When Angels Deserve to Die
Stalking the catacombs, a wretched shadow loomed over rolling rivers of humanity's last resort. The creature glided over dehydrated earth with great ease, lightly placing one boot in front of another, drifting across the ground without breaking a brittle twig or leaf. He was like the skeletons that lay strangled in their graves, a despairing demon, some ghost without a past whose soul screamed in the silence of self-created insanity. This was the landscape of his poetry, the forbidden fruit his thoughts lusted after, loving lunacy that drove him to dementia. As much as he craved craziness in all of its magnificent malevolence, he never truly fulfilled his hunger for contentment. A beautiful mind troubled with violent intent, terror beyond the grave that echoed of stability long-forgotten, of a thought process that only the damned would truly understand.
Stepping on top of a mound of dirt, he navigated through unholy territory, not even giving a second thought to the damage he left after treading above unmarked tombs. Massive black heeled shoes scraped the soil, drawing long, deep lines everywhere he went. Idly, he cast an expressionless gaze behind himself, studying the lacerations he induced. They appeared to be much more than mere scratches in the sand.
Those markings looked like abusive slashes-
Self-mutilation-
A horrifyingly accurate representation of the snapping of a psychopath.
Cocking his head to the side, he withdrew his hands from his pockets in a ceremonial fashion, flashing his nails to the onyx sky. A subtle wind blew through the area, creeping through the trees in sly waves. In this ominous wake of silence where not even the wind boomed a single howl, the zombie of the living raised his hands towards his face. Placing twin limbs of destruction by his temples, he curved his fingers inward, then touched the tangled heap of vines connected to his scalp. His hair, a frightening shock of white, resembled the shade of bleached bones. Permitting the sadistic grin on his countenance to widen, the nightmarish fiend closed his eyes and pointed his nose to the moon. As he painfully raked his palms through stringy tresses, a sudden gust of air raged around him, spreading his floor length trench coat open. Billowing in the breath of death, his jacket rose a few inches from the anorexic terrain, spilling into the empty breeze like a river of untold terror. He relished the feel of the blustery conditions, inhaling it through ravenous nostrils, tasting the shift of air currents on his blood stained mouth. A change in wind direction denoted a potential thunderstorm was coming on. And strong gales usually were accompanied by record waterfall. That was fine by him, though. Impending downpours never riled him.
He welcomed them.
Rain just so happened to be his favorite kind of weather.
Encouraged by the bruised clouds looming overhead, the millennium spirit fell to his knees. Grinning in such a horrible way that would make a demon cower in tears, the self-proclaimed god stretched his arm out in front of himself, the claws of his palm longing to touch the slab of undisturbed rock. Methodically, he ran his fingertips over the surface of cold granite, stroking engraved letters on the tombstone. He dragged his limb over the finish in such a savage fashion that his flesh tore, washing the gray surface with fluid from his veins. Pain was good--no, it was even better than that--pleasure was more like it. Yes, that's exactly what searing skin was--total satisfaction to the murderer that lay beneath his unsympathetic mask of disassociation, sickening enlightenment offered only to sociopaths. Trailing crimson rivers on the object of his amusement, he passed a voracious tongue over his lips. It had been such a long time since he had settled his appetite for the red solution, ever since the pathetic little doll decided to take the easy way out of this life. A heavy frown appeared on his mouth. He had been abandoned by someone too weak to stay alive, too pretentious to be seen with him, just too damned pitiful to exist.
Scraping his nails across his victim's crypt, he glared down at the shriveled burial place. Breathing in low, heavy breaths, he felt tension dissipate from his jaw. Something was bubbling up in the back of his throat, teasing his voice box, commanding to be let loose from his mouth. It demanded to override his animosity, to be the center of attention and sole focus of the events unraveling.
Laughter. Eerie noises burst through his windpipe in what started as a low roar, evolving into a loud ensemble of cackles, then sprang from his open chops. Its ghastly splendor was so gloriously loud that corpses were forced to listen to him.
Smiling sadistically, he resurrected his possession, his life among the dead, filling his lover's lungs with oxygen of the perpetually imprisoned. Ritualistically, he plucked a studded choker from his jacket, snapped it around his servant's neck, then attached a steel chain at the base of the necklace.
In one quick motion, he grabbed his fated mate by the hair, yanking the poor wretch's head up to meet his steely gaze. Ruthlessly, he pressed his lips down on the male's slack mouth, violating his plaything's skin, shoving his tongue into unwanted spaces. Pulling out of the delicious mass of flesh, the beast of the underworld hoisted himself into a standing posture, slung his shoulders into a proud stance, and wrapped the metal cord tied to his casualty around his wrist.
Brusquely, he executed a half-turn, flashed a self-satisfied smile at his captive, body slack and hanging in the manacle, then strolled into the dimness that night brought. He paraded into the wind, disappearing into the assault of water spilling from the heavens.
"Cry all you want, you miserable angels and saints..." he snarled viciously, "Not even your whimpering God can save him now."