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Another late night in the office after another argument over the phone. Hendrick couldn’t even recall how the fight started, but he sure as shit knew he’d won it. He was the one in the right, he was always right, and everyone around him was always so, so wrong. His wife would realize it at some point—maybe not right now, maybe not tonight, but tomorrow she’d wake up to an empty bed and an empty, aching sadness and miserably deep understanding of the bigger picture…she’d realize as her heart sank into the pit of her stomach just how wrong she had been, and she’d clamor over herself to apologize to her hardworking, dedicated husband when he finally returned home. Easterman was doing important things for Murkoff, things of incredible significance and magnitude that Irene’s simple brain could never even begin to comprehend—she’d apologize to her brilliant, wonderful husband, and all would be right in the world once again.
Hendrick poured another glass tumbler nearly to the brim with the gin he kept in his desk drawer, then took a long, deep drink. He grimaced at the burn, then sighed in satisfaction as the liquor warmed him from the inside out. No one could tell him shit…no one could nag him, scold him, make him feel shame for taking care of himself. The gin was like a balm to his tired body and exhausted ego, and he was simply taking care of himself, giving himself the treatment he needed to feel better.
We are all going to get better…together.
The doctor ran a hand through his thinning, graying hair and sank back into his office chair with a tired sigh. His slender fingers twitched at his side as he thought about retrieving a cigarette from his sweat-stained suit jacket, but he just felt so heavy, so weak with exhaustion. Before his eyes, his environment began to blur and melt into itself; the lone desk lamp was but a humble glow, nearly swallowed up by shadows, and the quiet stillness of the space made the office feel more like a tomb.
In the spider’s house…
The world seemed to tilt violently as Easterman threw his head back to finish off his glass of gin. He would continue his work…he would continue his mission, he would prove his worth and might to all those who doubted him. Irene, Avellanos, Wernicke, Perry…
Perry.
Hendrick wasn’t compelled to impress Clyde for the same reasons he strived to impress anyone else inside or outside of Murkoff. It was a bizarre feeling that crept in from time to time, an odd sense of desire to show the intense man just what he was capable of. Hendrick had seen Clyde’s abilities on multiple occasions, and while his strength and sadism was impressive, it was Perry’s resilience that excited Easterman most of all.
That man has been beaten, shot, dragged to hell and back a dozen times…and he still crawls willingly back into the fire every time we pluck him out.
Hendrick didn’t know when the fantasies started, but they’d only surface from time to time–usually when he was alone, usually when he’d been drinking or taking pills or hiding from the world in the safety of his office after-hours. The fantasies were usually hazy, half-formed ideas that drifted to the forefront of his mind, but all of them included Perry, and all of them contained some amount of depravity that Easterman couldn’t rationalize.
He imagined Perry on his knees before him, mouth open, and he imagined putting out burning cigarettes on the agent’s tongue.
He imagined Perry laying his hands out, fingers splayed upon the worn office carpet, and he imagined stepping down on him, bruising and crushing the man’s fingernails.
He imagined taking Perry’s face gently into his strong and steady hands, gazing deeply into those magnetic, off-colored eyes, then violently cracking his crooked nose back into place; he’d lap the fresh trickle of warm blood off Clyde’s upper lip, and the other man would thank him for it.
Hendrick shuddered and shook his head, hoping to clear the obscene thoughts away. He’d absentmindedly dug an all-too-familiar bottle of prescription pills from his desk while fantasizing, and as his head began to painfully pound, he swallowed down two of the capsules with a swig of gin straight from the bottle. It always seemed to be a steady 50-50 chance if the drugs made him feel better or worse, but Easterman couldn’t help but risk the gamble.
You are in the right place, doing just what you should…
You are afraid of nothing…
Let yourself be loved…
The doctor closed his eyes and internally recited the mantras that he’d gifted to the weak and lowly, words meant to offer peace and confidence to the weary while shaping them into something stronger and better.
