Losing Yourself
Dead.
They were all dead.
He still couldn't remember whether it was forty, fifty, or even sixty he had killed. The last few weeks had past like a blur and every second of it seemed like a bad dream. Why had he begun this killing spree? Why was he now sat in a cheap motel in the middle of nowhere with the deaths of dozens on his shoulders? Was it because he had found his Bengal tiger wife in bed with two wolves from work? Was it because he had lost his job the week before? Shortly followed by the death of both his parents in the same fortnight? Was it the terrible nightmares, which overlapped into his waking hours leaving him dazed and confused, the ones he had been having every night for the last six months? Was it the new medication he had been prescribed for his manic depression and sleepless nights?
He concluded it was a combination of all these factors. And even though he had torn through his wife's and both her lover's bodies with his bare hands, gouging eyes and shredding flesh in a blind rage, it brought him no relief from the pain he felt. He had gone insane, truely lost himself in a suffocating madness.
That same night, after the murders, he had driven his car up into the thickly forested hills which surrounded the city where they lived and desposed of the bodies. He felt no remorse for the act but was still streaming tears and shaking uncontrollably. Over and over in his mind "Bitch fucking bitch BITCH whore now you see now you FUCKING SEE bitch bitch fucking BITCH" played out like a mantra as he dug through the cold earth. Occasionally he would glance out of the deepening hole he was in and look into his dead wife's eyes. He would have done anything for her, anything. Yes, times had been hard recently, yes, things had been difficult between them but why had she done this to him? They were so happy once. He could remember so clearly their courtship all those years ago, how they would bask in each others love and affection, the whole world evaporating whenever they were together. But things had changed, they had barely spoken for months, barely acknowledging each other as they continued to live in the house they had bought, the bed they shared now cold and devoid of the passion they once shared.
After the bodies were buried he returned to his vehicle, sitting in the driver seat for what seemed like hours just staring out over the city. What was he to do now? The lights of the hundreds of buildings below seemed to be laughing at him, mocking him. The sky was weighing down upon him and a thousand buzzing whispers like angry bees were circulating in his ears. A blind rage was encompassing him and he had nothing left to fight it with. Grinding his teeth to near breaking point, he let out an almighty roar, tore the steering wheel straight off its fixing and punched his paw clean through the windshield.
After that night he began roaming the forest, not returning to his house. At least five days he spent alone, surviving solely on small animals and livestock that he captured and tortured, then ate raw. Barely sleeping, muttering incomprehensibly, his only companion being his slowly deteriorating sanity and the horrific voices that now haunted him. He looked and smelt awful, reduced to nothing more than a primitive beast. But even those days spent feeding on vermin and farm animals did nothing to satisfy his burning desire to hunt and kill and feed upon the life that had betrayed him.
He walked back into the city in the early hours of a monday morning, just as the sun was rising over the concrete jungle. He found a cash machine and withdrew all the money from his and his wife's bank account (around 2,800 pounds). Walking into the city centre he drew a lot of stares, half forgetting the state he probably looked. He knew he couldn't walk around forever covered in dirt and blood and sweat, so he bought new clothes and checked into a small hotel to clean himself up.
After a long shower he dressed and stared at himself in the mirror. He did not recognise the reflection that looked back at him and he laughed at it. He spent all day in that hotel room, sat on the end of the bed listening to all the voices that were battering him. His mind was so polluted now that he was unable to remember who he ever was. All he knew was what he had to do. As the sun set on the city he left the room and began to roam the streets.
His first victims after returning to the city were a group of gang members standing on a street corner under a flickering street light, eight foxes in matching headbands and designer clothes. They had passed him off as a crazy drunk and shouted abuse at him, pushing him into a shop doorway as he walked by. Within seconds five of this gang were laying on the pavement clutching at their necks, dark red blood spewing from the gaping wounds the tigers claws had created, soaking the cold concrete. They had seriously underestimated their victim, and now had paid the price for their stupidity. From the three remaining foxes, two had already fled as soon as the first body dropped. But the other just stood there in a state of total shock, looking at his friends twitching on the floor, bleeding to death. This did nothing to stop the tiger's rage, and in one movement he grabbed the foxes head and slammed it into the concrete post of the street light, shattering his skull massively and killing him instantly.
