Horror Story by Daria Vashchatynska

Dominic meets a boy without a head.

He sits beside him, studying him—or what’s left of him. The bright red stains on his hoodie starkly contrast with the pale kitchen, the grey city, and the grey world. They are mesmerizing. He runs his gloved hand over them, and blood smears across the fabric. He wipes it off on his transparent suit, as if cleaning himself, becoming yet another vivid blotch in this sterile room.

On his floor lay a corpse, cold and rigid. The skin had taken on a purplish-grey hue, a clear sign that the early stages of decomposition had already begun. Dominic stared at the body for several seconds. The entire floor, despite his efforts to avoid it, was soaked in blood. It looked like the killer had been brutal. The victim’s body was mostly intact—except for the face. The eyes were replaced by grotesque holes, and the hair, matted with dried blood, stuck out in clumps, now a strange brownish shade. Near the ear, Grand noticed a patch of raw red flesh, stripped of skin.

The blond young man paused in thought. He had never been cruel—in fact, quite the opposite. The way he had acted then was completely out of character. It seemed likely that he was suffering from some deep psychological trauma he had never told anyone about—or perhaps had never fully admitted to himself.

For now, Grand put aside the silver, sharply honed knife. He stripped the hoodie off the body—it needed to be burned—and tossed it aside. Then he rolled the corpse onto a plastic sheet, inspecting it with even greater interest. To put it more delicately, Dominic wanted to remove the internal organs of the torso—and he got to work.

The blade sliced easily through the soft tissues. He looked into what used to be the throat—the larynx and trachea. It opened up, thin streams still trickling out, but it didn’t bother him. Once the incision reached a point only he understood, somewhere below the navel, he examined his handiwork. It looked just like an anatomy textbook—only more vivid, more real. You could run your fingers along the lungs, stroke the ribs, and listen to the heart. He listened—despite the fact it hadn’t beaten in fourteen hours.

Something about it drew him in, made him gaze deeper at the scattered viscera still oozing blood. The dark crimson liquid was slowly congealing, and the sickening smell hit his nose. Dominic felt nausea rise; his head spun. He regretted—probably for the hundredth time—ever letting Michael into his apartment.

The sight was revolting, and yet it triggered something awful and thrilling inside. Everything clenched up, it was terrifying—and disturbingly good. Heat surged through his body, and a flush crept onto his cheeks, offering faint warmth in the cold room.

Grand moved quickly, flipping over the tangled mess of internal organs. He located the heart and, with a swift cut of the amputation knife, separated it from the rest. It felt normal to the touch—not loose or mushy. He packed the other organs into a bag, trying not to stare at them longer than necessary.

By the time he was left staring at the empty shell of a body—smooth tissue and bones—he felt an overwhelming urge to smoke. He wanted just a few more minutes to look at the corpse. But not now. He was aware of how disturbing this twisted impulse was as he began dissecting the victim’s left arm.