The Sane Sanctuary

Thirty-two: there are thirty-two and they hang on the wall. What you ask?  My collection of grisly souvenirs, the last one is barely a month old and frankly, it’s starting to show little signs of decay  and putrefaction.  No matter what I use, I can never stop that first biological rebellion that would keep them perfect.

The walls are pristine white, at least they were once, but now they are marred, stained and marked by the drippings and droolings of crimson that remind me somehow of Dali.  Not that I care about much than the fragrance it leaves behind.  It is art, and it is gorgeous to me.

Am I insane? Perception counts for much I suppose.  We are all beasts, extent hominina and we were given teeth for a reason; to rend flesh from bone and ingest the delicious plasma proteins that sustain life.   Are you any different? I know that you eat too.  Are you better than I? Anyone would do what they had to, to survive if they were starving.

Granted, my actions would be frowned upon in boring polite society.  They would call it cannibalism, but I call it, living.  It is not society’s opinion that matters to me, and it never has. The only judgment that I fear comes from the ones whose thoughts of me really matter and they are the only ones who have the right to judge. Who? Those whom I grilled and gormandize, of course.  They sacrificed their lives to feed me.  And they stay in here, where I come to pray at their feet and beg for forgiveness.

This is my sane sanctuary, my quiet place and the only space of reflection that I have in the world.  Only here can I be myself and lay myself bare before those who know me best, and beg forgiveness of the ones that are a part of me.  Everything about them was delicious; their memories, their minds and their bodies.  They were so tasty and the recollection makes my mouth water.

They aren’t all unknown.  Several, admittedly, had people who loved them and that I will regret til the day I die.  I wonder, though, did they have the same concern for the steak they ate off the grill on Sunday afternoons? One doubts it.  The majority, however, have never been reported missing, or have had people on television with tearful eyes pleading for their return. Sad, isn’t it?

The first one though, she is my favorite, my best girl and I mean that.  We lived together for years while I hid my all but rabid desire to devour her.  My Love, she was so beautiful with her laser beam eyes that always managed to melt my defences.  All she had to do was put her always cool fingers on my cheek and smile into my face and I would turn into a puddle of goo.

My Angel; I met her when I was already dead and her life had just ended.  At first, she never seemed to stop weeping, and all I could do was wrap her in my arms and wait for her sobbing to slow and her bright bright eyes to meet mine in a clear and direct manner.  Eventually, the weeping ceased and her clear stares eventually became something of a signal to her desire.   Not that I complained, and never to her.

Now, her eye sockets are empty , devoid of the once vibrant colour that sparkled there. It happens with decay, but I didn’t let them dry and roll back into her empty noggin.  I couldn’t do that to her.  The holes leave a vacant glare that shivers my spine. I hate when she looks at me like that.

She watched me suffer, disgusted and horrified as I suppressed that need, when died inside night after night laying next to the woman I adored and smelling the luscious scent of her sleep warm flesh.  I smothered my desires while I loved her, and chose to bite and never to tear flesh.  I drew blood but I never drank what I spilled, although sometimes the urge was so overwhelming that I would shake with the paroxysms of bottled passion.

My Angel, I miss her so much that I swear I can still taste her on my lips.  That night, I tried to be gentle and I succeeded, at first.  I devoured her with my eyes until she was the one quivering.  I remember the way her skin ran with goose-flesh and her breasts quivered and the way she looked up at me with those wide eyes that always made me wild with need.  And then, she whispered inconceivable words that both stunned and made my fly a little tighter.

My Love, I had never truly wanted to – never her; I wanted to taste her but I couldn’t live without her.  There was no other option and I clenched my fists and howled at the ceiling.  Angel insisted I explain, allowing me to pull her into her arms and sit her nude on my lap while I stumbled through the horror that I had been holding back for so long.

Only then, feeling my anguish, did Angel see the error of her ways and her thoughts, and she repeated the same words she’d said before, this time with that sweet, secret smile that made my heart throb in its cage.  She gave herself over to me, willingly as her final act of love, as my first meal.  Angel lay back on the bed with her legs spread slightly and waited for me to begin.  She volunteered herself to my strong jaws, and smiled as I nibbled and licked along her inner thighs and screamed when bit into her supple skin, tore into it and buried my tongue as though it were her forever wet well.

She screamed in pleasure at her ecstasy and mine, begging and pleading at first then just howling nonsensically.  It was getting a bit much, the noise and she came alive beneath me when I punctured her eyes, and sucked them from her head like some rare delicacy.  They were as delicious in my mouth as they had been watching me from her beautiful face.

The release was too much for her, the delicate flower that she was, and her heart staggered its last beats like a trapped bird in a cage while her too white hands danced a final pas de deux in the air over my heart.  Ah memories.

You never forget the first, and she, my fragile Angel, was the first taste of freedom that I had savored.  Just as her kiss had been the one I based all others upon, the flavour of her young, lean healthy muscle was one that all others have paled in comparison of.  Angel, her hair was like spun glass, and she tasted like spring after a long, hard winter.  Her blood was reminiscent of early morning dew, so much so that imbibed it like a fine wine and the vitality danced on my tongue for hours after the fluid had been digested.

Gently, I filleted her lean flesh from her bones, and carefully wrapped her so that I could ingest her piecemeal over time, and I made her last as long as I could, until there was so little left that I cried when she was gone.  Angel was no more, in life but she still lives on here, hanging on the wall. She, though Angel’s head does not hold grey matter, not now but it is certainly not empty.  She had the most amazing mind and now her skull holds a secret, a hidden treasure.

Small jars, not quite canopic although I did get the idea from a documentary I watched on the television a few weeks before she gave herself to me.  It took sometime to find them, and eventually ordered a large number with the future in mind.   The first ones I filled with portions of her puréed organs and her exquisite, perfect brain.  The rest I ate in a stew with spring vegetables that turned out so well, I have used it repeatedly.

No other woman has come close to Angel, yet.  Some have resembled her, but that only occurred when I was missing her desperately.  Not one was her, or even had the same flavor.  They have all have tasted tainted, spoiled somehow, and the last made me vomit for days on end.  I had to dispose of the meat as I suspected that it was poisoned and nearly ended up in jail when a pissed off police officer decided my car looked worth inspecting.  It worked out for the best, however, and I convinced him to come home with me for a beer and a home cooked meal.

Perhaps, this one will be different.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

they said watch the horizon

up and down … up and down … up

the swells make my head explode
my heart aches in sympathy
for my stomach and my ears

look for the horizon
there is no shore out there
only water, and the –

burning alive, want water
but there is none to be had
surrounded by it and not
a drop to drink, its salted

there is another here and
we’re the last; not survivors,
we won’t unless help comes soon

we’re lost in the vastness
we will die on this damned raft
oh, i don’t want to be sick,

not again – i can’t afford –
leaking valuable fluids
it hurts and i want to die
but i don’t want to die

i won’t die if i just drink
squeeze my eyes shut against it
it’s a hallucination

the other looks different
shivering in my skin over
ripples of chilly fever

the other stares at me with
his mouth slightly open and
eyes dead in their watchfulness
i desperately need water

i feel like food, god help me
but I’m not food, i’m alone
i desperately need water

my tongue’s a sandpaper worm
i’m alone, surrounded by
water and the horizon

up and down … up and down … up

just water, the horizon
and the sun, it’s burning me
precious fluid lies waiting
stagnating in the other

it would slake the thirst but
my heart refutes what my
body demands quenched and quelled

so far to go, too far
saying it makes it real
rotting in his veins – tick tock

his body moves, sorta twitches
involuntarily, my
eyes on the cooling liquids
strength and survival, they said

strength and survival
i’m sorry, i’m so sorry
sorry, i don’t want to die

it gushes after the cut
after the small blade I pried
from the other’s stiff fingers
puncture the adust membrane

it’s water – it’s just water
believe that it’s red water

i press my lips on the slash
it’s like sucking through a straw
breathe in deep the red water

the blood, its only water
its just water, please god, please
its water, i’m so thirsty

up and down … up and down … up

i’m alone now and the sun
it burned when I threw him,
his husk, with a light splash
much like a funeral pyre

the sky is alive, on fire
molten water and the sky
they said watch the horizon,

just how long have i been here?
how many days, hours, minutes
the other is empty, gone

i can’t, please, please god i can’t
not anymore, just end me
pry the cup from my burnt lips
be kind to this poor sinner

non-believer, heretic
won’t you please take me home now
i have been a faithful son

how is it daybreak again
the horizon is on fire
how many days has it been

nothing seems real anymore
the surreal sense of living
i remember so little
nothing but that god damned hole

i remember the screaming
killing, there were dead people
so much blood and so much death

and the lifeboats were all gone
everyone left us or died
those sonsabitches left us!

then there were only we two
the other and me we found
this inflatable dinghy
and we jumped and we floated

drifting on sea vomit when
our vessel, it exploded
there was a fire after

and the boat, she broke apart
on the surface and the wind
and the force of it pushed us

we were only frightened boys
and now there is only me
surrounded by water and
not a drop to drink

up and down … up and down … up

i pray to every god
i prey to the Other
i look at the horizon

beg and plead for a rescue
i’m so thirsty and tired
please god, please show me mercy

i can’t do this much longer
my flesh is no longer pink
but mottled brackish purple
my skin hurts just to breathe, even
my teeth, my mind whimpers softly

up and down … up and down … up

my guts are heaving sickness
desperate to be ill
but you can’t throw up nothing

i need fluids, some water
surrounded by water, but
there is never a shoreline

no shore, just the horizon
look to the horizon
they said watch the horizon

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

Home Fires Burning

Once i was home.

i was home to my family
my body housed life and suffered death
i lay in solitude, listening to him breath
listening to the quiet ticking of the clock.

it was Tuesday, late when
he staggered to our bed
still wearing that damned fedora
and her perfume
and nothing else

i was lonely, and miserable that night
crying in the dark with my eyes closed,
while he rode the waves of pleasure
and i could smell her all over him

i felt so small
my fingers tracing the scratches she left behind
when he came, it was inside me
calling her name and
it scalded like tears
when he rolled away,
murmuring her name again
as he drifted to sleep.

i lay alone, last Tuesday
shivering in the lightness room
in an effort to be silent, in mourning
i just wanted contact
i needed to be warm
i needed to feel something
other than the numb cold

stuck struggling with the knowledge
that he was elsewhere, often
wondering why i’m not enough
trapped here, while he snores

it is Tuesday evening, again
i pace the gleaming wooden floors
eyes on the clock on the mantel
eyes on the front door.
I made this hell a home

there are no children
to fill the empty hallways
the long empty days last forever
and when night falls,
the cobwebs flutter and
the ghosts flitter through
the in-between spaces

they dance and knock on the walls
sometimes they cast shadows on the glass
they become people with the endless chatter
endless opinions
endless questions
unable to grasp my sorrow
but with a solution

so today, I hid in the darkened parlour
choosing to stop the insistent fight
and let my sanity skip and slip
I drank champagne and ate oranges
danced barefoot on the thorny line
where my sanity capered and
cried until I laughed

i’m still laughing

he begs and pleads from the bed
wearing that stupid fedora

there, where I said my last goodbye
where I painted it with my tongue and
carved my name into his flesh
when he filled me with his tainted seed

the air is heavy
with the scent of fire, and ringing screams

Outside the sirens wail and
inside, he thrashes and writhes
burning in our bed

i watch him struggle
fingering the stem
of my champagne glass and
lift my other hand
placing it under my chin
in thought and reflection

then pull the trigger with a smile

Misery loves Company – A Love Story

I first saw her reflection in the shop window of that absurd little doll store.
The one on 5th and Main?