He picked up his pace to run and headed further through the darkened streets. Panting hard, he came to one of the many industrial complexes that littered the city. Tall, shimmering blocks of gleaming metal offices and huge flat roofed warehouses reached off into the distance, lining both sides of the road. He keep up his pace and continued forward, before noticing five construction workers laying down the foundations of a new building. There was no need to worry about noise in this part of the city as noone lived nearby and once the working day was finished the district was empty until the following morning. which meant building work could progress unabated all night. As could this tigers bloodshed.
Adrenaline was coursing through him hard and he spared no time in running and leaping at the closest worker, an old brown canine with a pick-axe, and pinning him face down into the stoney ground. He held him to the floor and brought one of his hind paws heavily down onto the back of his neck. It cracked and the head stretched outwards and twisted sideways at a bizarre angle, releasing a muffled scream before it's life ended. He picked up the discarded pick-axe and swung it in a sideways arc at the now approaching gang of workers, hitting one in the centre of his ribs with a crunch. He fell backwards screaming with the tool sticking out of him as the other three dived at the tiger.
The first swang with a shovel, missed by inches and recieved a viscious blow to the face, knocking him to the ground out cold. The second, a large rat, leaped and grabbed hold of his arms, pinning them behind his back as the third, a bengal tiger like himself, began to throw fist after fist at his head. He soaked in the beating like it was nothing and smiled at every blow. He raised the animal restraining him off the ground and ran backwards into a small metal office unit, crashing into it hard. His captor relinquished his grip and fell to the ground with a winded grunt. The third worker was running at him now, claws and teeth bared. But as he closed in to strike, the tiger sidestepped, grabbed the top of his jaw with one paw, and the lower jaw with his other, and pulled them open nearly 180 degrees. The sound of the muscles and tendons ripping apart was awful as the jaw was bent back and eventually torn off, the final noise being that of the gargling choking howls coming from the jawless head, tongue lolling out against his neck.
The second worker was rising back to his feet, but had barely left the ground before the end of a shovel was lodged firmly in his face sideways. The head split open from the top down to the chin and each half fell onto his shoulders, spilling their grey bloodied contents into the rats lap.
He noticed a large toolbox nearby with its lid open and within it the end of a small chainsaw was visible among its contents. Taking it from the box, he turned his attention to the unconscious creature laying sprawled on the floor. It was another rat, similar to the one wearing its brain down its shirt behind them.
Surprisingly, It wasn't until the second arm had been nearly sawn off that the rat awoke screaming. And perhaps unluckily it wasn't until the chainsaw had removed both of his legs and started sawing upward through his crotch that he passed out again.
His next kills were two female leopards, apparently drunk from the way they were laughing and stumbling down the street. He ran up behind them from out of an alleyway and grabbed one by the head, twisting it nearly three-quarters round and then throwing the lifeless body to the floor. Before her friend had time to scream, he seized her by the throat in his jaws and tore it open with so much force that she was decapitated, sending a tall arc of crimson shooting upwards. The severed head hang in his mouth and he spat it to the ground. He saw lights coming on in the windows around him and knew that he would have to keep moving to avoid capture, so he sprinted back into the alleyway and ran non-stop into the darkness.
The next people he encountered were three homeless drunks, all sat huddled in the dark around a tiny flickering fire on the ground. He couldn't tell what species they were, some form of canine possibly, but that didn't matter anyway. He killed all three, punching one so hard in the chest his whole ribcage had collapsed inwards. He continued running through the darkness of the back streets for miles, always avoiding the main roads and lit areas until he finally reached the highway which ran round the outside of the city, dividing it from the countryside beyond. He needed a vehicle. Wandering around covered in blood was going to get him noticed very quickly, even at this late hour.
