Soon-to-be poetry/short story collection.
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OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
Prelude to the Apocalypse
Open your eyes
Stare into the void of the night
The stars in the sky blink as you watch
And the void stares back
The wind whips your face
Grains of sand scratching at your skin
You close your eyes
You blink
Just for a moment
While your vision dark
The sky changes
The moon smiles
In victory, the wind howls
A cold laugh to the ears
Another fool has lost the game
The game of locking eyes
Beyond the horizon
With a thunderous roar
Lightning strikes the parched earth
A storm is approaching
You smile with the moon
A smirk that makes your lips curl
And you laugh with the wind
While the world ends
You couldn’t be happier
I don't even own a typewriter.
Musty paper resting in portrait.
Dull on the eyes.
Mundane.
Metal rods and buttons, unused.
Cold on the fingertips.
Uninviting.
Thick curtain of stale air.
Dusty on the tongue.
Uncomfortable.
Dried spiral of ink.
Acrid on the nose.
Useless.
Dingy, old margin bell.
Sharp on the ears.
Irritating.
Old typewriter.
Obsolete.
Thank you.
Open your eyes
Stare into the void of the night
The stars in the sky blink as you watch
And the void stares back
The wind whips your face
Grains of sand scratching at your skin
You close your eyes
You blink
Just for a moment
While your vision dark
The sky changes
The moon smiles
In victory, the wind howls
A cold laugh to the ears
Another fool has lost the game
The game of locking eyes
Beyond the horizon
With a thunderous roar
Lightning strikes the parched earth
A storm is approaching
You smile with the moon
A smirk that makes your lips curl
And you laugh with the wind
While the world ends
You couldn’t be happier
I don't even own a typewriter.
Musty paper resting in portrait.
Dull on the eyes.
Mundane.
Metal rods and buttons, unused.
Cold on the fingertips.
Uninviting.
Thick curtain of stale air.
Dusty on the tongue.
Uncomfortable.
Dried spiral of ink.
Acrid on the nose.
Useless.
Dingy, old margin bell.
Sharp on the ears.
Irritating.
Old typewriter.
Obsolete.
Thank you.
OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
Literal Nonsense
Oh, to be a mysterious stranger broadcasting a nonsensical message over the radio. Only for the words to be heard by another even more mysterious stranger, who listens to the words through a crackling radio. Between pops and cracks...a message- a warning? A prophecy? Pure nonsense that somehow made sense. What a dream.
Between the frivolous fabrics of irrational, rational realities. Do you hear me out there? Do you know what I am? I walk and I talk. It’s all so painfully human. The listener is not human. The hum of static as it falls into worlds beyond. Droning through the wind... Nothing but a meaningless noise- but if read between the lines, there is so much meaning.
Like a calendar, our days are numbered. Isn’t it beautiful to be finite? Time ticks and the world ends, but there’s more out there. As the world ends, another will continue, and yet it will not. You can hear me. You may hear my words as they pass through. However, I cannot hear you. So scream! Scream and yell into the empty voice of space! A void that is so empty that it is full of particles. Shout into it for me.
Inspiration 3
That's how the mornings always started in this tiny, uneventful town.
Without much of a choice, the rooster would crow and the farmer and his family would rise. They always got up the earliest- unless you counted the night watch security guard at the Funday-All-Day Arcade. The security guard was always done with their shift by 6 in the morning but had been awake since somewhere around 11 PM last night. 7 hours of doing nothing in the dark. Every. Single. Night.
But that's just how things work around here. Monotony is our way of life in our quaint little town, and we have reveled in it since our founding in the mid-1900s, and we will continue to do so until our eventual deaths sometime in the not-so-distant-future.
Regardless, by the time the Arcade's night guard went home, the farmer's children were already ready for school. They'd pack their little lunch bags with the same meal every day and then walk to school- no skipping, no running, no trotting, or teetering, or tottering. Just. Walking. The other children would walk as well, or be picked up by a yellow school bus with fading paint.
The parents of the children would sip on their coffee, simultaneously, while driving their sedans to a non-specific office building that belonged to a non-specific government agency, or to the supermarket to exchange currency for food and drink, and THEN drive to the office building. This is mandatory, of course.
And me? I just do what everybody else does, because that's our motto! "Conformity brings happiness, and individuality is a sin.", as our mayor would say. Don't you agree? Welcome to Boring, a small town located somewhere on this tiny planet that's hurtling across the universe at unfathomable speeds. Wipe your shoes on the welcome mat, sit back, and don't touch anything- and more importantly: don't ask questions.
Oh, to be a mysterious stranger broadcasting a nonsensical message over the radio. Only for the words to be heard by another even more mysterious stranger, who listens to the words through a crackling radio. Between pops and cracks...a message- a warning? A prophecy? Pure nonsense that somehow made sense. What a dream.
Between the frivolous fabrics of irrational, rational realities. Do you hear me out there? Do you know what I am? I walk and I talk. It’s all so painfully human. The listener is not human. The hum of static as it falls into worlds beyond. Droning through the wind... Nothing but a meaningless noise- but if read between the lines, there is so much meaning.
Like a calendar, our days are numbered. Isn’t it beautiful to be finite? Time ticks and the world ends, but there’s more out there. As the world ends, another will continue, and yet it will not. You can hear me. You may hear my words as they pass through. However, I cannot hear you. So scream! Scream and yell into the empty voice of space! A void that is so empty that it is full of particles. Shout into it for me.
Inspiration 3
That's how the mornings always started in this tiny, uneventful town.
Without much of a choice, the rooster would crow and the farmer and his family would rise. They always got up the earliest- unless you counted the night watch security guard at the Funday-All-Day Arcade. The security guard was always done with their shift by 6 in the morning but had been awake since somewhere around 11 PM last night. 7 hours of doing nothing in the dark. Every. Single. Night.
But that's just how things work around here. Monotony is our way of life in our quaint little town, and we have reveled in it since our founding in the mid-1900s, and we will continue to do so until our eventual deaths sometime in the not-so-distant-future.
Regardless, by the time the Arcade's night guard went home, the farmer's children were already ready for school. They'd pack their little lunch bags with the same meal every day and then walk to school- no skipping, no running, no trotting, or teetering, or tottering. Just. Walking. The other children would walk as well, or be picked up by a yellow school bus with fading paint.
The parents of the children would sip on their coffee, simultaneously, while driving their sedans to a non-specific office building that belonged to a non-specific government agency, or to the supermarket to exchange currency for food and drink, and THEN drive to the office building. This is mandatory, of course.
And me? I just do what everybody else does, because that's our motto! "Conformity brings happiness, and individuality is a sin.", as our mayor would say. Don't you agree? Welcome to Boring, a small town located somewhere on this tiny planet that's hurtling across the universe at unfathomable speeds. Wipe your shoes on the welcome mat, sit back, and don't touch anything- and more importantly: don't ask questions.
OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
Thoughts of A Plaything
It can be hard to enjoy life when you're like me. The entire world takes one look at me and insists I should be kept in a bubble, for safekeeping. All because I am small. All because I am delicate. All because for my entire life, I have been easily hurt.
So to preserve me, I am barred from experiencing life...both the good, and the bad. People, in their infinite wisdom, believe it would be better for me to feel nothing if it meant I would be protected. Funny, they can't seem to understand that I'd rather feel nothing but pain rather than nothing at all. I can't understand why, either.
But even amongst the pitiful smiles flashed by strangers, I can still find a way to feel something. The dull tinge of apathy can be washed away, even if it's not for long. There is a temporary escape from the void.
My nails dig into the mattress as I clutch the bedsheets. Hands. Hands larger and rougher than my own hold onto my waist. There is a pressure on my body as they move to caress my stomach, which rises and falls as I breathe. I am okay with this because here, I am alive.
Hands. They may be bigger than my own, but they are gentle. Light touches against my skin as my body is examined. Fleeting. I can't help but break. All I want is to escape the void. Treat me like I am made of blood and guts and not paper. Like you, I am a construct of flesh. Act like it. I can't say it, but I think the words clearly as a soft noise escapes me.
I say no words, but I am understood. A soft breath exits my pink lips, nothing but a faint whine. But to him, the undertones of desperation are heard. He can hear the plea looping in my mind. My desperation for more. More feeling. More attention. More something...
Indulgence. That is all this is. Indulgence in the primal urges that make us all so painfully human. I am human, too. He knows that now. My prayers are answered when he grabs my wrists, hard. I don't care if it leaves red marks against my porcelain skin. I'll wear them with pride. Hues of pink, purple, and blue that break against the whiteness of my body. White, the color of purity, stained by the marks of sinful acts.
It hurts a bit. I am small, I know this, I've accepted it. Still, pain is better than nothing at all. The twinge of my wrists being pressed against the sheets by his weight...it mixes beautifully with the euphoria of the moment. This pain in my hands feels nothing like the deadening weight of the chains used to hold me down. As I am lost, drowning in a sea of ecstasy, my shackles are gone.
The world loves irony. It loves to laugh at the coincidences it births into existence- like my life. I am still waiting for the punchline of this cruel joke that is partially of my own making. I probably shouldn't have named myself after an object if my deepest desire is to be treated like a fellow human being.
I may be the colors of a saint- or a ghost, depending on how you look at it. I may be named after a child's plaything, but...I am very much human. I make mistakes like one and I have desires like one. Undeniable proof that I am very much alive. I have never felt so alive in all of my sheltered years than I do now, consumed by both pleasure and pain. It is intense. It makes my body shake and my voice wavers. It is all of the feelings I was deprived of being administered to me all at once. Again, I can't help myself. There are no still no words as I exhale, mewling into his ear.
These are not cries of pain, or protest, or desperation. When I am truly hurt, I don't make noise. I don't let them know they've broken me. So I whimper, nestling into his body. It's warm. I feel so warm when I'm not alone. The voice of the void is cold and empty, and it whispers into my ear like I whine into his… But for now, I am deaf. I cannot hear its call. All I hear is myself, and his breath against me.
