Out, Damned Spot! Chapter 5 (Final)
How It Ended.
Content Warning: Extreme body horror, graphic self-harm and amputation, graphic violence and murder, strong language, intense psychological distress. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
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(You really made it to the final chapter? I’m impressed, but the ride’s not over. Buckle up, buttercup.)
I spent the rest of the night scouring my apartment. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway, and it was too late to cut my foot off. My plan was to do it in the morning after everyone in the complex left for work. The same quiet window I’d had with Sharon. Besides, there was plenty to do.
It took most of the night to remove the remnants of Sharon from the living room. It was a repetitive cycle of dousing the carpet, walls, and couch with OxyClean, scrubbing, and rinsing. By 4 a.m., the small stains were gone, and the big stains were difficult to notice. After I finished in the living room, I took down the plastic in the kitchen and ran it through the washing machine to remove the blood. I didn’t intend to reuse it; this was going to be the operating theater for amputating my foot, and I didn’t want to cross-contaminate. I hung up fresh plastic drop cloths in their place. I then disassembled the saw and cleaned out the blood and gunk from the pedestal, sterilizing everything with rubbing alcohol. I reattached the blade, tightened everything down, and gave it a quick spin to make sure it was ready to go.
The last thing to prep was my foot.
It wasn’t itching much now, a few stabs every few minutes or so, but that was because I had cut off circulation to my foot for most of the day, and the rest of my lower leg was asleep. How the itching persisted despite the lack of blood flow was beyond my comprehension, and it made me wonder whether cutting it off would be enough to stop it. I’ve heard stories of people who had limbs removed still have phantom feelings in them. I didn’t want to think about that, so I didn’t.
I moved to the bathtub and cut the duct tape off the trash bag I had wrapped around my lower leg. The cold, tingling sensation of waking a foot that had been asleep rushed through my body, and soon the itching was back in full force. Opening up the trash bag, the concentrated smell of rot from my foot wafted up to my nostrils. I had almost forgotten how bad it was.
I rolled down my sock and worked the glass-covered tape off my toes. The blood was clotting a bit, but there was still enough to counteract the duct tape's adhesive properties. I ran my foot under the faucet in the tub to rinse the blood away. My foot was twitching again as I patted it dry with the towel.
The skin on my toes was shredded and weeping blood while the itching built its melody of feather tickles and needle pricks to a crescendo. It took all my strength to resist the urge to run to the kitchen, grab a Brillo pad, and scrub my foot until I hit bone. It would all be over soon, I told myself.
The spots combined into one huge spot that covered all my toes. I figured I'd have to cut my foot about halfway down, but now I was wondering if I should just take it off at the ankle to make sure I get it all. No, halfway would suffice. No spots past mid-foot. No need to lose the whole foot, just half of it.
I took the cap off the benzocaine burn ointment spray I had purchased the day before, pointed it at my foot, and bit down on a wet hand towel as I pulled the trigger.
My senses were overloaded when those atomized spray droplets hit my skin. It burned. It stung. It numbed. The relief was so intense I felt tears welling up again, like the most overwhelming hit I had ever experienced. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was like I had tapped into a mainline straight to the itch. So I sprayed again. The second spray wasn’t as intense as the first, but it was still fucking amazing. I kept spraying until I had emptied the can on my foot. One last good hit before the numbing effect took hold, silencing the itching and leaving only that deep, blissful relief.
I was ready for the next step.
Step 7: Cut Off Your Motherfucking Foot
I tied a tourniquet of rolled-up duct tape around my ankle and limped to the kitchen, ready to do the deed. I considered taking a Sharpie and drawing a line on my foot, but then I remembered the laser line from my new saw would show exactly where the cut would happen. Before I placed my foot on the saw, I did a few dry runs, activating the saw and pushing it down, making sure the blade was functioning. Because once I started cutting…
I took a deep breath and placed my foot on the pedestal as I sat down in the chair. I tucked my right foot under the chair to keep it clear from the blade. I took the handle in my hand and pressed the button to illuminate the laser line where the blade would cut. I moved my foot so the blade would cut through the arch.
You can do this.
I took another deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The blade whirred to life. I could see my pulse throbbing in the veins on top of my foot under the laser line where the blade would make contact. I lowered the handle, blood spraying into my face as the blade bit into my skin.
I screamed.
Pain. Real pain. Not the overwhelming relief that scratching those spots gave me. Sweet Jesus, it hurt worse than anything I had ever felt. My hands were shaking as I pushed the blade deeper into my foot, eager to get it over and done with.
That’s when the blade stopped turning.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck! What was wrong? I pulled the trigger, but nothing was happening. The blade was caught in my foot, and it wouldn’t turn. The fucking blade wouldn’t fucking spin!
