A dose of insanity

All mine

2012-05-03T01:04:00.002-07:00

There he was, arms like hanger steak padded on to bone, all gristle and muscle with snakes of throbbing veins warning of the tempest of blood that rushes to his hands gripping the ragged old fan belt he had hanging on his grease stained garage filled with rotting hamburger bits and dried cum. He was pacing, forehead tight and wrought with overworked veins, beads of sweat desperately trying to cool a mind filled with rage. Jaw tight and flexed, hiding gnashing teeth and a tongue searching for the answer to life’s questions in the inside of his mouth: frantic, panicked.

“Why,why, why?” He kept asking the chair, the table, the beat up cheap plastic chandelier and fan combo barely able to turn, much less provide ventilation, as if it too, was cutting through the tension of the air.

He kept pacing, playing with the plastic belt, slack and tension dancing an all too familiar dance. His head was swiveling up and down, left to right, exploring all three dimensions of the air around it. Incensed by this, he wraps the fan belt around his head, from the top down to his chin, like a little oily, 5 o’clock bearded little Bo Peep. Then he started tugging, the sharp and ragged edges of the belt streaking red on his bare scalp and turning the sides of his head into its own personal railway.

“Mmm… hmm… urhmm,” was all that she could muster, lying slack at the corner of the little apartment. Her flimsy dress worn thin by years of hand washing was now soaking up the grime and month old piss that she sat on. She was wringing the front of her dress to a tight little ball wet with sweat and tears. The straps were taught with the effort of keeping the dress in one piece, digging into her shoulder blades which were colored like a two-day old eggplant: mostly violet, with a splash of green and mottled veins.

“You’re making me do this, you bitch,” He whispered. “I told you to wash the dishes after you washed the clothes, but what do I come home to?” His voice trembling, rising like the sea, crashing in a scream, “A sink filled with filthy dishes!”

If you were there, you would have sworn it was not a person he was castigating, but a stray cat, too frail from countless nights in the rain, eating only what the gravel, and other strong vermin, left for it to eat. All you could hear were quiet whimpers and labored breathing, as if the tension in the air made it more difficult to breathe, clawing at her trachea, drowning her in fear.

In a split second, the fan belt was slashing through the air, like bloody thunder crashing into her cheek, reopening a wound two weeks old that never got to heal because of the constant kind open palm slaps. A foul smelling mix of blood and clear fluid drained out of the wound, now two fresh channels of exposed flesh, the new path starting as white snow, only to perspire beet colored blood.

“You’re making me do this!” He screamed as he cocked back for another blow. “You should listen! Everything I tell you is simple! Are you really that dumb?” He belts out as he lashes once more. Aiming for her legs, which have countless scars in different states of healing, making her once creamy skin look like an archipelago of long, keloidal mountain ranges, fresh new wounds, a kaleidoscope of bruises and smaller islands of dried, caking scabs.

Lash, after lash, after lash. Like a familiar love song she hears on the radio when the DJ plays old classics in the dead time of the afternoon, she knew the beat, rhythm and rhyme of this activity. He got like this every time he felt guilty of something, lately, it’s that whore dispatcher from the job he has on the new construction site. His twelfth job this year.

She isn’t stupid. In fact, when they first got together, people frowned upon her decision to hitch her blooming office career to his down and forgotten star.

But from the first moment they kissed, she knew, she knew deep down, that she had to have him. That she’d face hell and high water to be with him. He needed a part of him.

A part of him.

Just a little part of him.

And that’s what she got.

As he was lashing him, a steady, perfected process that is second nature to him, she tripped him, and let him fall to the shearing scissors she was hiding. The scissors were those you would normally see in sweat shops; big, solid that makes short work of thin leather. As he fell forward, the scissors punctured the top center part of his abdomen, piercing the lungs and heart in an upward angle.

She held her tight in a soft, calming embrace, running her free hand through his hair, staring deeply into his fading eyes, listening as you would an old classic, for his last dying breaths… and she kissed him. Deeply, as though she wanted his life to be transferred to her body through one kiss.

“I’ve loved you, ever since I met you. I know I never could survive without you,” she whispered lovingly as she turned the scissors around, warm blood sputtering from the gaping hole she’s created, the resistance of his innards a feeling in her hands that reminded her of mixing together a nice dough for sourbread. “I could have taken the beatings, in fact, I have. I loved the pain, and the pleasure we share afterwards,” the life was leaving him now, fleeting electrical impulses sent out by a panicking body the only thing keeping him alive. “Don’t die on me, not just yet,” she said as she forced him to look at her.

“But you should’ve known… I never liked to share.”

