Maybe if you keep going, the voices will stop. Maybe if you keep on going, your head won't feel like it's about to explode into shards of bone and bits of grey matter all over the old log cabin's sparsely furnished interior.
Maybe you hit her over the head with a tire iron because the voices told you to; maybe, just maybe, you may have even told the voices to tell you to. Maybe it was the voices that told you to take her to that place, that cabin in the middle of those ancient woods. Maybe they told you to bind her arms and legs with those bungee cords you have had lying in your trunk for the past year or so. Maybe you thought they'll leave you be, they'll finally leave you be, and you can sleep again, drift off into the unconscious void that has eluded you since as far back as you can remember.
Maybe, just maybe, if you cut her a little, the screaming will stop. The screaming coming from her; the screaming coming from you; the screaming coming from all around you and inside of you and from nowhere and from everywhere all at once. Maybe you liked the way you began - tentatively, at first, putting nearly no pressure on the box cutter you swiped from work. Maybe you were entranced by the way the blood came out, dark and red and sticky and wonderful. Maybe the voices told you to keep on going. Maybe the voices will stop if you cut a little deeper, press a little harder.
Maybe you liked cutting up her arms, exposing musculature and ligaments and tissue and nerve endings. Maybe you liked the way you pulled on those funny white cords in her forearm; maybe you liked the way her hand twitched and how she screamed and shrieked and pleaded with you when you did. Maybe the voices told you that she could not see the rest, she could never see the rest, she could only feel what you were doing from that point forward, she could only feel the blade sinking into her delicate flesh again and again and again and again.
Maybe you liked the funny colors that came out of her terrified, wide eyes as you plunged the box cutter into them, twisting and turning and scraping. scraping and cutting and laughing. Maybe you liked the way it tasted, as you leaned in and greedily lapped the bloody goo coming from her desecrated eye sockets. Maybe the voices told you that it would taste good. Maybe it did.
Maybe you liked turning her loose and letting her run around the room for a bit, screaming and shrieking and crying blood and pus, blood gushing and spewing from her mutilated arm. Maybe you liked tackling her, ripping her dainty little skirt off of her dainty little hips. Maybe the voices liked it too. Maybe you liked the way she shrieked louder and louder and louder than ever before when you spread her firm ass cheeks open and sliced up her rectum, over and over and over again. Maybe you liked the sound it made when you shoved the box cutter into her ass, inside of her, all the way to the hilt - that lovely squish, squish, squish.
Maybe you liked the way you had reduced her once perfect little ass to a quivering, pulsating, twitching, absolutely useless pile of flesh. Maybe the voices told you that would taste good too, that is the best meat of all. Maybe it was. Maybe you liked what you had reduced the rest of her to, a quivering, twitching, shrieking and useless pile of flesh, bleeding and sobbing and crying on the hardwood floor. Maybe you thought, despite all the shrieking, she could still shriek louder. The auditory fruit of your labor. The sublime sound of unimaginable torment, of unfathomable anguish. Maybe you knew that there was a bottle of lye in the bathroom; maybe the voices told you it was there. Maybe you knew about the funnel in that old, creaky drawer next to the rusty sink; maybe the voices knew it was there too.
Maybe you liked the way her shrieking and pleading was reduced to inane gibberish, shrieking sobbing crying gibberish, unintelligible words and sounds, louder and louder with each squeeze of the upside-down bottle. Maybe you were intoxicated by the smell of flesh being burnt chemically, hissing, popping, and squishing. Maybe you liked the way the blood oozed out of her destroyed hole faster and faster and faster than before, dripping. Drip, drip, drip, drip.
Maybe you liked the way all of her limbs seized up, and the funny way she twitched and undulated and thrashed around the blood-smeared floor. Maybe the voices did, too. Maybe you liked the way that she went still all of a sudden, blood still pouring from her. Maybe you were absolutely delighted, grinning ear to ear, shouting in utter vicarious ecstasy as she shit herself after she died, warm, fresh shit filling the deep wounds and gashes and cuts and tears inside of her, leaking and oozing out, blood-covered and smelling absolutely wretched and lovely and horrid and sublime.
Maybe you liked watching her die. Maybe the voices did, too.
Then again, maybe there were never any voices at all.