My Father’s Workshop

It’s been five years since the incident. The family completely avoids the subject to this day as if it never happened, but it did. They all go about life as if everything is normal, as if they weren’t the spawns of the devil himself. They refuse to accept our father but I don’t.

The man is a true genius, a wonderful father, and my favorite artist. He would take me to his workshop sometimes and I always felt so comfortable, so safe. The walls lined with all manner of blades that he had smithed himself, on display for any interested buyers. He was a legendary smith but more well known for his positive attitude and generosity. That was until people began to find out about his other hobby.

You see, my father was not only a skilled smith but also an unmatched butcher and leather worker. His shelves lined with trophies and medals from various festival swordfighting competitions and marksman tournaments. He would use this knowledge and skill to do something amazing. Like I said before my dad was the best artist even if his work was more on the horrific side. What he would do is go out late at night and entice people to come closer to him, usually by faking some sort of emergency, and he would inject ketamine directly into their bloodstream, overpower them and stuff them into the back of his van. He would then take them to the back room of his workshop and transform them into a macabre masterpiece.

With the precision of a surgeon he would cut off bits and pieces of his material adding and rearranging it into a terrifying sculpture reminiscent of the biomechanical creatures showcased in many of H.R. Giger’s paintings. His work was glorious, like when he removed the arms of a war veteran and stitched rifles in their place, or his last masterpiece that revealed him to the world. He kidnapped the son of a well known politician (I’m not at liberty to say any names) and put him through the most magnificent metamorphosis.

He kept the boy locked in a crawlspace underneath his workshop for five months, all the while force feeding him greasy buckets filled with pig and cow intestines to fatten him up. After the five months was up he pulled the boy out of the crawlspace, now barely able to move on his on accord due to his muscles atrophying from lack of movement, and called me into his workshop. He actually let me watch! He taught me his intricate stitches and made me promise not to tell anybody that I knew anything about his art because he was going to go away for a long time.

After hours of stretching, tearing, chopping, and sewing his masterpiece was done. He had used an iron plate and pulled the boy’s skin over it to extend his snout into the shape of a pigs. It was magnificent! He then branded him with pentagrams and contorted his limbs, twisting his appendages so his knees and elbows were both facing the same direction. Then he sent me to bed.

I woke to a loud banging the next morning and a bunch of men in swat gear storming my bedroom. They arrested my father and that’s the last time I saw him. He had decided to go out that night and leave his sculpture in the town square for everybody to see with a plaque explaining the artist and his interpretation of the piece. He was always one to push his political beliefs onto those around him. Now that my dad is gone I have taken over his workshop and I have loved carrying on his work.