HABIT

It had been a few long and perilous months of picking off, torturing, and murdering your friends. Now, you were the only one left. HABIT figured killing you would be too easy for him, it wouldn’t even be fun. No, instead he decided he was going to keep you alive. Not because he liked you, but because he wanted to see you squirm, he wanted to see you lose yourself, he wanted to drive you insane. He gave you two options; you could either be put to rest in the most uncreative way possible, or you could remain as his partner in crime/camera person plus his “romantic partner” as he put it. The choice to you was obvious.

You now had the privilege of being HABIT’s personal assistant and partner. Though, it was obvious the kind of relationship it was. You didn’t love him, and he sure as hell didn’t love you. For him this was nothing more than a game, a sick mind game he played to torture you. That’s all he cared about. But, for someone who had all of their friends killed off, one of them he was possessing, you were still in fairly good shape. He couldn’t have that.

That’s when you stopped being just the camera person. Instead, sometimes, he’d have you join in on the fun, while he took over the camera for once. And he watched. He watched, with every swing of a hammer, every sawed off limb, every broken limb, every gouged eye, he watched as the life slipped from yours. Becoming nothing but a husk of your former self. Just something he could call upon whenever he felt he could. He loved it. He reveled in it.

Tonight was one of those nights. HABIT had brought home some man stuffed in a bag slung over HABIT’s shoulder. It was someone you didn’t know. But that didn’t matter, you didn’t need to know them. There you stood, camera in hand as HABIT made you watch the scene unfold in front of you. The pleas and screams of the man filled the cold room, only being weakly lit by the lights in the other room. It was HABIT’s special room for torture and murder.

The sound of cracking bones and the metallic smell that filled the room made you cringe, but it made HABIT laugh. The man’s screams fell on deaf ears, it only made HABIT more relentless, he wanted to drag it out longer and longer. At some point, HABIT even threw the man to the ground, letting him writhe in pain, all HABIT told you was not to touch him before he left the room. To where? You didn’t want to ask.

The man pulled himself across the floor, weakly begging and pleading for him, blood trailing behind him. It was nauseating to watch. But you kept filming, just like you were supposed to. You just watched as the man crawled past you and towards the door, though all hope seemed to leave him once HABIT stepped into the doorway. Sadistically grinning down at the man, a metal baseball bat over his shoulder.

“Where ya goin’? We’re almost done.” HABIT could hardly contain his grin.

With a laugh, the metal bat swung through the air with a nauseating whoosh, connecting with the man’s back and creating a crack that was music to HABIT’s ears. He swung again and again and again, he wasn’t even aiming for anything. He didn’t care what broke, he didn’t care what fractured, he didn’t care what splattered on his shoe. He just wanted to put this man through hell. And that he did. The sound of the bat connecting with bones made you sick. You wanted to look away, but you didn’t, knowing what would happen to you if you did.

For HABIT, this was just another Tuesday night. It was his life. It’s what he enjoyed. He donned a sadistic but satisfied grin, he didn’t care when blood spattered on his face every time he swung the bat. It was pure bliss. He was ruthless and cruel, but he was always so happy with the result. Filled with satisfaction, he stopped. Inhaling deeply, the scent of metal and sweat filling his nostrils, before letting out a calm, relaxed sigh. HABIT stepped over the convulsing man, making his way over to you.

HABIT looked at the camera with a stupid, goofy grin, “We did a pretty bang up job, eh? High five,” Habit raised his hand to you, but you just stood there. Silent and lifeless as you held the camera. “Alright, alright, next time.” He lowered his hand with a chuckle before slinking behind you. He slithered his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder as the two of you watched the man writhe in pain. Somehow he was still alive. He was quite the fighter.

“Like what you see?” He joked, laughing as you shrugged him off of your shoulder, “C’mon! Don’t be like that! You’ll get used to it. Learn to enjoy it. If you think about it, murder, torture– it’s an art form. Pain dances across the skin, each lash of torment a symphony– no, an orchestra of exquisite agony!” HABIT let out a low growl as you tuned him out “Point the- point the fucking camera at me.” Reluctantly, you turned and pointed the camera at the entity. HABIT just grinned and readjusted his hat.

“You see, you can surround yourself with your Michaelangelos, and your Van Gohs, and your- whatever the fuck else you enjoy, but violence, that’s the ultimate art form. The beauty of violence is its honesty. It is raw, it is unfiltered, it is brutal in its storytelling, it is beautiful.” He preached, waving his hands around and such, “There are no pretenses, no masks to hide behind it! Sure, anybody can be an artist when it comes to violence, but not everybody can truly master it. Not everybody can appreciate it in its truest and purest form. We live in a world where true, grotesque beauty is hidden behind a veil abstractions and fucking Starry Nights. Only those with the keenest of eyes can truly appreciate the artistry behind violence and suffering. Only they can really embrace the beauty in the raw, unfiltered essence of art that is pain. So revel. Revel in it, I say!”

He stepped closer to you, spinning you around and wrapping his arms around your waist and laying his chin on your shoulder once more. He let out a low, rasped sigh in your ear, his voice lowering as he spoke, “Let the blood flow, and the fallen tears, and the echoed screams ring in your head, let it be a testament to your existence. A reminder that you are here. That you’re only human.” He hummed, one hand trailing down and slipping into your pants, palming at your crotch with a low growl.

“I say we celebrate torture, the violence, the pain. For in these we find the essence of life. And in it, you will find the spirit of my mercy. You will find how grateful you should be, that isn’t you on the ground, groveling at my feet.”