Hi! I am Mega and this is my second post here. I hope you enjoy it:3


dismemberment, selfharm, skin penetration

everything happens by mutual consent


He's taking his time, and that's the first thing Mega realizes, even before the knife even appears in the frame. This is not the haste of a butcher, this is the patience of someone who knows that the sweetest thing is in pauses. The way the air thickens between one movement and the next.


The room is small and stuffy, with one lamp on a long cord, and the light from it is yellowish, uneven, it falls on the floor in a spot and leaves the corners in shadow. Mega is sitting on an old wooden chair — the back is high, the legs are heavy — and his wrists are tied to the back legs with a soft cable in a fabric braid. Not tight. He checked it himself: if you pull hard, the cable cuts in, and the skin under it turns white, and then red. Mega has already pulled. Mega already knows how it feels—and that knowledge holds him in place tighter than any knot.


The knife is on the table next to a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, and there is also a damp cloth and a glass jar with something cloudy. He doesn't pick up the knife right away. First, his palm is on Megi's thigh, wide and hot, and he leads it slowly, from the knee up to the groin, and back down, and Megi feels a tremor gathering under her skin, as it accumulates at one point and does not find a way out. He strokes him the way one strokes a dog about to be gutted: smoothly, without malice, with an almost tender interest in what is at hand.


«You asked for it yourself,» — he finally says, and his voice is flat, low, without pressure. He doesn't ask. He reminds me.


Mega asked for it. Mega is always asking. He nods, and his green hair sticks to his forehead, damp because he's sweating before he even touches it, because waiting has already done half the work for him. His brown floppy ears are flattened, his tail is wrapped around a chair leg and quivers. Gray eyes look up from the bottom. There is no fear in them. They contain the very thing he loves about him: the hunger that can't get enough.


The first incision is on the inside of the thigh, where the skin is thin, glows blue under the lamp and where the veins are close to the surface. He puts the blade flat, lets Mega feel the cold metal, drives it without pressure — just so that the skin remembers — and only then turns it over and cuts. Gradually. Exactly. Two centimeters deep, no more, and at first there is no blood — there is a white strip of split skin, and only after a second, as if on command, it swells and protrudes thickly, heavily, dark red. Mega exhales through his teeth, long, and his tail beats against the leg of the chair, once, twice. He doesn't scream. He looks at it, and something tightens in his throat.


«More,» — Mega whispers, and his voice is higher than usual and trembles at the end of the word.


He's grinning—with just his lips. The second incision is made across the first one, criss—crosswise, and the blood is already flowing freely down the thigh, dripping onto the floor and collecting in a small puddle that glitters in the yellow light. He runs his thumb over the wound, slowly, pressing in, and smears the blood on the skin, and Mega moans, softly, throatily, arching forward as far as the ropes will allow. The cable cuts into his wrists, and he hears the Mega sizzle from this separate, sharp sensation.


The lighter clicks once, twice, the wheel scratches, and the flame stretches out evenly, blue at the base, yellow at the end.

«Look at me,» — he says, and Mega looks at him. The flame touches the skin on his collarbone, and he holds it for a second, two, three — just long enough for the smell to come: singed hair, then skin, something sweet and nauseating -and Mega screams, briefly, and tears spray from his eyes, but he does not look away. "Good boy," he says, and Mega sobs harder from those words than from the fire. It's his personal cocktail: pain first, then praise, and never the other way around.

He works methodically, like a man who has a list and follows it. The palm is a slap in the face, open, ringing, and Megi's head twitches sideways, and red instantly appears on her cheek. Then again, on the other side, and again, until the lip bursts against the teeth and blood runs down the chin, in a thin trickle, to the neck. Then a fist in the stomach, short and embedded, and Mega folds in half, coughing and gasping for air, and the ropes stretch until they crack. He's waiting. He stands over him, watches as Mega takes a deep breath, as his back slowly straightens up, and hits him again, exactly at the moment when his breathing has almost recovered.