Tragically gorgeous in that B Movie kind of way,
I couldn’t take my eyes from her curves and edges.
The porcelain perfection of her complexion and those lips.
full and pouty – red in that almost garish porn star way.
But on her it was fresh cherries from the tree and
I was willing to bet that they tasted as good

And there I stood,
stunned into silence with my cock at full mast and
holding a half-naked children’s toy in my hand.
It felt like I was smiling but likely I was leering
and be goddamned if she didn’t return my lustful stare,
flicking her tongue out like some living thing
to taste the right of the lollipop she’d been playing with
before pushing it slowly between her wet looking lips.
She never dropped her eyes once.

I thought I had died, just then when she smiled at me and
called me forward with one black tipped finger.
And I came, then went to her with burning cheeks and
the front of my jeans beginning to show a dark spot.
I wanted to run but she put her hand over it
and put her mouth on mine.
I was sure I was in Hell but man it felt like Heaven.

When the shopkeeper cleared his throat,
she stopped licking my teeth to look at him,
with her hand squeezing my tortured dick.
Heaven.

She nodded and released me, whispering in my ear,
“come see me if you want company.”
Hell.

The man snickered and finally guffawed before
staring me soberly in the eyes and shaking his head.
“Take an old man’s advice,” he said,
lighting his match with a worn fingernail and holding it to his home rolled cigarette.
“She loves company. Don’t be her next conquest.”
I handed him the doll I’d ceased fondling
while embarrassingly thanking him for his sage advice and his time.
Turning to leave, I saw the most amazing thing in a small room off to the side.

Full sized dolls, dressed in 50’s clothing and
so realistic I laughed in spite of myself.
The shopkeeper chortled grimly, “remember what I said.”

I didn’t listen, of course.
I followed her home in my old green pickup
and watched her struggle with her playthings,
cursing and spitting vile and deviant admonishment.

It shocked me, intrigued me
so I jumped out of my truck and ran to her rescue
like some brain-dead Lancelot.
She smiled and kissed me full on my mouth and
pressed her firm breasts to my chest.
But all the while, I could hear the shopkeeper’s raspy words in my ears.

I wondered about how much company she kept.
I wondered what her name was.
I wondered how the old man knew.
All this as I stepped through her front door
That was forever ago, just before I discovered that I loved her.
My Captor, my Daemon. My wife.
And my questions were eventually answered in
far more detail than I care to remember.

Mustn’t frown!
She wants smiling happy people.

My father-in-law, you have already met, albeit briefly.
You really don’t want to make his acquaintance or hers,
because it’s like Pops, the Shopkeeper says, my wife,
Misery?

She loves company.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

The End of Her Rope

It is the last straw, this, the last time. This time his whore came to our home, dressed, or rather undressed, expecting him to be ready for her. In our bed. Not the first time, but certainly the final time. I’ve paid, and dearly for his indiscretions, physically, emotionally, having to swallow my pride and my hurt for the sake of his. It ends today.

She won’t be missed

I played the injured lover to the hilt, preying on her softer side. She knew he was involved, more of his lies are revealed, as she spills her guts over coffee, tears flowing over her cup. It makes me sick to watch her cry, all that emotion. I did the same, but they were false, simply a way to draw out more information, and she spilled her guts like vomit. Months of lies and purposeful manipulations he slathered on her, making her believe he loved her. How stupid of her to believe in him, his silver-tongued lies, always providing lip service so he can get some of the same. He cares for no one save himself, and he will pay for this violation. He promised after last time, when I caught him, and he nearly killed me in a rage after I confronted him. He will come to wish he’d finished the job.
Few times in our years together have I been glad for the isolation he forces upon me, living in the furthest reaches of civilization. The trees are a welcome cover for the next heinous deed I must perform. I smile, slightly, at the remembered terror in her eyes.

Her eyes widen with outright fear, as the coldness overtakes me. She’s seen the blackness that lives where I used to have a heart, the deep hole of hatred I harbour. She is up and out of the chair she sits in, blindly backing away. Her calves hit that horrible excuse for a table he HAD to have, and she tumbles backwards, her bare legs sprawling and revealing the bareness of her hollow. She followed instruction to the word. She scrambles to her feet, her loose-lipped maw open and screeching FIRE at the top of her lungs. The fire is out back, slowly smouldering as it waits for me to feed it more than wood and brick. I advance on her, pulling a designer knife from the back that sits on the kitchen island, yet another example of his falsity. Scream, I tell her, scream till your voice breaks, my own voice cold as the most bitter winter night. No one can hear you, I say, keep screaming. She does, long and loud, buzzing like a chainsaw in my ears.

Fool.

I wrapped my hand into the mop of ashen blonde hair, feeling it slide through my fingers like a sinuous snake. I clamp my hand hard and yank her head back, hearing its protesting snap as I pull, much as he probably does while slamming himself into her night after, “I’m working late” night. Making eye contact, I hold her gaze as I pull harder, exposing the tender and delicate flesh of her throat. The sounds she makes are sickening me, useless begging for her life. She doesn’t deserve to live. She sees the black rage seeping from my eyes and peals shriek after shriek her terror; it hurts my ears, makes my eyes bleed and I just want her to shut the fuck up. Holding the thick handled blade, I dig the tip into the smooth skin of her throat, drawing a blood poppy to the surface, and tear it across to the other side. Her shrilling stops, leaving in its wake only harsh bubbling sounds; I prefer that to the constant blaring, and her blood gushes over the ragged lip the blade made as it tore and ripped her flesh. My hand is coated with nearly too hot blood, as it pattered to the floor in a scarlet bloodfall, pooling at her feet.

I’ll have to clean that soon, before it begins to harden

My rage was too large to contain, a spitting monster that had to be let loose, and I destroyed her, first thrusting my knife over and over into her body, losing count in the screaming noise in my head, then with the axe, dismembering limbs and head. He’d hurt me so many times, with his words, his actions….his fists, attempting to break my spirit along with my bones, and she paid for all his indiscretions.

My arms hurt from the exertion, having hefted the axe I found in the shed, being unaccustomed to its weight, and chopped her empty shell into bits, a soundtrack of calm in my mind as I did. I fumble with the Advil bottle, and pry it open with my teeth, dry swallowing three before continuing to rid myself of what remains of her, feeding her dismantled bits into the flames, into the pyre. It is a burning Hell, the heat bringing a mist of sweat to my face, in the light of the morning sun. Soon there will be nothing left, as the fire’s hunger devours the diseased flesh of this…thing. Her hair goes up in a flickering blaze as I toss her head in, sparks exploding into the air. Too much product darling, I laugh, chuckling into the sunlight.
The sun is warm, as is the air. My fire warmed skin cooling in the slight breeze, I soak in the rays as I return to the house and the mess I have made. I will have to open all the windows and air out the house as I wash her vile blood from the floors, and soon, before it starts to dry. The concoction I mix to clean will aid in covering the stench of blood from the space, but I take no chances. He must not know until the time is right that his lover is gone, and I will delight in the pain and horror it will cause him. Opening the door it hits me like a brick wall, the smell of death redolent in the air.

The house reeks of copper as I scrub the splatter from the cupboards and counters, on my knees, soaking up the pool of now cool redness that gathers there. I wear no gloves, despite the intense toxicity of the cleaning solution, and my hands are painted red from wrist to my fingertips. Bloody gloves. My mind aches with the desire to punish him, the vision of what will be playing like a movie behind my eyes. He deserves every torture I can inflict, every pain I can devise, the possibilities are endless, and I feel damp with delight as I imagine him screaming in agony. Better, screaming with no voice.

He called a while ago, exactly when escapes me, only the dry ticking of the clock is counting the minutes….hours? Time means nothing to me now, only the deep-seated hatred that eats at my soul with sharpest teeth, and the knowledge of his death will finally bring me the freedom I crave. An adventure he said, his smug, lying voice like an ice pick in my brain. I wanted to lash out, slice his vocal cords as I had hers, the words strong on my tongue, but I withheld, instead acting surprised and pleased that we would be going away. “To reconnect,” he says, as though I have little clue about his cheating ways, about all the women he’d had in our bed, in our home, the lipstick stains on the wineglasses we rarely use, his underwear…fury screams in my head.

I burn the rags I used to mop up the mess I’d made. The pyre has burned low and red-hot, the logs I’d piled atop the bricks that lined the bottom of the pit covered in the ashes from her bones, as I watch the flames jump up, licking along the edges of the thin cloth. The fire animal devours the last vestiges of her existence, now not even her blood remains. There is not a drop of his whore left in my home; I cleaned and scrubbed every inch of the space I inhabit, twice.

A shrill ringing assaults my ears, damn, her cell phone. I race to the door, desperate to find the damnable thing before he waltzes in the door, demanding his dinner and God knows what else. I will have to play nice, as much as I’d rather bite that thing he is so proud of off than be anywhere near it. There it is, just under the corner of the divan that sits useless most of the time, its cheery ringtone an abomination. Happy…of course it would play that. She was happy enough, at the time. His number on the screen, and 10 texts varying from professing love to out-and-out worry. I giggle as I read, a true comedy are these messages, as if he could possible love anyone more than himself. Flames can’t rid me of this problem so easily. I turn off the phone, removing the battery and put both pieces into my purse, I can use this later, to throw at him as he….

It will be useful.

He slams in, throwing his keys on the kitchen table, leaving a light scratch across its surface. I feel that fear rising in my throat, knowing better to do more than breathe. Not if I am to finish this on my feet. He says not a word as he glares around the kitchen, nostrils flaring at the tang of the cleaner in the air. He growls at me, making some snide comment about finally bothering to clean, and the rage rises, nearly overflowing. I bite it back, and my tongue, hard enough to bring blood to the surface and tears to my eyes. Satisfaction colours his eyes, thinking that he won again, little does he know.

I wander around the far side of the island, preparing to serve dinner when my head is slammed to the marble surface of the countertop. He stands over me, holding me there as my own blood stains the shining surface, ruining the hard work I did just hours before, and unbuckling his belt. I know what comes next, and I know better than to struggle, so I simply stay still, waiting for him to assert his supposed dominance, all the while playing over and over the plans that I have to end this once and for all.

He enters me with no preamble, holding the same knife I had used to cut his slut’s throat to my own, and commences hammering himself into me, as though that will change a thing. He presses the knife’s tip harder, I can feel it about to break through the skin, when he loses interest, throwing it to the ground and pulling out. I breathe a little deeper, not daring to move or speak, yet eying the knife block and judging my distance. I’d as soon end him now than wait, the thought of driving that butcher knife into his skull with every ounce of strength I have mouth-wateringly sweet. He lifts my head from the counter by my hair, his hand twisted into my hair, yanking it hard as he does, and throwing me, callously, to the floor. He tells me to clean up the mess I made, and stalks off to the bedroom to change.

Slowly I rise to my feet, holding the edge of the counter to balance myself, eyes, though feeling loose in the sockets, staring directly at the knife block. I stagger forward, my foot slipping slightly on the spilled blood once again on the floor, rage warring with the need to gain back my equilibrium. Seething, my fingers curl around the handle of the large butcher knife that I’d pulled free, leaving it dangling at my side. My fury lingering just below the surface, I make my way to the bedroom, ready to end his pathetic life and free my own from this Hell I have had to endure for too many years. The shower is running, less to clean, should I do it now.

