Nothing interesting happened today so here's some more edgy short fiction I wrote.
I picture you often.
I picture you the way I saw you the most.
Eyes wide, mouth stretched into a maniacal grin. Chest heaving. For all the world an insane clown in the throes of passion. That hot, magnificent passion of fulfilling the most innate of your urges, the most integral to your being: bloodlust. Once a month we would meet, at the corner of Main Street and Hell, in some shitty alleyway across from the liquor store, or perhaps a park bench in the middle of the night, lit by the sole streetlight on that block.
You’d already be grinning. Trembling with anticipation. I’d be shivering too, but only from the nerves. I always got so goddamn nervous to meet you.
We’d make our mark on some poor, unsuspecting party: most often a group of rowdy twenty-somethings or teenagers. You liked them the most because they were loudest. They tended to be the most self-important, the most outraged at our approach. They would look at us so coldly, scornfully, as if we should be ashamed of ourselves for chancing to walk near. ‘How dare you be in the park on the same night as us,’ they seemed to say. You’d saunter confidently over, me trailing behind, avoiding their eyes.
“Can we help you?” They’d say.
Or maybe just “Hey,” or “What’s up,” if they were drinking, having a good time. A bit friendlier. You liked them drunk.
No matter what they said you always just stared. Taking them in. Drinking in the image of them like a sponge. Grinning.
You told me you liked making them uncomfortable but I think it was more than that. I think you liked indulging in the feeling of that moment, the pre-kill. Gazing upon the beings about to be sacrificed to your hunger. Admiring. It was an appreciative gaze, they way some people keep their eyes open while they’re saying Grace. “Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive...”
Then they’d get scared. Or angry. There’d be shouting. “Leave us alone”, “we’re going to call the police”, “come on guys let’s just leave-”
You’d go for whoever was closest. If one of them was so bold as to come up to you, try to intimidate you or otherwise, you’d be more severe. Make sure everyone knew that this was a punishment. Without hesitation, draw out your blade and shove it through their throat, hopefully catching them mid-sentence. Drag the sharp edge through the flesh of the neck, up and down the vocal chords, like skinning a deer. Saw away just enough so that everyone knew exactly what was happening, that this wasn’t a dream or a weird stunt because they’ve never seen a man’s larynx outside of his body before, quivering in the open air, or if they have, then they’ve never seen Jason’s larynx before, and if they haven’t seen it, how could the brain conjure it up? Everyone knows you can’t dream an image you haven’t seen, and precious few people have seen their friend’s trachea wrapped around what remains of their face like a ball-gag. All accomplished with the speed and finesse of a magic trick. The girls would scream and the men would fall silent.
Then it would be a matter of keeping everyone in one place, securing the runners. If we were in an enclosed space I’d have gotten the doors by then, if not I’d have the shotgun at the ready, aimed at feet, kneecaps. That was my job. I incapacitate them, so you can have your wicked way. In that way I was mostly a bystander. Or, really, a captive audience.
I’d marvel as you grabbed your next victim by the hair and brought them, shrieking, onto your knife, sliding it in easily like a sword into a sheath. The effortlessness of your movements, the flow of your limbs, cutting, slicing, piercing with utmost precision where the most blood would flow. There was an artistry in the way you moved, like a dancer, the lines of your body tensed and extended, sharp and then smooth and so, so beautiful. In those moments, I nearly loved you.
And then the ringing in my ears would stop and I’d hear the echo of your cold, hollow laughter in the air. A rough, screeching cackle that sounded like crows fucking. A beam of moonlight would reach through the clouds to pass over your face, and I’d be forced to see you as you really are.
A lunatic, slick with blood, wrist-deep in gore. Playing with guts. Disgusting, even to me.
I’d stay until you were finished, but walk you home in silence. Try to tune out your heavy breathing and the stray giggle you’d fail to stifle on the quiet street. Drop you off at your front door like a high school sweetheart. In lieu of a goodnight kiss you’d grasp my arm, palm still wet with blood, until I turned to face you. Your eyes would find mine in the dark, and you’d grin. Somehow, something glinting in that grin would keep me thinking about you until the night we met again.