A/n A dark story. For those nights you want nothing but rain, thunder and storm. You want nothing but pain or wanting to be noticed but there is no one there. Music, heavy loud music, pressing on your heart. This story will feed this emotion. Abandon life and crawl deep inside yourself.
Sentences between "and" Are spoken. 'These...' Are thoughts. Read this story quick, don't try to understand, but let yourself allow to feel it. Best read in 1/2 page form.
His teeth hurt when he pressed his jaws together. A shudder full with sin shut down his spine. His emotions flickered uncontrollably, so did his body movement. His thoughts were hazy and his eyesight foggy. It seemed like he could only focus on one detail at the time, a hair on skin, a birthmark, a button, a pattern on the fabric or a drop of sweat. His stomach clenched with uncontrollable hunger. Hunger for a touch, hunger for a smell hunger for a taste. He quivered and his breath staggered. He mumbled, a name. His lips extremely dry. His skin wet and cold, but on fire at the same time. His hands were wavering, trying to touch, itching to touch. Yearning for a touch. His mind, his body, his soul. His, it was all his, this thing, that body, that mind , that soul, it was his. And his alone.
And he woke up.
His breath was slammed into him, his chest rose and fell with an extreme force. 'It was just a dream, it was just a dream' "God damn it!" He whacked the wall, his body shook with uncontrolled anger. He kicked his sheets to the ground, something metal hit the floor but it was not loud enough. They would not hear him, ever, he would never be heard. So he pushed the nightstand. His alarm was sent across the room, his light fell to pieces and his glass rolled, spilling its content across the floor. But he was not contempt, not by far. He raised his arms, and slammed them down, hard, as hard as he could. But it was not hard enough, no pain. No pain. He raised them again, slammed them down, hard. A little pain. But not enough. Not nearly enough. Bending, scattered pieces of glass laying on the floor and he grabbed one in each hand and he rose again. And he slammed them down. Screams of pain escaped his lips as the glass cut his legs, crimson red spread trough fabric like milk in tea. Cold, warm, naked. And he pulled it out. Contempt, he felt it, a tiny spark but it was just a spark and the dark disguise of disgust cloaked it, chocked it. And then he was left alone. He and his own mind, in the darkness.
No sleep, no sleep for months, no sleep for years. He did not remember. Maybe he slept, each night, a little. But he did not know for sure, he could not tell, he could not keep track of it. It did not bother him, the way things are supposed to go was an idea he had stopped believing in a long time ago. First it had been an act of real disbelieve, than an act to rebel, now he did not know. He did not understands and he did not want to. He did not need anything, except for that one thing, that was godamnit his already. But he did not have it. He could not grab, see nor smell it. He did not have it. Not even a tinny piece of it.
"Could you give it to me?" "Oh, yeah sure." And it all came back. Five days per week, forty weeks per year and about nineteen years of his life; school. He laughed and handed over the piece of paper that he had been drawing on to the girl. Smiling she continued with his drawing, and another one was pushed in front of him. A piece of glass 'Is that irony smiling at me?' The graphite tip of the pencil pressed on the paper as he started to finish his part of the drawing.
"Class is finished." 'Why, why already?' Because 'it was time'. Fuck time. It was not his so why would he want to control it? It belonged to nobody but everybody seemed to want to control it. People are inconsistent. And he hated that. More than anything. They say one ting and think another and act, again, another. It bothered him, the only thing in the world it seemed. His pain was made by that inconsistency by humans. You're a hero, You're a monster. And now he knew what he believed, he knew what he was. And he knew himself, himself as he was, maybe not as he supposed to become, but he grew into it. Because of the inconsistency perhaps. But he became it, for a hundred percent, on the inside at least, a beast, a monster. He and he alone, the monster of the village.
It still itches though, the things that his parents wanted for him. He knew his parents, and he knew their wishes, but he was no longer with them any more His heart belonged to someone else now. And it was in a place of darkness that he did not understand. And he did not know who kept his heart beating but he sometimes wished for nothing but silence. But it never came. It kept pumping blood trough his veins, wounds would not kill him, he would heal them himself, he could not die by a human hand. He embraced the fact that he had overcome humanity in that way but only to learn the people a lesson. Not because he wanted it, not at all. Not in the slightest. He longed for something else, that one dark place that held his heart. Would he ever know who it was, or what it was? He doubted it.
