I walked slowly,
taking each step

and tracing my fingers along his bloodied body
along the abomination that still lived atop my table.

Each finger felt the contours of a stringy muscle,
fat and bone left exposed to the open air,
the filthy dust clotted air.

“Death is close, I am so close to you that soon all will be darkness.”

I bent over his slack face.
The single light swung from side to side
revealing each side of his face in turns.

I bent so close
and smelt the metallic blood,
and to his lips a pressed my own.

The firm translucent skin opened slightly
and with it consciousness burst forth
through a scream that could double over even the numbest of men.

“Shhhhh, hush now baby.”
I smoothed back his hair
entangling a lock between my encrusted fingers.

I licked the blood from his face,
drinking in the clotted blood from his mouth,
******* the scream before it came,
rubbing his grainy tongue against my own
until they were raw.

I sat on his chest
holding his face,
cupping his chin
squeezing till his cheeks came together.

Oh and that fear!
The utter hatred he held for me
then made me want to kiss him again,
whisper meaningless utterances in his ear.

On impulse I stuck my nail into his left eye.

It came out with a ‘pop.’
I laughed again much like before.

The scream this time was loud,
more of outrageous surprise than of pain,
which came afterwards
in a low moan and pathetic cry.

I could imagine the dull pain
coupled with the sharp pain of his raw legs.

He was indeed a monster,
my own child.
Like me he found some want
of his torture and torturer.

In the deep recesses of his mind
he wanted for me to take him.
This would make the pain so complete.

Ripping out his eye
I trailed it down his chest,
circling it around each ******
before I threw it across the room

watching it bounce
then roll
to a stop against the crumbling brick wall.

I took him then in my mouth
tasting the blood and sweat
until again he became hard,

and with a grudging moan from his lips he came
and again I cupped it in my hands and made him drink.

Ingloriously he choked and died.

His eyes rolled upward
straining so hard he blew a vessel crying blood.

I rubbed each streak from his eyes,
******* the spatter of blood from my thumb.

“When I’m finished with you you’ll be dead.”
I told him frankly
before I began to stroke him.

The impulse came on so roughly
that I couldn’t control myself.
He came and I was left with his discharge in my hands.

Copying what I had seen him do to a street *****,
I feed him his own
watching him cough and spew out.

I closed my hand against his lips
and forced him to swallow
before I began to laugh.

The hysterical sound filled the room,
the vibrations shaking the hangings from my walls.

I couldn’t help myself.
As if a power beyond me gripped me
I laughed a throaty laugh before returning to my victim.

I stroked him till in his pain he became hard.
“You like to ****, and I am ****.”
I laughed.

His cry of pain made me stroke him,
clenching strokes which made him arch
and each time he came
I gathered his discharge into my hands,
cupping it as if it were water,
lifting the fluids to his lips forcing him to drink.

“I live for your pain you feed me and in turn I feed you.”

Again I pulled strip of skin from his inside thigh.
Ah, the close-lipped scream was music to me.
“Sing to me.” I crooned

before I peeled another strip slowly
letting the skin tear away from muscle
watching tendons rip
giving forth blood that slid down
pooling on the table,
then another and
another
till he lost consciousness from the pain.

“But you cannot hide within the confines of you mind. We must finish.”

It had been days and within that time he had killed three women.

One for each day.

Like an addicted ***** he mangled his victims bodies while they were still alive, ******* them and torturing them simultaneously.

I would have fun with him.

In the park he buried his dead,
each night digging
and refilling
a mass grave in the mountains.

I watched him
hidden among the thick sylvan night
relishing in the death all around me,
and still mourning the deaths that should have been mine.

There deaths would have been pleasurable,
gentle,
and natural.

It pained me to step on the leaves
discarded by the proud oaks and maples.

“I will not discard you.”
I whispered to the wind
intending for my words
to drift toward him.

I walked towards him,
my footfalls silent
with only the crows to give me away.

He turned peering into my eyes,
which held the look of one, just content after a meal.

“My turn.”

He woke to the pain of nails being ripped from his toes.
I enjoyed his agony,
danced to the music of his cries
like a pagan priest during a ritual.

I knew in that moment I loved him.

He and I were alike
with only the exception
that it was my job to **** and not his.

When I think back to him
I realize that he was my favorite ****.

The way he wreathed under my touch in absolute agony,
the way his eyes would roll
until the strained veins would burst
so that he was crying
watery blood replays within my mind
when I have no **** to gratify my lust.

What I savored most
was the white flecks of condensed spittle
that formed and frothed in the corners of his mouth.

He was arrogant,
from that I knew
when I first laid my tearless eyes upon him.

I watched and partook in a distinct arousal
that only killers can feel
when a soul is trapped inside its tortured body.

I watched silently,
as still as the darkness itself
as he stripped the very skin from his prey.

Nothing else can compare the sound of screams
issuing from the mouth of the dying.

The sharp constant pain resounded
as a bell chime would,
spreading out over his deaf basement walls,
to my willing ears.

I felt nothing sympathetic for the ******.

This man,
this man, insane and still fully sane
became another one of my countless prey.

How enticing!

This man,
who killed others,
intrigued me.

I want to touch him,
to kiss those lips set in a hard line,
red and full against his pale face.

Those gray eyes as cold as my flesh brought me into him.

Oh yes.
I will **** him in such a way
that he would wish he was never born.
OH YES!

The devastation of his retribution
would be so total
that there would be no place within his mind
in which he could retreat.

The abstraction of that day was ironical.

The sun shone and yet I felt no warmth.
The underlying freeze forever coating my flesh made it so.

The perpetual aura of filth that accompanied death,
that integrated throughout my protective membrane,
made me trash,
an anomaly cast into the world’s garden.

I had once heard the term of life described as a savage garden.

Indeed the sardonic cynicism of the very phrase
made me to feel like a worm weaving between each green shoot.

I am the necessary horror,
and my only purpose
is to find the dying flower wrinkling about the edges,
smudging the atmosphere of closeted peace,
or wrapping myself around a ****
that threatens the delicate balance
between
what humans choose to see
and what is tangible.

In this I strive for perfection.
I am the worm,
the earthen worm
sliding amongst the filth
and nutrient of soil.

And yet still I am the gardener
wielding my *** to rake out
plants that give the impression of being beautiful.

Yet appearances can never hide the truth,
and like I,
the stench of filth
and stagnated death (me!)
always hovers over those who think themselves
above the rest.

******.

I think it’s time for another ****.
Soon though,
soon I would confront him,
and he would not fare as well as my first.

Though indeed he would be different from the others,
someone new,
or maybe like my first in his own way.

I’m feeling reminiscent.
I’m feeling lonely for fear.

Where a tear would have welled
and fallen
I felt an emptiness.

My love.
My first and only love was in that girl.

Each death afterwards was never the same.