Author: loss of reality PM
a collection of short stories that look at the things we hold dear in the darker sides of our hearts.the grey line the sits between love and obsession, the ugliness and beauty of a wilting rose, the horrors of unbridled emotions. please, join the madness.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror - Chapters: 4 - Words: 11,983 - Updated: 05-14-12 - Published: 01-14-12 - id: 2988411
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He was never really sure what it was… the final satisfaction of the triumph, dominating his quarry like Hercules versus the lion? Or was it the chase itself he enjoyed, acting out so many imagined visions of beasts or birds of prey?
No, long ago it had been about the act as a whole. The whole thing a single rushing mechanism of flowing movements, punctuated by tears and the after smell of whatever perfume was the fancy for the evening for his hapless "lovers".
Now, after so long, maybe to break the tedium, or for some other deep unknown reason, he had come to savor it in parts, like a play almost. The world's ugliest written penny dreadful, with its blanched posters and cynical audience looking to find, even for that brief illusory moment, someone more miserable than them.
But even after so long, it wasn't even that glorious of an event to him. In the end, all illusions aside, the tides of time had washed away the barnacle coated surface of pretense, leaving it for what it really was.
An almost primal hunger, a need deeper than the actual lust that prompted his dulled and dripping sense into action. The beating of skin tight tribal drums that drive a warrior to blood lust, although he doesn't know why. And so it was same old story with the luxury of few trappings to weigh it down in philosophy and moral arguments, the splendid realization of something for what it is with out metaphors or poetry. A dirty secret of knowing full well you have done wrong and the electric thrill of knowing that you just don't care…
He was a murderer and rapist, and every second of it pleased him till the sides of his face hurt from smiling. He had all the pleasure one expects from a man who goes uncaught for as long as he had. It was never his nature to claim arrogance of course (not that anyone who was ever did) but there was a deep satisfaction to seeing the black and white reminders of every victory, as he saw them, in the newsstands. Not that he gave it all as much attention as others would.
It was a very secondary sort of feeling, this little view of his handiwork. He honestly held no true affection to the celebrity aspect or even the idea of the fear he could induce. It was really only about satisfying that hunger. As long as he could do that, than everything else could slip into cold, stony oblivion for all he cared, as far as he "could" care.
No… it really didn't matter. In time he would forget the last set of photos and news reports. Forget the awkward shuffle of his feet on the pavement as he left all care behind, his task complete. Even the act itself and the face of his unfortunates would be forgotten.
When had the drifting started? Even he could never put his finger on it. A gap existed in his mind he never wanted to have to bother to fill. A cheap childhood, his teens in bits and pieces when he strained, the first time he actually began his passionate crusade against the flesh eluded him. And so it was…
Waking in broken hotel rooms, no memory of anything further back than a week, hours missing from the day. Once upon a time it had all been so fun, that he could remember. But now.., after so long, after so much of the drugs, and the wandering to keep himself free, the hunger it's self gnawing at his insides and his reason.
Now, for what it was worth (and to him it was worthless) he was no longer himself, but a thing. Mindless, bent of satisfying its base needs.
Nothing but a gluttonous insect, living from one meal to the next, and shying from the light, unaware of what he even was. His own face in the mirror no longer registered with him, the sight of his crimes in a paper meant nothing. He no longer even knew that it had been him that committed the acts. All he knew was the moment, and with efficiency honed through years of repetition he continued on, unaware that he was even a wanted man any longer.
Night after night, and through days beyond counting. She weaved her webs from silk, and money. Lingerie and blood. A black widow suited to sit as royalty among her ilk, waving her thorax forever in the tantalized sights of foolish men and fat wallets.
How many, how many? Ten, twenty? She never counted; it wasn't the nature of the predator to keep something as foolishly sentimental as a permanent trophy. No that would never do, to bother with some binding memory to the husks of the emptied that she left to the wayside.
After all it was about satisfaction, the need to have no needs. So lovely was it all, the dream, that sweet feverish fantasy that out did any wet dream to be laced into the minds of men by media or succubae. To have love and lost, surely to have loved, gained and lost the dead weight of the benefactor was the way to live.
After all, a black widow doesn't plan out the drapes of her new home just before she eats her lovers head. It would be a bit ex posto facto in all truth to think of such a thing as a life with ones food. A meal is after all no more alive, in essence, than each new mate is to the eyes of the spider.
No love lost, because there was none to begin with. It was so easy, even from the beginning. A new lover every few nights, and a full wallet the next morning, dressed in whatever jewelry was worth salvaging from the kill, only to be pawned with in the next few hours.
But after so long, tonight's dish was a true feast. The last supper, upon plates of gold and chalices full of blood. For this is his body, and of it she shall eat. But no one would be saved. He had been an unexpected gifted, thrown into her sight. More often than not, it was up to her well curved hips, and smoky eyes to draw the prey.
Yet there in the bar it had been that single glass of wine, bought and delivered "for the lady" by the well dressed, sun kissed young morsel that sat only yards away, which sealed the poor fools fate. Who was fool enough to try such a venture? Not only to throw oneself before the maw of the widow, but to practically season and cook yourself?
The young mans appearance screamed of wealth, Armani, Rolex, fine Italian shoes. To her many eyes he was not the sum of his parts, simply the sum of his cash, young well off lad with the time and money to court a well dressed older woman. He couldn't have been out of his twenties…
But the younger ones are always more tender.
And so here she stood before her mirror, adorning her self for tonight. A few vague flirty words, the batting of her well groomed eyelashes, and a date had been made. This was the sort of mark that one played for a bit longer than usual. A few dates, but not enough to make one an easy target for the eyes of the law when things go south (as they always did) he was the kind you could milk, but only for a short time.