He walked alongside the verge of the highway, hidden from sight, following the flow of traffic for miles, before noticing a parked car situated maybe a quarter of a mile up a dirt road leading out into the country. Keeping in the shadows, he moved closer to the vehicle, spotting two young wolves in the back seat. He heard giggles and saw the car shaking, the steamy windows making it all too obvious what was going on.
After he had ripped the rear door from the hinges and tore the male out of the car, he raked his claws deep down the wolf's face and threw him aside, leaving him howling in agony. For the next fifteen or twenty minutes he raped the young female, fucking her with terrifying force, carving her into pieces and roaring maniacally as he did so, stopping only when the screaming stopped and he couldn't tell who or what he was fucking anymore. He got out and observed the car's interior. It was almost comically drenched in gore and ripped flesh, like something out of a zombie movie trying to overcompensate for its lack of a plotline. He wiped his muzzle off on the back of his paw and spat onto the ground, clearing his mouth of the females fur and skin. On the back seat he saw the wolf's vagina, sodden in gore and still attached to a chunk of shredded inner thigh. This he picked up and ate, tearing the meat off what remained of the girl's thigh bone. The taste of this young wolf's cunt exhilarated him and pumped fresh adrenaline through his body. He lost himself in the moment and devoured it in one go, suddenly tasting his own come inside the butchered womb. He urged and felt himself begin to vomit, which he did so over the young males face, leaving him splattered in bile and the semi digested chunks of his dead lover's pussy.
The young male seemed to have died at some point in the course of the assualt, and appeared to have tried to claw his way back to the car, probably to make some heroic attempt at saving his girlfriend. This would have proved fruitless, as the wounds down his face had punchered both eyes badly and torn off most of the flesh on his muzzle. He picked the wolf up, put him in the boot of the car and got into the driving seat. He turned the engine on and put it into gear, before realising he could not see out of the windscreen. Pulling open the glove box, he fumbled around looking for something to clear the window. He found what appeared to be a scraper for clearing ice from the outside of the glass. Using this he scraped the hanging flesh and congealed blood off the inside, the chunks of fur and gore hitting the dashboard in thick wet splats. Once cleared he drove away at speed. He knew of a small town where he could go, about 70 or so miles away. There was a friend he knew who lived just on the outskirts. There was a lake behind the house he could drive the car into. He would be safe there for a while.
As he neared his friend's house, he drove up the driveway and parked the car round the back of the property. It was nearly half past one by this point and no lights were on in the house, but the sound of the car arriving had awoken someone and a light had been turned on in an upstairs room, followed shortly by another in the downstairs hallway. He stood in the porch at the back of the house and waited for the door to open. A lot of rattles and clicks came from inside the house as the door was unbolted. The lion that opened the door greeted him warmly and with a smile. But just as he was asking why he had turned up in the middle of the night in such a state the tiger launched at him and hit him with a powerful blow to the face, knocking him backwards onto the floor in the hallway.
Stepping through the door, he leapt upon the lion and preceeded to batter him relentlessly, breaking the floorboards beneath as he smashed through his bewildered friends face. He knew there was no one else in the house, the lion now lying dead in his own hallway was a complete recluse and rarely had company. Walking upstairs, he entered his dead friends bedroom and changed into some clean clothes. He was about the same build as him and quickly found a black suit and large overcoat that fitted nicely. Downstairs in the dining room he searched for the lion's handgun, eventually finding it in the back of a drawer and placing it in his coat. He knew he had one, he had shown it to him when he was last here. "Just in case. For security, y'know..." He had said.
He pushed the car into the lake, took his friends truck and drove into town. His head was spinning and he needed something to drink. Minutes later he pulled up outside a small bar and parked. Everyone in the place was drunk already and music was blaring out some abysmal 80's song. He walked in and leant on the bar, ordering four straight double whiskeys and downing them in quick succession. He ordered the same again and the barman filled the glasses back up, choosing not to ask too many questions to the six foot ten tiger which was now sat opposite him. He sat for a few minutes and felt the whiskey taking effect, knocking back the next four shortly after.