By the door, the luggage sits, aside the chair he stole back when he loved me, from the hotel where we spent our first night together. It has been noticeably absent over the past few years, and its appearance makes me recoil in confusion and suspicion. How I could have missed this is upsetting. It wasn’t there when he come home. I put the luggage there myself. From behind me, I hear him, the jingle of his keys as he grabs them, dragging them across the polished surface of the table, more scars to add to the collection, the tap running in the kitchen, and his happy humming as he throws the prepared dinner I’d made into the trash can. Still, I stand, bleeding from the split skin on my forehead, staring at this chair.

He asks me if I plan to change, a joking tone in his voice, handing me a wet facecloth to wipe the evidence from my face. I don’t respond, instead making my way to the bedroom, the den of iniquity, pulling my ruined top over my head as I do. The plan plays loud in my ears as I throw on something, paying little attention to what it is, simply one minded and determined to finish my torment. All is silent as I return to the kitchen, no presence of the bane of my existence, perhaps he took the opportunity to kill himself. But no, he is in the yard, warming his hands over the pyre of his now dead lover. I smile with the coldest touch of frost, feeling the coldness return to me as watch him pour water over the pit, washing down the ashes, drowning them. He sees me, his eyes narrowed and wary as he walks back towards me, fists clenched at his sides. Good. I hope he suspects what I’ve done. Should he lay another finger on my body, I will, with no remorse, cut his head from his body.

Having locked the door, he snatches the trash bag from the back door, tossing it to me as he grasps the luggage, the suitcases tied and playing tag along, with one hand as he lifts the chair with other, a strange and disturbing expression on his face. Yes, there is something niggling at the back of his mind, burrowing in like a panic rat just beginning to stir, and my lips curve as I set the alarm and turn the key in the lock. I have nothing but time now, nothing but the infinite pleasure of knowing it’s begun.

I don’t know where he is taking me, just that the road is dark and isolated, a back road. This is not the way to the hotel. I know now there is no hotel, no “weekend getaway”. He stares straight ahead, unresponsive to my demands to know what he thinks he is doing, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I see. I understand now. What I’ve planned in minute detail in my mind, he plans to inflict on me, or try to. As usual, he hadn’t planned ahead, hadn’t considered me in this at all past the decision that I was in his way of life with his slut. He won’t have that now, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He turns into an overgrown driveway, the trees and grass brushing at the undercarriage of the car, scratching at the windows and the sound is harmony in my ears. Here is where it will end, for one of us, for him. I’ve learned my lessons, studied, planned carefully. I have no fear left, instead, in the place where it lived for so long a fire is burning, consuming all in its path. I stare at him, hard and cold, letting the darkness carry whatever love I might have had away, leaving only rage, murderous intent.

The building he chose for his demise is an old and hulking relic, its stone walls weathered and beaten by the cruelest mistress of time and weather, its windows amazingly still intact, glittering like eyes in the moonlight that streams through the surrounding trees. Little point to screaming here; the nearest neighbour is miles away, far past he reaches of human voice. Good. He won’t scream anyway. He couldn’t with no air in his lungs.

The front door is standing open, as though waiting for us, slowly wavering in the slight breeze. The ghosts of this place are welcoming another soul. It won’t be mine. He appears at my window, a leering and malevolent smile on his lying lips, and I let my face show fear, my eyes fill and spill over tears. I feel nothing. Fear does not exist here, only the overwhelming desire to peel the flesh from his face, the need to rip his tongue from his head and watch him bleed out. He opens my door, and seizes me from the seat, his fingers digging deeply into the meat of my bicep, straight into the muscle that aches and moans from my exertions. I don’t fight much, just enough to let him think he’s won.

He hasn’t

I am thrown through the front door, where I land hard amongst the dust and debris left behind by those that have entered it before me. On the wall someone has written “You are in Hell” in blood-red paint. Wrong. I was in Hell. This is heaven, if it exists at all. He brings the chair in, holding it by its back with one hand, the other carrying a duffel bag, no doubt full of the tools he thinks he requires to end me. He won’t get the chance to use any of it.

The chair, its red velvet cushion gleams in the meager light, bringing to mind the first time he had me, when he loved me, if he loved me. When he reveled in my flame hair, drowning in the curls, when he called me his Bloody Angel, his Queen. Oh how he was going to build me a palace. Lies. Meretricious lies, all the while carrying on behind my back, flaunting his indiscrete rendezvous, thinking me too blind to see. Saying he loved me while he prostituted my own love for him, promises. Always promises.

Lies

I refuse to respond to his demands that I stand, to come and sit in this chair while he tells me a few truths. Truths, or more omissions of truth, it doesn’t matter. I won’t make it easy for him. I want him to struggle, to suffer for his lack of foresight. He crouches beside me, his finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes, and whispers how he plans to have me again, like the first time, in this place, and how the evening will end with a surprise. What a fool he is. It will end in surprise, and then, I will be free.

From the duffel bag he pulls a coil of rope, old and frayed, most likely from the shed behind our house, and I hear the rattle of other utensils within it. A pair of pliers falls from the bag, and I glance at his face, marvelling at the shock and horror written there. He doesn’t have the guts for it. I do. I ask him, innocently, what he plans to do with the rope, and he chuckles in what he perceives to be an evil laugh, as he winds the end into a noose, replying that he wants to try something new. There is no way that noose is going over my head, or near me if I can help it.
Above, the ceilings are open rafters, wide enough apart to swing the end of a rope over, and I see the plan he has in mind for me. I watch as he glances around at the rafters, trying to figure out how to loop the rope over it. Feigning innocence, I suggest he stand on the chair. He does, tracking dust in footprints on the crimson fabric, and I grit my teeth, holding back the need to shove him head first off of it, to watch him crack his skull on the hard floor.

The rope goes easily over, the noose now hanging parallel with his face, and he suggests I try it, it will be fun. I tie the loose end to the wall sconce bolted tightly to the wall, making sure it is tight and unmoving, then I ask, sweetly, as he expects, for him to show me. He slips the rough lariat over his head, tightening it around his own neck, smiling his liar’s smile, all teeth, no sentiment and I snarl, knowing the time is close.

I reach into my purse, and pull his whore’s cell from it, sliding the battery home and turning it on. His eyes bulge from his head in shock, as it plays its cheery tune, announcing more messages, probably from him. Meeting his eyes, I speak a truth of my own, that I know. That she was in our home, that he forgotten he had made arrangements to meet her while I was not there, again. How she spilled her guts to me over a cup of coffee.

How I killed her

With a smile full of malignant malice, my lips feeling white with the same frost that coats my heart, I drift closer and kick the chair out from under him. His feet dance in the air, reaching and kicking for purchase, as his hands grasp at the rope digging and choking him, cutting off his hair as his face turns puce. His body twists and turns, slowly spinning as he struggles to draw breath. I feel little, perhaps curiosity as the final indignities are visited upon him.

I sit astride the chair he stood on, the very chair where this all began, watching as he stares holes in my eyes, his hands now at his sides, opening and closing like some demented toy, probably wishing they were choking the breath from my own lungs. Survival of the fittest.

I could save him, if I did it now, cut the rope that he hangs from, and allow his pathetic excuse for a life to continue. I’d suffered at his hands, over and over, beaten till I couldn’t breathe, broken bones, he tried to break my spirit. Could I trust that the second his feet hit the floor that he wouldn’t be on me, letting his fists speak the words he is too inept to speak himself, I would show some mercy. If I had any. I don’t

Instead, I watch him. I listen to his harsh choking sounds, as he struggles and strains to catch air, my chin on my hand, alone in the dark. I feel little now that it’s done, even let down now that it’s finished. The coldness in my soul is growing, spare enjoyment of watching his final air dance, feet twitching in the air. In spite of all I had to endure, all the times I wished for his death, and for mine, prayed for some way out of this Hell I was living in, that this feeling should be so strong. I want to relive what I’ve done, relive what I’ve caused. I watch him swing.

@MelanieMcCurdie

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Inside by David Boutin

This story was written by my 10 year old son David as a surprise for me.  I am indeed, surprised and pleased,  I hope you will be too.

Melanie

“Sometimes a story gets so crowded you can’t tell an original story anymore.”

Scott Cawthon

Part 1

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door.  To his horror, he saw an exact clone of himself knocked unconscious and a knife marked #1.  He essentially had to kill himself to escape this torment.  Inside himself, he found a key saying, “It was inside you all along.” As he finished reading it, James remembered who he was.

There was a door engraved exit and he opened it nervously.  Sure enough, it was an exit and James was happy.  He went home and found something peculiar.  His front door was engraved with a 2. All he could do was laugh as he realised there was no end to his torment.  He went inside.

James never came out again.

Part 2

It all started with a man named Thomas.  he came to a place named Pewter City to ask for directions to California.  He found it oddly deserted.  He explored, confused and came to a door marked with a 2 in blood.  Our of curiosity, Thomas opened the door and found a man crying in a corner.   Ignoring everything else, he tapped on the man’s shoulder and only caught a glimpse of the man’s bloodshot eyes.

Thomas awoke confused and without memory of who he was, and noticed that he was locked tight into a chair with a free clone of himself before him with a knife in his hand.  Thomas screamed as the cloned stabbed him to death.

But he didn’t die. Thomas was still alive, he was free and all he could see was a bright red exit sign.  So he ran and ran and ran until he blacked out.

Thomas ame to only to see a drop and a gun with a sign saying DO IT!

Thomas jumped.  He landed on some spikes that were arranged in the text #3 and never came to again.

Part 3

 

James woke up suddenly and everything was different. A loudspeaker boomed overhead, “Welcome James! Take a good look around.  It will matter.  You have 10 seconds starting….NOW 10-9-8-765 PSYCH!! You thought this was over, didn’t you? It isn’t over until you are dead.  I will hunt you down.  I will find you.  You will be #4. Goodbye James, for now.”

One second he was trapped in a chair, then he was free with a knife, then in a car and then impaled on spikes.  Outside! It was all too much and it all went black when the same voice spit from above his head, “it’s time to wake up! Rise and shine!”  James opened his eyes; he was on the lawn and everything was still the same as before he went inside the house.

“Rise and smell the ashes Jim!” 

The house transformed into a burning wreckage and he shook, shouting, “Who are you?”

The unknown voice laughed, “That’s for me to know, and you to find out Jimmy Boy!” There was another clone coming towards him and James held out his hand, shocked to see it held a gun.  Hanging from a tag, a message read, “Aim for the head and pull.”

James shot the gun.

 

Part 4

“well, they keep coming, so put on the show!”  It was him, that ham from all those years ago.  Finally, he is here; the man that caused all the fear. “Goodbye John,” he said, for now.”

This is the story of Stanley “Eggs” Benedict.

Stanley awoke tired.  He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up to see himself seconds before the world went black.

There was an exit sign flashing  in the distance, and with it, he, himself, was phasing in and out of existence.  The lights went out, even the sign and that is when he saw them and remembered it all.  The drop, the door, the loudspeaker voice, everything!

From behind him, a man’s voice spoke quietly, as the man himself stepped from the shadows. “Congratulations Mr. Benedict. You passed the test and  stayed sane.” It was his best friend, Jeremy Fitzgerald.

What was that!? Stanley yelled, shocked.

“Revenge.  Revenge for that Saw prank earlier in August. I know you have fond memories of that,” Jeremy replied with a smirk.

“But how? I don’t get it.”

The light is so bright and Jeremy’s blurry face appears laughing, “You were in VR, dummy.”

Stanley shook his head, and said, “so, it wasn’t real?”

Jeremy just laughed.  The next day, he was found decapitated with no reason or explaination. A fitting end for a torturing psychopath.

daveyb-story-photo

 

Part 5: The Return

“…..hello…?  I’m back!!”

