such as his.


One day this time will come, I am as certain of it as I am the passing hand of my timepiece, but it will not come in time for him.


I clasp the musket in my palm, taking a pouch of gunpowder, and clumsily pour the black grainy salt into the chamber, spilling some in panic. Then insert the bullet and impale the ramming rod before pushing open the door.


Reassuring myself that this violent deed is in fact an act of kindness, I wrap my index finger around the trigger and fire.


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