Turning slowly round he looked at the people in the bar. It was pretty empty now but still had the remnants of a typical drunken night strewn across the various tables. There was a group of five feline women sat at the back, drunkenly laughing and clumsily drinking out of some large colourful cocktail with long curling straws. There was a bear in filthy overalls, sitting hunched over the bar snoring loudly. Near the entrance sat two old huskies, both seeming to be completely engrossed in whatever it was they were talking about. Other than that the only other people was the barman, a young ferret in an apron who was busying himself cleaning glasses, and a wolf leaning against the jukebox hitting buttons, presumably looking for something else to listen to. The eight whiskeys had taken effect now and he was becoming pleasantly drunk, which probably explains why he thoughtlessly decided to do what he did next.
He pulled out the gun and fired a round straight into the back of the barman's head, a red cloud exploding across the bar and covering the bear on the other side, awakening him with a start. Another round and the ferret dropped to the floor, the bullet hitting him in the temple. He went down like a rag doll, a long jet of blood shooting outwards from the hole in his head. The girls had all jumped out of there seats by now and he turned the gun on them, walking towards them as he fired. Two of them dropped instantly with shots to the head, the other three being brought down under the rain of shots that followed. As he turned to face the rest of the bar, the bear was stumbling towards him and shouting something incomprehensible. But rather than try to listen he unloaded the gun into the bear's face and loaded a fresh magazine into the pistol. One of the old huskies appeared to have had some kind of attack, and his friend was by his side on the floor. The old dog looked up at the approaching tiger and begun shouting at him, sobbing wildly. With a bullet each he ended their misery.
The wolf had run out of the bar and was making his way down the street, shouting for help. He placed the gun back into his coat and ran out to give chase. The wolf had made it to a junction about a hundred yards away and darted left onto another road. The tiger charged up the road and round the corner, finding the wolf in a phonebox shouting his whereabouts into the mouthpiece. He pulled the pistol out and ran at him firing, hitting him several times and dropping him to the floor, leaving the reciever swinging in the aftermath. He ran back to the truck and drove away at speed, knowing that the police would not long be after him.
It was like that for a while for him. He was on the run for weeks, arriving in small towns, killing at random and leaving before he could be captured. But now something was starting to feel wrong about the whole thing. It didn't seem like any of it had any purpose any more. He still felt the blind rage and hatred that had driven him on but now it just all seemed so... trivial. Was this him coming to an end of his violent rampage? He could feel his old self returning and with it all the memories and all the backdated guilt of all the deaths he had caused. And now here he was, in some dingey room on a filthy bed, staring out of the window and wondering where it had all gone wrong. He knew they wouldn't take him alive if they found him, not after the brutality he had handed out so mercilessly to so many innocent people. But in his deluded state they were all out to get him, all out to hurt him. He had to kill them.
Surely he was only defending himself?
Wasn't he?
No, no. It was all wrong.
He had lost his mind and turned into a cold blooded animal. Killing for the sake of killing. He hung his head and let it rest in his paws, sitting at the end of the bed. The voices that had been smothering his mind all this time were whirling away now, leaving a massive void in its place, only to be instantly refilled by the waves of memories flooding back to haunt him. He couldn't believe he was capable of such things and sat shaking at the faces of all his victims rushing through his mind.
Tears fell from his eyes as he heard the first police cars off in the distance. The sound of helicopter blades followed shortly and its huge spotlight suddenly filled the outside of the motel, sending bright streams of light shooting through the window of his room. The police cars skidded to a halt outside and he heard the sound of doors opening, shotguns being loaded, orders being shouted, totally surrounding the building.
He stood up and looked at the army of policemen outside. "Heh, all this for me?" he thought to himself. One of the officers stood up behind the bonnet of his squad car with a megaphone and begun to shout something to him, but he never heard the end of what he said. He had already put his gun in his mouth and blown his head over the motel room.