Cigarette Burns

Her nails bit crescents in his back and her faded green irises were like cigarette burns in the dark. He couldn't believe that this had come true. Years of fantasies, years of his lotion drenched right hand and now she was there below him moaning like a pro in some porno. Her body the languid design of bones and death and her face the perfect outline of a cherub. Jaded but still angelic. Her hands gripping him in a perfect balance of pain and pleasure. Her nails created whip marks down the expanse of his back tearing the flesh and creating blood rivulets in the skin. He bent his head to her ear as the throws of orgasm loomed close. He said something about forever. She laughed "This isn't even for tonight." And only pain shot through him. Pain with the slightest hint of an orgasm. All those years of lusting and loving and when she gave him what he'd wanted on such a physical level, the pleasure he had wanted, she wasn't willing to give any more. Wasn't willing to sacrifice her beautiful and dangerous name. Wasn't willing to give up the hordes of admirers. Wasn't willing to grant him love. His eyes burned more brilliant than her beautiful cigarette burns, pools of absinthe, irises that were laced with bitterness, blood, and the utmost hate and degradation. She was violence in the smooth flesh contorted to encourage lust. And he hated her. In that moment he felt nothing, not his sperm filling the condom and not her body below him.

As she sat on the edge of the bed putting her tights back on, he wandered into the kitchen. Plastic hung from the exposed beams and the remodelers toolkits sat vacant in the corners. He saw the end of a hammer jutting from one of the toolboxes. And her voice was coming from the doorway. Without thought he picked up the hammer and swung. Her scream broke the air and she ducked, the hammer smashing into the wall, tearing the plaster away. She shrieked and bolted out of the room, down the hall, towards the door, towards freedom. And he was right behind her, the hammer swinging down, the arc closing in, drawing blood as it cut through her shoulder. The smack of hammerhead against bone shook her body throwing her foreword hard into the floor. Her face burned and red blurred. He arced again and the hammer burrowed into her back, she let out a scream. Small, pleading. And he pulled the weapon free only to swing again blindly. He felt only the utmost hate, growing (not ebbing), with each show of violence. She gurgled her last prayers and he hefted the hammer bringing it down on the back of her head never having to look in her face as she died. As he killed her.

He sat across the room picking bits of skull and hair from the claw of the hammer, looking at the body sprawled in blood on the wood floor. He wondered if he'd get caught. He laughed, wiping up the blood, whispering "mutilate". He dragged her body to the bathtub and followed it with assorted knives and a hack saw. He cut her body apart placing the pieces in trash bags and from her torso he took her heart. The unloving piece of flesh. He threw the trash bag in a hole he'd dug and covered it quickly and without thought, he'd torn out her heart.

He sat on the couch eyes averted, prying apart the boards of wood in his mind. He became tired and slipped slowly beneath the surface of his mind. She pulled herself up with skeletal fingers, gripped his shoulders and yawned maggots and blood into his face. Her beautiful bone structure was a destroyed mess of bloodied remnants and her voice screamed around him. He started awake and took frantic breaths searching the room for her rot. She though, was buried and bloodied and wasn't capable of crawling. His eyes stuttered closed and her face tore holes in his dreams.

He smoked cigarettes and pleaded with his eyes to stay open. Wary of the dreams about her gapping mouth and shattered head and the moths that fell from the red pit of her bloodied face. The cigarette fell from his hand as he sank into sleep and her hand floated up gripping his wrist. Her fingers twining up his arm pulling him down to where cold earth filled his lungs and the smells of rot and worms intoxicated his nose. He was screaming and blood was pouring into his mouth, her blood, his blood, it didn't matter it was all the same. He woke up with a droplet of sweat making its sweet way down his forehead. He gasped a breath of air, only the slightest taste of decay still hung on his tongue. She was that decay. His heart made furious palpitations; it felt like it wanted out of the entrapment his rib cage created. She was dead, she was buried. She had deserved it.

Thoughts of her tormented him, in waking and in sleep. In desperation he dug up her body and laid the parts together in his bed, curled against the side of her bloodied torso he closed his eyes. In his mind he was wrapped in plastic, pain, asphyxia and blindness. His heart made tremors in his chest and the plastic coated his throat. He woke up, got her heart from the freezer and swallowed the thing. All that was left to do was to try and end this. He went into the bathroom and took the plastic pill bottle in hand. He swallowed the entire bottle, a tiny bit of rum carrying the pills to his gut. The poison was in him. And then he went to bed, closed his eyes. Smelling her rot and tasting her skin. And slipped into a dreamless sleep, forever. Only those two cigarette burns were witnesses, she watched him fade away.