Memories of long ago rushed into my head.  Living like this, you’re better off dead. “I’ll be found deep down underground.  What have I done to deserve this torture?”

“Wake up.  Wake Up!” and suddenly, he was but why does it matter? I’m dead.

“It will matter.  See that remote? Push the button and be the core.”  There is a remote in my hand that has only one button.  I press it and all turns black.

“A man chooses but a slave obeys. This is not the end.  More shall come, more shall die. Watch your back.”

Part 6

The end is near as the encryption appears

“This is the last test, James.  After this, you are free.”

James is suddenly falling.  He has been impaled, shot, stabbed and phased out of existence.  Now he is in a room with four doors each with several numbers marked on them. He opens door 1 and sees more and more doors and with a sigh, starts down the hall. James becomes lost and is never seen again.

 

The Swollen Man

The voice in my head is incessantly whining at me;  Don’t start.  Stop Crying.  Big girls don’t cry.  You’re stronger than this. Gods, shut up already.  I’m not stronger than this, not remotely.  Perhaps once upon a time,  when I could breathe and move without scrutiny and suspicion, and without resignation, maybe then,  I was stronger.  Now,  not even close.

I know that tears are a waste.  I know that they are a weakness and that they get you hurt.  Whatever entity lives up there knows that I’ve lived enough lessons in my life to know that’s a fact, Jack.  There are those that will shake their heads in disbelief or in disgust at my words, likely wondering if I have finally blown a mental gasket and if I am leaking sanity.  I’m neither out of my head nor crazy;  things would be simpler if I were, but no, this is all just result of environmental poisonings, experiences and far too many teachings from the fist.  One learns early on how to bottle and I am old hat at that game. I’ve forgotten more about self-preservation techniques than most should ever know in their lives.

People are so blind.  They have little clue about how it feels to sit and shout at yourself you must not be weak sister every single time tears threaten or how it feels to know that you are going to fail. I doubt most of them could survive if they couldn’t find a Starbucks.  I wonder if any of you  can comprehend being torn apart by your own mind, over a few tears?  I don’t think that the majority could, and I pray that they never learn how.

It’s a dual existence truly, learning how to shatter on the inside, and while smiling on the out.  Sometimes, some nights it gets to be too much and the pressure can’t be held any longer.  No matter how one tries, no matter how one berates oneself,  those tears are going to fall.

No one likes to be made fun of as they are falling apart; the beatings I give myself, the fear that I can taste in my mouth when that dam breaks, the shame of crying because I can’t stop, is agonising.  To be poked at and told to stop and denied release when it’s an impossible to hold back that tidal wave with what amounts to a drink umbrella  is more than unfair.  It’s cruel.  The words just add a sting, when warm arms would’ve been a softer place to land.

In attempting to be all that everyone requires, one loses oneself in the demands.  It’s difficult to juggle, but I like to think that I do it well.  But it is difficult to be that tough supporter for those I care for, love while I starve myself.  The needs of the many and all that.   My life is micromanaging the undefinable, and making it work is all that much harder, and I manage while balancing that fine line between function and fulfilment.  Existing in a loud, large bubble is no way to live.

He told me that he was going home to check on the animals and to put gas in the car.  It would have been believable if it weren’t for the fact that it was quite difficult to drive without the keys to the vehicle,  and he hadn’t asked for them since he tossed them into my purse when we arrived. He had planned to drink. Again.

Tonight, after the community bonfire that we had no choice but to attend, I saw him there in the shadows of the commissary. His eyes were full of brimstone and bite, lustfully gazing on the youthful wife of our Mayor with his dick in his eyes.  I saw how she undulated slightly when her eyes met his, and the way she changed position with a gasp before excusing herself with a small smile and a flush.  His eyes followed her all night, with his hand rubbing at his crotch absently and his tongue tracing his lips over and over, likely wishing they were hers, while I stood there embarrassed and growing angrier.  It didn’t matter, because  I wasn’t there, or rather, was and would be invisible until she turned him away.  It was all about her.  I thought he’d cum in his pants when she brushed against him, and I watched her hand brush against his erection with a smirk in my direction.  Whore.

There they are; they think that they are hidden from view they way that they’re greedily groping each other.  The Mayor’s wife and the librarian’s husband, who would’ve thought,  wanking one another off in full view of anyone with eyes. “Does he have it on him?” a low male voice mutters in my ear, startling me out of the morbid mental happy place that I was in and I feel the smile spread across my lips. The warm meaty hands on my ass make me want to vomit but I nod and shudder when those thick fingers graze the sensitive skin on my inner thigh.  I can’t do more than nod.

The cock that Rodney is so proud of is out for the night, twitching in the cool night air and I can hear the crackle of wrapper from here.  He shoves her to her knees and slips the rubber from the package and over his dick. “Keep quiet this time, Deena.  I didn’t get to finish last time,” Rodney growls and plows into her with a laugh. Last time. He bucks his hips into her and she moans loudly then squeaks when he falls against her in quickening paroxysmal convulsions. The man behind me chuckles and his large hocks squeeze my ass once more before moving away with a suggestion that I make myself scarce. What a chicken shit.

Rodney lies jittering on top of Deena,  his overly swollen glans trapping Deena as much as his dead weight does and she can do little more than pant shallowly when I step quickly into the light of the fire and again into the darkness of the commissary shadows where she writhes in the dirt. “Please?  Help me! I’m sorry.  Can’t be seen.  Here.  Like this,” and I laugh to myself at the tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. Her cupid bow lips fall open in shock and dismay when Rodney bucks and blows snot into her chestnut hair.  “Rodney! Dammit, get off of me!  What the fuck did you do to your dick? It hurts!”

“Shut up whore.  He didn’t get to finish last time, didn’t you hear?  How lucky for you that he gives a shit enough to tell you that you don’t matter.  Hear that?  You were so anxious to have him inside you that you blew him in public where anyone could see you.  I did.  Your moans need work by the way.  Not believable in the least.”  The first voices of the other attendees are getting louder and I titter darkly from around the corner, remembering to stay out of sight. Rodney gasps again, choking bile onto her shoulder and she sobs like a twelve-year-old with a rash.  He’s not dead. What a pity. He whined into my ear often enough about how he was trapped living with me.  Now he is truly trapped. by the pussy he couldn’t live without.   Perhaps he should have looked closer at the wrapper.   His are purple, latex free.

“Hey Deena,”  I chuckle as I spy the first flashes of lanterns headed this way, “I found this old video on the web.  Robin Bobbin? Original.” Closer still and I crouch closer to whisper “Soon everyone else will know what you are too. Virgin bride, my ass.”  Deena’s pretty eyes close in submission to fact and I dart from my safe place to spit into her pretty, filthy face,  and this time I kick her in the side of the head.

The first lantern bursts through the darkness just as I make my escape and the horrified shouts of the Mayor and his entourage reach my ears much like an applause track in one of those old sitcoms.  The next morning the paper from the towns in the surrounding areas will tell the tale of the Mayor’s not so virginal bride, the Mayor’s Right Hand Man and the Missing wife.  Such a small town scandal that won’t soon be forgotten.

As for me?  I was paid handsomely for my participation and one never knows what the next sunrise will bring.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Tinfoil Luna

I didn’t come wrapped in a bow or pretty paper, instead I came home a raving silent mess full of anxiety and nightmares fresh from Hell.  My wife said I was a gift, then, and said I should have died there at the end of our life together.  She was right.  I know I killed my marriage, although she helped it along.   Every night since I came home I lay awake until my mind gives up or I pass out from the cocktail of pills and booze, all in an effort to kill the memories. Nothing works.

Tonight was different though.

Tonight I was on the streets with the few friends who stuck by me in my misery, and why wouldn’t they? They understand. We don’t usually get together at Christmastime, couple of them are still married and they have family to contend with, The others have girlfriends and saw dragged to different functions and expose to strangers who don’t understand when they cringe when the Yule log snaps. But tonight we were all together and happy.

Happy is contagious and I felt myself relax for the first time in months. I hadn’t taken any pills or even had a drink yet, but I felt as high as I usually did with them. It sounds so cliché to say I saw her across the crowded bar, but that’s what happened. She didn’t stand out in the crowd, but faded into it as best she could, which wasn’t at all. “She was watching you earlier. Why don’t you go say hello? Still don’t get what the ladies see in your ugly mug,” Vinnie slaps me on the back with his customary roughness and gives a more private nod of encouragement. She is watching me, just like Vinnie said, with a soft almost sad smile on her pretty lips and a come hither gleam in her eyes.

The bartender was a feisty little thing whose voice carried across all conversations at all times. I often joke that she would’ve been the worlds best drill sergeant, and she usually hands me a snarl with a glint in her eye. I have no doubt she would eat me alive. At least it would be pleasurable this time, but this time Jinger shakes her head swiftly and points the watcher towards the bathrooms them calls me forward anxiously.

“Colt. Stay away from her. Go home now, please. Okay?” This quiet shaky voice was so unlike her gregarious natural nature that it stunned me for a moment, before I nodded and turned away. The boys are all standing by the door laughing in buttoning up against the cold chill outside. I joined them with a smile and glanced over my shoulder at Jinger, who blew me a kiss from those luscious lips.

When I woke up this morning, it was not in a cold sweat, but satisfied and at peace. I haven’t felt this way in a long time, so long that I barely remember it. Jinger is sprawled spreadeagled and naked on top of the tangled bed sheets, her luxurious lips trembling as she snores slightly. I really need to take a piss, but the sight of her laying there beside me gives other ideas.

“I told you to say away from her,” Jinger giggles from the doorway and I feel my bladder let go when she smiles with razor blade teeth and her hands on my thighs while Jinger cuddles close with her cheek on my chest, “I told her you were a gift.”

©MelanieMcCurdie

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Frozen Soul

4:30 am.

I’m awake and staring out the window at the snow, wishing I was asleep and not witnessing horror. But instead I am, and so are the deer busily scampering, their hooves a clip clop of wood on wood against the asphalt.  It’s cold and my smoke is dwindling, but I stay anyway with teeth chattering and bare skin rippled   It’s eerily quiet at this time of day; enough that I can hear the downy whoosh of the Great Owls flying as I watch them silently soar. The rabbits scarper, too, suddenly prey, and I, a lowly human, observe thoughtfully, wondering exactly why we sleep through the loveliest time of our cycle.  The answer is that it’s warm and when someone you care for is beside you, it can be paradise; A lost paradise but one nonetheless. It can also be an abyss and one too vast to traverse without adequate supply.

The flame from my torch looks turns the window into a mirror, and the reflection is the true horror. The tip of my home rolled jitters nervously in the light, that makeshift looking-glass tells more truth than any I’ve known since my youth. I can’t turn away from the woman in the window. I want to but she isn’t something I’ve seen before, and like all humans, we covet what we can’t have by imbibing with our eyes. A terrible sort of beauty, she smiles as though sadness were a garment made for her.  Her face is a maze of scars and pitfalls; this resplendent monster wears her mask without shame.  Her bare skin is mottled with wounds that never heal, punch stains and splintered soul, this wonder affects an air of resilient strength that truly stuns. Broken, beaten she stands before me with that sad knowing smile and cries tears of blood in my honour.

