LIfe? LIfe? It's Death that makes life worth living for – Aaron Howard
He survived college; got good grades, got girls, got by.
He even got a friend, a bespectacled motor enthusiast who demanded nothing more of him than hours spent under a hood, casual banter and the occasional six-pack. Lewis was another piece in the patchwork of deception he hid behind.
Just like his quick mind and enthusiasm for study endeared him to his tutors, who overlooked the occasional faux pas in their delight at having a student so talented. Just like the magic tricks he had been enthralled with as a young boy, and now used to charm and distract, to divert attention from his differences, to break the ice and gain a form of acceptance. Just like his knowledge of poetry and his polite manner, instilled and sometimes beaten into him by his mother, opened girl's eyes, opened their legs...
Outwardly, he was succeeding, but inside he was a mess.
He'd been drunk on sensation after that first time, had wanted to shout out his discovery, his delight to the world. Instead, he held the feelings tight inside, as he gripped himself tight in violent masturbation; memories of blood no longer enough as he sliced his skin to smell, to taste, to come. He held them tighter still as he buries himself, knife deep in slick warmth; the girl's whimpers, cries adding to his excitement. Stifling her sounds, her movements with his body, his strength until at last she is still, at last he can finish. There's the anti-climax of seeing her smile, stretch, reach out to him afterwards; the dreary resignation that he must maintain this pretence. He held the feelings even tighter as he used chivalry as an excuse to fight; the sweet sensations of violence and power singing in his veins, the hollow aftermath of not being able to follow through to completion.
All eclipsed by the knowledge that these things are not enough, will never be enough, ever again. Until memories of exhilaration are swallowed up by hunger, consumed by need and once again, the hunt begins.
But he's misjudged his prey, she may be young and small but is streetwise and wily from years living rough, and she escapes. Boiling with rage, burning with frustration he turns his fury on the next available target and realises, too late, that he has been blinded by his need. This is no bum weakened by malnutrition, worn down by neglect. He is met with strength and power equal to his, skill that exceeds his and he discovers the need to survive outweighs the need to kill. He breaks free and limps home battered and bruised, nursing his wounds, nursing his bitterness.
A timely lesson, reinforced by pain and humiliation and needs not met, but it does not deter him. He realises that death is what he desires most but not his own, and the next time he ventures into the night, it is with greater caution, more preparation and ultimately, he achieves release he has been craving.
And in the serenity that follows he sees a way forward, a way to gain proficiency while minimising risk. As career advisors talk of PhD's and research, his mind takes a more prosaic turn towards the military...