"The Disappearing Man"
By Ash Lomen
Self-inflicted surgery had become a favorite pastime, cutting off parts of myself to watch the slow decay of severed flesh. Deep cuts healing like pursed lips marked my body’s every inch. But I wanted more…
I started slowly, at first just removing small hunks of myself with a sharpened spoon, but in time I grew braver and moved on to my toes, ears, and a good part of my facial skin. By the time I decided to remove my left leg with an old penknife I had truly begin looking like a monster.
Decay seemed oddly appropriate when I gazed at my visage in the shattered bathroom mirror, and I supposed I could have psychoanalyzed my condition endlessly… surly this was something far deeper than the shallow cuts of my leather-clad brethren.
But instead of playing the shrink, I preferred to play the surgeon.
And so I cut on...
I never touched my fingers (for obvious reasons), or my cock (carnal thoughts were never failing despite my bizarre interests), so prostitutes, and only the strongest willed among their profession, were my frequent and only company. The best of them could even manage to feign pity… I liked that.
I spent my last days on this earth with my favorite whore, Marissa. I hung from ceiling chains, both legs removed as she licked at my flailing stumps. Infection had set in and I wanted to make the most of my dying hours.
In a final homage to the hobby that had taken my life, I paid Marissa to sever my head with a dull meat cleaver.
I died with a smile on my face.