I know her; this creature who stands and bleeds on my palms is a woman I recognise from auld lang syne, and I inhale again in hope that she will fade away with the smoke.  It’s selfish but I wish she’d go to Source or just leave, or – and I sigh in a cloud of regret. Selfish indeed. The poor thing didn’t, doesn’t ask to remain here, would rather be forgotten in some unmarked grave but I suppose the tears I cry awaken her spirit.  To my own regret, because there can be no tears in the presence of the world and she is a part of that world, corporeal or flesh, there are still eyes to see them.  Behind the gate and beyond fear, a buck openly observes my inner struggle with unblinking eyes and steam jetting from his muzzle. Moments like hours’ creep by and then he dips his prodigious rack and gracefully trots out of view. A message or a dismissal, of this I will never be sure, and perhaps I don’t need to know the answer.

All that I need to know is that the fire is out.  The smoke that I had lit is gone and the woman is still here.  I also know that I am sitting here in front of an open window watching the snow fall and wishing that was something else.  The woman still stands nearby, sadly smiling with her hands behind her back like a chastised child. After years of talking to a ghost, there are no more words to say that will make her understand that she was in no way complicit. That she should move forward and move on but she just regards me with pity in her eyes and a wince that makes me cringe in sympathy.  No one can convince a soul, no matter how tortured and desperate to believe they are, to give up the grip they have on life.

Above my head, the floorboards creak; the clock strikes five and still I sit here in the cold, thinking. There are things that no one seems to understand and I never want them to live it, let alone comprehend it.  How do you explain the way that I crawled out of the same grave I willingly leapt into?  It sounds insane; but is it as insane as the emotional re-emergence, covered in moss and gasping for air?   Crazy it may be but I crawled out of it nonetheless. I bear the scars from digging through years of dead flowers and the rotting corpses of fallen leaves, digging through thousands of apologies and wasted words to finally breathe free air again. Buried alive is not as far etched as it seems.

The sun will rise soon and I am finally tired enough to sleep. Turning to bid her adieu, with my hand raised to blow her a kiss, I complete the action to an empty room. My muscles creak and bones crackle alarmingly, as I climb the stairs towards my bed and some rest.  I should be exhausted, but it feels more like coming alive.  As I drift to dreamland, I wonder if she’s trying to send me a message.

 ©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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dybbuk box

Maybe I do think Hell is full and maybe I know for a fact that devils roam among us. Maybe I found one. Maybe I know one; and maybe he laughs like sin is a flight of fancy while he watches from his solicitous shadows. Enticing, that daemon, he ignited a barely controlled passion that burned just below the surface. It’s not fair, the way he teased, the horns on his head hidden well from prying eyes, but not from me. Never from me.

I was caught tonight, trying to get drunk and failing. Pissed off and glowering over the half empty bottle, a devil snuck up behind me. What an unsuspecting meal I must have appeared, and he chuckled when I rounded, snarling with my teeth bared, Spite!!  “You sought out a devil and now you’re shocked that you found one,” a devilishly handsome man with brightly shining eyes stated, an unrecognisable expression on his face as he sat and pulled me into his lap.

A girl could have melted then, those perfectly evil lips that begged for a bite, Then it was my turn to laugh. And I did, not unkindly and with a certain hunger colouring the tone enough to widen his smile. With zero regret, I laughed again. “I am not shocked that I found a devil,” I murmured from my new place into the ear of his human suit; his need is a new pressure on my flesh, as is a burning touch across my thighs and on my waist. Smiling, my masque slips and the sharp intake of breath upon sight of dust underneath is soul food. “No, I’m not shocked to find a devil. I’m only surprised I trapped one so quickly.”

©MelanieMcCurdie

A Dark Thought

I don’t know why I’m even trying. I swore so long ago that I wouldn’t speak to You ever again and I haven’t,  until now. The Absent  Moral Authority, You abandoned me so many times, when I was taught that You were there to protect me, watch over me. Saviour. The first time I needed someone, after begging the physical individuals in my life to see me, I turned to the one that I was told would always be there.  But, I was left to deal on my own.  I prayed then for a Saviour, begged for help and You sent me further assault on my body and no hope of help to escape. I was five.

I hear from everyone that You are still there, that You still believe in me even if I don’t believe in You. I have no evidence of that. I could have believed, after;  I wanted to,  and I tried but where were You when I was seven with a razor to my throat? When I was twelve and lost? When I was fourteen and desperately needed an intervention? Where were You then? There is blame, a tonne of it and I’m not sorry one bit. I Believed in You, and Trusted that You would be that Protector, and You let me down.

Parts of me still hold to the childhood brainwashing I received in the name of my eternal soul. That’s why I’m making a last-ditch effort. After all, kids suffer worse and survive, right? Every day, people suffer worse fates, and I’m alive, so be grateful, Believe in Me. I’m always here.  But this is where I’m having an issue. When I was dying, trapped like a rat in a maze and willing to provoke the final battle so that it would finally be over, I trusted in You to be my voice. To Save me, after I’ve spent so many years trying to save myself, and I have the scars to prove it.

Where were You when I lay sweating on that stinking bare mattress in the spare room, broken inside from fists and coughing and fever sick from days of effort just to breathe?  Where were you when I had to crawl on bruised knees and broken bones through my own blood and vomit to the bathroom? Where were your miracles when I sat for what seemed like hours, crying silent tears because it hurt to piss?  I could have screamed but that would have meant worse. Where were you when the barrel of that pretty little .44 was shoved into my mouth, breaking my teeth and the gun cocked while I begged for my life?   I prayed.   Nothing.  You weren’t there.  I was.  I needed You and I was alone, as usual.

So why am I here on my knees praying when I swore it would never happen again? Because I have nothing left to believe in. It’s hard to hold faith in someone whose only real action is to prove that company line is to take none.  Years have gone by since l last tried, and there’s always only one course of action that remains when there is nothing left; I’m not ready to entertain that option, yet.  I even pleaded profusely, offering a sacrifice to Cthulhu and then to Gingersnap the Soul Eater, but I was refused in both cases, indulgently. Perhaps it’s because I no longer have a soul.

I’ve asked in jest, and then in seriousness, for help, for a life-preserver, anything to save me from drowning. No one cares enough to pull their eyes away from their own reflection.  Once I was sure that Angel’s existed; I no longer believe in angels but I’m sure that the Devil is real and His name is Technology. Further proof that You aren’t there and Heaven is some kind of Celestial Prank.

Fact is, that I’m in bad shape, and it’s no lie. This time I’m broken in a new way and my breath rattles in my lungs quite like a watery maracas. It’s no excuse for my actions, and I know that I will pay for it in one way or another. Such is the order of things.  My Faith in You still exists.  It’s nothing more than this tiny glow of light but it  lives, but this is the last time that I will ask You to help me.  To forgive me.

I didn’t mean to do it.  I couldn’t swallow the swill of lies and insults anymore and instead of swallowing the gall in my mouth and walking away,like I normally do,  it exploded from the crowbar I was using to open the new barrel in the garage.  His voice was a buzzing in my ears, he was screaming at me so loudly and I turned and rammed the flat end of it into his throat.  I just wanted him to stop shouting, and after, when the blood was spraying all over my face and hand, I stood over him and watched him jitterbug.  His hands kept fluttering at his neck like red and white butterflies. He bled out on his spotless garage floor, and the delicate butterflies?   They stopped flying about five minutes ago.

He was complicit in his demise, made his bed so to speak.  The barrel was empty, thankfully, and made a handy storage place. But now, I’m afraid.  Please, I need Your help. I’m scared and I need Your Guidance.

The Eyeless Prophet

I swear this is mostly a true story.   I’m in the kitchen and there’s a man in the lawn. The same eyeless prophet outside my window that I always see.  He shimmers, shivering, just standing there watching me with a mindless smile. Tonight, every night, and he’s everywhere, I swear it, in every place I go.  Behind the door or on the stair, in the mirror glare.

No matter where, impossibly, he’s there and I sense this seemingly sane man would speak if given the platform but he never utters a word. Not one. Not once. Not of grievance nor gratitude; he offers only silence as reward for concern.

But I digress. It’s a mess and I’m beginning to feel nervous and somewhat fretful. Prophet he may be – he told me once in a dream where we were sipping cocktails on the Vegas strip that Prophets aren’t in it for Profit. I told him he was a weirdo and then I woke up – he was human then and maybe still is, I’m not sure.

He doesn’t frighten me. I’m no mewling kitten afraid of it’s own shadow, and I suppose I have reason to be worried a smidge. But he doesn’t frighten me … not nearly as much as the knife wielding freakazoid sneaking up behind him.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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seppuku

Title photo Seppuku by Spanish artist Pejac

The flight of geese outside my windows heralds the small death of Mother Nature; She, having fed on the vitality of summer, soon will lay dormant under a blanket of snow. So will I.   I’ve  tried to ask for help the only way I know how, and my call has gone unanswered. No one cares. Not even me.  Those times that felt that I mattered to someone are priceless. I hide them away much like Gollum hid his Precious, a jewel in my chest. They mattered to me. It matters, because that’s what I will hold onto at the end. Don’t misunderstand, there is no blame, unless it’s on me. It falls squarely on me.  Its my own fault for having faith, that sanguine expectation I’d avoided for so long it was second nature.

It’s not just emotional agony. There is more that I conceal and it eats at me, the black mass of my soul that just can’t stand the thought of waking up another day in this personal prison.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the small phial of white powder I’d procured earlier today in desperation for something, anything to take the pain away. Opening it means goodbye to sobriety, goodbye to the years of effort and self-discipline it took to kick it. It also means I can finally sleep, because there is more in the old coffee container above the kitchen sink. If I open the phial, I won’t stop until my heart does. Even though I’m not even a blip in your thoughts, I still feel your disapproval and hesitate.

But it  was you, then; you, who insisted I was worth something more than just being considered a pussy with a hank of hair and pair of legs. You were the one who kept me here when I was sure I wanted to die, even after I tried to end my life.  It was you who told me I was beautiful, that I was desirable and that you loved me. It didn’t matter how that love existed, just that it did and I want to hold onto that.  I felt real and it kept me awake days and sleepless nights, until my sanity creaked.  I still can’t understand how you could see me when I withdrew, or how you could see something in the mirror that I couldn’t and still can’t see.

My Hero, you swooped in and rescued the drowning psycho with a smile and pretty words, and like a fool, I believed the repeated insistence that you’d never leave. I wanted to believe in you.  I needed to believe in somebody after so many reasons not to but was afraid because I knew deep down one day I’d be alone again  after the vanishing act occurred.  It was inevitable I suppose,  just  like every other person in my life who has made the same promises. Lo, behold, my fear proven correct. Again.

The phial is empty, as am I.  My heart pounds a noiseless earthquake in my ears like a drumbeat.  A bullet would be quicker but the exhilaration of knowledge that  I am about to be free from my mortal bonds is a relief and nothing else matters except for the hunger that ravages my veins and makes my nose burn.  The one thing that I have never been able to resist was the Siren call of the White.  My chest hurts so badly that I’m panting. I’d forgotten that; it feels like life, and smells like Reaper. Soon she will be here, I hope. I’m afraid again. What if there is noth-

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@MelanieMcCurdie2015

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Coming October 2016 to paperback and eBook

The Clangers

Truly, I wasn’t sure he was real at first. Those wide guileless eyes, so full of truth; oozing sweetness and youthful innocence. Full to the brim with unfulfilled potential that it makes me ill. That alone is suspect. The confused cocked head, much like a disoriented puppy married with a glazed gaze that is meant to convey stupidity does the exact opposite. No one is really that naive, not in this century anyway. How could one remain so when a world of debauchery and horrors can be found at the simple click of a mouse?