I know I will ache when morning comes, but that does not stop me- or him. My head spins from the sensations coursing through my being. With each heartbeat, I tense, tugging at the blanket and arching my back. It is all so much to experience… The line between pleasure and pain was blurred long ago. My eyes water. I shut them. I may be spread open for him to see, touch, and use. I am vulnerable and pinned, but I will not share the intimacy of shedding tears with him, or anybody else. I refuse to be a crybaby.
I learned to never show weakness. Those like me who flaunt their fragility in a parade of warm tears die. Deep down, this world is survival of the fittest, even if the weak are treated with pity. I am by no means the physically strongest, but I will not let my death be a product of Darwinism. Here, splayed in bed, I have a purpose. I am spared from the steely fangs of natural selection, because I play a role in my ecosystem- and I can fight for it.
I suck in a breath, my chest shaking, and my eyes flutter open. I can move my hands again. One by one, I tap my fingertips against my thumb. My wrists ache as I move my digits, but I can move them freely now. There is no pressure holding me still anymore. Why? He had stopped. I was looking into his eyes. I am sure mine were wide, people always said I had big eyes. Glossy pools of grayish-blue. Pale, like the rest of me.
He had stopped. I was slipping back into the void. The more he pulled away, the deeper I fell into the vast pit of nothingness. I was alone, like I always was. Maybe I am foolish. Foolish for believing that any of them would actually stay afterwards. It was childish, but I hoped so. Maybe eventually, there would be a day when somebody would stay behind to help clear up the mess I made of my life. Please?
Thoughts of Buck Anderlow
I am absolutely terrified of you. I can barely touch you without getting scared. Your hand barely fits into mine. Holding you close feels almost unnatural. Your body is so small compared to mine... When we talk, I have to look down. To kiss, I have to gently tilt your chin up with my hand.
Even now, reaching for your face so that we can touch lips is making me nervous. You're the confident one here, though. I can tell. There is no fear in your eyes or hesitation in your movements. You are in your element.
I didn't notice at first, but your nimble little hands were unbuttoning my shirt. So dexterous. Have you done this that many times? You have petite hands- everything about you is petite. We are so incredibly different. My hands are large and weathered, sometimes even a bit clumsy. You don't notice, though. That's because I'm doing everything I can to make sure they don't slip out of place.
Do you always wear shirts too big for you? Or is it that hard to find anything in the right size? I am being very careful with my big hands, undressing you as if I was handling a porcelain doll. You look like one, with those round eyes and long white hair.
I don't know why seeing the pale skin that hides beneath your clothes surprises me so much. What did I expect? It's exactly the same as it is on your face and arms, and yet… You are so beautiful. I could stare at your milky complexion for hours. It's as soft as it looks, too.
Am I in love? Or is this just a new fetish? I can't tear my eyes off of you, and I can't keep my hands to myself. They travel across your chest and torso, lower and lower… You don't seem to mind. You encourage it, actually. I pull more fabric away from your figure, and I hold your features with my weathered hands. Gorgeous thing.
You turn pink! The color suits you. The more I drag my fingers across your body, relishing the soft friction of your skin against mine, the more color blossoms on your face. Pink, almost red. The color of passion spreading across your cheeks. I want to see how red I can turn that snow-white skin. Do you like this as much as I do? I hope so.
I'm sure you do. In fact, you beg for more. Is this a good idea? My clumsy hands are wrapped around your dainty wrists. I could snap them if I wasn't careful. I promise I'll do everything I can to be cautious. You vocalize again but don't speak. It's an assurance that I'm doing the right thing. Your whines are a pleasant melody. Music. Soft, but crescendoing. Even so, are you sure I'm not hurting you?
Your head is tilted back. When your breath shudders, your entire body trembles a bit. I can feel it. You are so...weak! Melting at the feelings I'm bestowing upon you. I have to hold your wrists still to keep you in place, and yet it only takes a fraction of my strength to do so. Even so, even with my weight against you, you refuse to falter. I think that's brave…and maybe a little stupid.
I feel it, too. Pleasure. It makes you pant and squirm beneath me. Your delicate body's reactions to it are both endearing and worrying. Are you being dramatic, or am I hurting you? I can't always tell, I've never had to read somebody so small before. You aren't unbelievably short, but accompanied with your fragile build. You seem so much smaller than you are. I'd try to be more gentle, but that only seems to vex you.
Are you an angel? Is it a sin to sleep with an angel? It doesn't matter, does it? This is already a sin, and you've done it before, countless times. I'm lying with you when I don't even think you know my name… I would like it if you did, but telling you might be inappropriate. I know how this works. Preferably, we will never see each other after tonight. Preferably for you, but not for me.
I want to get to know you- not just your body. I want to know what makes you laugh. I only heard it briefly before undressing you, but it's just as addicting as when you whimper into my ear. You are so close to me right now, and you only get closer by nestling into me. Still, I feel like I know nothing about you! But I can't ask now, I'm not even sure if I can talk. I think if you tried, you'd barely be able to get a word out. I don't blame you, you're trembling so much.
Even if it feels awkward and unnatural at times, I'll miss it when your hand isn't in mine. I swear I'll do everything I can to make sure you are safe. I want you to be mine. God, I can't get you out of my head! Your smile. Your sweet scent. I could get drunk off of you if you'd let me... I think this is love.
I am still terrified of you. How do I tell you all of this? How do I tell you that these few hours have been the best in my life in years? Would you believe me if I said "I love you" right now? I mean it, I promise- I… Would you even love me back?
Thoughts of Pascal Harper
You look at me as if I'm the pervert here. I'm almost insulted. I may be a prostitute, but I keep that tucked away. Hidden behind closed doors. You're the one that came looking for it. You're the one who asked. Who's the real solicitor here?
You should really blink more, it's unnerving. The fact that you won't stop staring at me like I'm a prize makes my nose wrinkle- but you can't see that, can you? You're blinded by my white skin. Stuck in a trance to bore your eyes into me like I'm a piece of meat...and you're a starved wolf.
I'm astounded that I ever enjoyed this. How could I have basked confidently in your gaze when you look at me like that? You're starving, I can see that oh so clearly. I'm pretty sure there's drool pooling in your mouth. You're not the only man who salivates in my presence, and you weren't the first… I doubt you'll be the last.
I throw myself to the lions willingly. Somebody needs to feed them, eventually. That's my job. And I'm getting tired of it. I am sick of having my flesh stripped from my bones, metaphorically. The only thing actually being stripped is my clothing- and you're the one doing it. But what's the difference? Either way, I'm being pulled apart and made vulnerable.
And for what? Money? I'm always a bit short on that… You know that. That's why you seized your chance the moment it revealed itself. I couldn't say no to that wad of cash, and you in extension, so here we are. Enjoy it while it lasts, because next time you ask I will gouge your unblinking eyes out with my bare hands.
I hate you so, so much. Be more gentle, you're going to bruise my wrists. I am not a toy, I can get hurt. There's no point in telling you this because you don't listen. You have never listened. I am convinced your brain rotted away years ago, or maybe you were born without one. Oh, to be stupid. If ignorance is bliss, your life must be incredibly happy.
I am miserable because I am smarter than you, and also you're rusty. I know this sounds egocentric, but I'm right. I think over the past few years I have matured more. It was a strange process, but I understand now that I deserve respect- and I need to respect myself. Clearly, you will never see me as anything more than a trophy. The epitome of your desires. I'm your fetish.
You have not and most likely will not ever respect me, so why am I here? Lying with you is an insult to myself. Money. It's all for the money. I will take immense satisfaction in the fact that I was able to nearly triple my prices for you. It's the small victories. I will bleed you dry, just like how you drink my blood when you rip me apart (figuratively). This is a metaphor for something.
I honestly can't tell who's who in this game of cat and mouse. Who has really won? On one hand, I caved… I am willingly letting you hurt me. On the other, well, there's not much. There's the fact that you will never be able to do this again, but I don't think that's enough. Dammit! I'm not as crafty as you because I don't have some innate desire to want to emotionally harm people. Oh, you can deny it all you want, but I know you feel euphoria when somebody is under your thumb. You disgust me.
That's what's on the other hand. I can deny that feeling to you because I am not yours. I am not your plaything anymore- and even here, I can have some semblance of control. Just enough to remind you that I am not your bitch. You can cry your fake little tears and whine about how you miss me. I don't care about your feelings anymore, you know? You hold no power over me because you are worth less than trash in my eyes, and I hope you burn. Consider this a parting gift.
It can be hard to enjoy life when you're like me. The entire world takes one look at me and insists I should be kept in a bubble, for safekeeping. All because I am small. All because I am delicate. All because for my entire life, I have been easily hurt.
So to preserve me, I am barred from experiencing life...both the good, and the bad. People, in their infinite wisdom, believe it would be better for me to feel nothing if it meant I would be protected. Funny, they can't seem to understand that I'd rather feel nothing but pain rather than nothing at all. I can't understand why, either.
But even amongst the pitiful smiles flashed by strangers, I can still find a way to feel something. The dull tinge of apathy can be washed away, even if it's not for long. There is a temporary escape from the void.
My nails dig into the mattress as I clutch the bedsheets. Hands. Hands larger and rougher than my own hold onto my waist. There is a pressure on my body as they move to caress my stomach, which rises and falls as I breathe. I am okay with this because here, I am alive.
Hands. They may be bigger than my own, but they are gentle. Light touches against my skin as my body is examined. Fleeting. I can't help but break. All I want is to escape the void. Treat me like I am made of blood and guts and not paper. Like you, I am a construct of flesh. Act like it. I can't say it, but I think the words clearly as a soft noise escapes me.
I say no words, but I am understood. A soft breath exits my pink lips, nothing but a faint whine. But to him, the undertones of desperation are heard. He can hear the plea looping in my mind. My desperation for more. More feeling. More attention. More something...
Indulgence. That is all this is. Indulgence in the primal urges that make us all so painfully human. I am human, too. He knows that now. My prayers are answered when he grabs my wrists, hard. I don't care if it leaves red marks against my porcelain skin. I'll wear them with pride. Hues of pink, purple, and blue that break against the whiteness of my body. White, the color of purity, stained by the marks of sinful acts.
It hurts a bit. I am small, I know this, I've accepted it. Still, pain is better than nothing at all. The twinge of my wrists being pressed against the sheets by his weight...it mixes beautifully with the euphoria of the moment. This pain in my hands feels nothing like the deadening weight of the chains used to hold me down. As I am lost, drowning in a sea of ecstasy, my shackles are gone.
