Killing Tim(e)

Tim struggled to open his eyes, both eyelids weighed down by an unfamiliar heaviness that was present throughout the whole of his person. Numbness was the prevalent sensation, or lack thereof, as bit by bit his appendages tingled and joined him in the starkly dark room. Mind awakening, wits sharpening, he rolled his flopping head around to scan the abyss around him. The only light shone down upon him aggressively in the center of the room, where he sat on a wooden chair without a shred of clothing upon his pasty flesh. Movement was deterred by the tightness of blurry objects coiled around his wrists and ankles.

“Millinery?” asked a high pitch voice from the shadows ahead, a touch of shock laced throughout the exclamation. 

“Millinery,” replied a shaky voice, sing-song yet without a shred of musical talent. “You really should consider taking it up. After all, you only really work in March. So much free time after the season has passed.”

Tim’s neck straightened as his hearing realigned. Directly ahead, the flashing light of a digital clock blinked ‘6:00’ repeatedly with bright red numbers. Squinting, he was able to make out the silhouettes of two individuals on either side of the clock, and the sound of simultaneous slurping, followed by the clanking of glass on glass. On the right of the curious clock was a figure so tall and lanky, that the top of their head practically scraped the low ceiling. The other side held a shorter individual, one more fidgety, who paced back and forth after setting down their teacup.

“Oh, that's not fair,” the shorter figure bemoaned, stomping one foot upon the ground childishly. “I can't help it if that's when I feel the itch. Either way, I don't even know what millinery is.” A small rectangular light lit up in the shadow’s hand, accompanied by the sound of clicking digital keys.

The tall figure stopped, a shadowy hand flying to their chest as a small wheeze escaped their sharp face. “Friends for decades, and you don't know my craft? I'm not sure which of us should be more embarrassed, Harriet.”

A final click from the handheld device, and Harriet pocketed it once again. “Oh! Hat-making, you mean? I thought that was misanthropy,” she responded with a chuckle that quickly transitioned to a shrill giggle. “My sincerest apologies, Mister Swift.” Giving a small bow to her lurching companion, her hair fell forward and gave the illusion of two long ears.

Mister Swift snickered, a noise more akin to shattering glass than actual laughter. “No worries, my dear. After all, misanthropy is another hobby of mine.” Tying an apron around his rail-thin body, he turned towards Tim, his beady eyes glimmering in the dark. “Still, it's a gloriously fun hobby. Millinery, I mean. If you do decide to take it up, I’ll be more than happy to instruct you on the finer points. For instance, choosing the appropriate materials is key to any craft, and hat-making requires just as much care in the selection process. Perhaps more.”

As awareness reasserted itself within Tim’s mind, he started to realize the situation he was currently a part of, a central part as the case was. Aside from his unexpected nudity, his regained lucidity shifted the sensation of numbness to a throbbing pain. His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw from the rough ropes that bound him to the splintering chair. His mouth ached from left to right, unable to open no matter how hard he struggled against the unseen bindings that crossed his lips. Struggling to scream, to yell, to shout, the muted attempts were lost on the inside of his mouth. Still, his panic was loud enough to draw the attention of the sinister individuals on the opposite side of the small, humid room.

“My, my, Harriet. I do believe my materials have stirred. Would you grab my tools, dear?” Mister Swift asked as he slowly moved into the blinding light, a spotlight for his cruel performance to come. “Welcome to my workshop. Are you ready to transcend your current state?” Fully in view, Mister Swift’s countenance was one ripped from nightmares. An old face forced to look younger from chalky, beaten makeup. His hooked nose crooked at various points and in different directions, creating the shape of a rigid snake erupting from his hollow face. His hands were skeletal, rubbing together to create the horrible sound of sandpapery friction. As he licked his thin lips, cracked and pock-marked, Harriet entered the lit area with a metallic rolling cart.

