by Eve Blaack
I have thought long and hard on how to kill you. I want to do you justice. I must take care of your pain and demise. And the dreams. This may give me the blood dreams I seek with a thirst I can never quench. Your death may satisfy my yearning. Or could it be a beginning of our blood alliance. Finally our fantasies can become real. Real to us. As real as we can allow, or have we let the reality become our fantasy and the fantasy become our reality. I am confused and cannot sort it out any more. I only know I must partake of your blood.
I invite you to the morgue. Our special place. I slip the drug in your wine. The sweet red wine you love so much. As you awaken you still think it is our game. Your cute little wicked smile. I slap it with the knuckle razor, and lick the blood as it trickles down your neck, chewing the piece of lip hanging on your chin. Sweets. I love to call you that 'cause of the taste of your flesh mingled with your blood. Hmm, the smile is gone now. It is only fitting for me to be the one. The one to torture you. For you are my blood lust. No, dear, don't struggle. It is useless; you are tied very securely. Now settle down. We have lots of time.
I love the shine of the scalpel in this light, don't you? How it glistens, reflects the fear I see in you. What's in the syringe, you ask? Formaldehyde, my dear. Did you know, with the right amount injected in you, your flesh peels and flakes in chunks, and with a little pressure, bones pop out? Where shall I start? The feet maybe. I do love toes and yours are so inviting. I jam the needle in and break it off after injecting the fluid. Your skin takes on a funny hue. Oh, well. I rip back the flesh, clawing with my nails, pulling out chunks of gray meat, exposing your little white toe bones, popping them out one by one. Somehow I never expected your screams. I wonder why that surprises me. I think I will sew up the ends of your feet. But first let me fill your wounds with salt. Which hurts more, the pain or the burning, I wonder? The scalpel slices easily down the bottom of your foot, exposing red meat. I do feel hungry. Reaching down and nibbling. Warm and alive. Chewing, savoring, reaching up and kissing what is left of your mouth. Tasting the dry blood. Licking your salty tears. Listening to your words telling me your ultimate satisfaction is your own death. I think your tears are tears of joy, knowing your end is near, tears of excitement and anticipation. I can feel it growing. I pull out the acid and watch your stomach sizzle, the flesh disappearing. It feels squishy when I stick my fingers in, poking into your intestines, exploring inside you with my hand. I'll sew this up also. Now I move up and use the scalpel to slice off your nipples, suckling the blood like a new baby nursing. Life blood. Your blood. Now my blood. Time to rest, I am tired.
I awaken to the heat of your skin against mine. Looking down, I see your feet have festered and swollen. I rip out the stitches so they can drain. They smell of death, your death. I wonder if you still feel pain or if you have gone numb. I prefer to believe you feel the pain. Yes, you do. I see it in your eyes. Your wrists and ankles are bleeding. Let me remove the bonds. You're too weak to struggle any more, and you're perspiring. It must be the fever. You're drifting in and out of consciousness now. Do you still dream, dream of the blood, or of your pain? I think you're savoring it, the pain. I think I will nestle my head in your chest and bite out the stitches. Yes, I like the blood spraying on my face, drenching my hair, warm and sticky. Rubbing my face in the gaping wound, feeling your pulse quicken with the excitement. Ripping out chunks of meat with my teeth, eating, getting my fill of you, or could I ever get my fill? I think I have this insatiable hunger for your flesh that will never end.
We are almost through. I mash the hose in your heart to drain the blood, to save it and savor it and drink it at my leisure. I climb up on the slab and lay your head on my lap and gaze into your beautiful eyes, and turn on the machine, caressing your head until the last glimmer of life leaves you. Goodbye. I have killed you out of love and passion in the only way I know how.
Pleasant nightmares, my sweets, and dream of me.
© The Hacker's Source 2001