The world loves irony. It loves to laugh at the coincidences it births into existence- like my life. I am still waiting for the punchline of this cruel joke that is partially of my own making. I probably shouldn't have named myself after an object if my deepest desire is to be treated like a fellow human being.
I may be the colors of a saint- or a ghost, depending on how you look at it. I may be named after a child's plaything, but...I am very much human. I make mistakes like one and I have desires like one. Undeniable proof that I am very much alive. I have never felt so alive in all of my sheltered years than I do now, consumed by both pleasure and pain. It is intense. It makes my body shake and my voice wavers. It is all of the feelings I was deprived of being administered to me all at once. Again, I can't help myself. There are no still no words as I exhale, mewling into his ear.
These are not cries of pain, or protest, or desperation. When I am truly hurt, I don't make noise. I don't let them know they've broken me. So I whimper, nestling into his body. It's warm. I feel so warm when I'm not alone. The voice of the void is cold and empty, and it whispers into my ear like I whine into his… But for now, I am deaf. I cannot hear its call. All I hear is myself, and his breath against me.
I know I will ache when morning comes, but that does not stop me- or him. My head spins from the sensations coursing through my being. With each heartbeat, I tense, tugging at the blanket and arching my back. It is all so much to experience… The line between pleasure and pain was blurred long ago. My eyes water. I shut them. I may be spread open for him to see, touch, and use. I am vulnerable and pinned, but I will not share the intimacy of shedding tears with him, or anybody else. I refuse to be a crybaby.
I learned to never show weakness. Those like me who flaunt their fragility in a parade of warm tears die. Deep down, this world is survival of the fittest, even if the weak are treated with pity. I am by no means the physically strongest, but I will not let my death be a product of Darwinism. Here, splayed in bed, I have a purpose. I am spared from the steely fangs of natural selection, because I play a role in my ecosystem- and I can fight for it.
I suck in a breath, my chest shaking, and my eyes flutter open. I can move my hands again. One by one, I tap my fingertips against my thumb. My wrists ache as I move my digits, but I can move them freely now. There is no pressure holding me still anymore. Why? He had stopped. I was looking into his eyes. I am sure mine were wide, people always said I had big eyes. Glossy pools of grayish-blue. Pale, like the rest of me.
He had stopped. I was slipping back into the void. The more he pulled away, the deeper I fell into the vast pit of nothingness. I was alone, like I always was. Maybe I am foolish. Foolish for believing that any of them would actually stay afterwards. It was childish, but I hoped so. Maybe eventually, there would be a day when somebody would stay behind to help clear up the mess I made of my life. Please?
Thoughts of Buck Anderlow
I am absolutely terrified of you. I can barely touch you without getting scared. Your hand barely fits into mine. Holding you close feels almost unnatural. Your body is so small compared to mine... When we talk, I have to look down. To kiss, I have to gently tilt your chin up with my hand.
Even now, reaching for your face so that we can touch lips is making me nervous. You're the confident one here, though. I can tell. There is no fear in your eyes or hesitation in your movements. You are in your element.
I didn't notice at first, but your nimble little hands were unbuttoning my shirt. So dexterous. Have you done this that many times? You have petite hands- everything about you is petite. We are so incredibly different. My hands are large and weathered, sometimes even a bit clumsy. You don't notice, though. That's because I'm doing everything I can to make sure they don't slip out of place.
Do you always wear shirts too big for you? Or is it that hard to find anything in the right size? I am being very careful with my big hands, undressing you as if I was handling a porcelain doll. You look like one, with those round eyes and long white hair.
I don't know why seeing the pale skin that hides beneath your clothes surprises me so much. What did I expect? It's exactly the same as it is on your face and arms, and yet… You are so beautiful. I could stare at your milky complexion for hours. It's as soft as it looks, too.
Am I in love? Or is this just a new fetish? I can't tear my eyes off of you, and I can't keep my hands to myself. They travel across your chest and torso, lower and lower… You don't seem to mind. You encourage it, actually. I pull more fabric away from your figure, and I hold your features with my weathered hands. Gorgeous thing.
You turn pink! The color suits you. The more I drag my fingers across your body, relishing the soft friction of your skin against mine, the more color blossoms on your face. Pink, almost red. The color of passion spreading across your cheeks. I want to see how red I can turn that snow-white skin. Do you like this as much as I do? I hope so.
I'm sure you do. In fact, you beg for more. Is this a good idea? My clumsy hands are wrapped around your dainty wrists. I could snap them if I wasn't careful. I promise I'll do everything I can to be cautious. You vocalize again but don't speak. It's an assurance that I'm doing the right thing. Your whines are a pleasant melody. Music. Soft, but crescendoing. Even so, are you sure I'm not hurting you?
Your head is tilted back. When your breath shudders, your entire body trembles a bit. I can feel it. You are so...weak! Melting at the feelings I'm bestowing upon you. I have to hold your wrists still to keep you in place, and yet it only takes a fraction of my strength to do so. Even so, even with my weight against you, you refuse to falter. I think that's brave…and maybe a little stupid.
I feel it, too. Pleasure. It makes you pant and squirm beneath me. Your delicate body's reactions to it are both endearing and worrying. Are you being dramatic, or am I hurting you? I can't always tell, I've never had to read somebody so small before. You aren't unbelievably short, but accompanied with your fragile build. You seem so much smaller than you are. I'd try to be more gentle, but that only seems to vex you.
Are you an angel? Is it a sin to sleep with an angel? It doesn't matter, does it? This is already a sin, and you've done it before, countless times. I'm lying with you when I don't even think you know my name… I would like it if you did, but telling you might be inappropriate. I know how this works. Preferably, we will never see each other after tonight. Preferably for you, but not for me.
I want to get to know you- not just your body. I want to know what makes you laugh. I only heard it briefly before undressing you, but it's just as addicting as when you whimper into my ear. You are so close to me right now, and you only get closer by nestling into me. Still, I feel like I know nothing about you! But I can't ask now, I'm not even sure if I can talk. I think if you tried, you'd barely be able to get a word out. I don't blame you, you're trembling so much.
Even if it feels awkward and unnatural at times, I'll miss it when your hand isn't in mine. I swear I'll do everything I can to make sure you are safe. I want you to be mine. God, I can't get you out of my head! Your smile. Your sweet scent. I could get drunk off of you if you'd let me... I think this is love.
I am still terrified of you. How do I tell you all of this? How do I tell you that these few hours have been the best in my life in years? Would you believe me if I said "I love you" right now? I mean it, I promise- I… Would you even love me back?
Thoughts of Pascal Harper
You look at me as if I'm the pervert here. I'm almost insulted. I may be a prostitute, but I keep that tucked away. Hidden behind closed doors. You're the one that came looking for it. You're the one who asked. Who's the real solicitor here?
You should really blink more, it's unnerving. The fact that you won't stop staring at me like I'm a prize makes my nose wrinkle- but you can't see that, can you? You're blinded by my white skin. Stuck in a trance to bore your eyes into me like I'm a piece of meat...and you're a starved wolf.
I'm astounded that I ever enjoyed this. How could I have basked confidently in your gaze when you look at me like that? You're starving, I can see that oh so clearly. I'm pretty sure there's drool pooling in your mouth. You're not the only man who salivates in my presence, and you weren't the first… I doubt you'll be the last.
I throw myself to the lions willingly. Somebody needs to feed them, eventually. That's my job. And I'm getting tired of it. I am sick of having my flesh stripped from my bones, metaphorically. The only thing actually being stripped is my clothing- and you're the one doing it. But what's the difference? Either way, I'm being pulled apart and made vulnerable.
And for what? Money? I'm always a bit short on that… You know that. That's why you seized your chance the moment it revealed itself. I couldn't say no to that wad of cash, and you in extension, so here we are. Enjoy it while it lasts, because next time you ask I will gouge your unblinking eyes out with my bare hands.
I hate you so, so much. Be more gentle, you're going to bruise my wrists. I am not a toy, I can get hurt. There's no point in telling you this because you don't listen. You have never listened. I am convinced your brain rotted away years ago, or maybe you were born without one. Oh, to be stupid. If ignorance is bliss, your life must be incredibly happy.
I am miserable because I am smarter than you, and also you're rusty. I know this sounds egocentric, but I'm right. I think over the past few years I have matured more. It was a strange process, but I understand now that I deserve respect- and I need to respect myself. Clearly, you will never see me as anything more than a trophy. The epitome of your desires. I'm your fetish.
You have not and most likely will not ever respect me, so why am I here? Lying with you is an insult to myself. Money. It's all for the money. I will take immense satisfaction in the fact that I was able to nearly triple my prices for you. It's the small victories. I will bleed you dry, just like how you drink my blood when you rip me apart (figuratively). This is a metaphor for something.
I honestly can't tell who's who in this game of cat and mouse. Who has really won? On one hand, I caved… I am willingly letting you hurt me. On the other, well, there's not much. There's the fact that you will never be able to do this again, but I don't think that's enough. Dammit! I'm not as crafty as you because I don't have some innate desire to want to emotionally harm people. Oh, you can deny it all you want, but I know you feel euphoria when somebody is under your thumb. You disgust me.
That's what's on the other hand. I can deny that feeling to you because I am not yours. I am not your plaything anymore- and even here, I can have some semblance of control. Just enough to remind you that I am not your bitch. You can cry your fake little tears and whine about how you miss me. I don't care about your feelings anymore, you know? You hold no power over me because you are worth less than trash in my eyes, and I hope you burn. Consider this a parting gift.
OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
I hate math and I wrote this while suffocating in a hot shower
Dr. Viktor Nikola Ivanov
What has my life amounted to? Not much, apparently. I have always dreamt of being a contributor to something, but...all I have ever contributed to were weapons of mass destruction. I am a weapon of mass destruction.
Am I poisonous? If we are technical, yes, I am. There are toxins mixed with the blood flowing through my veins- is it even blood anymore, or just chemicals? Is it even flowing? When I place my hand to my chest, I do not feel a beat. I feel nothing. My blood is stagnant and rotting. And yet I feel absolutely nothing.
