Movement I: Decay
"death, decay, beauty
" - Anne Rice's Memnoch the Devil
"Girls vomit candy and lies that they're fed. Boys whisper lullabies and wet their beds. " - Scarling
Most people don't take time enough to thoroughly examine and experience the stages of decay. They don't take time to bathe in the ecstasy that washes over them with the first wave of probing worms. They don't give themselves up to the almost erotic feelings of little creatures eating out their eyes and heart. They're not able to find the beauty in wearing a gown of flesh ornate with intricate designs carved out by little white worms.
I, however, did not get the chance to finish my decay. I was interrupted by an anemic little girl with candy pink hair and a dusty black dress. Her eyes were gashed and ran bloody down her cheeks as she pulled at my hair and told me to come. I reached out to put my hand on her dress, and I watched as my worms became entangled in her black lace.
She untangled her sticky fingers from my hair and gently lifted my worm-infested hand from her shoulder. She grasped my fingers tightly and I felt the worms squeeze and burst under her grip. She let go of me and brought her hand to her lips, licking off the gore as if it were candy. She smiled up at me with small black lips, her dimples pooling with dark blood from her eyes.
I was bound to her now. She had eaten the worms which had, in turn, eaten me. Perhaps I would complete the circle and eat the girl herself. I knew her hair would taste like fine-spun sugar and her rotting skin would taste like overripe fruits. The bloody remains of her eyes would no doubt taste like vintage wine resurrected from the metaphorical grave, because I was sure this little fairy had never been buried.
She brought me to the place that was her home. I knew that the lot was empty - a popular site for teenagers and their light beer or their diluted marijuana. I saw, however, a large house. A dilapidated Victorian masterpiece of black and candy pink, it soared upwards towards heaven and crumbled downwards towards hell. The moonlight shone through the pristine pink trimming, confirming my doubts of its actual presence.
We climbed the hazy stairs to her room where she served me absinthe in miniature tea cups, white china painted with delicate roses of gold and pink. The wormwood made me cry as I remembered with a longing the worms that had crawled through my flesh only hours ago. They were dead now, the ones that had survived the girl's black lace and pale fingers. I felt them dry up and die inside of me, devoid of their dark and my death.
I felt the poison surge through me, bringing a smile to my deteriorated lips. I surveyed her room with rotted eyes. It was filled with dolls. Dolls dressed in black and candy pink, their eyes lined in diamonds and smeared with blood.
There was a large crucifix above her wrought iron bed. A pink silk bow was tied around Jesus's tarnished chest. Flowers and X's distorted His image, drawn in clumsy gray crayon. Below the crucifix, there was nailed a plaque inscribed with "I will strike her children dead. - Revelation 2:23."
Her livid face shone with macabre beauty as she stared up at me from empty sockets. I wondered if she could see anything at all. A mortuary smile graced her lips as fresh gore oozed from the holes. I had the dire urge to lick the clotting blood from her pallid face.
I acted on my desire, her archaic blood a delicacy on my decomposing tongue. It did, indeed, taste like vintage wine, dark and red and luscious. More of the mephitic gore poured over her cheeks and down my throat. I felt it flood my empty body, oozing out of my puncture wounds and worm-eaten tunnels. I laughed and began to cry. Gore poured from my very own eyes and I smeared it across my face and body, making myself holy.
She backed away from me, her baby pink curls bouncing slightly. Tangled into them was a large black bow, much like a mutated fly trapped in a web of cotton candy and cyanide. I smiled, my teeth clotted with her eyes, and she returned the gesture. Her teeth were sharp and pointed, a milky white that bordered on translucent. They looked almost like glass, and I was sure that even just a touch would shatter them.
I stepped forward and gently placed my index finger against one of the small glass thorns. The milkiness dissolved, turning it clear. Then, true to my belief, it exploded into a million tiny shards. They rained down onto her tongue, drawing blood. More blood gushed from the roots of the tooth, pooling in her mouth and flooding over her lips. I watched it run down her chin and drip onto the wooden floor. She smiled up at me again, the remaining teeth turned from milk to cherry kool-aid.
Is there any beauty to an eyeless little girl in torn lace or am I just sadistic? Is being devoured by crawling white worms sensual or is it unbearably morose? Is death majestic or psychotic? Am I completely out of my fucking mind?
I hope so. I hope I am completely and entirely insane. Because I know that insanity would be the anchor to keep my little eyeless enchantress from flying away from me. Insanity would keep us together forever, and perhaps it would allow us to decay together. If there is no god, let there be insanity. Insanity, gore, and little white worms.