I love my wife and child. Nothing could bring me more happiness. Iâd just like to clarify that before I beginâŠ..
Working as a criminal investigator has its perks. My coworkers are nicer than expected, my salary is incredibly fulfilling. Even though my wife had to momentarily take off of work for the birth and raising of our now four month old child, my income manages to keep us financially stable.
Of course, there are downsides. The constant sight of decaying corpses occasionally gets to you. Not to mention the sick, twisted ways people are killed. My story begins at yet another crime scene. At the time, I didnât realize this would be the start of a series of similar killings, not to mention the first glimpse of âartâ Iâd see from my soon-to-be captors.
I remember the day clearly. The sun was shining, and to the rest of the world, the day was beginning as just another bright morning. To us, it was yet another festering corpse found tossed on the side of the highway, eventually discovered by a local driving by early in the morning. The gruesome masterpiece of someoneâs mutilated body was left for all to see, sticking out of the tall grass on the side of the road. An unbearable stench met my nostrils, and I attempted to cover my nose with my loose shirt. As everyone got to work, decorating the crime scene with tape and numbered cones, I examined the remains.
Of all the corpses Iâve seen, this one was the most unnerving. Body purposefully sprawled out across the earth, a womanâs nude form lay peacefully in the grass. Thick, black stitching ornamented her body. Deep wounds inflicted by what I later identified as a scalpel tainted her pale skin. Said wounds looked to be sewn back together with the previously mentioned black stitching. What perplexed me the most was why the patterns on her body were so intricate, like a gory painting made from flesh, blood, and bacteria-infested cuts. Upon further investigation of her body later on, we noted the removal of a few vital and dispensable organs. The thought that potentially, a few minor organs had been taken whilst she was still alive chilled me to the bone.
Quite possibly, the most peculiar stitching of all was her mouth. But not from crease to crease on her lipsâinstead, it was from one side of her jawbone to the other. Carved out from each corner of her lips, only to be sewn shut again. The forces of gravity were unkind in keeping these stitches intact, though. Her jawbone being detached from her skull, the raven strings weaving through her skin eventually failed to hold each other together. I could imagine her struggling to hold onto dear life as well, similar to these slipping stitches.
You may be wondering why Iâm bothering to explain all of this. Well, it is, and always has been, easier to explain someone elseâs troubles than your own. Body after body appeared in different parts of the city, all placed with purpose in positions accentuating their horrid stateâlike an artist laying out their artwork for all to see.
Who knew it would be completely coincidental that I would be their next masterpiece.
Walking alone to my car, my footsteps echoed throughout the empty parking garage. After a positively exhausting day at work, I was more than ready to drive home and snuggle up in bed with my wife, kiss my sweet daughter goodnight beforehand.
But before being able to enter my car, I felt a blunt object collide with my skull, forcing me into a dark unconsciousnessâŠâŠ
The next time I awoke, my hands and legs were bound with uncomfortably tight and rough rope. Hands behind my back, arms contorted around the wooden chair I sat on, I thrashed about, my legs attempting to break free from the seatâs two front pillars for limbs.
Light soon flooded into the room, as dim as it was. Now I could properly see my surroundings, to my own dismay. Dried blood was already splattered on the concrete floor below me. Judging from the covered rectangles for windows on the top of the painted cinder block walls, I figured I was in a basement. A cold and uninviting one, at that, if it wasnât already obvious.
Two pairs of footsteps grew closer and closer to me, sending chills up my spine. Back at work, our investigation of the killerâor as I soon found out, killersâhad not gone into as much detail as what I endured.
Faces covered with masks, I could still tell from their figures there was a man and a woman. Such a discomforting mask, I donât wish to describe, but Iâll try my best. A pair of blue and brown eyes met mine behind their disguises. For the most part, the masks were a pale tan, but it the softness and somewhat leathery texture made me wonder just what they were made out of. A human face stared back at me, a disturbingly accurate portrayal, mind you. Lips covered in gloss and face brushed with blush, I wondered if they used these masks as canvases. Also, I wondered if these displays of bodies were the only people murdered at their hands.
I know these people were the serial killers consuming my work life because of what they did to me. It was just like the first few victims whose bodies I had the âpleasureâ of inspecting, except their process became crystal clear. After injecting me with some sort of fluid that decreased the amount of blood escaping my body during their endeavors, I got to witness just what they did to their victims, and in how long of a span of time. Judging from their tools, they were highly involved and experienced in the medical field, though at times it seemed otherwise.
First they extracted some minor organs, ones I could manage without. I had a front seat view of my own internal organs, occasionally forcing bile mixed with blood up my throat. Annoyed with my vomiting and wailing in pain, they moved onto the next stepâthe most alarming trend in all of their victimsâŠ.
Pain jolted through my body as they purposely broke my jaw. As it hung loosely to my body, I screamed in agony. Next was slicing through my skin, starting at the corners of my lips to the edge of each side of my jaw. Why they bothered doing this after breaking my jaw, Iâm not sure. Odds are, they simply enjoyed my suffering, consumed the sight like it was a delicacy. Or maybe, it was merely the final touch to their magnum opus.
Sewing my skin back together, including my existent lips, was all that was left to do.
More pricks of adrenaline inducing shots kept me barely alive. After days without nutrientsâor anything to drink, I was on my deathbed. The painful and consistent stitching on my body and jaw kept my skin together, but not my sanity. With a stroke of luck, I found my bonds to be unusually loose. Struggling with the bonds for a good ten to twenty minutes, I finally managed to release my legs from their scratchy prison. My wrists were eventually next, but only after I had struggled with the door of the cellar in my captorsâ absence.