Burns lie flat, like brands. There's a round, cigarette—shaped lump on his ribs, and he holds it until the skin starts to bubble. On the inside of his hand is a long one, from a lighter, drawn slowly, and Mega howls through clenched teeth. On his neck, where the collar is, he presses the metal part of the lighter, warmed up, and Mega twitches so that the chair creaks.


Mega doesn't count anymore. He's all wet—from tears, from sweat, from blood, from something else that flows between his legs and glistens on his thighs. He mumbles incoherently, and in this mumble there is a mixture of "please" and "don't stop", and he himself no longer understands where what is, and this is perhaps the most honest thing about him.


He straightens up and looks at his work — at the cross on his hip, at the burn marks—and breathes heavily, evenly, like a man who has walked uphill for a long time. His pants have been tight for a long time. He unbuttons them slowly, without looking, and pulls himself out, and Mega looks at it from below, and his gray eyes widen — not from fear, from anticipation.


He comes close, puts his knee between Megi's legs, and snuggles up. The head lies directly on the cross — at the intersection of the two incisions—and the blood, still warm, still sticky, smears it, and he drives his hips back and forth, slowly, and the friction against the torn skin reverberates in the spine. Mega screams and twitches, and the cable on his wrists tightens, and blood comes out from under the blade wounds again, a drop with each movement. He looks at her the way you look at a lubricant, and speeds up.


«That's it,» — he says. Don't move, or you'll tear it even more.


He doesn't stop until the blood and what he's smeared in it starts to shine, and Mega doesn't scream anymore, but whines, exactly, on one note, and his tail whips against the leg of the chair.


Then he pulls away, and the head slides down to his stomach. He picks up the knife again, and now cuts deeper — not playfully, not trying, but seriously. There is a long, even line across the abdomen, from the chest to the groin, and the skin spreads slowly, heavily, like a dense cloth, and under it you can see a dark, living, moving thing. Mega screams — really, on one note, high - and he claps his hand over his mouth, stained with his own blood, and feels Mega screaming into her palm, as his breath beats hot and fast against her skin.


«Shh,» — he says. — «I don't want you to die prematurely.» I still need you.


He finds the edge of the wound with his finger, pushes it apart — the skin is served like a dense dough — and puts the head to the deepest place. Mega freezes. His breath hitches, his eyes pop open, and he looks at him with horror and that hunger that hasn't gone away.


«Look,» — he says, and enters. Gradually. Just the head—a couple of centimeters, no more—and the edges of the incision close around it, wrap around it, warm, moist, alive, and he exhales through his teeth, and his hips jerk on their own. Mega screams — hoarsely, hoarsely — and his body arches as far as the ropes allow, and the blood flows harder, flowing around, flowing down his stomach.

He holds on for as long as he can— seconds stretched into minutes—then he comes out, and the head slips out with a wet sound, and a little more blood flows out of the wound, dark, thick. He looks at her, at Megu, at the way he's trembling, and he's smiling—for the first time in the whole scene, really.


«There's more,» — he says.

Mega breathes through his nose. Often, briefly. His eyes are almost glassy now, but he's still there, still looking, and he doesn't look away, even when the knife goes lower, and blood floods the floor and flows into the cracks between the boards.


The end is simple, without pathos. He doesn't cut off the hand immediately: first he cuts the tendons, and Megi's fingers twitch on their own, helplessly, like a puppet whose strings have been cut off; then the joint, with effort, with a crunch that reverberates in his own hand. Mega stops screaming — the voice has ended, only hoarse, ragged breathing remains. Then the second brush. Then the feet — carefully, bone by bone, one after the other, and the blood from the stumps goes smoothly, heavily, no longer pulsating. He's not doing this out of spite. He does it calmly, with concentration, like butchering a carcass, and there is more horror in this calmness than in any scream.


«Good boy,» — he says one last time, softly, almost tenderly, and puts his severed hand on Megan's chest, over her heart.


Megi's tail twitches once more, weakly, reflexively, and freezes. Ears are lowered. Her eyes are open, gray, and there's nothing in them anymore but a quiet, grateful madness.