I think he is so much prettier than she was and that annoys me for some reason. Why that is I’m not sure, nor do I care. Maybe I care a little. It’s that stuffed toy expression, or the fantastic lack of personally that somehow fits perfectly with the former; I could rattle his chains some, enough to cause him to drop the act. Perhaps it’s all just one of those things not meant to be explored. Jesus, that blinking blankness is unnerving me and he knows it. Calculating bastard; you can almost see the wheels turning behind those false front soul windows of his.

He’s obviously intelligent; that, paired with the devastatingly handsome features is a heady mix and a dangerous one too. Lucky bastard. I’d be jealous, if it weren’t expected effort that I can ill afford to expend.

Such a high maintenance exposure as well and for what? To put myself in the forward momentum of a killer, whose cradle of purpose is solely to separate Spirit from Soma. I wonder if Siobhan Clanger had had any idea about the monster that she gave herself to. I wonder if it was a wiling sacrifice.

“Why did you mutilate that lovely young woman, Frankie?” I ask offhandedly, tapping my pen against the metal table top In a less than legal beat. In some circles I’d be lynched already.. Across the table, Francis Oliver Marrs narrows his oddly coloured eyes and frowns slightly. Point for me. There is no response, and I chuckle under my breath. “We found your fingerprint Frankie Boy. You’re clever, I will give you that, but not that clever. Dr. Jeckle down at the morgue is a bit of a strange duck, but his experiments work. Says he found your print on her eyeball. On her eyeball Frankie? What kind of sick malarkey is that?”

The room is quiet but for the steel fan that keeps us from dying of the heat, and the occasional squeal of a belt that desperately needed replacing. Francis sits still, his eyes on mine with no expression on his smooth features. I got plenty of time. My wife left last year, took the kids and the dog and left me in an empty house. I haven’t bothered to replace the furniture or the woman but I do miss my kids. I can wait all day, as long as there is a pot of Joe on the brew.

“C’mon Frank. We have your print, her blood was on your hands and on your underwear. I still can’t understand that. What kind of sicko are you? You cut her up and then wet your willie? Huh Frankie?”

“Please stop with the pen.” I’d been tapping it insistently on the table top during this whole one-sided conversation, knowing full well it irritated him. I don’t stop.

“Answer the questions, and I’ll think about it.” Marrs just sits quietly with his head down while I up the tempo into an epileptic beat that I can see is irritating  him as much as me, but his fists are clenched tightly on the table and his jaw is too. Another point for me. A knock on the door breaks the tension, and he laughs just a little under his breath. “Funny stuff eh Frankie Angel? You like banging dead twirls? Like it when they’re not fighting you anymore huh? WHAT?”

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Someone is still rapping at my chamber door and it’s a seriously inopportune moment. The door opens just a crack and a voice full of femininity and fight asks to enter. “Relax kiddo. Let me see what’s what and I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere no, hear me Francis?” Stupid bitch, interrupting me when he was about to break. Closed doors mean do not disturb, everyone knows that.  There is a stunning blonde at the door, complete with a vacant smile and tearful doe eyes that would make any man weak in the groin. She is the spit and image of that  dead ginger, Siobhan, the one that Marrs and I are discussing, complete with the beauty mark below her right eye and that monumental rack. Jesus, I’d give my right nut to face plant between them.  I can hear Francis fidgeting behind me, and the small clink of the chains that he is in. A quick glance shows me that he is thrown off kilter as well.  Good; maybe this is a blessing in dusguise

“What can I do for you sweetheart? We’re kinda in the middle of something here.” Her smile is angelic, sweeter than a surprise visit to the candy shoppe Sunday morning instead of church, and admittedly my zipper on my pants is getting a little tighter. Maybe after this is done – “C’mon beautiful, I got work to do. What do you need?”

“Your keys, Detective, and one … more … thing.” Her hand  on my crotch and incredibly warm as it squeezes and releases.  Taken by surprise at her boldness, I back into the room with my hands in her hair  and sporting a throbbing whistle like I haven’t experienced in since my wife left   Francis is sitting with his mouth hanging open, no longer pulling at the shackles but open mouthed shock. “Just one small thing, Detective, and you can get back to work,” she whispers in my ear with a painful nip on the lobe that somehow makes me harder

“Yeah, what’s that? I don’t mind an audience, honey, and he’s not going anywhere.” Blondie just smiles and keeps playing rub and tug.    I can’t help myself and make a grab for her luscious melons while attempting to pull her close with the other  in hopes of getting my hand at that snug skirt    She is bare underneath, judging  from the lack of lines on her ass, and this is something I intend to make use of.  Holy Hannah,  this woman has no inhibitions and spreads her stems enough for my fingers to slip between her ample thighs. The squeak of the fan makes this all the more unreal but it’s been too long since I’ve gotten my wick wet and she is ready to make the scene. “Detective, that one other thing,” she gasps as my index finger slides into her moist warmth, then another “before we continue.”

“It can wait.” Her body is a playground and my hand is having a ball. I can feel her small palm sliding along my shoulder as her hips move hard, and the wet sound of her pleasure is almost louder than that stupid fan. Francis is quiet, but I can hear his short aroused heaves when I push her against the wall and cover her mouth. Her hand is fumbling at my belt and I shove it away, releasing the beast with ease. It’s been so long since I’d felt this burning and she is so near, I can’t help myself from shoving he skirt over her hips and impaling her onto the wobbly warhead.

She quivers as I pound into her body, the soft sighs making the familiar sting of close climax ache at the nape of my neck, like it does every time it’s very good. Her legs are strong, crossed over my ass and pulling me deeper with each thrust and that burn is almost too much to bear. It’s agony in my head and in my balls when she screams against my hand and I unload inside her tight cavity. It’s heaven and then hell. The burn isn’t backing off, as it always does after, and my knees aren’t holding me up either. What the hell… I pull out of her as my body hits the floor. The burn isn’t pleasure but breath stealing pain and all I can do is lay on the floor and stare at her beautiful face while she yanks her skirt down with a smile.

“Sorry Detective. You are a very good lay. It’s a shame that we won’t see each other again, but I know Francis appreciates the opportunity to continue his work. My sister, Siobhan, was an experiment, and no great loss. You underhand, don’t you? My name is Gwen Clanger, by the way.” I can see a long drip of my seed making its way down her thigh as she stands over my face and takes my keys. “The knife won’t yield any fingerprints but yours. I took it from your pocket. How sad for your family that your death will be unsolved. And in a police station too. Tsk tsk.”

Francis is on his feet and rubbing lightly at his wrists. Gwen smirks at him then kicks me hard in the ribs before stepping away and out the door with a laughing Francis in tow. I can’t breathe enough to call out for help, the pressure is like an elephant on my chest. All I can do is move my hand to tuck my shame back into its place, and am doing just that when someone shouts in horror at the door.

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016

http://www.melaniemccurdie.com

-anthropophagus airborne –

 

*an excerpt from Slaughterhouse Stories,  coming in October 2016*

Airports.  A concrete pen full of rules and fragrant with the scent of human animals.  It is certainly not the place Abbegael Clermont wants to be.  She was supposed to be on a tropical beach with a drink in her hand, but her employers disagreed, as usual. Instead she is stuck in the middle of nowhere in this box, drowning in a sea of humanity and she is already bored.  Everything about these places rubs her the wrong way and having to face spending half a day on a flying hunk of metal over some vast ocean was not Abbee’s idea of fun.  In fact, she is quite irritated about being forced to blow off some much-needed fun for this job. “Right now, I could be lying on my back being serviced by a local stud,” she grouses under her breath, “I need that lay worse than the paycheck.” Thankfully, flying First Class has its benefits and before long she is comfortably seated and in the air.

She should be at ease, but something feels off and Abbegael takes note of the seemingly empty cabin.  It may appear that way but a pair of eyes is watching her intently, and she surreptitiously pats her left side, feeling for the familiar weight of her weapon and immediately whispers, “Fuck,” before dropping her hands to her lap again.  “I can use my hands, if need be.” There is no way to ascertain who was doing the observing without being obvious, an annoying issue but easily solved.  Rising to her feet, Abbee walks slowly  up the aisle to the lavatory, adding a little extra stagger in her step, and  hoping that the lavatory would be occupied so that she could look around while waiting.

Sometimes Abbee wants to wring Lady Luck’s scrawny neck, “Bitch never has my back,” she growls, pulling open the narrow door and stepping inside.  Engaging the lock immediately, she glances in the mirror.   Her reflection looks haggard, the critical eye harping on the fine lines that etched the corners of her eyes and the dark circles under them. “At least my hair looks good. Silver linings do exist ” she shrugs while washing her hands.

Her cool fingertips ease the burn of her fever flush that have risen on her cheeks and the redness dissipates lightly. “What the hell is wrong with me? It’s the damned plane. I hate planes.”   Abbee open the door abruptly and steps  out into the galley, her eyes scanning the cabin for any sign of another passenger.  That intent stare is back and it is crawling all over her body in a predatory manner and she wishes absently again for her weapon.  She feels preyed upon;  it makes her nervous and still, she likes it well enough to feel that familiar flutter gush between her thighs.  It’d been a while. In her  line of work,  romance and relationships are not the best of bedfellows. on the left side of the first class cabin, her eyes meet a pair of dark glittering ones,  frankly staring back with hunger, causing her to startle and stumble backwards.  Attempting to catch her balance as the flying tin can she is trapped in rumbles down the dirt road of the surprise storm.

He was on his feet in a blink;  truly, she  misses it, and  then he was at Abbee’s side, steadying her with his hands firmly on her ass as the plane bounces up and down, making them rock together in some sort of strange dance.  She thanks him, unable to move away.    He holds her tighter, surprising her into a momentary flutter of panic thrill when she looks up at him, choreographing her next action when the stranger  places a kiss gently on the corner of her mouth.  “I’ve been waiting for you.” Abbee struggles, her nails sliding against the slick material of his shirt; she hitches in a breath to scream when his next words freeze them solid.  “There’s no one else on board.  Only you, Me and a very small, discreet and loyal flight crew. But go ahead. I love it when my meals scream.”

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Proof of Death

*from the upcoming book,  Stories from the Slaughterhouse, coming soon to digital and paperback*

The thunk of the gun on the table in front of me holds such a finality that I am stunned into stammering.   Had I truly come to a point in my life where all my troubles could be bought away by the uttering of a name and the pulling of a trigger? Apparently so – I had to consider my situation carefully and had relatively no time to do it. “That’s the deal, sweetheart. One name, and one bullet.” The man behind the weapon wears a smile that seems more predatory than genuine. It’s odd how predatory fits  best with those pointed teeth of his.  The smile is not reassuring in the least.

“It all sounds a little too good to be true, and you forgot about the lifetime of guilt and nightmares,” I snark back, more out of fear than anything else. A big hand lands like a wet blanket on the butt of the gun and I realise that I was lashing out at the one person who was willing to give me what I needed. No one ever said that I was smart.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolf. I suppose that I’m nervous. This is a big decision to make, you know?”  The hand vanishes as quickly as it came and I inwardly sigh relief. “So who is it? I need the name before I turn you loose. It’s one of the rules.” Who, indeed? There really were so many I could choose from, but whose death would everyone’s world best benefit from? “You already know, don’t you?” I shake my head, because I did and I didn’t want to admit it. I’m a horrible person. A monster.

A monster, but I don’t mean to be, and I try so hard not to be. “Yeah. I know who, and you won’t be needing that gun, either, thank you. I could use a priest and maybe a team of exorcists though, if you know of any.” A bullet will do no good and so the gun is useless, unless I want to blow my own brains out my ear with it. If he takes it with him, It’s sure to happen to him; I am not ready to die, yet,  and I’m positive that he isn’t either.  It’ll happen, though.   It has before.