You would think decomposing would hurt, but it didn't. I didn't notice. Sixty-four years in frigid water, with my cells turning to nothingness, only to be rebuilt the next day in a perverse manner. Rebuilt, but not the same. Not as God intended. An utter crime against nature, my existence is.
I cannot exactly remember what it was like in the depths of that lake, most likely because half of the time pieces of my brain were seeping out of the cracks in my skull. I did not have the ability to remain lucid most of the time. I was, for a time, fish food. But there were no fishes in that lake. Everything there was dead, including me...if only partially.
Exponential growth. Exponential growth will surpass any linear decay in terms of speed, given enough time. If you draw a negative linear function and a positive exponential function on a graph, eventually, they will intersect. In algebraic terms, this is the "solution". The answer to where both of the functions are satisfied. At some point in time, they are temporarily equal to each other.
There is a negative, linear equation on that graph that represents the rate of decay. The decay of my body. The positive, exponential function is my affliction. The one that stitches my cells back together after they have ceased. At first, it barely did anything. It was slow, unnoticed. It fed on the radioactivity of its surroundings, leeching it out of the water, and eventually becoming so potent that it fed itself. The rate of decay stayed the same, but the rate of its growth only expanded. They intersected briefly, and then the balance was broken.
Even so, my body continues to decay, if only to be replaced quicker and quicker… but eventually, both functions will meet infinity. I wonder if I will meet infinity, an abstract concept. I cannot die because I am already dead. My body is attempting to do as nature intended, but this man-made manifestation of pure willpower is keeping me alive
The Devouring (Unfinished)
6:00 PM
I just shot something that was running through the field. It was hidden behind two grazing sheep. That midnight black coat of fur gave it away… It stuck out like a piece of the void in the pasture. I aimed. I fired. I hit.
The body tumbled through the dust and settled by a hickory stump.
6:02 PM
I have to trudge across the entire field to get to the carcass. I have no idea what I’m looking at. It looks back at me with bright red eyes. What are you, strange creature? Fangs, claws, tail- bushy, black fur. Coyotes don’t have black fur.
It looks back at me with bright red eyes. It’s staring at me. It’s dead. Why do you look at me like that? With that crooked jaw hanging wide open, I see a maw lined with too many teeth- I see a forked tongue lolling out and poking the dirt.
It looks back at me with bright red eyes! It blinks? My heart skips a beat and I unsheath my hunting knife. I pick it up by the scruff of the neck. No bigger than a pup. The head falls limply to the side and hangs at an awkward angle.
“You’re dead.”
And yet it looks back at me...with bright red eyes.
6:05 PM
The bullet went clean through the chest cavity. At first, I thought there was no blood, but the puddle of inky black liquid pooling on the ground told me otherwise. It is so dark I can hardly tell it apart from the body.
There's blood on my hands now. It reminds me of crude oil, and yet...I can't stop salivating. Why- why am I so hungry? My grip on the knife loosens. It hits the ground with a soft thud.
6:07 PM
I learned how to skin game when I was very young. My father would take me for hunting trips on days he wasn't busy and taught me many things. I have a refined technique from years of experience- I take pride in my work.
Which is why I'm not sure why I'm digging my fingers into the bullet hole, desperately trying to peel the skin and fur off. It resists. I pull. I tug. It relents. This is all very sloppy. The pelt is ruined and my shirt is stained, but I don't care.
There is a hole in its chest now, large enough to fit most of my hand. With its head hanging upside down it almost appears to be grinning... Is this what you want? No, this is about me. This is what I want! There is something hidden in your chest and I NEED IT.
I can hear its muffled beating in my ear. Pulsating. Oozing. Confined behind prison bars of bone and a wall of flesh. My nails dig into muscle and my stomach feels more hollow than ever. I can't grab it. My hand is too slick with blood.
6:08 PM
Snap. There's a hollow crunch as the rib my fingers were wrapped around gave way and broke apart. Another snap. Another bone broken. I can now fit my hand into the ribcage. It's still warm. The pads of my fingers rub against slick flesh. Organs and muscles. Where is it?
I feel it in my palm. A heart. It doesn't beat, but I swear I can hear it in my ears. Thundering. Drumming. It doesn't beat, but it clicks. Not literally. It clicks to me that this is what I've been looking for. My fingers wrap around the heart of the beast, and my free hand digs into its fur.
Dr. Viktor Nikola Ivanov
What has my life amounted to? Not much, apparently. I have always dreamt of being a contributor to something, but...all I have ever contributed to were weapons of mass destruction. I am a weapon of mass destruction.
Am I poisonous? If we are technical, yes, I am. There are toxins mixed with the blood flowing through my veins- is it even blood anymore, or just chemicals? Is it even flowing? When I place my hand to my chest, I do not feel a beat. I feel nothing. My blood is stagnant and rotting. And yet I feel absolutely nothing.
You would think decomposing would hurt, but it didn't. I didn't notice. Sixty-four years in frigid water, with my cells turning to nothingness, only to be rebuilt the next day in a perverse manner. Rebuilt, but not the same. Not as God intended. An utter crime against nature, my existence is.
I cannot exactly remember what it was like in the depths of that lake, most likely because half of the time pieces of my brain were seeping out of the cracks in my skull. I did not have the ability to remain lucid most of the time. I was, for a time, fish food. But there were no fishes in that lake. Everything there was dead, including me...if only partially.
Exponential growth. Exponential growth will surpass any linear decay in terms of speed, given enough time. If you draw a negative linear function and a positive exponential function on a graph, eventually, they will intersect. In algebraic terms, this is the "solution". The answer to where both of the functions are satisfied. At some point in time, they are temporarily equal to each other.
There is a negative, linear equation on that graph that represents the rate of decay. The decay of my body. The positive, exponential function is my affliction. The one that stitches my cells back together after they have ceased. At first, it barely did anything. It was slow, unnoticed. It fed on the radioactivity of its surroundings, leeching it out of the water, and eventually becoming so potent that it fed itself. The rate of decay stayed the same, but the rate of its growth only expanded. They intersected briefly, and then the balance was broken.
Even so, my body continues to decay, if only to be replaced quicker and quicker… but eventually, both functions will meet infinity. I wonder if I will meet infinity, an abstract concept. I cannot die because I am already dead. My body is attempting to do as nature intended, but this man-made manifestation of pure willpower is keeping me alive
The Devouring (Unfinished)
6:00 PM
I just shot something that was running through the field. It was hidden behind two grazing sheep. That midnight black coat of fur gave it away… It stuck out like a piece of the void in the pasture. I aimed. I fired. I hit.
The body tumbled through the dust and settled by a hickory stump.
6:02 PM
I have to trudge across the entire field to get to the carcass. I have no idea what I’m looking at. It looks back at me with bright red eyes. What are you, strange creature? Fangs, claws, tail- bushy, black fur. Coyotes don’t have black fur.
It looks back at me with bright red eyes. It’s staring at me. It’s dead. Why do you look at me like that? With that crooked jaw hanging wide open, I see a maw lined with too many teeth- I see a forked tongue lolling out and poking the dirt.
It looks back at me with bright red eyes! It blinks? My heart skips a beat and I unsheath my hunting knife. I pick it up by the scruff of the neck. No bigger than a pup. The head falls limply to the side and hangs at an awkward angle.
“You’re dead.”
And yet it looks back at me...with bright red eyes.
6:05 PM
The bullet went clean through the chest cavity. At first, I thought there was no blood, but the puddle of inky black liquid pooling on the ground told me otherwise. It is so dark I can hardly tell it apart from the body.
There's blood on my hands now. It reminds me of crude oil, and yet...I can't stop salivating. Why- why am I so hungry? My grip on the knife loosens. It hits the ground with a soft thud.
6:07 PM
I learned how to skin game when I was very young. My father would take me for hunting trips on days he wasn't busy and taught me many things. I have a refined technique from years of experience- I take pride in my work.
Which is why I'm not sure why I'm digging my fingers into the bullet hole, desperately trying to peel the skin and fur off. It resists. I pull. I tug. It relents. This is all very sloppy. The pelt is ruined and my shirt is stained, but I don't care.
There is a hole in its chest now, large enough to fit most of my hand. With its head hanging upside down it almost appears to be grinning... Is this what you want? No, this is about me. This is what I want! There is something hidden in your chest and I NEED IT.
I can hear its muffled beating in my ear. Pulsating. Oozing. Confined behind prison bars of bone and a wall of flesh. My nails dig into muscle and my stomach feels more hollow than ever. I can't grab it. My hand is too slick with blood.
6:08 PM
Snap. There's a hollow crunch as the rib my fingers were wrapped around gave way and broke apart. Another snap. Another bone broken. I can now fit my hand into the ribcage. It's still warm. The pads of my fingers rub against slick flesh. Organs and muscles. Where is it?
I feel it in my palm. A heart. It doesn't beat, but I swear I can hear it in my ears. Thundering. Drumming. It doesn't beat, but it clicks. Not literally. It clicks to me that this is what I've been looking for. My fingers wrap around the heart of the beast, and my free hand digs into its fur.
OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
Dear Auburn,
I hope this letter finds you with nothing but ill tidings and dismay. I am writing to you to tell you that Demon Eyes has returned, and I have no intent on making him leave. He has bound himself to me like a tumor. I am him as he is me. We are one and the same. But you? You are nothing but a few wisps of smoke, and for that I am sure you hate me. Be mindful, Auburn, the patron saints can look through your soulless windows. Your hatred towards me does nothing but prove that you are alone, sad, and disgraceful. You will die a painful, forgettable death. It will not be in vain, though. One day I will feast on your flesh. Maybe then, in a perverted sense, you and I will finally see eye-to-eye. We can become one.
Regards,
Perfidious
DEAR AUBURN,
I CANNOT SEE ANYMORE. THE RITUAL WAS A MISTAKE. MY EYES BLEED TEARS OF SHAME AND REGRET. PLEASE REMEMBER THAT I LOVE YOU. I WISH NOTHING BUT THE RETURN OF HELL ON EARTH FROM THE BOOK OF REVELATIONS, SO THAT MAYBE ONE DAY WE CAN FINALLY SPEAK AGAIN. FACES TO FACE. I MAY BE BLIND, BUT I STILL LONG FOR YOUR SCENT, YOUR TOUCH, AND YOUR BLOOD.
