One year a rough faced middle aged man sat on a broken legged stool, dowsing his throat in liquor. The room was dry and musty, its odor penetrating crusty walls. His baggy eyes drooped as the bloodshot organs drifted in and out of consciousness. His gut was bare, a curled shirt stained spottedly with questionable substances. His groan sloshed as he tried to lean back, only to fall and smack his head into the moistened wood below; growing more wet as the bottle in his hand shattered on his face. The acidic liquid scooped the small shards allowing them to crawl into the tiny crevices of his skin. Clinging their non-existent claws into his flabby flesh, shearing his octaves. Seconds later a scream could be heard and shouts of gibberish that echoed with ferocity came around bashing of the little amount of furniture that accompanied the room. His head by the door frame stammered to the rusty sink, smashing the small bar that turned the faucet on. Dingy water sprayed out as the connection of the faucet to the corroded sink snapped, sprinkling towards the ceiling. Raining down on him as he held his bruised and bloodied face, with most of the shards of glass washing away. He yelled once more whilst slamming his fist into the counter, resulting in the fracturing of his right hand. Screaming again, he slumped down as natural tears began smoldering out from his damaged sockets. Random mumbles of dreary indecipherable jargon spewed from his lips. The light grew dim as darkness cloaked his sight.
Waking the man up was a large thud, a continuous and rhythmic knocking was being drummed as he lay. The front door shook, the man stood up stumbling his left shoulder into the wall. Creating a large hole, but he pushed off and reached the door unevenly. The pain was numb in its torture. Slapping the door knob hard revealed once opened, a large man in just as large or bigger attire. A hooded cloak concealed over top of him, with many comparably sized boxes behind him. The cloaked figure had wisps of white coiling with the humid wind. He drew out a clip board with a pen to the side, handing it in front before he spoke.
"He is not worthy," he said in an oceanic tone.
"W-what? Who is not worthy?" the distorted man said with a shrapnel voice.
"The one you gave to get rid of your debt. In these boxes are the product you provided, it can be reassembled. It may take some time, but shouldn't take you too long. I shall leave them outside for you to take."
The incompetent man signed in accordance as if it were a natural motion. The figure took back the board, letting the ground below him melt, allowing his figure to sink.
"Well shit, have I been drinkin' too much," the man muttered as he waddled to the pile of large boxes. Touching one immediately ran a shiver down his spine as a light vapor could be closely seen. He arbitrarily muttered more nonsense as he reluctantly picked one of the boxes. Huffing and puffing, his face reddening even more as he coughed a breath whilst dropping the hefty box in the living room. Blood trickled everywhere as he continued with the rest till an hour went by and all the boxes were inside the house. Picking up a glass shard off the ground, he began to cut one open.
Inside was a metal case frozen all around, the vapor ever stronger, dropping the temperature in the room by multiple degrees. Picking at the frozen latch opened up a noticeable plastic bag that was semi-translucent. Tearing open the bag gave a putrid shock to the man as all the color he once had drained from him. Stammering back with tears escaping his ruined eyes, his hands clasped his mouth as he curled over himself. Internal stomach fluids wished to run out from his throat yet the man kept them at bay. After quite a while and a possible sobering, the man took up his courage and went towards the open cooler once more.
"O-oh son…" he whimpered.
Crawling on his knees, he began to take out the contents. Jars filled with organs, such as the octaves, lungs, heart, stomach, and it continued on from there. Only the brain was missing, but it seemed impossible for the man to notice as the tears clogged any sight he may have had left. This went on with every other box, each was very cold, and contained the clean dismembered body parts of a young boy. His tears could be no more, as they dried to completion, with him now being able to absorb the insurmountable at the last translucent square. In this jar of unknown liquid was the head of a child with a long cross hatched scar running along his forehead. His hair was dark and the skin had no life, being even more evident as the only hair at all were from the eyebrows and lashes. Holding it up with trembling arms as if someone was sloshing him around, yet he did not drop it, as though it were the most precious thing in all of creation.
"Oh God! My son, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! In what injustice did this need to happen! What damnation has the heavens placed judgment on! Why me! Why this boy… Oh why!" He shouted in his hoarse and distorted voice. His lips were so dry they began to split, leaking blood as he tried to repeatedly open his trembling mouth. On the very bottom of the last cooler was a thick booklet titled Instruction Manual on the Assembly Process of Failed Experiment #124439.
"My… Ha… I have no words. Please say that I'm still drunk, still dreamin'. Lord, I just wanted to make ends meet… Not this Lord, oh no not this," he stepped back as he looked long at the manual. "Hah, it's been a minute since I've read. Wonder if we may even still have a dictionary lyin' around. It be saying it is an assemble. I ain't no dumb-ass, if my son can come back in any form, I'm willin' ta do it." Hiccup.
Bumbling about with lifeless eyes, so grey that they may truly be blind. As night rolled on, strength flew with the man as he braked not on the construction. Following the instructions by every line, every detail checked five to six times repeatedly. His corpse-like appearance was dreadful to the lifeless boy as his skin was clean and smooth, with the only scars being from the disassembly of his body. A week would flash by, no food or water, his tired joints only at the last leg of construction. The man's body truly looked dead, a walking dingy grey skeleton.
Sitting on his stool he stared deeply at his son, propped on the handy stand provided in one of the boxes. Then a slight twitch flicked off one of the child's fingers, waking the man's lifeless figure. The trembling shame boiled within him, enough so to give a heart attack that could kill. The blistering fear pulled him to the depths of his incredulous dishonor, ringing up his thick belt. Looping around his neck, the lids of the boy twitched slightly again as the tubes of blood on the side began to circulate, filling up the colorless body. The metal straps shook, with a warmth blowing in from the machine holding and injecting the boy. The man had only shards of tiny droplets that could be mustered from his pathetic tear ducts. Whilst the boy had his lips to shudder with, his head slowly tilting up, the zap of fear once more stung over the man.
Accidentally kicking forward the stool below, dropping swiftly as his belt loosely clung to his throat beginning to suffocate him, failing to disconnect his neck swiftly. His vision blurred as he saw the fuzzy image of a boy standing up ever so softly, and even in hell he submits to the fact that he could hear the word 'Dad…' In the very last seconds of the man's soul he muttered whilst holding up his head with all his strength to the tightening belt. Before the pop of death resounded in the quiet space, he spoke, "Le…" His neck snapped on the second rebound.