1
Nene, delicate trigger of my delight, dire reminder of my despair. Source of my guilt, sense of my life. Three sinful thoughts to burn me whole, two sighs to say her name, one second to release it in the air: Nene.
Her figure rested on fragile feet and legs, thin as the stem of a blooming rose, just as delicate, and of the same deep, nuanced color, tenderly tinged by Mother Nature herself. Always standing on the tip of her toes was Nene. When wide awake, the tangible power of her mind would help her fiddling lower limbs sustain her frame pridefully, and with perfect poise. It was a tantalizing exhibit of her preternatural reach. On her diaphanous body, her most vulnerable skin was covered, from the hips and upwards, by a sensitive coat which her mind likewise graced with mystical motion; colored like the sight of a blissful death, denser to the touch than its bare counterpart, but just as intoxicant, just as feverous; just as capable of sending my consciousness to the realm of my most coveted sensations, at digital contact. If I directed my sight slightly upward I'd find a dainty pair of shoulders, which led to her soft and slender arms and, by tenderly following along, ended in her adorably diminutive fingers, likewise very soft, and frolicsome. On top of her torso rested what was, perhaps, all things considered, the most fatally frail part of her body; her neck; always warm, and throbbing to the touch, as if it were its own particular being, for which I had to tend with special care. Her neck, her frangible jaw, her ever-changing face—lips, cheeks, nose—soothing, silencing, solipsizing. And her bewitching eyes, her big red eyes, always disarming.
An attempt from her concupiscent rage to escape her ineffectual vessel evidenced itself from the very top of her exquisite head, in the form of a dual waterfall of numbing green, one to her left, one to her right; and a rigid arc which hid her semblance from intruding eyes, of the same color—lighter than that of her most delicate skin—always nurtured, always shiny; always lovingly pleasant to my eyes and hands; containing Millions of radiant strands strong enough to cut through the harshest skin, powerful enough to disarm my enemies, to silence the voices in my head, to suppress them into oblivion.
Protruding from the green at the top of her, two translucent stones of a violent red, manifested the marriage of the mind and the flesh, and allowed me to access her most hidden and sensual neural core at will. Those two sensible blood horns pulsating with crimson life were clear indicative signs of her masterful ability to manipulate my endings, like a crown for the spellbinding queen of sensations; of every single one that is there to be sensed by the human body.
If you are ready, and willing, to stare into the pitiful insides of a beast as it wails in despair, continue reading. If you are not, leave in peace and stay away from my ghost.
2
A wicked act of sorcery might have been behind my arrival on this earth, where neither one of my progenitors lingers any longer. After all, my mother spoke to me abundantly about the two arduous and exasperating days she spent at the hospital, right on the welcoming mat, with my fresh and tender body bathed in the nurturing waters of creation, trapped between the entrancing realm of numbing warmth, and the dour and dangerous land of of the living. If only she had known, then, that the pain I'd bring her, the tears I would call out of her, would not stop until the day she died, perhaps she would have chosen to sever me in half with the doors of her agonizing threshold. That way she would have saved her poor and tortured soul a great deal of sorrow and distress.
Because, make no mistake, (yeah, you) I am well aware of my irregular nature. As you certainly know, as you probably feel, for mischievous curiosity might be the only reason you're reading this, with your eyes scintillating judgment to spill, at this very moment.
Be assured—deranged brother or sister—I am still human. As such, I can feel shame.
My gallant and venerated, greatly respected father died with alcohol cruising indiscriminately through his veins, while on a business trip, on the most endearingly welcoming side of the region of Sinnoh, as he tried—in his gleeful state—to milk a male ponyta to completion. His misguided, albeit friendly gesture, was received with sudden anger, and answered with a ferocious strike directed at his unconscious smile. One contact sufficed to end his life. He was born and raised in the Kalos region, on the picturesque town of Vaniville. The region saw him grow from inconspicuous modesty into a sizable character with much fame and fortune. After many hearts were broken by his smooth prowess, he settled down in Lumiose City with my own statuesque mother. I let in my first breath just as my father laid ground for his second hotel; strictly five stars. And from there, a franchise and financial prosperity—obscenely prosperous—momentarily hid the tragic cloud that was to torment my name soon enough.
The discernible product of my educated upbringing compels me to declare that a hotel is not an appropriate place in which a child should be raised, especially if said child is the owner's own chiefly privileged son. Of course I am not in my right mind to declare such thing as if it were an absolute certainty, and I cannot think of a time where I ever was in hold of a right mind, nor can I think of a time in the future where I could be. Regardless, my time full of consummate profligacy inside the hectic mausoleum which constituted my whole universe did teach me one thing: it taught me to mind the world outside of my kingdom with the same care with which I mind the soil of my shoe. Sooner rather than later I learned the level of cruelty which only humans seem to be capable of achieving. A taciturn kid with his head down, an unconscious practitioner of the most practical kind of stoicism, is as easy a target as a voiceless mareep fresh out of the womb, with its four limbs broken, and blind. A taciturn kid with his sight directed at the ground, or at any unspecified point in front of his eyes, with a myriad of secrets behind his eyes, for which, even then, with his limited and untrained understanding, he knows he should feel ashamed—he is to suffer.
