#fo4 pickman

She’d kill herself before giving him the satisfaction.

She awoke, hog tied and gagged in some decrepit cellar. The air smelt of must and mildew. Stains of oil and something metallic interspaced over the rough cobble stone floor. Rats scurried somewhere just out of her field of view.

He left her in a crawlspace, wedged behind a few shelving units, able to make him out as he went about his business. He hummed along to the radio as he went, dressed well and fairly put together. He always wore an apron and gloves when he set out to paint.

The subject of which seemed to be the rotting carcasses of raiders that laid just downwind. The bodies were mutilated beyond recognition, moving occasionally as rats burrowed and maggots squirmed. As the decomposition continued, he’d add new subjects to the pile. A pyre of rotting flesh and viscera, meat turning into game under a single bald bulb.

She could feel herself rotting with them, alone in the dirt, cold against her cheek and smelling heavily of wood rot. She’d bury her face in soil just to get the scent of death out of her nose. Talk was few and far between, he’d only remove the gag to force water or food down her gullet. Going so far as stretching her mouth open with pliers to feed. Threatening to pull teeth if she misbehaved.

If and when she vomited the rancid meat he fed her up, he’d have her sit in it as punishment before cleaning her up. She tried to choke on a mouth full once. After he’d wiped her mouth and replaced the gag, taking the platter of putrid meat back upstairs, she attempted to asphyxiate herself.

She was close before he intervened, what she could see of the room fading into black. He pulled her out of the crawlspace, hands fumbling for her gag, screaming as he tried desperately to give her the Heimlich maneuver. When that didn’t totally succeed in bringing her to a conscious state, he performed CPR.

The chest compression ended up rousing her, feeling her ribs crack under the pressure he used.

She remembers him sobbing then, pulling her naked form close and petting her hair like a lover would. His breath reeked of vomit and sick.

“Don’t ever leave me,” He sobbed, nuzzling close before snapping. Like a child throwing a tantrum for breaking its favorite toy.

He hauled her up with surprising strength before throwing her in the pit below. The bodies under her burst in some parts, viscera and blood painting her skin as she let out a hoarse scream. The flesh was melting off some of the bodies, sloshing off in chunks beneath her nails. Gas escaping from every orifice made a cacophony of moans in her ears as she struggled to get up.

The smell was unimaginable.

“You were supposed to be my muse,” He snapped, moving far too erratic in the dim light, “You selfish bitch!”

The sensitive artist was gone, replaced with a mad man.

He kicked a paint can across the floor, the blood inside wetting her face and chest as it rolled. The sharp poke of bones from the pile were pricking her skin, the squelching as she moved far too loud in her ears. The textures under her nails, like animal fat, made her vomit again.

It was too much at once.

A flash from above blinded her momentarily. She struggled past the tears as she gagged, looking up at the man who had imprisoned her. He held an old camera in his grip, knuckles white against the plastic.

“If I can’t have you alive,” He whispered, eye wide as he took in the scene before him. Like Venus washed ashore, being born from the sea foam of the ocean, right before his very eyes.

Red was a lovely color on her.

“I can work from a picture,” He finished, taking in her miserable visage with sick satisfaction and reverence. The blinding flash left her squinting. Blind, weak, a newborn washed with a hearty glow of red.

“Now,” He brought the camera to his face, “Smile for the camera.”