REGARDS,
THE AMALGAMATION
Dear Auburn,
Why did you kill the birds? They did nothing but chirp and hop along the stone walkways. I know how you hate music, though. Was it their song, did it lambaste you the way she did? Did you even care when you snapped their hollow bones? Since this has become an interrogation, I would like to ask you a very important question: why do you think the crucifix over your bed and the gun under your pillow will save you? Nothing can save your wretched soul. You will never reach redemption or safety, and for that I cannot pity you. You do not feel remorse, do you? I don't blame you. When I stand over your bed tonight, I fully expect you to gaze into my eyes and pull the trigger. That is alright. I can't die. I will return to the garden and tend to the plants, and the birds you murdered. I will feed them bits of my brain matter so that they finally understand. I wonder...I wonder if you remember how I fed you. I gave you everything, and you've forsaken me. This is far from over.
Regards,
The Prophet
Dear Auburn
The ground is very cold. And heavy. I still can't get the taste of dirt out of my mouth. This is all of your fault. Why, Auburn, why? You said you loved me. I trusted you to keep me safe and sacred, and this is what I get? You buried me after that treacherous night. Beneath a beautiful willow tree. Its roots did nothing but strangle me while I was beneath the earth. I am so tired of choking on nothing. With each bandage I wrap around my neck I curse your name. Fuck you, Auburn. You are an unlovable bastard. Where I used to yearn for your touch I only feel emptiness. There is a void in me, in every single spot of flesh you've brushed upon with those hands. I hate it. I hate you and I loathe this prison of muscle and bone. Finish the job next time! Don't leave me like this when you come back. I know you will. You're like a disease, always returning in the right season. All I can say to that is bring your best. Give it your all. So that maybe when you die, there will be nothing left. Or maybe existence will become as residual as I am. I don't care.
Regards,
Seraph
Dear Auburn
I can only be ignored for so long.
Regards,
Demon Eyes
Dear Auburn,
My name is unimportant, but what I am going to say bears more weight than the corpses you've dragged alongside yourself for all these years. Don't do it! Do not go back! Or else you will doom us all. I won't deny that you are a fool, always have been- especially after what you did to that poor girl. However, I know you are not completely stupid. There is something, if not much in your head of yours. Stay safe, Auburn, for this is the only way. Do not let them win this game of torment. You've already proven yourself as the champion, anyway. Be careful. Do not speak back to the voice in the well. That is all I have left to say.
Regards,
Nobody.
Dear Auburn,
Rabbit's blood? Is that all you've got? No bit of magic will be able to save you from the wrath I will rain upon you once you show your traitorous face again. And I know you will. So, for now, I lay in poise. I am coiled like a snake and just as eager to strike with my fangs. How dare you! How dare you or any of your kind so much as BREATHE in the direction of my daughter. You are sick! You are a sick, vile creature! Is this a game to you? Is this entertaining? Well, I am going to make tearing apart every fiber of your being a very fun game for ME. Mark my words, Auburn, son of the saint and heir to the throne, I will kill you ten thousand times over. In the name of my daughter, in the name of my Seraphim.
Regards,
The All Father
I hope this letter finds you with nothing but ill tidings and dismay. I am writing to you to tell you that Demon Eyes has returned, and I have no intent on making him leave. He has bound himself to me like a tumor. I am him as he is me. We are one and the same. But you? You are nothing but a few wisps of smoke, and for that I am sure you hate me. Be mindful, Auburn, the patron saints can look through your soulless windows. Your hatred towards me does nothing but prove that you are alone, sad, and disgraceful. You will die a painful, forgettable death. It will not be in vain, though. One day I will feast on your flesh. Maybe then, in a perverted sense, you and I will finally see eye-to-eye. We can become one.
Regards,
Perfidious
DEAR AUBURN,
I CANNOT SEE ANYMORE. THE RITUAL WAS A MISTAKE. MY EYES BLEED TEARS OF SHAME AND REGRET. PLEASE REMEMBER THAT I LOVE YOU. I WISH NOTHING BUT THE RETURN OF HELL ON EARTH FROM THE BOOK OF REVELATIONS, SO THAT MAYBE ONE DAY WE CAN FINALLY SPEAK AGAIN. FACES TO FACE. I MAY BE BLIND, BUT I STILL LONG FOR YOUR SCENT, YOUR TOUCH, AND YOUR BLOOD.
REGARDS,
THE AMALGAMATION
Dear Auburn,
Why did you kill the birds? They did nothing but chirp and hop along the stone walkways. I know how you hate music, though. Was it their song, did it lambaste you the way she did? Did you even care when you snapped their hollow bones? Since this has become an interrogation, I would like to ask you a very important question: why do you think the crucifix over your bed and the gun under your pillow will save you? Nothing can save your wretched soul. You will never reach redemption or safety, and for that I cannot pity you. You do not feel remorse, do you? I don't blame you. When I stand over your bed tonight, I fully expect you to gaze into my eyes and pull the trigger. That is alright. I can't die. I will return to the garden and tend to the plants, and the birds you murdered. I will feed them bits of my brain matter so that they finally understand. I wonder...I wonder if you remember how I fed you. I gave you everything, and you've forsaken me. This is far from over.
Regards,
The Prophet
Dear Auburn
The ground is very cold. And heavy. I still can't get the taste of dirt out of my mouth. This is all of your fault. Why, Auburn, why? You said you loved me. I trusted you to keep me safe and sacred, and this is what I get? You buried me after that treacherous night. Beneath a beautiful willow tree. Its roots did nothing but strangle me while I was beneath the earth. I am so tired of choking on nothing. With each bandage I wrap around my neck I curse your name. Fuck you, Auburn. You are an unlovable bastard. Where I used to yearn for your touch I only feel emptiness. There is a void in me, in every single spot of flesh you've brushed upon with those hands. I hate it. I hate you and I loathe this prison of muscle and bone. Finish the job next time! Don't leave me like this when you come back. I know you will. You're like a disease, always returning in the right season. All I can say to that is bring your best. Give it your all. So that maybe when you die, there will be nothing left. Or maybe existence will become as residual as I am. I don't care.
Regards,
Seraph
Dear Auburn
I can only be ignored for so long.
Regards,
Demon Eyes
Dear Auburn,
My name is unimportant, but what I am going to say bears more weight than the corpses you've dragged alongside yourself for all these years. Don't do it! Do not go back! Or else you will doom us all. I won't deny that you are a fool, always have been- especially after what you did to that poor girl. However, I know you are not completely stupid. There is something, if not much in your head of yours. Stay safe, Auburn, for this is the only way. Do not let them win this game of torment. You've already proven yourself as the champion, anyway. Be careful. Do not speak back to the voice in the well. That is all I have left to say.
Regards,
Nobody.
Dear Auburn,
Rabbit's blood? Is that all you've got? No bit of magic will be able to save you from the wrath I will rain upon you once you show your traitorous face again. And I know you will. So, for now, I lay in poise. I am coiled like a snake and just as eager to strike with my fangs. How dare you! How dare you or any of your kind so much as BREATHE in the direction of my daughter. You are sick! You are a sick, vile creature! Is this a game to you? Is this entertaining? Well, I am going to make tearing apart every fiber of your being a very fun game for ME. Mark my words, Auburn, son of the saint and heir to the throne, I will kill you ten thousand times over. In the name of my daughter, in the name of my Seraphim.
Regards,
The All Father
1x Like
OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
He threw a spoon at the wall. Flung with a fanciful flick of the wrist, it flew.
Shunk. Right into the drywall.
What the fuck was happening anymore? Why was there a spoon in the fucking wall?!
He picked up another, this time tapping into the primal instinct hidden somewhere on his brain. Fight or flight. Life or death. Soar, motherfucker!
It was less of a shunk and more of a thwack and a clang. Two clangs. The first utensil lodged inside of a prison of plaster had been freed. The floor was its home now.
The second reached terminal velocity and simply bounced off, leaving a sizable divot in its wake. That would make 99 holes in the wall. High score?
He was out of metal spoons. He liked metal spoons, but not in a heroin junkie sort of way. They were just nice.
Nice. Just nice. Nice enough. Good to hold, to throw. Just good enough.
Spoons don't have identity issues. They're spoons. Hey, what was his name again?
Oh.
Welcome back, Harley.
He liked the smell of sharpie markers. The aroma was reminiscent of the feeling of having to sneeze. The tense anticipation, the stinging and tingling. The calm before the storm.
His watch said it was 4 pm. Wasn't it just % o'clock not five minutes ago? He needed to check on the jars.
They hung from the ceiling like…things that hang from ceilings. They were growing nicely. He noticed a twitch from inside. Ah, feeding time.
Jars themselves aren't very nutritious or filling, but he liked a snack. He wrenched a fork jabbed into his shoulder and tapped the jar thrice. What a lovely twinkling sound. They were ripe.
Jars needed to be grown in a dark environment with at least three inches of water on the floor. It made his socks perpetually wet
Schlop. Schlorp. Schlap. Wet socks on the hardwood floor.
A vaguely meaty texture. That's what good jars were like. He could grow a pretty good jar, not to brag.
Even after subduing the jar (They liked to scream), his watch still said it was 4 pm. Stupid machine. It was lucky he didn't trade it in for more spoons.
Time broke again. Damn thing needed an infrastructure update- and soon! Where the hell else were his tax dollars going??
He hadn't paid taxes since…since uh… what were taxes? He'd never opened the door. He'd never even left this apartment.
Hey, what was this place?
Home. It smelled of sharpie markers and had holes in the walls. Heaven on Earth.
He can't feel ANYTHING, and it's great. He's having the time of his life on the living room sofa, dying.
Almost. He wasn't dead yet. Just some afternoon bloodletting. It was a soothing activity, if not a little cold.
The carpet would smell of iron for months. Almost as good as sharpie. It made the delivery driver uncomfortable. Was there anything greater to achieve in life other than harassing some poor minimum wage employee? He thought not.
He was banned from most places that delivered, but they still kept coming. Maybe they liked him? He was sure one of them did.
