As I rejoice...
by Kerewin
Greyness surrounds me; window-mirrors floating in the mist are tuned to despairing minds and I watch them, twisting the ring on my finger absent-mindedly. A middle-aged woman... a little girl... old man looking at his partner, pale and thin with AIDS... a goddess with but one follower left... I think about them, and it hurts both them and me.
Ah. A girl, quite fresh, but already addicted to drugs; her pancreas
will start giving her grief soon. Dirty blonde hair on a dirty white pillow,
a long, thin finger, its nail broken and jagged but painted bright red
nevertheless, diving between her legs. The images in her head: dying. She
doesn't know my prettiest sister personally, but is used to seeing the
effects of Death's handiwork. She wishes for death. She wishes for peace,
at last.
I love it, love this lost young human. She gives me so much pleasure
as she gets herself off on funerals, grieving family (they've all but forgotten
the prodigal, much like my own kin), celebrities weeping and repeating
"she was the finest, we loved her so much" in numerous interviews, an image
of carved headstone. Her kind is seldom found in time, they don't live
long; but she will give me the pleasure I need. Despair can also rejoice
when the time is right.
The hook of my ring catches on my flesh and I drag it down, feeling
the warm trickle of blood on my breast. With other hand I reach under my
hanging belly, spread thick outer lips and find the clitoris. This is the
only unscarred place on my body - even my vagina suffered from the sharp
hook when my lost brother left - and I don't touch it often. Now, though,
is the right time.
Dragging the hook through my body, I finger myself watching the girl.
She's writhing silently, nearer and nearer to orgasm. I'm getting closer,
too; finally an eruption of grisly imagery - she wishes herself thrown
from a tall building, the vision of crashing down excites her so - and
she twists without uttering even one moan, and I orgasm too with the hook
embedded deep under my nipple, grazing nerve endings.
I look at the back of her head, her face buried deep in the pillow.
She weeps. I caress my clitoris one last time and withdraw my hand. She
knows about me, deep in her subconscious. Tonight she will awaken to the
sight of my grey, fleshy, bloodied face, teeth bared as I climax.
I wonder if the first Despair did this, too.