Just had a thought. Warning for snuff, noncon, forced cannibalism, fingering wounds, mentions of drugging and stalking.
Two characters, both gender neutral (I didn’t make a description for either character and used they/them for both). No explicitly sexual scenes (I don’t write about genitals, just blood and gore).
Word count: 1,837
Time: at least an hour
Note: I am open to writing requests.
Imagine, if you will, a film student wants to make a fake snuff film for a project, maybe a commentary on exploitative horror movies as a sub-genre. The student sets up everything to look just right - handheld video camera, dark room, thick, heavy chains, all sorts of knives and other tools, everything you’d need. Then they go and convince someone else, a fellow horror enthusiast and someone they’ve been talking to online for a while. Shows them the script, pictures of the setup, all that stuff. The actor agrees to do the film. After all, it’ll be fun, and bring them closer, and they’d been flirting for a while. Plus, it didn’t hurt that they were both open about the fact they got off on the blood and guts aspect of movies.
The filmmaker has the actor tied to a chair in the dark room, camera in one hand, red recording light on, and holds a knife in the other. The actor is enthusiastic about the film, and follows the script to the letter. The knife is a prop, and the filmmaker pretends to cut the actor on the forearm, dragging the prop knife slowly with the camera rolling. After cutting the camera, the filmmaker applies makeup and fake blood to the area. The actor sits still and watches their director work, fascinated by how realistic the wounds look.
“Damn, that looks good,” they comment. The actor wasn’t expecting the fake wound to look so real. After all, they were making a film in the basement of an abandoned building with the out any sort of license or training.
The filmmaker grins. “I’m glad you like it,” they say, picking up the camera again and resuming the recording. The actor goes back to the scripted pleading, sounding fairly convincing. The filmmaker repeats the process, making another fake stab wound, this time on the actor’s thigh. When the actor screams, the filmmaker frowns ever so slightly behind the camera, but says nothing as they apply the makeup.
The actor notices that the filmmaker is using prosthetic wounds that fit perfectly to their body, despite having never sat through the process of casting the silicone.
“How’d you get these to look so good? If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was my real leg.”
The filmmaker looked up from where they crouched, holding a paintbrush dripping with fake blood. They shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”
Of course, this had all been planned out beforehand. The actor didn’t remember how the filmmaker had had to drive them home after a party, and they certainly didn’t remember the detour to this very building, where the filmmaker had made the casts. The actor didn’t know that the filmmaker had been watching them for months before, tailoring the script for them, spending many sleepless nights taking notes and going over them, planning every detail, every conversation, all leading up to tonight.
“Well,” says the actor, a blush creeping its way onto their face as they watch the filmmaker continue to apply makeup, carefully detailing the jagged flesh where the blade was ripped back out, “it looks really good….” They both notice the actor’s shaking hands. “Fuck… I might… need a second before you turn the camera back on.”
The filmmaker smiles slightly. “Get a hold of yourself,” they tease, running a hand along the actor’s thigh, higher up than the makeup called for. “No one’s excited to be in a snuff film.”
“I would be.”
“Really?” The filmmaker’s voice had taken on a different tone. Something about it unsettles the actor, but they can’t help but be excited by it. The moment is over before the actor could think about it, and the filmmaker holds a bottle of water to their lips and allows the actor to drink before getting ready for the next part of the script.
The actor continues begging and pleading for the camera, but is unable to cry on command. The filmmaker draws the prop knife across the actor’s stomach, then pauses the recording again to apply another round of makeup and prosthetics. This time, the prosthetic is a slashed-open stomach, complete with fake organs that look and smell a lot more real than the actor was expecting. The actor flinches slightly as the entrails are inserted into the silicone prothetic.
“Those smell… real,” the actor says with a nervous laugh, fidgeting slightly in their chair.
The filmmaker doesn’t look up. “Oh, they are. I got them from the butcher shop. Cheaper and better-looking than buying more plastic. Don’t worry, I sanitized them twice.”
The actor is feeling a lot of things, and the fact that none of them are worry is in fact worrying. They rub their legs together slowly, trying to force themselves to look away, to stop breathing the smell of blood. Just look at the camera. Nothing else. Don’t think about any of it.
“Alright, rolling in three… two… one.”
With the camera back on, now strapped to the filmmaker’s chest, the actor squirms in their seat, looking panicked. The filmmaker uses one hand to pull the intestines out of the wound and the other to slice a piece off. The actor screams and the filmmaker places the blade between the actor’s teeth to force their mouth to stay open, allowing them to force feed the entrails to the actor. The film ends with a throat slit and a final round of makeup and blood.
As soon as the camera is shut off, the filmmaker gives the actor a bag to spit the entrails into. Neither of them expected the actor to throw up, but the filmmaker holds the actor’s hair from their face while they do, and gives them some water after they’re done.