I am unwell, or so they say and I would normally agree but my point of view has changed drastically.  There are  some things that one simply cannot unsee  or pretend they are untrue   Last summer, while I was in a bad way, I  voluntarily did a short stint in the local mental hospital.  What my family called a sanity sabbatical.  I met someone there, a strange and wonderful man who shared so many of the same things in common that for the first time in my life, I began to be happy right where I was.

His name was Piotr and he made me feel like a normal woman, someone with worth, worth the time and I fell in love, hard. From the moment I saw him, he became hypnotic and all-encompassing.  Our romance grew in the shadows and in empty doorways, finally resulting in the consummation of our love late on the 13th of June.  We found each other in the darkness of the abadoned north wing and on a bed he had thoughtfully set up for our first romantic endeavour he took the only thing I had to give.

There was something – a presence – about him that made me drool with desire every time he came near. The intoxicating scent of the one I adored was more delicious than anything else and my head was full of him when he peeled my clothing off and spread my legs. He kissed me, there, then, and I shivered when his tongue began tracing its pattern; up and down and round and round. My slit was wet but I wanted him in my mouth first and then between my legs, but he refused one and laid me back onto the thin mattress.

I could feel the hot throbbing head of his sex against my virgin opening, and it probed deeper as his tongue did my mouth. There was so much pleasure that I forgot about the pain and spread my legs wide, begging him to pierce my maidenhead and then fuck me til I screamed. No greater pleasure experienced in one’s life than that first time and so it remains the greatest pleasure of my years. The stars in my eyes masked the truth in reality and though he was everything, I had forgotten about the chains of responsibility that come with rapture.

Weeks later, I learned that I was to be a mother, on the very day that I was to be released from my sanctuary,  torn away from Piotr and dumped back into hell. I had written him a note after repeated failed  attempts to pull him into a private corner to tell him the news. The nurses thwarted me at every step, and I finally resorted to paper and pen; my love left bleeding on paper and handed to a trusted friend to deliver after my departure.

My room remained the same as it had when I was a child, thus relegating me to the child they saw me as.  I hated it,  chafed at the social collar that I was forced to wear.  The only saving grace is that when Poitr was finally free, it would l be easy for me to slip out of the window and into his arms. For a time, it was easy, for maybe a month or so after I received word that he gained employment and was living in a rooming house nearby. The first time, we planned to meet at the gazebo at the local park. It was our first public meeting, and I was a nervous wreck, with my hand caressing the slight bump of my belly as though I would a talisman.

Poitr appeared on the path leading up to the partial secluded building, his eyes on the ground until he reached the stairs; then, nothing existed for a while but our bodies and hearts meeting and beating together. The sound of his knees hitting the wood and the feeling of his soft lips on the slight bump of my belly was more erotic than I ever imagined. The sensation of the hardest part of him resting against my ready slit and then sliding forward was delicious and I arched my back with a groan. I remember that, but the rest is lost in a haze of my own making. It’s for me.

We met that way as often as time would allow, with me climbing from the bedroom window and shimmying down the drainpipe to walk half a mile to the gazebo. It was perfect until I was unable to see my toes, and then we knew we needed to find another way. Piotr proposed on a Friday, in our gazebo. It was raining and the world was draped in mist from the river. The baby kicked hard when he kissed my inner thigh and produced a beautiful small diamond. Of course I said yes and we lay together on a blanket he had brought with him, his hand on my belly and his lips on my ear, telling me about how it would be when we were married and our little one was here. He made it sound so plausible.

“Is it safe? Nadia? Is it – if we -” He was so nervous and I nodded against his neck, nipping my teeth along his collarbone when he growled. “Easy, Poitr, you must go easy,” I gasped when he shoved me onto my back and flipped my skirt up over my hips. I hadn’t worn panties, as he’d requested and his fingers were stroking my already ready slit in a rougher manner than I’d experienced before. “Poitr,” I whined, trying to push his hand away but he chuckled and slipped three of his thick fingers firmly inside my tunnel, wiggling them in a manner that made me squirm in pleasure and discomfort. Baby was active and seemed to be struggling inside of my belly.

An enormous agony tore through my back and up my spine when my juices drenched his still thrusting fingers, easing with the first shriek from Piotr and the frantic wriggling of his hand deep inside of my body.  The world stopped, and for a while, so did I, lost in a fog of numbness and the shrieks of the man I loved.

When the mists had cleared, Piotr was gone; his eyes had flies in them and  his hand was gnawed away, through to the stub of white gleaming in the red.  My belly was empty, and  felt empty too, until I felt the warmth of two tiny hands st my breast and the sharp nip of pointed teeth.   I was a mother. My son’s first meal had been his father.

That was six months ago   Piotr was found shortly after our son wax born by an off duty officer on his morning run.  There were no suspects and the papers said it was an isolated animal attack  He’s an animal alright, of a sort, my fallen angel who sleeps now in his toddler bed nearest the window.  He will wake later so that he can sit up and admire the moon.  He’s grown fast, feeding while I sleep and crawling beside me warm and content as the sun rises each morning, waking me the same way he did the day he was born   His teeth are sharper.

I miss Piotr, dreadfully.  Our child looks so much like him that it makes me ill.  I can’t look at him anymore, especially not now   He is rapidly losing his grip on what little  humanity he’d been born with.  I knew that it would happen anyway but I’m frightened by how soon it has occurred.

What brings me here, at this point in my life?  Two nights ago  I found a man in my house.  I just stood in the doorway stunned at seeing a nude stranger it my bed, and the sweet face of my should be infant boy buried hairline deep in his guts and grunting like a boar.  The man was still shrieking in agony when I crept away from the open  bedroom door and drove away.  I haven’t been back.

“Hey beautiful, what’s the word? Going to give me that name?”  I really detest this asshole, but he is exactly what I need to get the job done.  Raising my eyes to his, I smile and push a folded scrap of paper towards him, and brush the cool metal of the gun in the process.  “Gideon.  There is the address. I’ll wait for the call.”  Mr. Wolf scanned the information I’d carefully  printed on it and refolded the paper, placing it in his left breast pocket.

“Okay Ms. C.   Give me 24 hours and I’ll have good news for you.” He traipsed away without a care, and never glanced back once.  I’ve  been waiting for that call, the text, something with the proof of death to secure my freedom for almost 48 hours   That is a full day longer than the amount of time that he committed to, but I am loathe to leave yet.  This is my child, after all, my son that I’m awaiting word from after all.  I afraid that things went terribly wrong.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Final Memory

The blackness of unconsciousness has monsters in it, slithery horrible things that resemble nothing close to peace. Floating in some breathless place, I wasn’t and then I was. Like a light flashing on, or a flipped switch. What is a light?What is a switch?

Flip the switch, blind the night.

The reality is that my eyes are sizzling in their sockets, and the white light aches in my head. What am I? Who…am I…? I have a name; had one before I was l lost in the noxious nightmare of comatose horror. I have an identity; a life, people who care – someone must miss me…

I heard my name spoken in whispers – while lost in my own head – by a voice that left me shivering as I recall it now, and it strikes fear in my chest. It can’t be true but I know my own ears and I thought that I was alone, then. I can’t remember the name now. Nothing works and I’m broken. I really am broke this time.  My head aches and I think it’s bleeding, from the sick, slick sensation of warm wetness on my neck.

The darkness is back and so is the voice, hissing slowly and clearly into my ear and I’m ashamed to admit that it makes me burn with desire. With knowledge.

My name is Bonnee Waitless.

I don’t know where I am, and that’s a big concern because my world is pitch, and seems darker because it was so blindingly bright before. I know that I am awake, aware at least; my eyes are open, and I can feel my nails digging into my cheek so I’m almost sure that this isn’t a dream. I think I know what the darkness is, but I don’t know why it is here. Wherever here is. There are too many questions and not enough answers; I can’t find answers sitting in my ass lost here in the dark. Why is this happening? Why now?

Time to take inventory:

I am afraid.  I know nothing yet it seems that I already know everything. I know that I need to move from the floor and find an egress of any sort,  but the air is molasses and my body doesn’t respond.

There is something else, as well.   I’m no longer alone. What is that sound? A panting in the shadows, frightened or maybe hungry. Perhaps it’s a dog, and if so, it’s probably frightened as well. “Here boy! I don’t bite!”

A breathless whisper seems to surround me; taunting, titillating, and that’s when I realize that the panting is no dog. I don’t know what it is, but I called it and it came with teeth and an agony tipped tongue that peels the skin from my cheek.

I wish I wasn’t.

And then it was light.

“Waitless.”  Bang.  The recoil on the recollection is like a cannonball to the gut.  The same baritone I heard in the cellar when I was a child that came with a stench and an itch that never subsided until after Father Ibriham came and –

It slithers, like fog, sinuously creeping as though it is alive, amd implausibly, it is.  I can’t scream; can’t even moan because my throat is ice and my lungs fire when its needle tipped tongue enters my ear and begins laying eggs of a different knowledge there.

Gods help me.

Praying for death only amplifies the pain in my head before it suddenly subsides with a manic giggle that bounces about in my brain . The betrayal of my body as it strains towards the horror as if in orgasm is a worse torture that anyone can imagine and I can feel a glow of soft, bitter pain that comes with being taken over. I have no power to resist nor the will to.

Lost in space, free will taken and given without reservation. The Devil finally found me, exactly as was promised long ago in that  cellar, in another time.  I can’t fight anymore. It just feels too good to battle a continuous, all-encompassing release. I wish…

I wish I were dead but it wants me alive – my throat!

“Now I am Bonnee Waitless. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Snapshot – Turner’s Folly

Read  S N A P S H O T

August 13, 2015
Outside of Kelford

30 miles NE of Skull Creek

It’s all Al Kennedy can think about. Three weeks’ vacation to spend seven days of it driving while Angie slept and the kids fussed and fought endlessly in the back seat. Then she would admonish him for being grumpy and out of sorts when they finally stopped for the night. Al loves her but sometimes he daydreams of choking the fuck out of her when she starts sniping at him. Then last night she drops that fucking bomb on him and expected him to cheer and bitched when he stepped out for a walk and a joint. “A man needs to clear his head, for fuck sake,” he thought, slamming the door behind him.

Angie is asleep, again, with her head on his lap; her breath is warm through the summer weight trousers he wears and his cock twitches when she moans lightly and tightens her fingers on his inner thigh. Fuck me, kid number three on my three-week vacation, he thinks bitterly and flicks his eyes up to scan the road behind him.  Rest and relaxation, Angie insisted, laughing at him when he emphatically refused and then ended up relenting as he always did.

The dark clouds are building behind the old but still solid station wagon and Al is growing weary of the constant bickering in the backseat. If not for the kids, he would wake Angie with a poke in the eye and a hard fuck against the passenger door. Turner, their six-year-old starts whining that he has to take a piss and Al realises that he wasn’t paying attention to the road and swerves back into his lane with an embarrassed flush.

“Dad please! I really gotta pee,” Turner nearly sobs and Al’s heart drops when he sees the stricken face of his son in the rear-view mirror. He’d only been trained a couple of years and the kid still remembers the cold showers he’d gotten when he’d had an accident. Al suddenly feels like a shit. He had hoped to be safe at home by now and indoors before that storm hit them head on, but likely he’d be stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere with two bitching kids and a sleeping wife.

