Macabre Moments

It started with a sting. A sharp, nagging bite at the edge of my finger. Small, insignificant.

Just a hangnail. But the more I touched it, the more it begged to be pulled.

A dull ache pulsed beneath my skin, whispering that the only relief was to tear it away. My stomach twisted at the thought, but my fingers were already moving.

It hurt. God, it hurt. But underneath the pain, something else flickered. A warmth. A thrill.

And then, I pulled.

There was pain, at first. It was annoying, and throbbing. Yet, it remained—unmoved, unbothered, and unbroken.

A sliver of warmth surfaced in the midst of the pain, then was gone in an instant. It felt as if a short burst of satisfaction exploded into my body.

What was that? I wondered.

The top of my finger pulsed in rhythmic pain, and although the hangnail stood where it sprouted, I felt elated.

The numbing sensation from the pull made me feel alive. Was it pain?

No. It wasn’t pain. Only at first, yes. The sensation that followed was euphoric in nature. I was undecided whether to pursue this mysterious sensation, or pull the hangnail out completely and free myself of the lingering pain.

I couldn’t have one without the other. It had never worked like that.

Or had it?

The hangnail was rather thick and jagged for being what it was. A small blemish in seemingly perfect hands. I accepted that.

Even as I relaxed my hand on the desk near my keyboard, the hangnail stuck high out past my dry knuckles.

I sighed deeply. My hand moved before I could gather a single thought, before reason could stop me, and I gripped the thing between my left index fingernail and thumbnail.

I jiggled it. Only slightly. Enough to feel.

It hurt, but it felt so good. Oh, yes, it felt good.

I jiggled it again. A tiny, grunting moan escaped my parting lips. It caught me off guard.

The pain sprung again, ant-crawling from the tip of my finger up my arm. Pulling it off was not going to be easy. I could feel the pain, still, spilling from its roots into my nerves.

I pulled away, nearing my finger a few inches from my eyes, trying to get a closer look at the discomforting sight. I saw it. There. I saw it, lingering and loitering, causing me distress.

An odd feeling came over me, as if it stared back with a smug grin. Like it knew I was slightly annoyed. Like it knew the harder I pulled, the less it would move.

That wasn’t possible. It was just a thing on my body. I was the controlling factor in the equation.

Wasn’t I?

My desktop monitor had flicked into sleep mode, long forgotten ever since I noticed the hangnail. I caught the motion and found myself gazing upon my reflection. I blinked, breaking my stare. My reflection moved. For a split second, its expression twisted into something menacing. I’m in control, I thought.

Are you?

I tensed at the rumbling voice in my head as it reverberated down and out my ears. That wasn’t me.

I looked around my room and saw nothing but a mess of clothes on the floor and the glow of my oversized fish tank. Fish don’t talk.

My eyes slowly moved to the monitor again. Was that me? But a different me? It couldn’t have been.

The tip of my finger swelled red and soft to the touch. It throbbed, loud, pulsating and pumping blood as if wanting to burst through my nail.

I’m imagining things. I must be.

It was a plausible consideration. I glanced at the clock. It read 3:28 a.m. I had been awake for 18 hours now, chipping away at this buggy code. Scripts upon scripts upon scripts upon scripts. An endless cycle of despair.

Pull me.

I gripped my desk with both hands, forgetting the hangnail’s tender tip. There it was again. The sharp, dull pain followed by a glint of warmth. What are you? I wondered. 

The trembling voice caught me off guard, the vague familiarity nudging at the edges of my memory.

Pull me.

The voice lingered, trailed off as if whoever spoke was walking away. My gaze turned to the hangnail, my eyesight blurry from the slow, dripping sweat.

And then I pulled, slightly harder this time, making sure I grasped the stiff piece of flesh deep with my nails.

Euphoric moans drifted around the air. I bit my lip, my breath hitched, a sharp thrill coiled in my stomach. It should have hurt. It did hurt. But my body welcomed it, craved it, and urged me to go a little further.

I pulled again.

Pleasure slithered through the pain like a parasite, burrowing deep, feeding off every sharp tug of my flesh. The agony smiled at me, whispered its secrets, promised me something better if I just kept going.

I pulled even harder.

A small pool of crimson emerged from the roots of the hangnail. Blood is supposed to signify the infliction of pain. Not pleasure.

The hangnail was sticking out further than before, at least an inch upward and hanging away from my nail bed. It was really in there, stuck to me.

Pull me.

Pull me.

I stared at the hangnail half-expecting a mouth to suddenly burst from its own jagged edge. I was guided by impulse as I gripped the strip of flesh and tugged, and tugged, and tugged, each one inflicting more pain than the last topped with a lick of pleasure.

My eyes rolled so far back that the pain dwelled in my eye sockets for some time, and after the daze left, and I gained control of my weakened limbs, I was left in clarity. In the stillness of whatever occurred.

It was in this quiet that I felt my cock throb in unison with my finger, which was now enveloped in blood.