Skin red, warm, hot, moist. Cheeks flushed. Flesh was ripped by eyes. Bite mark, teeth bare, eyes white, pupils small. Animal lust. His was great, his was greater. One demolished, one demolisher, one overpowered, one ruler. Nail sunk, circles of red circling around the spot. Crawling up the fold, blood clotted. Breath hissed and hushed. Teeth pressed and jaws clenched. Flesh was slammed, gentle and with force. More force, more chaos, but always with pride. Yes pride he had. Pride was what he was, a piece of him.
He woke up. "Pride" He hissed trough his teeth. He had seen a piece of him. He felt joy, a pleased feeling, like a fire. The room was dark, his pupils huge. Darkness all around him but not that kind of darkness. 'Pride.' Pride it was then. A majestic animal, a majestic beast, a majestic demon. And it was his and his alone!
He felt controlled rage and fear. Disgust wrapped around his heart again. His breath was chocked out of him. Daylight surrounded him, the bathroom, a public bathroom. The school. He doubled, his stomach hurting, hands pressed against the wall. He grunted, growled, but no one to hear him. No one ever notices, did he even want to?
He pushed the door open. Mirrors. No, no mirrors! Head down, cold water in his face and he cooled down. He calmed down, but he did not look up until he was in the corridor. Never wanting to see his reflection, seeing himself, his own eyes. His betraying eyes. Seeing them would be like betraying himself. He would remember, remember all the old stuff. The memories would flood in. He had done it before, but that was a long time ago. A very long time. Had his eyes still been blue? Or red? What were they now, red he supposed. Red, stripes, bare teeth and claws. Images rushed trough his mind. He burned them down, and blew the ashes away.
"You there?" She said. 'No' "Yes.' Thinking one thing act another. 'What am I doing?' "Could you come along please?" "Sure." He walked behind, behind the swatting skirt, the ribbons in her hair and bare shoulders. Did he find it attractive? No. Not at all. He knew what he liked and he knew he would never get it. Or maybe he would, one piece at the time. "This way please." They turned a corner. "What are you going to show me?" "This." She said while pushing against a heavy door. It was dark inside, and for a moment he hesitated, but the lights were switched on and showed a huge room. Mostly empty, but in the middle stood an enormous thing covered underneath a blanket. "What's this?" "Someone made this and left it behind, I found it and moved it here." "Why do you want me to see it?" She shrugged while walking towards the middle of the room. The cloth was huge, the corners laying on the floor, she grabbed one and pulled it down. A sculpture, no not a sculpture, a huge, massive painting. "Come and see it from the front." He walked around it.
Dark hair, black. Black like the darkest thing he had ever seen. Hair as soft as silk. Skin was white as marble. His eyes were red, crimson red. And crimson red was what was flowing trough his veins. It was alive, he was alive and it was majestic. Pride seeping from it in the form of tears and sweat. His body wet in juices that sensed sweet and shined like sliver. It liked his lips, pale white turned to silver, biting on it, it turned into a simple delicate pink. Its eyes reflecting nothing, turning black, two holes. Slender form, not solid, its outlines vague, an ever shifting form. Robes were cloth, heavy and dark, wet and cold, dry and hot. It brushed my skin, leaving it burning. Red scratched, my own nails sinking in my flesh where ever I think I can touch it. I never touch it, its not solid but thin and shifting like air around me. I breath, it disperses and I search again. Red eyes search red. Blue searches black. We change, he changes he changes. They cant reach, never can. He breathes heavily, with every breath it reshapes its form. He can't focus on it, like it doesn't want to be covered but it leaves trails. Silver drops on black grass, a dark world, his world. He doesn't understand. And he stops breathing. And it stops shifting and there it is. There it stands, high above. In light. In darkness. No shape, no form, no eyes, no body, no soul, no touch.
"Is this real?" He says underneath his breath. He turned "Who painted this? " Angry. His voice sounded trough the room, hard and solid. Hitting the walls. "I told you I don't know who made this." Anger, but more like she was scared. 'Scared to be hurt? You don't know who I am do you?'