Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1125421
Rated: 18+ · Prose · Death · #1125421
A rather visceral piece. I tried to write straight from the Id.
I bring my hand around the back of your neck and cup the backside of your head, stroking through your fine, knotless hairs. Good product. I haven’t washed mine in a week. It’s starting to dread, so I’m glad you took me by the waist. I guide you in by softly tugging inward and we embrace. We kiss and your lips are so soft. I’m a little embarrassed because mine are chapped, but you seem into it. It’s just like yin and yang, the Chinese duality. You remember it. Good and evil come to a balance.

What do you make of this?

Ironic that I give you a push at your shoulders, careful to avoid your breast, and you fall back onto the kitchen table with wide eyes and open arms.

“Don’t move,” I say, and you don’t. You’re anticipating something kinky. I don’t know if I’ll deliver. I pick up a hammer up off the kitchen counter. The rubber handle doesn’t give all that much, but it allows a tight grip.

“What the fuck is that for?” you plead, and in response, I pick up the three railroad spikes that lie next to it. “Where the fuck did you get railroad spikes?” What a horrible question! You’ve got bigger things to worry about! It could’ve been tent spikes or even just carpenter nails. The question you should’ve asked is, “Any chance we can stop this and start over?” But the answer wouldn’t have helped you much anyway.

First the left hand. “Studies show it was the wrist,” chimes in the reader. Fuck the reader. The nail gains and loses momentum per millisecond as the spike penetrates through your soft hands. Do you use Dove? Your screams are shrill. You beg me to stop and you try to stop me yourself. That’s what the claw end is for. Your screaming gets louder but you give up, so the right hand comes next. Too bad. Last time you held a pen, you should’ve wrote “I love you, goodbye,” but paper will live on without the closure of your sterile departure. The feet next. They’re more difficult because your legs dangle off the table from the knee down. But no worries. I toss the nail aside and skip right to the last step. I turn the dining table on its side, crushing your shins and using them as a base.

So there you are, in your crucified glory. No Baroque-ies here to paint it, though. Guess who’s coming to dinner! Here’s a hint: It’s not Sidney Pointier and it sure as shit isn’t Ashton. Give up? It’s the reality of the Id. And guess what we’re serving? Ah, but our guest should be arriving shortly (far be it for us to realize he’s been here all along, the Holy Ghost of the mind), so we should really get cooking. I can tell by your whimpering that you aren’t quite finished, but curiosity gets the best of me, so to find out how much time you have left, I jam a meat thermometer into your side.

It’s a candy thermometer, too. I thought I’d point out: We aren’t playing softball here. Nor are we playing hardball. We’re playing hard crack, like a cat-o-nine tails. Consider yourself lucky, but you still aren’t finished, so I pull the thermometer down and to the left and watch as the blood pours out, rhythmically in sync with your exhalation and your muted cries for help. As the blood stains the table and makes your clothes sticky, I give serious consideration to rape, but I stop. This is your moment, not mine, and as much as I’d like to ejaculate in you right as you give up the ghost, like the hammer of handgun, the beauty would be lost to a cliché the reader knows too well by now, so I opt to just spit on your face, blood-red but free of blood as you choke down your last breath and sag down on the table, giving in to gravity and the angel of death that hangs above you, hammer in hand.
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