Think of what you'll be tomorrow…
I give you permission to love yourself…
I love you…I love you…I love you…
Images of classical art, brutal displays of mutilated anatomy, and the judgemental faces of his colleagues flashed before him. He flinched at their cold glares, but it was the ever-enticing, intense stare of Clyde that made Hendrick completely wither. The other man saw him for who he was, and it was truly horrifying.
You’re just an addict with a god complex. You’re not a savior—hell, you’re barely even a doctor.
Easterman trembled and pressed his palms against his eye sockets. He was so fucking tired, but the violent, pulsating ache behind his closed eyelids was only intensifying with each passing second. No words of reassurance, no drugs or alcohol, nothing could dull the pain, and as Easterman laid his head down on his desk in miserable defeat, he had to bite his tongue to fight back the urge to vomit. The taste of metallic in his mouth only made him feel more ill, and he wondered fleetingly what Clyde would think if he found him in this pathetic state.
No, no no no…he can’t, he won’t…I am asleep, and I am nothing…I am God’s eye, I am annihilated…I am the eye…I am the…am…I am…chrysalis…God…oh, God...fuck, shit, fucking dammit…
Hendrick exhaled a low, shuddering breath. The air around him felt cold as the Arctic, but he was soaking through his clothes with sweat, and his skin was sickly pale. The once-accomplished and promising man of science was now spiraling, crumbling, decaying, and no one could save him from himself, not this time.
Easterman’s stomach lurched, and hot, acidic bile flooded over his lips and up his nostrils. He reached out blindly for something, anything of use, and found himself moments later sprawled out on the floor. His vision blurred, then faded to black, and a final pulse to his brain sent him falling into unconsciousness.
You are the spider, and you are being digested alive.
*****
“I’ve seen houseflies with more fight than you…come on, Hendrick, open your eyes.”
The voice was muffled and distant at first, just barely reaching Easterman’s ears. The doctor groaned as he tried to stretch and move his limbs, but they were painfully held in place. Something was wrong…something was terribly wrong.
What the hell…?
Hendrick could feel cold, unyielding steel holding him still; he was vulnerable to the open air, his clothing removed, and as he reluctantly opened his eyes and looked down, he found himself being held in place with bloodied metal spikes driven through his hands, his feet, his torso. He was a pinned insect, an insignificant creature held on display against his will.
“What, are you too tired to squirm? Or just too proud?”
A gleaming, pale blue eye stared down upon Easterman, watching the helpless man in quiet, cruel glee. The look in Perry’s eyes was terrifying yet thrilling, and also not entirely foreign to Hendrick…he’d seen that look before, usually mere moments before Clyde turned his violent instincts loose on whatever poor bastard was set out before him.
But this time it’s you…you’re in his web now, Doctor, and no one’s coming to save you.
Easterman’s internal dialogue was unusually gleeful in tone; despite the absurd and futile situation he’d found himself in, despite his complete helplessness, the man couldn’t help but feel deeply excited by what lay ahead. The spikes through his body wouldn’t kill him, but whatever Perry had planned for him probably would.
I just hope he takes his sweet time with it.
Perry turned away, his focus drifting to a place cast in shadows beyond Easterman’s line of sight; the delicate clinking of metal that followed suggested the agent was sorting through some sort of collection of tools, and the thought made Easterman’s heart skip a beat.
“…Perry…what are you doing…?”
His mouth felt dry, and he tasted old blood and bile on his tongue. He heard the other man chuckle, and it sent a rush of ill-timed desire straight to his groin.
“Shh, insects don’t talk.”
Clyde’s face returned clear above Easterman moments later, and he held up his findings for his victim to see—tweezers in one hand, and a thin, sharp scalpel in the other. They were delicate tools for sure, but as Clyde lowered the tweezers’ edge to his pinned victim, Hendrick couldn’t help but flinch away.
