1- The Night
She was too real; a fantasy she was not. Her feminine,
smooth, silk-like skin of fragility seemingly pierced through the darkness which
made up the entire confined bedroom. Compromising was not an option. Although
her service was a paid one, she insisted on using her own unorthodox, slightly
uncomfortable method; but it didn’t bother me much, as I waved her black glossy
hair with my long, pointy, malnourished fingers; it was titillating, which
enthralled my senses. I was a satisfied man. My left hand steadily slid down
her very naked, yet very uniformly polished back, which excited her till no end,
as she pleaded for more. Oh damn, was I cheated? How dare her—bastard! I deliberately
used my untrimmed fingernails and scratched her back vertically upwards,
leaving a light yet visible scar on it. I could sense that she wasn’t too
pleased.
“I paid for it!” I allowed her hair to waterfall
through the gaps between my fingers and forcefully clenched it into a cold hard
fist; she wailed a rather sorrowful cry of pain, and I loved it. She deserved
it. Gosh. She soon recovered from it and fixated her cyan pupils onto my own,
and at that very moment, her heart seemed to be filled with innocence, I could
sense it. I sense everything; I also
sense nothing. She redirected my
sight to her delightfully tiny pinkish lips.
“Kiss me.” She commanded; my heart stopped for a
second, just one. I was again
satisfied, so I did as told; our crimson lips slowly brought together by the
mysterious force of instinct, as I indulged myself in the heavenly feeling of such
an intimate action, my soul drowned in an undeniable state of guilty pleasure, and
it was a lovely feeling. I loved it. I
did not feel conned, as she finally surrendered herself to me. She was mine. I stared at her tranquil pupils
one more time, but things went awfully haywire; chaos; madness.
“Get the hell
away from me!” I hastily grabbed a long black hairpin. It was hers; she
left it on top of a drawer beside our king-sized bed. Oh I was a lucky man; the
hairpin contained a very sharp and very dangerous edge, very interesting. I
vehemently punched her right temple, causing it to swell so much it turned into
a red bomb which is about to detonate any second. It punctured. She let out a
pitch higher than scratching a glassy surface, which lacerated right into my feeble
eardrums; I could not take it anymore—she was irritating me so much I wished
I’d die, so I pressed both palms onto her head rigidly and summersaulted her
off the bed and onto the icy marbled floor. I then got off the opposite side of
the bed and glanced at both of my hands. I was shocked. I was paralyzed. I
refused to believe myself.
My hands!
They were severely deformed; twenty or so fingers
protruding from various locations, with their fleshes and bones exposed;
probably leaving the mightiest of all—air itself horrified at its sight;
incomparable to horror movies, as it was pure reality. Such ugliness is intolerable, yet I felt
no pain. Oh, and my left thumb was missing; was it chopped off? Did she bite it
off? I wasn’t sure. But what the hell, a thumb is a useless piece of shit. Shit I say, S H I T.
It was inside
that useless piece of shit—the woman. I saw it—my thumb sticking through her
right eye socket, which somehow didn’t contain an eyeball. Shit. Shit. Shit.
She firmed her right hand onto the bed and slowly lifted herself upwards.
Something was amiss. She stared at me; her eyes watery—no, they weren’t. She
didn’t have eyes other than two of my thumbs. Oh there goes my right thumb. Her
mouth leaking out fresh red blood, and her nose wrinkled to the point where it
seemed somewhat decomposed. She was pitiful.
She was begging me to stop assaulting her with blunt weapons, although I
couldn’t hear her well. I confess; her charisma started to infect my soul.
“I-I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean to-“
EEARGH!