But inside the warm and inviting walls—hiding a cold and disinterested interior—I was happy. Little deviant soon-to-be-orphan enjoyed the carelessly sheltered, gratuitously pampered, gradual rot of his spirit. Maids, chefs, cleaning staff, even the night manager, all would dance in the palm of my hand if I so desired. The death of my father shattered the barriers of what was humanely allowed for a petty child to do. Ultimately however, my omnipotence led to distrust and alienation consuming my insides, and irredeemably ingrained both of those corrupted drives to my core.
Didn't you think I could diagnose myself? Is it as clear for you as it is for me? Should I stop now? I truly pity you if you think my case can be solved simply by coldly rationalizing the events of my childhood.
I will forever rue the day I obtained my first love, with the same poisonous intensity with which I will cherish it. At ten years old this creature, whom the least understanding of you would call a monster, found the flawless antidote to his desolating loneliness; and he was able to hold it for an instant. You see, before I stared into the tragic eyes of my primordial beloved, I only knew of love and happiness as two dourly chosen arrangements of lifeless letters. Perhaps, ever since I lost them for the second and final time, I have been looking for the eyes of my beloved, which contained my life within them, and which I briefly found in their purest and most perfect expression, in Nene.
But before Nene, there was Melusin. Melusin the fennekin. I chose his name (that's right, his name) in what I thought of as a brilliantly sardonic exercise of my refined intellect. In reality, at least as far as I can discern, I was practically blind, dense, and outright stupid. But I cannot deny that my choice was in one way or another moved by my entrails being touched by boundless destiny (can a condemned demon allow himself a mawkish second?). And even now, every time I whisper that word beginning with M to myself, my entrails revolt.
Intrinsically, a four-legged beast; my beauty bathed in fur of morning sun. If he stood still or if he moved, his chin was always up. When I looked at him, nine times out of ten his semblance would show the same refined panache. My Melusin was a stoic dandy in light, a restless rebel in darkness, and yet his warm presence remained the same at all times. His incandescent intensity would burst especially through his ears made out of natural chenille, of the softest and plushiest kind, where I would rest my yearning face, and then it would be infinitely easier to ignore everything except our embrace.
It was a lucid night of spring, on the seventh floor of the hotel, when a look into Melusin's eyes, tender, and vulnerable, gave me the courage to acknowledge my throbbing desire for love. For anyone who can't seem to grasp the idea of its existence within my viscera, I compel you to find a pair of eyes like Melusin's—I wholeheartedly hope you ever find yourself so lucky—and stare deeply into them. If you somehow manage such an encounter, I demand that you call upon me and confront me, and stare right into my evasive and ineffectual eyes, in whatever form they take, and then tell me, right to my face, that you still don't understand.
Seven floors filled with dimly lit hallways of labyrinthine structure and a halfhearted baroque design, served amiably, albeit perhaps reluctantly as our sandbox, boundless in time and space, and filled with perpetually pervasive ears and eyes. The taste of their judgment was beyond vile, with a mossy thickness that would hit the five senses all at once, leaving an irredeemable mold within my mouth and throat which often lingered until weakening despair would strike me bedridden for days. It was inconceivable to their insensitive minds that an organism other than the one within me could bring a smile to my face. And so Melusin was to them a strange aberration, simply for earning my affection, which was beforehand thought of as nonexistent. From the moment he arrived to me a nefarious impression of our friendship was formed within the collective unconscious of the hotel. And so it didn't come as a surprise that they wanted to end my happiness as soon as I obtained it; my mother's premature wraith always loomed over every innocent contact I made with my beloved.
The first tragedy came by on a cold night of winter, on the rooftop of our castle, when my mother misunderstood our brotherly embrace—gazes turned at the moon, condensed breathing joined as a single cloud of humid numbness—as a more lickerish approach. She sent Melusin away, and with him left the autonomy that I had just decided to claim. She also took with him any sort of esteem, empathy—certainly not love, because there wasn't any—which I had for her. From then on, inside me there was a void in which spite, hate, and an uncontrollable source of contrarianism that tormented her until the day she died, reveled and slithered, and manifested at will. If the first time I lost Melusin is a sole burning candle, then the second time could only be a violent forest fire destined to end in death. And I would gladly die for a match on my unholy hand.