Wake up at 6:09 in the morning. Get dressed. Never mind not combing your hair. Never mind not taking a shower. Go outside your house. You shall feel the early mist of the unfurling morning. Feel its gentle caress. Savor it. You’ll need them later.
Stand beside the road, on the right side going North. Wait for a while. A white cab shall stop in front of you, the one with the name “Magdalena” painted on its sides. Ride at the back. Tell the driver, an old man with missing teeth and whose hair spiked with silver strands, go straight ahead, turn left on the fifth crossing then turn right before you hit the dirt road. He’ll know what to do.
It’s still too early and you are allowed to sleep. You don’t have to worry. The driver knows where to take you. Trust him.
Now you’ll wake up. Don’t be scared to find yourself alone inside the cab. The driver did his job which is to take you to your destination. You are alone now.
Now step outside. You’ll find yourself alone in the woods. Don’t be afraid. The sounds are just the rustling dried fallen leaves. Look up. In front of you is an old hospital-ruin. Observe carefully. The worn-out white paint of the building, the cracked up glass door and the hanging sign painted in bold red color that says “emergency,” remember all them.
Enter through the cracked up glass door. Don’t look back. Inside, you’ll find yourself in a narrow corridor leading to a double door in one kilometer distance. Don’t mind the number of doors on your left and right. Don’t even try to open them, or touch them with your hands. Just go straight ahead. Walk with your head held high. Don’t run. Just walk in your normal speed. There’s no use hurrying up. The distance will just stretch itself and you’ll end up tiring yourself. You’ll need all the energy later.
Once you’re at the door, open it slowly. Inside is a man, half naked, waiting for you. Nod at him so he’ll acknowledge you. He’ll ask you to strip all your clothes. Don’t ask. Just follow him. He knows what he’s doing. Then, lie down on the operating table. Your hands and feet will be tied on its corners. Don’t move. Don’t be afraid. He knows what he’s doing. Prepare yourself.
The man will kiss you on your mouth, his tongue battling with yours. Then out of nowhere, he’ll hit you with his whip. Don’t be afraid. Don’t resist. It’s not up to you now. He’ll whip you again. Two, three, four, five, never mind counting them. You’ll feel your flesh burning, tearing. You will scream the most terrifying scream of your life.
The man will now pick up his blazing iron rod, burned under the fire for hours and hours. He will direct it to your chest. Once the blazing rod and your flesh collide, it’s like Hell descended upon you. You can smell your burning flesh like the smell of the early morning mist.
And then again, he shall whip you. From your arms, to your thighs, every bit of flesh will be purged of the most excruciating pain you’ll ever feel.
Tears from your eyes will fall without you even noticing it. You’ll hope you become numb but the searing continuous pain shall deny you. Sweat and blood are now all over your body. Your flesh tearing down for you are now lying face down on the operating table. You’ll wish for death but there’s no way to evade such torture, such duress.
Once you’ve given up to Death of escaping such madness, your body shall relax. One, two, three another whipping. Four five six, the double-blade dagger slashing through your flesh. And then at some point, you’ll pass out.
Now wake up. You’ll find yourself alone once more inside the room. You’re dressed from waist down. Notice that no single trace of blood can be seen in your body yet the scars are evident everywhere. Someone will come in. He’ll nod at you. Acknowledge him. You’ll discover a whip wrapped in your hand. Somewhere, you can smell a metal, burning.
It’s up to you now. You’ll know what to do.
A Valentine Story, Chapter One: Butcher is dedicated to Alterjon