And with that, she lost the love of her life.

But she knew, that she still couldn’t live without him. That she wanted, nay, needed a part of him to survive… just a little part.

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“Damn, McGregor, I’ve seen some crimes of passion, but not like this,” said the grizzled detective to his youngish partner.

“The perp sure did a number on this fella, sir. Even forensics would have a hard time piecing this guy back together.”

“Not even the king’s men can put back this Humpty Dumpty.”

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Far into the forest she walked. Dazed, hungry, thirsty, her feet proving to be no match for the terrain of the woods. But she didn’t care, she was stroking him, his best parts, tied to a string like a necklace, like a sick pendant, his severed dick and balls.

“I don’t like to share, I don’t like to share,” people say they hear a woman’s voice hum those words over and over again, hiking in the forest that ate her whole.

The Beginning

2012-05-02T00:46:00.004-07:00

They love us now. We have become, in this mercurial world of short attention spans and effervescent attention whores, a glamorized, demystified, made-safe-for-public consumption avatars, fads and trends that now find a gag-inducing cutesified version of what we truly are.

We have become more like Hello Kitty, far removed from the feral truth of our existence.

We, the supernaturals, made into t-shirt prints and mobile phone trinkets.

How disgusting.

And to be stacked with Zombies in this multi-truck highway collision, a confused amalgamation of myths from different times, of stories told to scare children, tales spun to explain things that go bump in the night. Stories of my kind.

And so many people re-imagine our existence. From scientific explanation of blood thirst, to sentient beings brought about by the faith of men – how arrogant of them to think that their faith can create Gods —to the sickly glittering mutants that splash across the silver screen. So many mortal minds have created alternate realities of what we are and how we came about. History is chock-full of people who’ve flirted with the knowledge of who we really are.

Monsters.

Abominations.

There is no class in the thirst for flesh.

People think that there are only vampires, werewolves, trolls, and all the other mythical beings they were told of. People think that we have identities exclusive to the countries they live in. That a vampire from Europe is different from the BrahmarākŞhasa, just because mortal eyes wanted to paint a different picture of death.

But there’s nothing romantic about needing to rend flesh from human bone.

There’s nothing regal about wanting to taste the rich iron in human blood trickle down your throat.

So much history, so many variations of what we are. They call us the devil’s minions. Or the wrath of God. I wish it was that simple. Many mortals imagine covens, broods and armies. Organized systems with distinct hierarchical foundations. They think we can think and act like them. But how can you, when every waking moment is governed by a need to feed. One thing is true, though, we were all humans once. I was, many lifetimes ago. But that is but a distant memory. Now, my days are spent thinking about how to feed this hunger, and nights are spent making the plans reality.

I really don’t how I became like this. A monster. All I know is that I wake up one night with a bite at the back of my neck, a small one that I neglected. One that swelled with thick yellow pus, making my hair smell like some sick man’s sickness left in a pan for weeks.

Then, it started. I felt it first when I started staring at the fresh meat in the market, excited by the still warm, quivering flesh of newly slaughtered animals. The first time it really sunk in what when I first sank my teeth into a fresh beef shank, excited and yet repulsed by the taste of uncooked flesh. That was when I knew that I had fallen, and fallen deep.

I started with fowl first. I bought live chickens and ducks from farmer’s markets. Only to rip their heads off with my bare teeth and suckle on the thick, dark blood that spewed from the irregular cuts I had made with my teeth. The satisfaction of taking a life sending electric currents down my spine, turning my flaccid penis rock hard with excitement. Every hair in my body stood up as I felt the last instinctive tremors in the birds’ body as life left it and succumbed to my hunger.

From then on, it was all instinct.

There’s nothing beautiful about this hunger. There’s nothing romantic about the need.

I’ve met creatures like me, stalking the night for prey. People with eyes that shift endlessly, the hunger gnawing at them each second it is not satiated. They, with the anxious looks and downplayed attires, lounging in many a derelict bar or hole in the wall joint, looking for the opportune time to strike. I’ve never really talked to them, my brethren, nor have I had the pleasure of meeting my maker, the one who turned me, not that I would like to. The hunger is all encompassing. There were no other worthwhile activities.

My first encounter with human prey was anything but storybook like. I figured, after having an extremely hard and messy time with a small pig, that animals are simply not worthy prey. So instead, I commissioned a high end prostitute, because they always put a premium on being discreet. I told her I had “special” needs. All she did was smile at me and tell me that at the right price, there was no need she could not whet.

How wrong she was.