“Yeah okay kiddo. Let me find a safe place, okay?” Turner nods and wipes at his eyes with an irritated swipe of his hand, then stares out the window with his knees trembling. God, I’m an asshole, he thinks and veers off to the side of the road at the nearest wide place. The second the wagon shudders to a stop, Turner bolts from the car like a flash, yanking his shorts down around his narrow little ass in a smooth practiced motion that makes Al laugh.

He expects the kid to lift his small face to the sky in relief, and steals a peek at his eight year old daughter CeeCee, who was sitting oblivious and enthralled in the latest Thea Stilton book. They were good kids all in all. It wasn’t their fault that their vacation was spent driving instead of relaxing beside a pool somewhere. Angie sits up abruptly and flops against the door, bonking her head on the window and Al winces. She would feel that later and that would be no sex for him again tonight.

Turner was standing in the long grass with his shorts around his ankles and his hands slack at his sides. Jesus. Al feels the air freeze in his lungs, and jumps out of the door, slamming his knee on the door handle. He tells CeeCee to stay with her mother, then rubs at his knee and sprints towards his son. “Hey Slugger! What’s the deal? Are you going to take a leak or what? That storm ain’t gonna wait,” he calls to the kid and his stomach drops as the Turner turns towards him with his pale face wan and cheeks wet with tears. He runs to his son’s side and drops to his knees wincing, visually checking him for anything out of the ordinary. “Turner? Why haven’t you gone pee?” The kids shakes his head and points to the ground about three feet from where he was standing.

“I couldn’t Daddy. I didn’t want to pee near the dead lady,” he says in a thin scared voice and starts to cry like a frightened toddler when his bladder finally lets go. Al looks to his left and chokes back the horrified scream that is in his throat. There is a woman lying there, nude and completely hairless with her legs splayed and her hands cupping her full breasts. Her face is gone and her empty sockets are full of flies as is her empty stomach cavity. Her arm looks as though it has been chewed on. Al turns to vomit and then grabs Turner close to him to whisper in his ear, “Close your eyes Slugger, and cover your ears.” He waits for the kid to comply before he picks him up and runs for the car, screaming for Angie and his cell phone.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Thorns

My ears are ringing, my head throbbing in time with my heart, my skin, my… Where am I? I open my eyes, lifting my hand to shade the sun’s glare. The light hurts, and I feel sick, the bile rising harsh and acidic in the back of my throat. Trees all around, their bushy heads touching the sky, roots dig into my back, and I roll to my side, clutching my belly and trying desperately not to vomit. It’s a battle I lose, throwing up little more than the last precious ounces of fluid in my stomach.

I want to cry, go all weak sister and sob my heart out. Not today, not now, I tell myself, forcing my arms to push me up. They tremble, threatening to give and I steel myself, slowly lifting my head and feeling the world swim in front of my eyes. What the fuck happened to me? I remember my date, I remember going back to his place…. The door read 669 and I joked that I would have broken and run had it read 666. He looked at me so oddly before his face softened and the smile spread across it. Where is he?

It’s so quiet, my ears strain for any sounds of civilization, a human voice, a dog for fuck sake, something that told me I wasn’t far from humanity. I wasn’t anywhere near humanity, the loudest sound was a squirrel chittering from a tree limb somewhere. I hated those fucking things, rabid little bastards, a plague of the fuzzy tailed little lunatics. I feel my sanity slipping away, and throttle it back into place, wondering what was coursing through my veins to cause this. How had I ended up here? Me? I’m not some Suburb Samantha, I don’t belong to the PTA or volunteer at the local arena. I’m a monster and I am top of the food chain. Or not, apparently.
My purse has been destroyed. It lies a few feet away, ripped shreds of the linking scatter in the wind, the threads catching on the dead leaves that litter the ground. The leather looks like it was put through a blender. Around it, my identification, or what remains of it, the cards shattered into tiny shards that glitter in the filtered light, the papers turned into confetti. I cannot stand, not yet, and so I crawl closer to my wallet, snatching it closer to me and rifling through it. The money is gone, down to the last cent, the pictures are ripped to pieces, and I feel my heart pound harder as I search through the tiny compartment under the change purse. I catch the edge with my nail, and pull the thick paper out of brightly coloured wallet. It survived, whomever did this obviously didn’t check properly.

I run the tip of my finger across the faded photo, before tucking it into my bra for safekeeping and flinch as the paper touches my bare breast. The darkening handprint on my skin startles me. What the hell. I almost hear a voice, in my head, and the implied tone sends a finger up my spine, causing me to twist and arch my back. My dress is torn and ruined the bodice all but hanging off my shoulders. Handprints across my skin, some burn as though they were branded on, others ache and pulse, and all make me queasy.

He was to be my first, i chose him, the moment of our meeting was something I’d dreamed of for months, played out over and over in my mind as the time grew closer. Girl meets boy, Girl fucks boy, Girl kills boy. The perfect love story. Imagine my surprise when he came to me, carrying a black coffee with 3 sugars and a knee-loosening smile, and I knew he was perfect. His name was Errol and I smirked slightly, looking away and thinking, “how dashing” sarcastically as usual. He was so sweet to bring me coffee, and I didn’t’ want to hurt him yet. “My parents were the original weirdos. My brother’s name is Cary Grant, don’t laugh, it’s true. My sister lucked out though, she got Faye after Mom’s favourite actress. You know, King Kong/” he said, pounding his chest and slopping coffee all down the front of his t-shirt. I couldn’t help it, and started giggling like a fucking idiot while ripping off paper towels and patting his chest down with a wad of the damned things.

He kissed me then, softly then harder, pulling me hard against him as our tongues danced together. The little flame I could occasionally drown, flared up and ignited the desire I’d been fighting to squash. “Go out with me. Tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7. Dress in red.” Had I been in my mind at all, i would have refused, but I was dazed and dazzled and simply nodded my agreement. He placed his hand on my cheek, and his thumb caressed my bottom lip, before he dipped to kiss me again, a light shivery kiss that left ny nerve endings shivery. “see you at 7,” he whispered before striding confidently to the door. He didn’t look back and It didn’t occur to me to be concerned until just now. I didn’t give him my address. He had so little offered information. So How? My legs are aching and I attempt to rise to my feet as I ponder my net move. First things first, I needed to be up on my feet. I placed my hand on the rough bark of the nearest tree, and pushed my self to my knees, wincing at the sting of my abraded skin. Setting one foot flat on the ground, I pushed up with my hand still on the tree for support.

He was so handsome, showing up at my door promptly at 7 and wearing a fantastic black suit, with light red pinstripes through the well made fabric. What a shame I’d have to slice through that wonderful thing. Maybe I could have him undress first. I was dressed as requested, my form-fitting crimson dress was made by Maiden’s Delight, a very exclusive designer, and his eyes travelled over my body, feather light, before meeting my eyes. “Shall we?” he asked, reaching his arm around my waist and drawing me forward. He really was the perfect first.
I’m trapped in some kind of natural prison, a nearly perfect circle of thick thorny bushes, with no apparent way out. Baby steps, I tell myself, as I slowly scan the treeline for some kind of hole or hidden exit, despair growing in my heart. How the fuck did I get in here if there is no way in or out? There must be, has to be or he is some kind of otherworldly creature. The thorns are huge, the smallest the length of a key, the largest could puncture through my arm. A glimpse of light about 25 feet from where I stand, there, gone, there again.

We were seated in a private room at a restaurant where reservations were taken a year in advance, and were much coveted. How strange that he was able to get one so quickly. “How did you get us in here? I’ve been on the list for 6 months now.” “My brother owns it. I used my family ties to get the best table in the house,” his soft toned voice caressing my girlish nature. Damn it. It had been a while and I was attracted, I could kill him after. His green eyes gleamed in the dimly lit room, and admittedly it unnerved me, enough so that I excused my self to the washroom in order to catch my breath. I could feel his gaze on me as I left the room, glad for the lessened weight of his stare.

Something is in here with me. I’m cold and I am nearly undressed, but for the tatters of my dress I’d be nude. It hurts to breathe and my ribs scream each time I take a shallow breath. Whatever is here is closer, like an animal surveying its prey and It sends a rage boiling in my blood. The light is back and I move towards dense branches, staggering slightly as my head throbs and pounds. There is an opening, barely noticeable in the tangle of thorns that nearly obscured it. Relieve course through my veins and I stumble, landing on my raw knees and screaming as a long dagger pierces my forearm, its point sticking out of the flesh on top, impaled. It snaps from its branch as I yank my arm back, It barely registers with the constant agony of my other injuries. My inner thighs are covered in purpling bruises and I ache in waves that make me nauseous.

“I ordered us some red wine,” he said as I returned to our table, standing to hold my chair for me. How old-fashioned, I remembered thinking, as I took my seat, feeling his fingers run across the bareness of my shoulders and across my cheek. This man disturbed me, sending warning bells ringing in my head that I ignored, as usual, and instead leaned my face into his palm, relishing the warmth. “Have some of this and then drink your wine,” he said, handing me a shot glass, the air-filled with the delicious astringent scent of tequila and I smiled, before closing my eyes and tossing it into my mouth. The strong alcohol seared my throat and coated it in fire, the final fruity flavour delighting my taste buds.

It’s all I can taste, and I turn away to vomit, feeling the burning bile in my throat but ridding my body of nothing. I am empty. I need to get out of here, but first this thorn needs to go. I grasp the end, feeling my fingers slip in the blood that had gathered on its edge. An imperfect grip but likely the only one I was to get and I pulled hard, feeling the wooden spike grind against a bone before coming free in a glut of blood. Four inches long, it would do to defend myself against whatever had found its way here.

The thorns are rustling, a shivery sound that sends a shiver up my spine and I stumble backwards into a warm set of arms. The scream that shoots out of my throat startles the birds in the trees, and I pull away or try to. I’m held fast, enfolded in what I suspect is meant to comfort and instead terrifies me, angers me. “Let me go.” I demand, wrestling against the bonds of warm flesh that surround me. “I’m not going to hurt you. If you fall you’ll land in those spikes and you’ll die, before I get to know you.” A soft male voice invades my building fury, dampening it to a low roar, and my body pulls in on itself in a painful attempt to hold together. “You’re hurting me. I have injuries and your arms are pressing on them. Please let me go. I really don’t want to be touched.” The embrace loosens but doesn’t let go, and I turn my head to meet a pair of cerulean eyes and a luscious smile that in any other situation would have loosened my knees.

“Who are you? What is this place? Why do you want to get to know me? Trust me, you don’t,” I spit out, as I push his arms away and move closer to the thorns. I’d rather skewer myself on those gargantuan lances than die at the hands of this stranger. I’d had quite enough of losing for one day, the very fact that I had lost before I had begun boiled my blood. “I’d rather show you, if you don’t mind. It’s a short walk to my home, if you’ll join me,” he said softly, holding out his hand, his open palm revealing an interesting web of lines. I stared at it for a long moment before lifting my gaze to meet a similarly open smile that reached his eyes. Genuine then, but why. Unable to resist, i took it, my mind running circles in frustration and confusion. Tight in my grip I held the thorn, prepared to plunge it into whatever soft membrane I could find should I feel the need. A shame to ruin one of those beautiful eyes, but I would if I had to.

He gently pulls me forward, towards the small exit I had spied earlier and I hesitate knowing there was no possible way to get through there with my skin in tact. The still gushing wound in my forearm throbs nauseatingly, and I feel my head swim. “Hold still,” he says firmly, letting go of my hand to pull his shirt over his head. “What are you doing?” My voice sounds strange and distant to my ears, interrupted by a harsh tearing sound that makes my eyes itch. I feel my knees buckle, the black butterflies stealing my sight and I gladly let them take my other senses with them.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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