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Condemnation
“Dead is the New Alive”
-Emilie Autumn, my darling, my beloved.
I bid thee come.
Come to me freely and of thine own free will.
Here: into my arms; lay thine head upon my breast and listen to the lullaby of my heartbeat. Close your eyes, my love. Close your eyes and dream. Dream of your life goals, your future happiness, the color yellow, the sun. Cry out not in alarm as I nuzzle my face beneath your chin…and cry out not in pain as you feel two foreign objects break into the soft flesh of your neck.
Be still as I push your hair away, turn your face to the side; exposing the erotic white flesh; so white against the red blood of my inflicted wounds, and bury my face there: smearing your life waters over my nose, my cheeks, my lips; lapping at the blood as it flows from you; sucking at the wounds when it stops flowing so freely.
The warmth.
The ecstasy.
Your submission.
I could tear apart your ribcage; pry apart the bones; and reach for your heart through the hot slimy entrails still throbbing with life; suck the red, blood pumping organ until it shrank; compressed; and turned purple.
Oh, speak to me not of pain! You wanted to understand my pain; share my pain; take part in my burden of being an angel of death. Sending those who’ve otherwise done no wrong into an unknown world of which I’ve never nor will ever see.
I was born in the time of Elizabeth Tudor. The Virgin Protestant Queen. A time of poetry, music, and plays: Hamlet, Othello, The Duchess of Malfi! A time of aspiring geniuses. A time of religion. A time of hope and rebirth: the Renaissance.
I died during the rebirth. I was seventeen A man and ready to enter the priesthood and leave my young lover behind. But twas not the outcome.
Where was my God when I needed him most? When the one I thought to be my lover knocked me down upon the cathedral steps and tore savagely at my wrist, bits of skin and detached veins dangling from his lips and teeth. How blue those eyes appeared that night. So blue. Like crystals.
But the conniving bastard sent me to my doom; my own personal hell: my sadistic delight in taking human life, but my eternal fear of a higher force: the force that watches my devil like movements waiting for penance or a time in which He can send me to my damnation.
Tell me, my piggies!
Do you wish to lust after human blood? There is no alternative. Human blood, mortal life is what shall suffice. Will you cope with never being able to look upon the agony of Christ ever again without feeling an overwhelming sense of repulsion, self destructive guilt, and a horrible terror, a dread of what may come after the physical world? Never be able to look into a mirror without the frustration of no reflection: no eternal soul?
Can you handle the fact that I may lie when I say I will share with you my blood? Would you understand that I may just lust after the red flowing through your veins to tell you anything?
Believe me when I say I am the devil?
“Liar.” You say.
How you make me laugh; you wished this upon yourself.