I told her that I was into bondage, she set a price and we agreed. She was hesitant to go to my house, she said we can fulfill my desires in a good motel room. I told her all of my toys were at home. I threw more money at her, and she complied. When we arrived home, she showered and I prepared my things. I read many books in sadomasochism and bondage, so I knew what was acceptable. I play characters pretty well.

She came out of the shower, breasts taught with excitement, hair trickling with water, but most importantly, her body was stripped of all the perfume, powder and other gunk they put on themselves. She smelled fresh. She smelled of excitement, of sex, or at least the anticipation of it. She smelled like this was something she’s always wanted to do. She whipped off the small towel enveloping her and her cunt was wet, almost dripping with the viscous liquid of need.

But I had a very different need in mind.

She pushed me to the bed and started to undress me. Wildly, like a beast that wanted to play rough with her prey before devouring it. She bit my ears and ripped my shirt off. She unbuckled my belt and hit me with it, the end tip of the best whipped right across my left cheek. I felt it, but strangely, it didn’t hurt. It felt good. The blood rushing to my cheeks felt right, awesome, even. Seeing this, she was worked into a frenzy even more. She pushed me so that I lay flat on the bed, and then put her sweating cunt right on my face. Like a boy given a lollipop, I devoured her, licking and slurping, gnawing on the many bits and pieces, knowing that, in a few minutes, this tasting menu of flesh will offer up its blood spattered piece de resistance.

Her back arched with the wracking of pleasure and she deftly turned and enveloped my phallus with her mouth. Expertly, like the professional that she was, she tried to get me excited. Her tongue flicked like a lizards, exploring nooks and crannies that were all too familiar to her, the pleasure points she was sure would get any man excited. She sucked, licked, gently bit and toyed with my penis but there was no stirring in mu loins.

“What’s a girl to do to get you hard?” she whispered to the top of my prick.

I flipped her so that she was facing me and forcefully, flipped her again so that I was on top of her. Then bit her lip, just enough so that it bled. She whimpered in a mixture of pleasure and pain as we fell into a deep kiss. The blood that was flowing from the small wound brought blood rushing to my penis, and she noticed this, caressing my testicles and shaft while her tongue explored my mouth.

I strapped her on the waiting leather bonds that were tied to the bedposts, noting the she bit her lip each time I tightened the bonds, winced in appreciative pain when I strapped them on tightly, not wanting her to suddenly slip.

She was so aroused that her vagina was oozing, and I sipped her juice like you would an aperitif. I slipped the gag ball onto her mouth and saw her eyes turn into mischievous little slits.

I took a moment to look at her: pliant and willing, not like an animal whose survival instincts tell it to never get into a situation where it is powerless. I thought, is this the mark of higher intelligence? Overcoming your instincts because you live in a world where survival of the fittest is an obsolete concept?

I dove into her cunt again, now with more biting and force. She enjoyed it at first, her body gyrating to the waves of pleasure and pain.

Then, I really bit. I tore her labia apart and her muffled screams, coupled with the oozing blood were an sensory overload of pleasure, as she thrashed and tried to break free, in one instant realizing that the game I wanted in mind was far from the sensual pleasures she was so used to giving and receiving.

As I was drinking her blood, I chew on the fleshy labia I tore away from her cunt, it was nothing like the raw meat and fresh fowl that I had before, it was a supremely different experience. When I had it down, and the bleeding cunt was slowing down, I went down further her thighs and gnawed.

It isn’t like our teeth was made to rip through flesh. Even a tough piece of beef will prove a worthy opponent to our measly incisors. I guess I still was evolving, becoming a monster, but just not there yet. So I bit off as much as I can, chewing the fat and muscle, enjoying the warmth that emanated from her. With every bite, her thrashings grew stronger. Trembling, she tried to fight, but it was too late.

Then I hit the jackpot. I hit her femoral artery, and a river of blood, dammed by flesh and skin, came rushing towards me, and I sucked hard. Ecstasy overcome my body, I came, my seed trickling from my prick down to the satin sheets that was my dinner plate. I chewed on her luscious thigh muscles as the life left her, reduced to electric impulses, her body was no more like the chickens that I had before.

But her taste. How can I describe such a primal pleasure? From the soft muscles of her thigh I partook in the most ethereal meat, forcing sinew to break and feasting on crimson red meat that satiated the hunger for a while. Her cheeks, breasts and abdomen proved to be the tastiest morsels: soft and laden with fat, they offered less resistance once I chewed off the flesh. I bit down on her lower lip and tugged, a different texture yet again, more collagen, like a bloody and meaty piece of pudding.

After feeding, it was as if the sky opened and hundreds of seraphs floated down from the heavens to serenade me. It was pleasure beyond reckoning.

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