Not quite the opposite of Mister Swift, but of an entirely different breed, Harriet was a picture of purposeful seductive entrapment. A woman who went clear out of her way to appear as misleadingly feminine and meek as she could muster, the illusion lost on the terrified Tim. Every curve, every detail of the façade that started at the top of her head, and trailed to the base of her feet, was sculpted with the intent to cajole her prey. Any who looked upon her raw sexuality would be enthralled by her physical beauty and honed craft of manipulation. Yet, from where he sat, Tim could see the craven ferocity behind the glittering sapphire doe eyes of the small woman. A predatory hunger that could easily be mistaken for a number of other desires by those looking for something more pleasant than Harriet would deliver. At that moment, Tim’s heightened sense of panic revealed her true nature without a second thought. She was a monster disguised as a harmless rabbit. While physically unrelated to Mister Swift, the two were obviously both horrors, and the realization sent urine from Tim’s bladder and out onto the floor in a slow dribble.

Tears accompanied his other fluids as the two in front of him laughed their crooked laughs and tinkered with the myriad tools upon the reflective cart. All manner of edges and blades, each more intimidating than the last. Possessed of a second wind, Tim attempted to throw his body weight in the opposite direction of the cart in a bid to break the chair. As his body left the ground, Mister Swift quickly shot his unusually long arm over to him and slammed him back down with inhuman strength, sending reverberations through his skull as Mister Swift squeezed it with his sharp bony fingers.

“Now, now, dear. If you fidget, you’ll ruin my art. Try your best to remain still for this, otherwise I’ll make sure you live through it.” Mister Swift’s cracked, blackened teeth were a horrifying sight as he held out his other empty hand. His rancid breath assailed Tim’s senses, sending waves of nausea throughout his stomach and adding the new threat of projectile vomit to the unfortunate equation. Harriet casually placed a circular tool in the empty space upon Mister Swift’s hand, a tool with a threatening blade around the internal area. 

“It's a bit like a potato peeler, isn't it?” Harriet asked, fiddling with the other argent devices of the trade on the cart. Pulling out her phone again, she snapped a quick picture of Mister Swift as he gazed upon his subject, bound and terrified.

“Precisely so, my dear. You may want to take a few steps back for this; it can be quite messy,” Mister Swift responded absently, his dull eyes glazing over with ecstasy as he slipped the device over Tim’s hand. “I’m going to cut the rope now. If you attempt anything troublesome, you will instantly regret it.” Smiling, he used the circular blade of the tool to cut through the ropes with the ease of tearing paper, the metallic edge contracting and expanding depending on the level of pressure Mister Swift expended.

Instantly, Tim’s hand flew upward, attempting  a left hook to Mister Swift’s jaw. No sooner had he let loose his fear-fueled assault than Mister Swift had the vile tool surrounding Tim’s wrist like a deadly bracelet, and squeezed down. 

Tim’s hand continued to fly through the air, missing its intended mark and landing somewhere in the shadows at the far side of the room. Blood erupted from his remaining stump, spurting all over Mister Swift’s face and mixing with his powdery makeup, sticking to every corner of his narrow features and swirling into his mouth, creeping out of the cracks in his rotten teeth. 

As Tim screamed, the sound muffled from his inability to open his sealed mouth, Mister Swift snapped his finger at Harriet. With a squeaky giggle, she skipped into the darkness with a joyous levity that contradicted the severity of the heinous situation. The sound of her thoughtfully hummin set Tim’s struggling psyche further towards the precipice of madness. 

Tim’s vision blurred, his mind on fire from the severe pain that streaked through his body from the source of his suffering. His wrist, sans hand, continued to spurt blood into the air like a fountain of red wine. At the same time, Harriet strolled back to the center of the room with a metal brand, burning bright at the flat end. The orange glow and billowing smoke sent Tim into further fits of terror as Mister Swift took hold of his severed arm and held it outwards for Harriet to seal shut with her torturous metal tool.