“Sorry about that,” the actor says after chugging nearly the whole bottle of water. “Didn’t think it’d made me that nauseous.”
The filmmaker smiles, using their sleeve to wipe the actor’s mouth clean. They start to take off the prosthetic wounds as they talk. “That’s alright. I don’t mind. There’s just one more thing I want to get before we finish filming okay?”
The actor nods, but can’t help but wonder what. They know they did well, and it would take hours to clean everything to do another take. Still, the actor couldn’t really do much about that, being tied to the chair the whole time. There is something odd, though. The camera sits on the table in front of the actor, red light shining in the dark room. The filmmaker’s knife looks different this time. The blade catches the light more than the last prop had done. It almost looks like it could be-
A searing pain shot through the actor’s arm, right through the prosthetic wound and into the real flesh beneath.
“What the fuck?! That’s not a prop! You can’t just do that!” The actor starts to feel genuinely afraid. Sure, the cut isn’t that deep, but they didn’t agree to this. If they had, then maybe the actor would’ve felt differently, but-
The second wound is worse, the blade coming down perpendicular to the actor’s thigh, going in all the way to the hilt, the very tip of the weapon hitting bone. The actor’s screams are real this time, wordless and raw. The actor thrashes in their seat, trying desperately to escape, to call for help, to do something, anything that will save them. The filmmaker makes no effort to silence them; the room has already been soundproofed weeks ago.
The filmmaker rips the knife back out, eliciting another shriek of pain from the actor. As blood gushes out of the deep hole in the actor’s thigh, the filmmaker runs their fingers along the skin, smearing it with crimson, both dyed corn syrup and ichor. The actor has stopped screaming and begging, and is now simply trying to stop sobbing, tears streaming down their face, body shaking with every breath. The filmmaker’s fingertip slips inside of the wound for a moment, seeming to startle both people. The filmmaker allows two fingers to enter the gaping hole in the actor’s leg, feeling the warmth and heat as blood tries to rush up past their fingers, the very essence of life itself pouring out, pushed by the actor’s racing heart.
The filmmaker’s fingers move slightly, curling and exploring the layers that until now, had never been touched. Pushing deeper, the very tip of their finger comes into contact with the bone, a sensation that, based on the cry of anguish from the actor, must be extremely painful. The filmmaker retracts their fingers, once again running them along the actor’s thigh, which is at this point soaked in blood.
The actor is frozen still with terror now, barely making a sound. Eyes wide, unblinking, whole body shaking like a leaf in an autumn breeze, the actor doesn’t even react when the filmmaker touches their face, smearing their lips with blood. The thing that snaps the actor out of this daze is the sensation of the knife slicing through their abdominal wall, allowing the filmmaker’s hands to reach inside, to feel the wet, slippery masses that until that moment had never been exposed to the air.
The actor is speechless, and can only stare in disbelief and horror as the filmmaker pulls their innards out and into their lap. There’s so much blood, and both of them wonder how long it’ll be before the actor passes out. The filmmaker slices a small piece from the actor’s small intestine and is slightly surprised when the actor doesn’t scream. Perhaps it’s because the actor knows what happens next, but this does not bother the filmmaker, who simply pinches the actor’s nostrils shut until their body forces them to open their mouth to take a breath, then slips the piece of entrails inside. At first, the actor tries to refuse, to spit it back out, but the filmmaker covers both the actor’s nose and mouth until they swallow, only allowing them to breathe afterwards.
The actor’s face is pale and discolored, but they do not throw up this time, which surprises the filmmaker. Either way, the final scene commences. The filmmaker holds the knife in clear view of both the actor and the camera, twisting it in the air so that the camera’s red light glints off of it. Then they move in. The actor doesn’t squirm or try to beg, or even scream. They just stay very still and stare right at the camera. A final, defiant glare.
In one swift motion, the filmmaker’s knife slides into the actor’s trachea, instead of slashing across. As the filmmaker pulls out the knife, they slide their fingers in to replace it, feeling the rush of blood and air, hearing the gurgling, choking sound as the actor drowns. As the actor’s world fades to black, the filmmaker speaks for the first time since turning on the camera:
“You’ve been so good for me, darling. My perfect little moviestar. I will treasure you forever.”
Did not know alligator lizards were in your area. Never really thought about where they live. It’s funny how that works. I’ve lived in this general area my whole life and I’ve never seen a wild hognose or a corn snake, despite both being native here. The first (and only) ringneck snake I’ve ever seen was a year or so ago.
i played clangen for like 2 hours today but abruptly had to stop because my beautiful favorite baby girl got taken by twolegs and left her wife alone with her 6 new born kits and i was really sad. also the leader got taken too but idc about him
You didn’t know? If I had known that you didn’t know I would’ve told you. But isn’t that so cool?! Now there’s two species of spinosaurus that no one knows anything about!
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