I stood up and tried stomping on the handle with my other foot, hoping to force the blade to let go or finish the job. But the blade was bound. I could smell smoke, like getting a cavity drilled at the dentist’s office. Blood was pooling on the pedestal. I tried pulling up, pressing down, anything to free it from my foot. But it was stuck. And it wouldn’t spin.
That’s when I remembered the hacksaw on the coffee table in the living room.
I pulled my body along the kitchen floor, dragging my foot and the saw behind me. I cried out in agony as the saw skidded along the linoleum. I had lost a lot of blood. I could feel myself going pale, about to pass out from the pain and blood loss.
No! You keep going! Don’t you fucking stop now.
I inched my way closer. My foot radiated with pain. My hands shook as I clawed at the carpet, pulling my body into the living room. I have to get there.
The hacksaw handle stuck out from the coffee table, three feet from my grasp. Almost there. I propped myself up on my arms and lunged forward, hoping to pull the saw with me in one swift motion. But my momentum was stopped, and I was pulled back towards the kitchen. I looked back to see the goddamn saw cord pulled taut, impeding any further progress like a bear caught in a bear trap.
I was crying, pleading, “Please God, oh please let me reach it, let me end this. I’m sorry for Sharon, I’m sorry for everything, oh please, sweet Jesus, help me!”
With my fingertips, I could just reach the corner of the coffee table. I heard a sharp pop from my ankle that felt like someone had hit my calf with a baseball bat. I later learned that this was my Achilles tendon snapping. But that wasn’t important now. I needed to get that fucking saw.
I strained and stretched, pulling the table closer to me when I couldn’t pull myself closer to it. The table slid closer, inch by inch, until I was able to reach up and grip the handle of the hacksaw in my hand.
I let out a frantic laugh. I sat up, placed the blade against my foot, and started sawing. The pain was already white-hot in my foot; nothing I was doing was making it hurt any more than it already did. After about twenty strokes, my foot pulled free except for the skin on the sole. I gave it a good yank, and the skin ripped off the bottom of my foot up to my heel.
I was free. When it came to cutting bone, that guy from Lowe’s really knew his shit.
I remembered the list, wondering what was next. Maybe I heard a knock at the door. I didn’t know if that was real or if I was hallucinating. I had lost a lot of blood, and I could feel my vision blurring as everything went swimmy in the head. No, I couldn’t pass out now. I had a list to complete. Where was my list? What was the next step?
I managed to get to my feet, my now half-foot slipping in the blood on the floor. I remember looking at the clock and seeing it was 7:45, thinking I was going to be late for work, that I was going to miss the bus. I opened the door and fell forward, the last image being the stunned face of my coworker Ken catching me as I collapsed into his arms.
I woke up in the hospital.
The days drifted together as I slept, broken up by intermittent moments of lucidity as I heard the murmur of doctors and nurses talking around my bed. Surgeries and IV’s. A new burning pain in my hip. A comment about the grafts taking hold as I felt cold air over the stump of my foot. And sleep. Wonderful sleep. And no itching.
Four days later, my nurse filled me in on what happened between me cutting off my foot and now. How Ken decided to stop by and check on me when he didn’t hear from me. The bloody mess of my apartment and how the rest of my foot was mangled and smelled so rotten that they couldn’t reattach it (thank fucking God!). Now that I was awake, I was scheduled for sessions with the therapist to work through the mental issues that led to my self-amputation.
No mention of Sharon, and I wasn’t wearing handcuffs, so I’m guessing she hadn’t been discovered. Ken was kind enough to grab my laptop so I could play Fortnite while I healed up at the hospital, which is how I’m writing this final update.
I know I don’t have long. Someone will report Sharon missing. Or the therapist will discover my all-important list in the front pocket of my pants. Soon, the police would come calling, and in this condition, I’m in no shape to run.
To top it all off, as I type this, I can feel the first tickling and pinpricks of itching on the back of my thumb in a tiny spot just below the nailbed.
The nurse just finished her morning rounds. I figure I have just under an hour to bite this thing off before it starts spreading again.
The End.
Thank you for reading Out, Damned Spot. Share it with someone who stays calm in a crisis.
What brand of miter saw? That might have been the problem. Loved the story, Chris. Ridiculous. Gross. Perfect ending.
On a personal note - yesterday, my son complained about an itch on the underside of his foot that he couldn’t seem to scratch, was crying about it in fact. I had to go in another room so he wouldn’t see me laughing.
the first four chapters were just appetizers, getting us ready for the main course of a DIY amputation. uncomfortable to read, and a job well done not rushing through the scene.