Reaching new, unknown levels of pain, Tim’s head swirled as his body attempted to pass out again. The only defense it could muster was to shield Tim from the inevitable suffering by ejecting his mind from the scenario. Alas, the sweet embrace of unconsciousness would elude Tim, instead Mister Swift placed the circular peeler back over his wrist, and meticulously extended it up to his elbow. 

The stroke was masterful, the skin coming away in peeled sheets onto the floor. The slice was so expertly done, that the blood only started to gently dot the surface of the skinless flesh some minutes after the process was done, and repeated on the other arm. The work continued from 6:00 to 6:00, as far as Tim was concerned. His psyche honed in on the flashing red lights of the clock, blocking out every other thought or sensation as the ordeal carried on. Mister Swift singing to himself as he sliced away the layers of his skin, Harriet playing on her phone in the corner as her interest waned. All Tim had was the safety of thoughtlessness to protect him from the horror of his final moments.

“We’re going to be late, Mister Swift,” Harriet said, her eyes never leaving the glow of her smartphone. “You know how the Queen feels about tardiness.”

“All too well,” Mister Swift responded, gathering up the last of the skin and folding it tenderly onto a metal pan. Placing the finished product in the shadowy recesses of the room, he proceeded to return with a mop, and started to clean up the devastation of his victim. 

What remained of Tim, still alive and very much aware of his situation, was something inhuman and wrong. With every binding undone, the obstructive pieces of his body removed and sealed with burning metal, what was left was a creature that wanted nothing more than to die. Eyes without eyelids scanned the room still searching for an exit, an animalistic fervor from within driving him with base urges to bolt from the vicious predators that had mutilated him. An attempt to move, the slightest touch of air moving across his exposed body, sent him from the bloodstained chair and onto the floor with a shrill scream. The noise, now free to escape his lipless mouth, kept pouring forth with no end in sight as Harriet covered her ears and rolled her eyes.

Mister Swift moved over to Tim, crouching down as he shook his head. “I was hoping you would model the finished product for me. What a shame,” he whispered, lifting Tim’s head and repeatedly slamming it into the concrete floor. The wailing ceased, but there was a renewed need for the mop as more blood pooled across the floor. Mister Swift frowned, rubbing his blood covered face with exasperation. “Maybe I should have waited until after the convention to do this.”

“Don't beat yourself up,” Harriet said, putting her phone away and moving over to Mister Swift. Rubbing his sharp shoulders in a comforting manner, she offered her hand to bring him to his feet. “We were just killing time.”

“I believe his name was Tim, actually.” 

The two shared a moment of silence before bursting out in rib-splitting laughter, having to prop each other up to keep from slipping on the wet floor. Harriet fanned her face to keep her tears of joy from ruining her make-up, while Mister Swift howled with hilarity as he moved into the darkness and flipped a switch. Light flooded the small chamber, highlighting the workshop in all of its macabre glory. Shelves lined the walls, rows of hats of every shape and size upon them. Each made of the same flawed leather, dyed in a spectrum of colors and presented with no end of garish accoutrements to fully transcend the medium of their creation, while still exposing the nature of their taboo base material. 

Mister Swift patrolled the interior, picking a variety of hats while Harriet opened a few empty rubber containers near the entrance to the room. As they were filled with the milliner’s wares, the two stood next to one another and brought their attention back to the mess at the center of the chamber.

“Do you think he had a happy unbirthday?” Mister Swift asked with a distressed sigh, pinching his temples as he did so. “I do hate to leave a mess, but as you said, we are running late.”

Harriet nodded, opening the door. “Better we stay on the Queen’s good side. I’d rather keep my head, if it's all the same.”

With a shared nod of urgency and agreement, the two picked up the containers of hats and proceeded to climb the stairs, making sure to turn out the lights over Tim’s ruined corpse. With elation in each step and excitement at the forefront of their thoughts, the mad pair of killers fixed their makeup, cleaned away the bits and bile of Tim that stuck to their outfits, and prepared to head to the Convention of Wonder.