Phil Jameson scratches violently at his forehead, trying to itch away the pulsating headache that was engulfing his brain. He sits solemnly at his battered desk, pooled in a fluorescent light from a single dangling bulb. The words in his book blur together as the old shed he had locked himself in is shadowed in the night's darkness. Scrawled onto the pages are slanted words, handwritten by Phil's aching hand, and scratchy sketches of human bones, ripped-open bodies and cut-open hearts. A clock ticks, echoing in the small wooden shed as the night drags on; two hours to four, four to six, until Phil’s hand and thumb is burned red as he scribbles away furiously onto the paper. The shed is crowded with remains from its past owners; around the one desk are a few discarded buckets, a broom and an array of muddy garden tools, the metal spikes of the pitch fork and sharp edge of the spade reflecting slightly in the discriminating light. The shed itself is shrouded behind a large tree and over-grown plants, discarded at the end of Phil’s back yard. The Jameson’s had never got round to demolishing the battered building, not only did they forget as time went on but they didn’t care too much anyway as the garden was never used. Mr and Mrs Jameson were scarcely ever even at the house, so their son was the only one to ever enter the cobwebbed and dusty shed.
In fact most evenings Phil found himself wandering down to the shed, and loosing track of time pouring over his collected textbooks on anatomy. Each day his obsession of the human body grew, slowly taking over all his thoughts throughout the day and night, so every person he saw he looked into their insides, imagined their bones and organs. His fascination began one day at home a few months ago; Phil was alone as usual, both his parents away for the weekend, and was sitting bleakly in the dark living room staring blindly at the TV when a programme came on. It was a documentary on ‘Forensic Anthropology’ and as Phil intensely watched the scientists opening up deceased bodies, cutting out organs and breaking bones he felt strangely stimulated, a tingling sense of lust and sick arousal heating up his body. From that day he gathered every scrap of information he could on human anatomy; scanning library shelves, ransacking the Internet, and listening intently with a new found passion in his Biology classes at school. Soon his raid for knowledge turned into a deeper, more obsessive hunger, and he began his own notebook, covering the pages with detailed descriptions and diagrams. To any other person the book would look a muddle of random words, a messy brainstorm of confused ideas, but to Phil it was a sacred and special, structured look into his brain, his thoughts and knowledge. Now the abandoned, old shed is his home. Lining the shelves are dead animals and insects, rotting and decaying slowly. Phil would go on slow walks around the woods, stabbing or crushing any animal he came across. Then he would drag back the corpse, and examine it in detail, noting down all his observations. After the animal was sliced open, perhaps made devoid of all its organs, scanned under his microscope and photographed from all angles, the corpse was hung up to dry, cleaned of mud and dirt and placed proudly on his shelf as the new addition to his collection. Each time Phil scratched into deceased bones, sliced up bloody muscles, pinned back skin or twisted a head off that strange stimulation and arousal radiated through him, bringing a contented smile to his usually wooden face.
The morning light slowly started to dissolve the inky night sky, making Phil stand up, stamping feeling into his numb legs, then flicking out the light. He slid the rusty lock over as he closed the door, and crunched through the autumn leaves in his long, narrow garden back to the house. His eyebrows were knitted together, and behind his eyes calculations whirred round his head. He had a plan set. A detailed, mapped-out plan, with