She leaped onto me and pushed me to the ground; she
followed. All her limbs were pressing down on my own limbs, symmetrically, just
that I’m a handsome man and she’s an ugly witch. My right arm was a free arm,
as she was missing hers, in place of it was a waterfall of blood. Blood. She was no longer a woman, but a
monster with a mouth full of white fangs, seemingly cracked, yet there were
like thirty of them; her seemingly bleached hair was too long, it barely came
into contact with the ground; her cheeks weren’t cheeks, they were holes, as if
they were drilled into. She was beautiful, I think. I’m crazy. She lashed out
her serpent-esque tongue right into my shrieking mouth, which effortlessly went
through the back of my throat. I lost my ability to breathe properly. I didn’t
want to die. I focused. I could not die, simply because I could never die.
As I tried to regain my sanity (which failed), I
sensed it—a pen touching the tip of my right middle finger, so I tried to grab
it, but her disgusting tongue. It is annoying. I didn’t feel pain, just
annoyed; it restricted my movements. One wrong move and my throat will be
sliced in half. Why? Simple; her tongue was essentially a retractable sword. Ah
how amazing it felt to have adrenaline gushing through my veins; I stretched my
right arm to its limit, to the point that I might’ve torn a few strands of
muscles. Why? Because I could. My extremely bare back was sweaty, as I was
exhausted. I repeat; I wasn’t in pain; pain was nonexistent. But I saw it. A
walking arm; her right arm in fact; it was severed with its bone protruding out
of its green slimy wound. Green.
Its razor-sharp nails casually cleaved my right palm
into three pieces; the pain was nigh unbearable. I cried, but not because I
felt pain; I feel no pain; I just
loathe ugliness, and my hand was somehow uglified, if there’s such a term. I
had enough; with the newfound strength of a colossus, I delivered a sudden knee
to her skinless abdomen. I was fortunate, and always am. She loosened her grip.
I ripped her hand of my palm and stabbed the wild, untamable fingers right
through her left eye (it was my thumb, but who cares), which probably dealt
enough pain to her. She hastily retracted her tongue and flinched backwards,
before lying flat on the marbled floor, star-formation. She panted too heavily,
like a wild DOG that ran three
thousand miles. I did not retaliate, and instead chose to sit back and lick my
wounds—I mean ugliness. Whatever.
“Shadow!” I didn’t remember leaving my bedroom door
unlocked. Yes, it was an insanely breakable wooden door, but my mother of all people should know better.
I stared bewilderedly as she barged into my personal space and witnessed one
hell of a mess. She saw me, naked, very naked. Well, I might be twenty, but my
family is against premarital sex. I was in a total loss of words.
“Are you changing clothes?” Awkward.
“Uhh, well, yeah.” I tried to shoo her away, but she
just stood there like a scarecrow waiting for the day when pigs fly, or when
crows stop shitting.
“Son, you are so naked. Please wear some clothes, even
though you’re in your room; unless you’re my husband who died twenty years ago,
who had the best naked body in the world. If you really love being naked, at
least lock your shitty door.”
BUT I LOCKED
IT. ASSHOLE MOTHER.
Oh. I think I saw her—E(1ZA Marinette, the prostitute
that I hired earlier, which somehow turned into a stupid witch. Her legs went
over my mother’s naked shoulders (she was wearing a singlet), somewhat similar
to a piggyback ride; her edgy nails
seemingly piercing through the neck she was gripping onto.
Is this a
dream?
She left—they left. I quickly put on a rather formal
set of clothes; a blue buttoned shirt, black jeans and some old socks. I was
anew. I checked my watch.
“Nope, ain’t a shitty dream.” My watch displayed the
time accurately, unlike in stereotypical dreams where they would be distorted
or so; maybe something like “932As:D” instead of “E(1ZA”. I remained calm. The
explanation is simple—I had hallucinations; if it isn’t clear enough to you
readers, I suffer from schizophrenia, a condition that somehow blends reality
and fantasy together. But what about the bleeding wound on my neck? The witch
wasn’t real, or was she?
“Shadow Vegas, we have a visitor!” I hurried down to
the rather dimly-lit living room where I saw our guest, our rather familiar
looking female guest. I vomited.
“Hi, my name is E(1ZA Marinette. Nice to meet you
Shadow.” She smiled; I live an awesome life.
Damn.
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