Green eyed demon. Sparkling, twinkling… Pretty eyes that stared into his chest cavity- it was empty, as he removed his soul years ago. But she stared regardless.
Green eyes! Green, the shade of beautiful evil. He'd pluck them out of her skull if she'd let him. Maybe he'd ask when everything was said and done with.
Everybody knows green and red are complementary colors. They go well with each other. That is just the way of things. Those are the rules, and rules are rules.
And that's why he kept bleeding on furniture.
Those were the rules. Any rule that meant he could see green-eyes was a good rule. Yes, this was nice.
Today was colder for him. Maybe too much liquid vitality? Maybe not enough.
If he stood up, the fumes might kill him. Best to way for green-eyes in the meantime…
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock- Wait, he wore a digital watch. Beep beep? Oh, well, it was 14 after. One more minute.
The green-eyed demon didn't speak. He never asked why because he didn't care. He just liked being stared at. It was quality time spent with another. No messy conversing, or having to keep up with formalities.
Hello.
Hi.
I'm dying.
Glad to see.
I love you.
Goodbye.
And that's just how things worked. He wouldn't change it for the world.
So long as he had something to stare at him, things were going to be okay. Didn't matter if everything was on fire. Any attention was good attention, apparently.
And that was just how things worked around here. If they didn't, he'd probably be dead. But that was for him to worry about in some other, fucked-up universe.
Shunk. Right into the drywall.
What the fuck was happening anymore? Why was there a spoon in the fucking wall?!
He picked up another, this time tapping into the primal instinct hidden somewhere on his brain. Fight or flight. Life or death. Soar, motherfucker!
It was less of a shunk and more of a thwack and a clang. Two clangs. The first utensil lodged inside of a prison of plaster had been freed. The floor was its home now.
The second reached terminal velocity and simply bounced off, leaving a sizable divot in its wake. That would make 99 holes in the wall. High score?
He was out of metal spoons. He liked metal spoons, but not in a heroin junkie sort of way. They were just nice.
Nice. Just nice. Nice enough. Good to hold, to throw. Just good enough.
Spoons don't have identity issues. They're spoons. Hey, what was his name again?
Oh.
Welcome back, Harley.
He liked the smell of sharpie markers. The aroma was reminiscent of the feeling of having to sneeze. The tense anticipation, the stinging and tingling. The calm before the storm.
His watch said it was 4 pm. Wasn't it just % o'clock not five minutes ago? He needed to check on the jars.
They hung from the ceiling like…things that hang from ceilings. They were growing nicely. He noticed a twitch from inside. Ah, feeding time.
Jars themselves aren't very nutritious or filling, but he liked a snack. He wrenched a fork jabbed into his shoulder and tapped the jar thrice. What a lovely twinkling sound. They were ripe.
Jars needed to be grown in a dark environment with at least three inches of water on the floor. It made his socks perpetually wet
Schlop. Schlorp. Schlap. Wet socks on the hardwood floor.
A vaguely meaty texture. That's what good jars were like. He could grow a pretty good jar, not to brag.
Even after subduing the jar (They liked to scream), his watch still said it was 4 pm. Stupid machine. It was lucky he didn't trade it in for more spoons.
Time broke again. Damn thing needed an infrastructure update- and soon! Where the hell else were his tax dollars going??
He hadn't paid taxes since…since uh… what were taxes? He'd never opened the door. He'd never even left this apartment.
Hey, what was this place?
Home. It smelled of sharpie markers and had holes in the walls. Heaven on Earth.
He can't feel ANYTHING, and it's great. He's having the time of his life on the living room sofa, dying.
Almost. He wasn't dead yet. Just some afternoon bloodletting. It was a soothing activity, if not a little cold.
The carpet would smell of iron for months. Almost as good as sharpie. It made the delivery driver uncomfortable. Was there anything greater to achieve in life other than harassing some poor minimum wage employee? He thought not.
He was banned from most places that delivered, but they still kept coming. Maybe they liked him? He was sure one of them did.
Green eyed demon. Sparkling, twinkling… Pretty eyes that stared into his chest cavity- it was empty, as he removed his soul years ago. But she stared regardless.
Green eyes! Green, the shade of beautiful evil. He'd pluck them out of her skull if she'd let him. Maybe he'd ask when everything was said and done with.
Everybody knows green and red are complementary colors. They go well with each other. That is just the way of things. Those are the rules, and rules are rules.
And that's why he kept bleeding on furniture.
Those were the rules. Any rule that meant he could see green-eyes was a good rule. Yes, this was nice.
Today was colder for him. Maybe too much liquid vitality? Maybe not enough.
If he stood up, the fumes might kill him. Best to way for green-eyes in the meantime…
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock- Wait, he wore a digital watch. Beep beep? Oh, well, it was 14 after. One more minute.
The green-eyed demon didn't speak. He never asked why because he didn't care. He just liked being stared at. It was quality time spent with another. No messy conversing, or having to keep up with formalities.
Hello.
Hi.
I'm dying.
Glad to see.
I love you.
Goodbye.
And that's just how things worked. He wouldn't change it for the world.
So long as he had something to stare at him, things were going to be okay. Didn't matter if everything was on fire. Any attention was good attention, apparently.
And that was just how things worked around here. If they didn't, he'd probably be dead. But that was for him to worry about in some other, fucked-up universe.
OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
A Letter Written by a Porcelain Doll Has Been Slipped Under Your Door
It’s my first night home in over a year.
There’s a boy asleep in my bed.
He’s kinda weird, but I owe him my life.
He said he needed me for something,
But I didn’t really understand what…
So I hugged him and told him to go sleep.
And now there’s a boy asleep in my bed.
And I’m resting my head on his shoulder-
And I’m terrified because we’re at my house.
And not five hours earlier we killed a guy.
And we were on the news the day before-
And…and…and I hate my old room!
Unlike my dorm, the walls are pretty bare.
The curtains need a wash, and the wardrobe…
It’s full of dust and old picture frames.
I can’t see them well from here in the gloom.
I think that’s a good thing, or I might cry.
I’m not the same boy in those photos anymore.
Since moving out, I’ve grown into a person.
My own person. My own, awful person.
The type that pisses off billionaires, and stuff-
Or helps schizophrenic detectives blow up cars.
Or shoots aggressive teacher assistants in the face-
How did I even get here? A really bad tinder date.
It was with the same, weirdly cute guy.
The one asleep in my bed. Like a rock.
He told me to meet him at some weird bar.
He chatted about his dead sister with me…
Three of his friends were there. I’m not too sure.
And now they’re also mine. They're the best.
My old friend group did the normal college kid stuff.
We went to parties. We started a band. It sucked.
We had several questionable relationships-
Me especially, and that’s why they all left me.
Screw them, though. I don’t even know why I cared.
None of them cared about me, I was just pretty.
We killed a vampire today, it’s complicated.
It was mostly the work of Val and James.
Val is cool, she could probably suplex me.
James is…he’s the one laying next to me.
Aside from his weird, tragic backstory,
I really don’t know him that well. He’s…James.
Every time I think I get a little close to him.
Something changes, or something goes wrong.
But I think I still like him- or I want to, anyway.
I don’t really know why. He hunts monsters.
Meanwhile I play guitar, and I cry a lot.
But hey, I sort of helped him kill a vampire.
I wonder how the others are doing. Can they sleep?
I took them to the guest room. It felt weird there.
This whole place is weird, but I think they’ll live.
Bink especially. She’s probably the nicest of us all.
I kinda wish I could be more like her. Happier?
We ordered pizza together once. That was fun.
I mean a few hours later, we learned that James….
Val said he got sent to hell, so we slept in a church.
We found him at his apartment the next morning.
He was okay, life went on. Had a failed second date.
Now there’s a lich, so we are sleeping at my church.
I hate it here. I’m starting to think it’s a cult.
Coming here was a really bad idea.
A no-good, awful, and stupid thing to do.
Dumbest idea in the history of ideas ever.
But hey, for once it wasn’t my idea!
Seeing that my brain is a stupid-idea-machine.
What are my parents going to do with me?
I don't know how to feel about you
And quite frankly I don't know what I am feeling
But
I think…it's a good thing. Or at least some of it is good.
I like having you here, even if we're not doing anything. I...I kind of like attention
I just wish things weren't so stressful- and I'm one to talk, you must feel awful about everything. And like, I can't really imagine what you're feeling- so I don't know how to respond?
Sorry.
God, sorry I keep making this about me
Um
But anyway. It'd be nice to just…do things normally
Maybe that's just wishful thinking because every other day, shit keeps happening.
And it's a lot.
But probably mostly for you…?
Every time I'm around you I feel like I-
I dunno, I think I get you, but then something happens and that changes.
Maybe I'm stupid, or something
But I wanna get to know you. In a normal way
And vice versa.
Is that what you even want?
Heavy sigh
But if you ever just wanna fool around
That's what I'm best at…
. . .
That's why you contacted me in the first place, right?
It’s my first night home in over a year.
There’s a boy asleep in my bed.
He’s kinda weird, but I owe him my life.
He said he needed me for something,
But I didn’t really understand what…
So I hugged him and told him to go sleep.
And now there’s a boy asleep in my bed.
And I’m resting my head on his shoulder-
And I’m terrified because we’re at my house.
And not five hours earlier we killed a guy.
And we were on the news the day before-
And…and…and I hate my old room!
Unlike my dorm, the walls are pretty bare.
The curtains need a wash, and the wardrobe…
It’s full of dust and old picture frames.
I can’t see them well from here in the gloom.
I think that’s a good thing, or I might cry.
I’m not the same boy in those photos anymore.
Since moving out, I’ve grown into a person.
My own person. My own, awful person.
The type that pisses off billionaires, and stuff-
Or helps schizophrenic detectives blow up cars.
Or shoots aggressive teacher assistants in the face-
How did I even get here? A really bad tinder date.
It was with the same, weirdly cute guy.
The one asleep in my bed. Like a rock.
He told me to meet him at some weird bar.
He chatted about his dead sister with me…
Three of his friends were there. I’m not too sure.
And now they’re also mine. They're the best.
My old friend group did the normal college kid stuff.