I wiped the blood off my finger with my stained white shirt, exposing the raw, glistening strip of flesh where my skin had been undressed. The air hit the wound like a cold breath, sending a shudder through my hand. The hangnail hadn’t snapped, but dragged a curling ribbon of skin with it, still clinging and connected. It reminded me of the way an orange peel spirals when pulled just right, except this wasn’t fruit.

The skin at the tip of my finger slid off, landing with a wet slap beside my keyboard. A raw, pinkish nub jutted from the exposed flesh. Probably bone, or something close to it. Curiosity overpowered the small sting. Slowly, I placed my palm flat on the desk and, with a trembling hesitation, tapped the exposed tip against the surface. A dull, unnatural click echoed through my body. It was hot and cold, fuzzy and sleek, the feeling felt strange, and not too pleasant.

Pull me. 

The voice rattled my eardrum without warning, pulling me out of the distraction.

I pulled, as if a hivemind had wormed its way into my brain, controlling me.

The pull wasn’t simply a pull anymore, it was a tear, a detachment. I gritted my teeth and tore at it, feeling the flesh resist, until the sound of a wet, fibrous rip escaped and air hit my raw nerve endings. It was a slow tear, feeling every single nerve scream until they gave into pleasure.

I could have stopped. I should have. But the thought of leaving it unfinished was worse than the thought of what lay beneath. My stomach curled with pain, but my heart whispered, “just a little more.”

I was in a sweat, my finger was shaking with trauma, and my reflection in my desktop was unmistakably smiling at me. As if feeling gratification. Or was that me?

I couldn’t tell anymore.

The unnatural tear sent shockwaves of pain ripping through my stomach, and down into my balls. A deep ache curled inside me, but the tip of my cock throbbed against the zipper, each pulse slowly grinding its tender flesh against the metal teeth. That wasn’t pleasure.

I shifted in my seat, but the movement only made it worse. Without thinking, my hands moved.

The zipper hissed as it came undone, and my cock sprang free against the cool air. The relief was instant, and my body sagged into the chair as my muscles unclenched. 

Is this the true meaning of pain? I contemplated. Is true pleasure only achieved with the infliction of pain?

I glanced down at my hand, not my finger, and stared at the torn flesh, which was past my knuckle enough to expose muscle. I moved my battered finger, and watched as the muscle contracted and relaxed all in one swift movement.

My cock twitched, asking for more. I want more, too, it’s not just you, I thought. 

And with perfect timing, the roar of the voice crept up my back, and lingered around my earlobe. The voice evolved into something physical, tiny, yet effective, playing with my ear, whispering its sweet promises.

Pull me.

Halfway through the strenuous tug, I lost myself in clarity. My eyes wandered, catching a quick glimpse of my reflection on the blackened screen. Its eyes focused on mine, biting its lower lip, urging me to go further, to cross the line.

I did—without pause. I tugged harder, until my hand clenched into a fist. Until the cold air burned my flesh. Until the wet tear drowned out every sound. Until nerves, cartilage, and bone shone past my wrist. Until my body convulsed by the nonstop intake of eternal pleasure. Until my back arched in true, agonizing pain. Until my cock throbbed and pulsated with juices. Until I faded into darkness.

There was a special sort of stillness in the room after I awoke. My head hung back past the chair’s headrest, sweat dripping down the sides of my face, tracing along my jaw. My body felt weightless, yet the air was thick—humid with the scent of iron and tangy from the concoction of bodily fluids. 

My cock had gone limp, a sure sign of the brutal fatigue settling into my limbs. My legs were powerless. My arms felt the heaviness of crossing the line.

A dull sting bloomed up my arm. My breath hitched, tangled in the struggling groans that spilled from my mouth as I slumped forward.

My gaze lifted, landing upon the dark screen.

The reflection was gone. Even as I inched closer, searching for some sign of myself, there was nothing staring back.

Missed you.

A cold familiarity crept up my spine. I looked down at my freshly peeled arm, slick with blood. But it wasn’t calling to me.

A shudder passed through me, the vague aftershocks of whatever whispered had clawed at the deepest depths of my memories.

MISSED YOU.

Something felt off.

My fingers twitched against the chair’s armrest, brushing against something unfamiliar. Not wet, not like my other arm.

This was rough.

I swallowed hard, and dragged my fingertips over the surface.

The texture was different. It wasn’t flesh.

It was healed. Scarred.

And I had felt it before.

My stomach clenched as my gaze finally dropped to my other arm.

The skin was grafted, lumpy, discolored. Raised ridges ran like rivers down my forearm, thick and uneven. The scars stretched tight as I flexed my fingers, as if pulling against something unseen.

Not again.

Not again.

My thoughts ran in circles.

A dry, choking sound left my throat. I had done this before.

Just then my door swung open with enough force to shake my room.

My mother stood at the door, staring. She sighed, heavily, before opening her mouth.

“Not again.”