Title: Ouroborus
Rating: Mature (R+)
Warning: Acts of a sexual nature are involved. Innuendo. Nightmares of past violence and rape. Abuse of commas, semicolons and other such horrible grammatical mistakes.
Author's Notes: Ouroborus comes from the Greek meaning "tail-devourer". The serpent eating itself appears in several cultures and has many meanings, although they all seem to co-inside with each other; to put it in an over simplified way of speaking, 'ying and yang'. A force equaled on both sides, one caused by the other.
For this story I am starting at the head, the beginning as it were, and moving along the body, which I see as inspired by the alchemical meaning projected onto the symbol, to cycle through some of the different meanings only to end up at the tail, which for me is Jungian inspired, just to be eaten by the head—the begining—again.I don't intend for there to be a resolution in this one shot. The story itself aims to be an ouroborus, a never ending cycle which only perpetuates itself. For those of us who love our own self-inflicted and self-driven tendencies, I hope you enjoy this.
TLDR: This is a story with a lot of symbolic meaning. Hope you enjoy it!
I'm not sure if this will be anything more than a one shot. It has the possibility for it but we'll see. :)
Title: Ouroborus
"…Of design he was created thus, his own waste providing his own food, and all that he did or suffered taking place in and by himself…" –Plato, Timaeus 33
A circle.
Did the past repeat itself? Gods he hoped not.
Yet here he was again, thrusting his needs between the legs of another willing, pliant, easy woman. With each gasp and groan that passed between her lips he was no closer now than where he began, save an act of carnal release. However the paltry amount of endorphins that followed never be enough to truly remove his mind from anything for long.
As the faceless woman's fingers passed over the scar, he shuddered. They always seemed to find the one spot that made him the most uncomfortable; a silent reminder. Perhaps he was doing the wrong thing—the thought flitted across his mind often but was lost just as quickly amidst the tumultuous dance of flesh around him. Muscles clenching, hands kneading, mouths suckling and she was pushed over the edge sooner than he had expected, shuddering beneath him while calling out her diety's name—for she did not know his. Rushing his own enjoyment he threw himself over the precipice of orgasm as well; it was adequate, he thought blandly. He didn't appreciate the haste, but he would appreciate questions even less, or worse, the distress of his nameless partner.
It may have seemed odd—perhaps even out of character—to anyone who thought they knew him, but this was his last resort of pleasure for pleasure's sake. He had not been innocent since the age of five and could not—would not—inflict pain and turmoil into the last place untouched by his marred and bloody hands.
Removing himself from inside her as she lay in the afterglow then turning to one side, he contemplated his self-worth with all the attention of a window shopper. Fighting, fucking, eating; he felt nothing from them anymore it seemed. His paralyzed life was exactly that—immobile. Going neither forwards nor backwards, the driving forces in his life had equalized leaving him with nothing but an unimpressive lump of self-loathing in his throat that seemed impossible to swallow; he'd choke first.
He removed the condom and cleaned himself off with all the motions of a well prepared actor , knowing the question was coming before the raven-haired woman had even thought to ask.
"What's with the tattoo?" The lighting of a cigarette was hardly worthy of his attention, but he noticed it anyway followed by the familiar smell of burning carcinogen.
The tattoo in question was a serpent eating its' own tail that lay etched in black tribal ink over his sacrum —a "tramp stamp" as the popular vernacular had deemed it.
After a few seconds of deafening silence she attempted to back up and reason her question to him, fighting for her own measure on such minute levels she couldn't even sense it; he could though. She reasoned herself—her request—to him fearing rejection even as they sat in the aftermath of the most intimate act he would allow anyone to have with him. She wanted him to see her as a person worthy of sharing himself with, even though she posed the question in such an innocuous manner belying it of it's true meaning. He could see the cogs in her mind working as though to acquire his trust, to learn something of this encounter before it slipped through her fingers; to prove to herself that it hadn't just been some mindless fuck.
An answer of zipping pants and a closing door was all she got by way of reply. The empty hallway was the only witness to his walk of shame;, something he had done so many times before, just as the empty room was the only witness to whatever reaction she had at his dismissal. He didn't dwell on that image for long though, afraid of the unpleasant reactions or feelings that might attach themselves to it if he did .
The cotton blend of his shirt stuck to the center of his back as he pulled it over his broad shoulders, defined well with muscle and sinew earned through years of desperate self-discipline. A good sweat, but nothing more, was what it had been. They always had to ask about the tattoo-the façade, the distraction- but never about what it camouflaged.
No one ever really looked close enough to see it, but it was there. A scar, not even an inch in diameter, just above the junction of his buttocks; the center of his tattoo, of himself. It was a miracle the doctors had managed to make such a thing so small considering the damage it had been wrought from.
A shudder found its' way up his spine and wound around the base of his skull at the memory that followed; of bullet wounds and fingers probing to cause him greater pain, of fractured bone and severed muscles caused by the fingernails of that monster, of the sickening feel of his own blood as it was smeared down the cleft of his buttocks—lubrication he had found out that first time, not even a second later.
The bile rose in his mouth and he dashed into the public bathroom in the lobby to empty the meager contents of his stomach into the sink. After all the years that had passed, the memory still affected him so; violently and without warning. So much like His assaults had been. Another shudder, another wave of virulent bile appeared as he turned on the faucet to wash it down the drain.
This was his way; the violent act that served to make him forget and remember all at once.
His birth.
His death.
His rebirth into an existence that could never fully be cleansed. An existence which he, himself, perpetuated and propelled forward with reckless abandon. The moment of his greatest defeat—but also of his greatest strength—would remain immortal in this way.
He hated this weakness even as it served to fuel the strength forged within himself. Wishing he could leave it behind and start anew, he vowed never to repeat tonight's events—like he had done every other night before. Yet even as the last waves of nausea wracked his body, he knew it to be a brittle lie at best; one that rode high and bitter behind the taste of the vomit running down the porcelain basin.
When a buxom blonde walked into the bathroom, eyes filling with worry and concern at his plight, it vaguely dawned on him that he had rushed into the women's restroom in his haste to void his stomach. As she quickly wet a paper towel for him to wipe his mouth with and rubbed the top of his back in a soothing fashion, he felt a flicker of desire grow and rise to life in the pit of his belly. Offering his quiet gratitude through the wet paper fibers he knew the night was far from over as soon as her fingers brushed the side of his face; the chemistry between them arcing like lightning strikes from one to the other.
Did the past repeat itself? The devils he carried with him knew the answer.
A circle.
A serpent.
An infinity.