“Hey…wait, let’s talk a bit about things first, let’s just- ah- hhhwhathefu—“
Perry had the steady hands of a surgeon and the unkind instincts of a child torturing an ant on the playground. He’d easily slid the narrow point of the tweezers carefully and skillfully into Easterman’s mouth, the metal cold and intrusive as it clamped down on his tongue. The doctor tried to protest, and Clyde increased the pressure, then slowly, lightly tugged. It was such a small, intentional movement, but it was enough to wrench a pained whine from Easterman, his body finally beginning to struggle as the agony and threat became real.
“NononoNO—“
His desperate attempts to plead were pitiful, his tongue locked in the painful vice of the forceps and his ability to speak clearly stolen from him. He could feel Clyde holding the tension, occasionally tugging on his tongue with the ability to easily rip it out…but no, he was toying with Hendrick, and he was enjoying every minute of it.
“Was that a ‘No’? Huh, hard to say…sounds just like a fly buzzing in my ear.”
Clyde kept tugging, kept taunting, persisting until Easterman’s face was wet with tears and his pathetic prick was hard and standing up. Perry knew that Easterman was turned on by the fear, pain and humiliation he offloaded onto every reagent, employee, and person in his general vicinity…he was simply giving the good doctor a taste of his own medicine.
Perry tugged one more time, then violently yanked.
Blood filled Easterman’s mouth in an instant, rushing over his lips and down his throat as he screamed out in agony. His mouth was suddenly, horrifically empty—his tongue had been removed in one excruciating motion, and not even a stub remained behind his teeth. He couldn’t beg for mercy anymore—Clyde was going to do as he pleased with him, and Easterman feared…no, hoped…that the suffering was only beginning.
“…You know what kind of man becomes a shrink? A sick man, a man who wants answers to fix himself. And you, Doctor Easterman…”
Clyde slowly, tauntingly drew the bloodied tweezers along Hendricks trembling body; he noticed the man’s erection, the shimmer of precum beading at the tip, and he guided the tweezers to carefully, precariously close around his cock.
“…You are one sick fuck.”
Easterman’s hips raised as he tried to lessen the tension on his aching dick; through tear-blurred vision, he lifted his head and looked down to see the horror of the situation he was caught in, and his stomach lurched, his face becoming hot and his cock twitching between the closed, bloodied forceps. Clyde was completely right—he was a sick man, probably sicker than every throwaway they’d locked up in Mount Massive. Even if he still had his tongue, there was nothing he could say to defend himself.
He shut his eyes and sobbed.
“…Right…I thought so.”
Perry didn’t want to ruin the moment with violence just yet; he slowly, intentionally guided the blood-slick metal up and down the length of Easterman’s cock, carefully rubbing steel against flesh. He was feeding his victim’s bizarre lust, giving him a few more moments of pleasure before subjecting him to further pain.
“Go on then…make yourself cum,” the agent conceded, although the gleam in his bright blue eye suggested that he was enjoying Easterman’s suffering and degradation despite his annoyed tone of voice. “I’m waiting, Doc.”
Easterman was crying, panting, gagging on his own blood…and still, he rocked his hips, seeking friction against the metal, seeking the relief that Perry was offering him. The man watched in amusement, disgust, and intrigue, keeping the tweezers still and relatively loose to allow Easterman to rut into the hollow between the edges of the partly-open forceps.
“Wow…you really are a sick bastard, huh?”
Hendrick nodded, wheezing and coughing, then whining as he picked up his pace. He was so close to coming undone, and the fact that Clyde was allowing him this moment of vulnerability and relief…
I always dreamed of what I’d do to him if I had the chance…but maybe being his victim is just as sweet a reward.
For all his wicked, narcissistic ways, Easterman knew he wasn’t deserving of the typical man’s “heaven”. But this odd, unique form of hell…it was close enough.