Luck seemed to be on my side for once, for I escaped without being confronted by them. Tears brimming my eyes at the feeling of the gentle breeze of early dusk on my skin, I surveyed my surroundings. Both to my horror and relief, they were familiar. Just a few blocks from my own neighborhood, in fact.
Trudging in the shadows of each house, I headed towards my home. My wife, my beautiful wife, Lauren, awaited me. Just as my adorable little Susan waited as well, her four month old hands wrapping around my finger.
Yet, in my euphoric state that kept me moving, the darkness and dreariness of the past excruciating days followed me. It was a looming cloud that haunted me, tainted the happiness and hopes of my thoughts. This state of mind forced me to see the world differently. My career forced me to view dead bodies daily, yetâŠ. The thought that I would eventually become one had never crossed my mind. Foolish of me to think like that butâŠâŠ Such an inevitable truth didnât hit me until now. The worst part about it was that I started thinkingâŠ.. The world was an intolerably cruel place. What had I done to deserve this? Incredibly unkind and unimaginably terrible people like my captors existedâŠ.. I was appalled.
By the time I had reached my home, my jaw was starting to slip down my face, the thick, black thread keeping everything together pulling blood from my wounds. All of the deep cuts stitched together were bleeding through my torn, dirtied button-up shirt. Dizziness and nausea overcame me, the effects of those shots starting to wear off. Stuck in a trance, I knocked on the door, hoping Lauren was home. I needed to see her. I needed to see Susan.
Almost immediately, the door swung open, my wifeâs eyes glossy from crying.
The moment she saw my faceâŠ.. Her guttural wail filled the once calm air. Wanting to comfort her, but unable to speak, I reached my hand out towards her. She flinched, staring at me in horror and dismay. My brows furrowed, pained to see her reaction.
Asking me where Iâd been and what happened, she abruptly pulled me in, letting me rest on the couch. Hysterically crying, she mentioned that she would call for an ambulance, which led me to fervently shake my head. IâŠ.. I couldnât stand seeing someone else react to my face like she did, though I hadnât gotten a good glimpse of it yet. Panicking at my refusal, she only insisted on taking me to the hospital. But the thought of going back into the world was terrifying, almost abysmal, so I kept meekly shaking my head. Telling me to wait in my seat, she left the room towards the kitchen, most likely calling for an ambulance without my permission. Parched, I stumbled over to the bathroom, where a few Dixie cups lay for any late-night thirsts that needed quenching.
Walking inâŠ. I jumped at my reflection, horrified.
I looked worse than I had imagined. Bags were under my sunk in eyes. Expression slathered in horror and worry, my brown hair properly framed the grisly piece of art that was my pale faceâlike a picture in a horrid art show. I started bawling uncontrollably at the worst part: my mouth. Completely and utterly mutilated, with fresh blood dripping from the holes where the black thread weaved in my skin, I watched gravity take its toll on the loose stitching. I was a living, breathing corpse. One all too familiar to the motionless ones I had observed only days ago.
Trembling, I succeeded in pouring some water into my parched throat, managing to swallow with great effort. No one should have to live like this, I thought. Not me, not anyoneâŠâŠ. Why is the world such a terrible place, filled with people ready to swallow your misery with a side of pain?
I decided at that moment I couldnât, and wouldnât live like this. They say giving up is never the best option, but with the horrors of watching your own organs being torn out, your body being stitched back together, and the excruciating pain of having your jaw broken, skin torn open, and sewn together againâanyone would feel this wayâŠâŠ. right?
This insanity from the past few days started to take a toll on me, and my thoughts grew darker than ever. I want to say I went on autopilotâŠ. But I knew what I was doing. I knew my intentions, and still do. After realizing the cruelty of the world, and how I didnât want to live in it, I couldnât stand the idea of the two most important people in my life suffering it either.
You see, I love my wife and child. Nothing could bring me more happiness. Which is why I had to take them with me, away from the terrible, terrible world.
Shuffling towards the bedroom I shared with my wife, I pulled out my handgun from the closet, loaded and ready to use just in case, but never put into action until now. Panicked at my disappearance, Lauren called for me. Even when sheâs scared, her voice is just as beautiful as ever. Sighing a breath of relief upon finding me, she informed me of the ambulanceâs arrival soon, insisting that I needed to be taken to the hospital. In the meantime, she urged me to rest.
Such undeniable kindness and concernâŠ.. Something hard to find, or so I supposed, and still do believe.
Merely nodding, I walked over to her, pulling her into an embrace. Softly sobbing on my shoulder, she said she loved me. I wish I couldâve said I loved her too before pulling the trigger. Her brains splattered against the wall, her form slumping over. Calmly, I scooped her frame up, and set her on the bed. She looked so peacefulâŠ. Even with the blood oozing from her skull.
Susanâs crying at the loud gunshot reminded me my work wasnât yet done. Creeping into her room, I found her in her crib, wailing even louder upon seeing my face. I wanted to sadly smile at the sight, wishing that she could have been happier in death. Leaning over to her, I attempted to kiss her forehead, though she only continued to screech in fright at my close proximity. In this moment, too, I wanted to say I loved her, even if she didnât fully understand me. Another gunshot filled the air, and her weeping form quickly quieted, sitting still in a forever slumber.
Scooping her in my arms, I hummed a small lullaby before placing her between me and my wife, lying on our bed. I cradled her still warm form.
By now, of course, both of them have grown cold. I can hear the ambulance approaching now as I write this.
So to end what is probably the longest suicide note ever written, I hope I can rest in peace knowing that Iâve explained my story, and have now ridden my guilty conscience. All I wish is to spend these final moments with my wife, Lauren, and my darling daughter, Susan.
This is goodbye. My official farewell to the rotten world.
Sincerely,
Rory Brooks.