We went to parties. We started a band. It sucked.
We had several questionable relationships-
Me especially, and that’s why they all left me.
Screw them, though. I don’t even know why I cared.
None of them cared about me, I was just pretty.
We killed a vampire today, it’s complicated.
It was mostly the work of Val and James.
Val is cool, she could probably suplex me.
James is…he’s the one laying next to me.
Aside from his weird, tragic backstory,
I really don’t know him that well. He’s…James.
Every time I think I get a little close to him.
Something changes, or something goes wrong.
But I think I still like him- or I want to, anyway.
I don’t really know why. He hunts monsters.
Meanwhile I play guitar, and I cry a lot.
But hey, I sort of helped him kill a vampire.
I wonder how the others are doing. Can they sleep?
I took them to the guest room. It felt weird there.
This whole place is weird, but I think they’ll live.
Bink especially. She’s probably the nicest of us all.
I kinda wish I could be more like her. Happier?
We ordered pizza together once. That was fun.
I mean a few hours later, we learned that James….
Val said he got sent to hell, so we slept in a church.
We found him at his apartment the next morning.
He was okay, life went on. Had a failed second date.
Now there’s a lich, so we are sleeping at my church.
I hate it here. I’m starting to think it’s a cult.
Coming here was a really bad idea.
A no-good, awful, and stupid thing to do.
Dumbest idea in the history of ideas ever.
But hey, for once it wasn’t my idea!
Seeing that my brain is a stupid-idea-machine.
What are my parents going to do with me?
I don't know how to feel about you
And quite frankly I don't know what I am feeling
But
I think…it's a good thing. Or at least some of it is good.
I like having you here, even if we're not doing anything. I...I kind of like attention
I just wish things weren't so stressful- and I'm one to talk, you must feel awful about everything. And like, I can't really imagine what you're feeling- so I don't know how to respond?
Sorry.
God, sorry I keep making this about me
Um
But anyway. It'd be nice to just…do things normally
Maybe that's just wishful thinking because every other day, shit keeps happening.
And it's a lot.
But probably mostly for you…?
Every time I'm around you I feel like I-
I dunno, I think I get you, but then something happens and that changes.
Maybe I'm stupid, or something
But I wanna get to know you. In a normal way
And vice versa.
Is that what you even want?
Heavy sigh
But if you ever just wanna fool around
That's what I'm best at…
. . .
That's why you contacted me in the first place, right?
OP
False Prophet Inconspicuous Werewolf
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
Content Warning: suicidal ideation, brief mentions and implications of sexual assault, general mental instability, violence
Author's Note: My characters are just that- characters. I don't condone murder, grooming, etc. This is me exploring the concept of evil through an unreliable and twisted protagonist. His views and actions are not my own. For the sake of my own boundaries, Seraphim was never a legal minor during the events discussed unless specified. This does not justify Auburn's actions, and he is a euphemism for authority figures who take advantage of others. Seraph is a metaphor for the naive, regardless of background. Inaccuracies and inconsistencies (for the most part) are intentional. The church, though themed off of Catholicism, is not actually Catholic. It has its own names and set of rules that will be revealed in due time. The setting is the Southwestern United States some anywhere between 1850-1950. Time is less rigid here.
A continuation of HELLO AUBURN: roleplayerguild.com/posts/5334530
I used to be a good priest. I never smoked and I never drank. I didn’t start swearing until now. As if any of that matters anymore. I’ve been ousted from my position by my own brother, who I am sure is not my brother anymore. Life is unnecessarily cruel. My name is Auburn. Three months ago, my life was perfect. I had just found the love of my life. Twilight in the desert… I can recall it as if it were a fresh dream. Vivid, but just out of touch. How I wish I could grab that memory again.
What was I doing there? Sitting beneath a willow tree with a young woman on my lap. The stars above reminded me of staring eyes, twinkling and blinking. Ogling at us, two people who should not have been together. My heart was torn. This was wrong, I had a wife I cared for dearly, but her...my dear Seraph. Whenever I looked at her, I just wanted to hold and protect her. I wanted to make her smile. When she was with me, I felt safe. I hope she felt the same.
She felt something for me, I knew that. Perhaps for worse, she assured me. With her soft, sweet lips, she kissed mine. I don’t know why. I don’t know why she loved me, or why I loved her despite everything. This was a sin. I was going to go to hell, where Satan's cruel laughter would haunt me forever. I’m such a fool. This was an awful idea, yet it was all I wanted. I tried to hide the fact that my hands shook as I undid her blouse.
She asked me if this was a sin. It was, I knew it was. This was an insult to my priesthood, my family- everything...but I did not have the heart to tell her that. A god that saw a harmless act of intimacy as something to be ashamed of was not one I could follow. I don't think I've ever loved anybody like I loved her. Still, I knew the truth would scare her. I lied. I shook my head and told her the Lord would always forgive her, and that falling in love was natural, not a sin. It was a lie, but I think she believed me. She was so trusting like that, never doubting anything I ever said.
Sex before marriage. Sex while married to another. Sex while a member of the clergy. We broke so many rules together. Underneath that willow tree I committed so many traitorous acts, it was disgusting. I have been told that I was disgusting for doing it. Maybe so. But I couldn't help myself around her. Precious thing… She was a virgin, destined to be until she found a man to wed and bear his children. I was not to be that man. I had a wife whom I married and bonded with before taking my title of priesthood. I would be lying if I said I maintained celibacy after the fact. Even before Seraph, I had been a lying, degenerate sinner. Perhaps that is why I so easily fell into temptation.
I am impure. Very impure. Our goal at the cathedral was to maintain purity in order to enter heaven. Nobody was, though. Nobody except my dear Seraph, at least until she found me. She was beautiful, kind, and so, so gentle. I remember the feeling of her resting her head against my shoulder. She was so soft; I was in pure bliss while corrupting her. I was reckless, so very reckless. But isn’t that the nature of love? For you, my lovely Seraph, I would do anything. This was something I realized beneath the blooms of the desert willow where we first truly met.
Though that time beneath the willow tree was our first, it would not be our last. She would proclaim her love to me often, even if she’d sob afterwards. Poor girl. She’d weep into her hands about how we could never truly be together. The church. Her father. My wife. The All Father. Everything held us back. Perhaps it was a sign to give up- to repent. But I think I was too secular to do that, I still am. Even though she is dead and hates me, I love her. I cannot stop loving her. She occupies my thoughts and I shed tears at night. I miss her! I am entirely alone now.
Come back, Seraphim, please- come back to me. I regret hurting you! I miss you and I love you. What I did was a terrible mistake, and you were forsaken… But you’re alive and well now, I do not know how, but it is both a blessing and a miracle. We can elope together! I will go back to that wretched place to retrieve you so that maybe…we can finally live in peace, together. Not with God, the church, or Satan himself telling us what to do. I can keep you safe from them I know how. I can rid them from our lives once and for all. I now know what I must do to save you, Seraphim…
In my time I have learned that gods, demons, and angels are one and the same. Primordial forces that predate human existence by an unfathomable amount. I don’t think I will ever understand their true natures, or why they plague my dreams…or plague poor Seraph with eternal torture. Enigmatic, but in a loathsome sense. When she died, I haven’t been able to look up at an angel with wonder ever since. I can’t understand them and sometimes they scare me, but they fear me just as much.
I’ve killed an angel before. Twice actually. First, it was my dear Seraphim. True angel or not, she was beauty and love personified. I placed my wretched hands to her neck and held her down until she stopped moving. I don’t know why I did this. For several days beforehand there had been inexplicable chatter in my head. Whispers, songs, chanting- all in a language I had never heard before. I thought I was going mad until a beast spoke to me at the altar. I don’t remember what it looked like aside from its pure white eyes. They were pools of radiance. Those eyes told me I had to take the life of my beloved.
My respect for the divine at that time- and even now, is low. But as I said, I fear them. I feared them much more at the beginning, too. Angel, demon, or maybe God himself? The semantics are unimportant, as they are all sides of the same construct. It only introduced itself as an angel, and every night it would whisper into my ear and tell me to kill Seraphim. She was to, according to this beast, birth a monster into this world. The consequences of our actions. A creature that would burn the cathedral’s holy walls to the ground with the power of the Devil. And for that, I was tasked with smiting it.
I dreamt of ash and smoke. I woke up with the taste of cinders clinging to my tongue. I drank water and kissed the lips of Seraph to wash it away, but brimstone has a vile aftertaste. The chatter grew louder the more I drank. I, still holding onto the idea that I was a servant of the Lord, did what I was told. I was and am a fool. I know now that was a lie. Seraph never carried a child. I strangled a beautiful girl all so she could become the very creature that angel prophesied to me about. The idea that Seraphim was pregnant with Armageddon itself was purely figurative. She carried hell, or the potential for it, like a mother with a fetus. Still, it did not literally rest within her womb. I only buried one body beneath the willow tree that night. The place where this alleged monster was conceived. And it was, but not those months ago.
It was not long after I killed my second angel. I feel rage, as I am human. Venomous hatred has seeped into the very core of my being. If the Lord, if he even cared to look down upon us, granted me the ability to smite- I was going to use it. I made it my quest to hunt White-eyed beast of half-truths and false promises… How does one kill a literal angel? The easiest way would be to be another angel, or god himself. I am no angel. I’m not even good enough to rise as a saint. My bones will rot in the dirt, and my soul will most likely…well, I hope it finds a place to rot, too. That is to say if souls even exist.
I have been questioning a lot lately. I question if hell even exists. The nature of the holy and unholy is unintelligible. If I am honest, I am more at peace with the concept of ceasing to exist after death than the idea of an afterlife. I doubt I am worthy of one, anyway. I am a tired man. Part of me yearns for eternal slumber. The only thing that anchors me to this physical world is Seraph. Her and only her. If it wasn’t for her talons gripping onto my heart, I would’ve taken the revolver I keep by my bedside and put the barrel to my head already.
The tragedy of Seraph’s demise proved nothing about the existence of hell because I know it was demons that brought her back. She never spoke of it, though. When she rose from the grave like Christ from his tomb, I wanted to know why and where she’d been. She…was not keen on speaking to me. Poor thing. I’d never seen her look so terrified of me before. I don’t want her to look at me ever again. That is why I must save her.
