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He sits across the room from me, shivering, muttering to himself, sitting in a pool of his own blood… or what I at least assume is his blood, due to the missing skin and slice wounds on his back. The room is an off white padded cell, like an asylum that has been deserted for a very long time. I have seen this scenario a thousand times over, and it never ceases to make me question my sanity. I fear he makes the treatment more and more deliberate each time, and I’m not sure how much longer I can take it. I begin to scream for help, which only serves to draw his attention. I’m not sure why I scream, no one ever comes...
He stands up slowly... deliberately, like a starving predator, then turns to face me. I can see the flecks of gore strewn throughout his matted hair from where I stand, chained to the opposite wall from where he sat. His face is something I can never forget; the pale man’s face is not so much a face, as it is a collection of human facial features, swathed in rotting flesh. He begins his approach at a slow enough pace for it to become the worst of tortures. I count the seconds, anything to distract me from the fate that indubitably approaches when he catches me.
Exactly 182 minutes and 37 seconds later, the faceless king is inches from me. I can feel his fetid breath upon my face. Suddenly, he plunges his hand inside of his stomach, and pulls out a bloody rusted carving knife. He starts with my left hand, patiently and methodically separating skin from bone, flaying me alive.
He works his way up my arms, all the time, muttering, “Flay, kill, repeat. Flay, kill, repeat,” to himself the whole time. I feel the pain, screaming in agony as the knife digs into my flesh, until only my face is left. He replaces the knife inside of his chest, and returns to my face. He sticks his long, unkempt fingernails into my eye sockets, and rips out my eyes.
Blinded now, I can hear only his chant slowly moving away, "In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king..."