Hendrick’s entire body strained and shuddered as he climaxed. Cum coated the inside of the forceps, mingling with blood, and the man wept, unable to speak. He deserved this—the pleasure and pain, the complete shame and hopelessness. Clyde was the most perfect judge, jury and executioner, and Hendrick was happy to die at the other’s hands.
What happened next was incredibly quick, and yet not fast enough.
The forceps tightened and pulled, and the scalpel slashed downward. Crimson rushed from the violent gash dashed open between Easterman’s legs, but he didn’t have a chance to mourn what was taken from him—a large hand closed around his body, his arms and legs trapped between crushing fingers, and he was ripped free from the pins that held him. He felt dizzy, hardly aware of what was about to happen to him—he was in light, held in the air beneath the gleaming eye of his favorite pet agent, and then…
Darkness. Hot, wet, slimy darkness. Porcelain walls closed down around him, and the floor trembled, then cast his body violently against the walls. Teeth closed on bone, tendons tore. He would not die until the stomach acid consumed him, but the excruciating pain of the initial crushing made him hope to die a bit sooner.
Hendrick was slammed about like a piece of driftwood in a storm, limbs being broken, splintered and torn apart between Clyde’s crooked teeth. When the agent finally swallowed, dropping him into the fleshy, tight tunnel of his esophagus, Hendrick knew the end was near; he’d lost his left hand, both his legs, most of his right arm, and all he could smell was blood, saliva, and stomach bile. It was a cruel miracle that he’d made it this far, encased in muscle and squeezed down ever further towards Perry’s stomach.
Like a birth canal…this could be my death, or it could be my rebirth.
He’d nearly convinced himself that he was the spider, but in his final moments, Hendrick finally understood—he was the new life, the new beginning he’d given to each of the reagents. He would be born again, perfect and sinless, and this time, he would be better.
Anointed. Blood of man.
Be reborn.
*****
“Hendrick…come on, will you? Jesus, the pills sure aren’t your friend…”
The voice was muffled and distant at first, just barely reaching Easterman’s ears. The doctor groaned as he tried to stretch and move his limbs; to his relief, he was able to move his arms, but as he started to stand, a pair of hands gently but firmly pushed him down.
“Easy there, Doc. Do you know where you are? Do you remember what you took?”
The curious, concerned gaze that appeared before Easterman’s eyes struck the man speechless. His head was pounding, and he swore he could still taste blood and bile on his tongue, but there was a genuine worry in Clyde’s piercing gaze that made him feel unsure of himself and the man he’d dreamt about.
“…I…I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me, Perry, it was just a foolish error, and it won’t happen again…you aren’t to speak to anyone about this, understood?”
Even though Hendrick tried to harden his tone, there was no real bite or threat to it; Clyde simply sighed and shrugged, but he relented, giving his colleague’s shoulder a gentle pat as he got to his feet. It was at this time that Easterman realized he’d been moved to the couch, and he silently wondered if Perry had done anything else while he’d been passed out, profane and filthy things he’d never know about.
God, I sure hope so.
“My lips are sealed,” Perry said, collecting his cane from where he’d set it against the wall. “But consider taking a friendly piece of advice, Doctor…”
He limped slowly, steadily towards the door, his voice carrying on as he made his departure.
“…You can’t live like this forever. You’re giving yourself a slow, painful death…you’re lucky I showed up and kept you from choking to death on your own vomit, and even luckier I was willing to clean up after you. You might not be so lucky next time, Hendrick.”
He paused in the doorway, the look in his eyes almost sad as he surveyed the filthy, ruined man on the couch.
“…If not for me, or for your wife, or for anyone else…for yourself. Take care of yourself while you still can. And take a goddamn shower, you look like shit.”
The quiet clicking of Perry’s cane and his tell-tale uneven footsteps trailed off down the hallway, leaving Easterman alone in the quiet darkness of his office. There was something so sincere, even heartfelt about the agent’s concern for him, and in a way, it frightened Hendrick more than the torturous man he’d dreamed about.
That’s not the Clyde I know…but I think I’d like to know him better.