It had become an art to her really, and she loved the game as much as the feast. Each mark had different rules. For these sweet foolish young ones that waved their cash in the impetuous nature of youth, you could string them along, so long as they got what they wanted periodically, a simple matter requiring little effort. The young ones always were easy to please.
As for the more refined and aged "vintages" she had to play out her roles more carefully. Each one had a specific taste to garner to. The business man for whom you feigned innocence and awe, the older gentle man who simply like a pretty arm on his shoulder to show off to his fellows. Each had a preference, and a well versed widow could spin many webs, like the proverbial Arachne of ancient Greek tale, spinning tapestries to make even the gods jealous.
But tonight was what mattered.
Such a prize, even in his dumbfounded lumbering, what little reason he pieced together told him so.
Sun bronzed skin, the sweet androgynous curves of the thighs that only the youth of fine Latin bloods seemed to posses both male and female (and his mind as it was no longer made such distinctions).
The curious and beguiling face of the angels from the very imaging's of Rembrandt himself! This, now this was a meal of meals, even the insect he was could still in some vague way appreciate art, even if he could no longer see past the ascetics of it.
He had seen him, only the night before, this vibrant pulsing vision of youth, through the windows of some building he hadn't the sense to distinguish and than, with the skill of his craft so carefully honed during sanity, and now perfected through cold instinct had trailed him to one of those popular open air bars, where he watched him from across the street.
Seated so casually at the café, pretending to read the paper. It had been a long time since he had bothered with pretending to act human, to use the old tricks during the pursuit, but something about this naïve unguarded angel awoke old memories in him.
Feelings from a time, when the hunt had meant more than the conquest, befuddled memories of putting on expensive suits in front of a mirror to aid the chase before he had been drown in the blind hunger. The game seemed fresh again, and reason, fleeting as it was, clicked into place somewhere within him.
This was the promise of so long, the smile so willing flashed for anyone willing to partake in conversation, the slender shoulders that begged to held, than crushed in embrace, the bright eyes that seemed to beg for something unknown, almost like a cheerful puppy. How he wanted this one. It was no longer just the emptiness of the hunger he wished to fill; he truly, fervently wanted this one. To see the light extinguished. To hear him cry in anguish.
A face beautiful enough to drive someone mad, or make the mad sane again it seemed…
And so after some rather carful scouting, he made his preparations for the finest meal ever to put before his claws, and like the praying mantis, he would strike swiftly, and than savor his doomed Premir amore….
Wait for me my love, for I am coming…
Such splendor, the stucco walls of this tropical city mansion. The dulled pastel colors of the sky adding a certain ambiance that could ever have been hope for on a warm evening touched by the salt air. And in the midst of this lovely evening she stood, removing her jacket and walking with a well calculated swing to her hips as he she was guided trough the Spanish style home, its size far from staggering, but the wealth instilled into the walls obvious.
It seemed almost too easy really, the charm needed to snare the poor, sweet, and soon to be devoured young soul…
He led her from room to room, the usual banter. Small talk with no means, and a simple end of impressing, but she didn't really listen….
And after the flow of the evening it was abundantly clear to her that she would rather be done with him tonight.
So easy… almost too easy really. The effortless way in which he had followed his quarry. The young beauty catering to some guest or other… but it didn't matter, some woman, another obstacle, nothing major.
The front gate had been left open, so carelessly, so welcomingly almost to him. And with all the force he could muster he prepared to find a far off back door, and if he must, destroy it, although picking a lock was not outside his skill…
The lavish nature of the home was lost on him, just a casing, a shell with which inside laid the morsel he craved. And to his astonishment, the prize had left a back window open….
" Twas meant to be practically, cant you see? The fates brought you to me, to feed. So don't fight, not too hard at least, can't you see? Because I cant any more…"
The sounds at once he recognized, the distant flow of music from a bedroom. And with cunning he had not used in so long found his way quietly to the bridal suit where he would consummate in blood, tears and other such putrid fluids of the flesh, his passionate if brief bond to the angel on earth
"Hallelujah, praise the lord of the flies, for this is my body, and of it I shall force him to feast."
So close at hand, the intricate door behind which laid the accumulation of his fevered dreams and pointless days, and with all the intent of gaining surprise over his victim he kicked in the door.
And there lay the widow, so pretty and on any other day he would have gladly made a meal of her, but not now, she was in his way right now…. Or was she…
So quite, so motionless, even the sleeping tend to wake at the sound of a breaking door, her eyes open, staring so blankly at the canopy of the bed, dilated, the thick smell he knew too well emanating from her, that mix of woman's perfume and exposed wounds…
Not that he was given time to put all this together in his head, not before he felt the sharp pain in the back of his skull, and the world spinning one last time before going blank.
An insect under a boot….
God, it had been almost too easy this time, and two for one to boot. The beautiful youth licked his lips in satisfaction and took a seat in the high-backed chair to observe the evening's results from a distance.
The woman had been easy, he knew the type and had picked her specifically for it. He had seen her, tracked her, knew what she was, and knew she was simple to bait.
The man however? This unexpected treat to wander in, he had seen the type before, mindless and stumbling, a real killer who hadn't the sense to know what remorse was.
He loved it, oh so very much, as he licked his lips again and stared quite unemotionally at his would be destroyers in turn, goodness, how so much like crushed bugs they looked. And what bug, spider, mantis or otherwise stood a chance against the chameleon, sitting regally on his branch, choosing the perfect set of colors to hide within.
What insect could escape such a lizard's tongue?
"for this is my body, and in it you both shall digest"