Angels and demons can be killed with magic. Maybe God as well, if he isn’t dead already. At this point, all three of them are indistinguishable. Synonyms of words that lack any true meaning anymore. I digress. My first step in returning Seraph back to me was killing Demon Eyes. The damn beast lied to me! It told me that Seraph carried the Antichrist. I was such a fool. I do not know the intricacies of Enochian magic, but it used it to revive her with a crown made of desert willow. It turned her into the harbinger of the apocalypse. I swear I'll burn that tree down when I return! I may as well set the entire church ablaze… My work is cut out for me. It seems it always has been.
Was this entirely my fault? Maybe… Partially, in a way, I was the catalyst. Still, I was not the one who wired a bomb. I was just tricked into lighting the fuse. So, who is really at fault here? Me, or the demons? I’ll pay my price, but I also seek justice like my brethren at the commune. I did, anyway… I gave them justice. I KILLED Demon Eyes. It’s not my fault it came back. It’s not my fault they’re making Seraphim lie. It’s not my fault- It’s not my goddamned fault! They’re blinded by rage, and maybe I am, too! But at least I’m not a servant of the Devil!
I have a gun in my hand and matches in the other.
Author's Note: My characters are just that- characters. I don't condone murder, grooming, etc. This is me exploring the concept of evil through an unreliable and twisted protagonist. His views and actions are not my own. For the sake of my own boundaries, Seraphim was never a legal minor during the events discussed unless specified. This does not justify Auburn's actions, and he is a euphemism for authority figures who take advantage of others. Seraph is a metaphor for the naive, regardless of background. Inaccuracies and inconsistencies (for the most part) are intentional. The church, though themed off of Catholicism, is not actually Catholic. It has its own names and set of rules that will be revealed in due time. The setting is the Southwestern United States some anywhere between 1850-1950. Time is less rigid here.
A continuation of HELLO AUBURN: roleplayerguild.com/posts/5334530
Oh God, what have I done?
I used to be a good priest. I never smoked and I never drank. I didn’t start swearing until now. As if any of that matters anymore. I’ve been ousted from my position by my own brother, who I am sure is not my brother anymore. Life is unnecessarily cruel. My name is Auburn. Three months ago, my life was perfect. I had just found the love of my life. Twilight in the desert… I can recall it as if it were a fresh dream. Vivid, but just out of touch. How I wish I could grab that memory again.
What was I doing there? Sitting beneath a willow tree with a young woman on my lap. The stars above reminded me of staring eyes, twinkling and blinking. Ogling at us, two people who should not have been together. My heart was torn. This was wrong, I had a wife I cared for dearly, but her...my dear Seraph. Whenever I looked at her, I just wanted to hold and protect her. I wanted to make her smile. When she was with me, I felt safe. I hope she felt the same.
She felt something for me, I knew that. Perhaps for worse, she assured me. With her soft, sweet lips, she kissed mine. I don’t know why. I don’t know why she loved me, or why I loved her despite everything. This was a sin. I was going to go to hell, where Satan's cruel laughter would haunt me forever. I’m such a fool. This was an awful idea, yet it was all I wanted. I tried to hide the fact that my hands shook as I undid her blouse.
She asked me if this was a sin. It was, I knew it was. This was an insult to my priesthood, my family- everything...but I did not have the heart to tell her that. A god that saw a harmless act of intimacy as something to be ashamed of was not one I could follow. I don't think I've ever loved anybody like I loved her. Still, I knew the truth would scare her. I lied. I shook my head and told her the Lord would always forgive her, and that falling in love was natural, not a sin. It was a lie, but I think she believed me. She was so trusting like that, never doubting anything I ever said.
Sex before marriage. Sex while married to another. Sex while a member of the clergy. We broke so many rules together. Underneath that willow tree I committed so many traitorous acts, it was disgusting. I have been told that I was disgusting for doing it. Maybe so. But I couldn't help myself around her. Precious thing… She was a virgin, destined to be until she found a man to wed and bear his children. I was not to be that man. I had a wife whom I married and bonded with before taking my title of priesthood. I would be lying if I said I maintained celibacy after the fact. Even before Seraph, I had been a lying, degenerate sinner. Perhaps that is why I so easily fell into temptation.
I am impure. Very impure. Our goal at the cathedral was to maintain purity in order to enter heaven. Nobody was, though. Nobody except my dear Seraph, at least until she found me. She was beautiful, kind, and so, so gentle. I remember the feeling of her resting her head against my shoulder. She was so soft; I was in pure bliss while corrupting her. I was reckless, so very reckless. But isn’t that the nature of love? For you, my lovely Seraph, I would do anything. This was something I realized beneath the blooms of the desert willow where we first truly met.
Though that time beneath the willow tree was our first, it would not be our last. She would proclaim her love to me often, even if she’d sob afterwards. Poor girl. She’d weep into her hands about how we could never truly be together. The church. Her father. My wife. The All Father. Everything held us back. Perhaps it was a sign to give up- to repent. But I think I was too secular to do that, I still am. Even though she is dead and hates me, I love her. I cannot stop loving her. She occupies my thoughts and I shed tears at night. I miss her! I am entirely alone now.
Come back, Seraphim, please- come back to me. I regret hurting you! I miss you and I love you. What I did was a terrible mistake, and you were forsaken… But you’re alive and well now, I do not know how, but it is both a blessing and a miracle. We can elope together! I will go back to that wretched place to retrieve you so that maybe…we can finally live in peace, together. Not with God, the church, or Satan himself telling us what to do. I can keep you safe from them I know how. I can rid them from our lives once and for all. I now know what I must do to save you, Seraphim…
In my time I have learned that gods, demons, and angels are one and the same. Primordial forces that predate human existence by an unfathomable amount. I don’t think I will ever understand their true natures, or why they plague my dreams…or plague poor Seraph with eternal torture. Enigmatic, but in a loathsome sense. When she died, I haven’t been able to look up at an angel with wonder ever since. I can’t understand them and sometimes they scare me, but they fear me just as much.
I’ve killed an angel before. Twice actually. First, it was my dear Seraphim. True angel or not, she was beauty and love personified. I placed my wretched hands to her neck and held her down until she stopped moving. I don’t know why I did this. For several days beforehand there had been inexplicable chatter in my head. Whispers, songs, chanting- all in a language I had never heard before. I thought I was going mad until a beast spoke to me at the altar. I don’t remember what it looked like aside from its pure white eyes. They were pools of radiance. Those eyes told me I had to take the life of my beloved.
My respect for the divine at that time- and even now, is low. But as I said, I fear them. I feared them much more at the beginning, too. Angel, demon, or maybe God himself? The semantics are unimportant, as they are all sides of the same construct. It only introduced itself as an angel, and every night it would whisper into my ear and tell me to kill Seraphim. She was to, according to this beast, birth a monster into this world. The consequences of our actions. A creature that would burn the cathedral’s holy walls to the ground with the power of the Devil. And for that, I was tasked with smiting it.
I dreamt of ash and smoke. I woke up with the taste of cinders clinging to my tongue. I drank water and kissed the lips of Seraph to wash it away, but brimstone has a vile aftertaste. The chatter grew louder the more I drank. I, still holding onto the idea that I was a servant of the Lord, did what I was told. I was and am a fool. I know now that was a lie. Seraph never carried a child. I strangled a beautiful girl all so she could become the very creature that angel prophesied to me about. The idea that Seraphim was pregnant with Armageddon itself was purely figurative. She carried hell, or the potential for it, like a mother with a fetus. Still, it did not literally rest within her womb. I only buried one body beneath the willow tree that night. The place where this alleged monster was conceived. And it was, but not those months ago.
It was not long after I killed my second angel. I feel rage, as I am human. Venomous hatred has seeped into the very core of my being. If the Lord, if he even cared to look down upon us, granted me the ability to smite- I was going to use it. I made it my quest to hunt White-eyed beast of half-truths and false promises… How does one kill a literal angel? The easiest way would be to be another angel, or god himself. I am no angel. I’m not even good enough to rise as a saint. My bones will rot in the dirt, and my soul will most likely…well, I hope it finds a place to rot, too. That is to say if souls even exist.
I have been questioning a lot lately. I question if hell even exists. The nature of the holy and unholy is unintelligible. If I am honest, I am more at peace with the concept of ceasing to exist after death than the idea of an afterlife. I doubt I am worthy of one, anyway. I am a tired man. Part of me yearns for eternal slumber. The only thing that anchors me to this physical world is Seraph. Her and only her. If it wasn’t for her talons gripping onto my heart, I would’ve taken the revolver I keep by my bedside and put the barrel to my head already.
The tragedy of Seraph’s demise proved nothing about the existence of hell because I know it was demons that brought her back. She never spoke of it, though. When she rose from the grave like Christ from his tomb, I wanted to know why and where she’d been. She…was not keen on speaking to me. Poor thing. I’d never seen her look so terrified of me before. I don’t want her to look at me ever again. That is why I must save her.
Angels and demons can be killed with magic. Maybe God as well, if he isn’t dead already. At this point, all three of them are indistinguishable. Synonyms of words that lack any true meaning anymore. I digress. My first step in returning Seraph back to me was killing Demon Eyes. The damn beast lied to me! It told me that Seraph carried the Antichrist. I was such a fool. I do not know the intricacies of Enochian magic, but it used it to revive her with a crown made of desert willow. It turned her into the harbinger of the apocalypse. I swear I'll burn that tree down when I return! I may as well set the entire church ablaze… My work is cut out for me. It seems it always has been.
Was this entirely my fault? Maybe… Partially, in a way, I was the catalyst. Still, I was not the one who wired a bomb. I was just tricked into lighting the fuse. So, who is really at fault here? Me, or the demons? I’ll pay my price, but I also seek justice like my brethren at the commune. I did, anyway… I gave them justice. I KILLED Demon Eyes. It’s not my fault it came back. It’s not my fault they’re making Seraphim lie. It’s not my fault- It’s not my goddamned fault! They’re blinded by rage, and maybe I am, too! But at least I’m not a servant of the Devil!
I have a gun in my hand and matches in the other.
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