Brutality

If there was ever a time in my life when I thought I could feel something...know something beyond the limits of normal 'human' comprehension, the very last person I expected to discover that connection was with you, you little bitch. Thin arms, dark hair, scars...you were so scarred when I first knew you. Scars of pain, hate, purest agony from a life beyond the one of rebirth. You still carry the scars of this life and the next on your small, fragile body...your pale, translucent skin...in your eyes. Like a tiny, frightened mouse you shy away from my feline mind, but are drawn to it like moths to a bright light, only to sizzle and die when they come too close. The same principle applies to you, Bitch. But you didn't know me. You didn't know who I was, what I was until that time when you bit me...and kissed me all at once.


Brutality is the only language I know how to speak, aside from your elementary English. Fists, nails, teeth, bruises, marks, bleeding, blood, aches, agony, it's an addictive circle that I can't help but follow. When she died, I died as well and the monster in me reared, the Hungry Beast craved human flesh and as days went on, it becomes harder and harder to repress. In death, I live. In agony, I am ecstasy. In lust, I am the very essence of mind-destroying pleasure. You learned the hard way. You had to provoke me, Bitch. You had to poke the metaphorical sleeping Dragon and were far from prepared to accept the consequences of stirring a part of me that I only half understand. I tore you apart, devoured you, consumed everything that you could have ever been. I tasted your blood on my tongue; hot, spicy, sweet and so fucking delicious. I wanted to cut your throat, to drink more of your essence until I was full to bursting point...with you.


Nails in soft flesh, buried in molten velvet, teeth left marks in skin and screams of Hell ringing in my ears. My name...my name...more, more, more, more, more. I couldn't stop. I had no control. I was watching, feeling, tasting and breathing everything that happened and while you screamed, the monster roared. It was perfect. In that single moment of clarity, using you seemed like the very reason I was still breathing. Submission. You submitted to me in your entirety. Your body, your mind in those short minutes became mine. My marks on your body brand you as my own. My property. You belong to me.


I'd slice my name into you, deep knife strokes that would make you whimper with lust and need. I know you love pain and so do I, we simply enjoy it from different perspectives. Deeper, faster, harder, more, more, more, MORE! Your screams haunted me for days afterward and, as I lie in bed, alone, I smile at the memories. First time. First time with the Skinny, Little Bitch. And already, I wanted more.


But next time, you'll have to ask me. Because I do like how brutality feels.


- M. H

A passing fashion, is humanity.

Some days, I find myself stopping to look at the world around me. I breathe in the air that is now supposedly tainted with years of pollution and chemicals and open my eyes to the people, the buildings, the streets, everything. I see the women walking with their too-high heels and men in their business suits. I see the teenagers of ambiguous age sitting on park benches wearing too much make up and smoking Winfield cigarettes like their mommy and daddy do while they bare skinny, pre-pubescent chicken legs to their boyfriends or their over-sized pants around their ankles in a gesture of apparent fashion that I am more than inclined to curl my lip at. 


This is what I see whenever I stop and actually look at the world. I see chaos, ruin and anarchy in illegally bought cigarettes, caked on make-up three shades too dark and clothes that would be abhorred in nightclubs. Is this what our world has come to? When different is strange and weird, and conformity is considered more than a fad, it's a way of life. Look at us, the sheep to the shepherd that is the media, happy to follow them in their paths of rebellion and the acts that should have been limited to adulthood. I will admit now that while I do drink and smoke, I have a notion of limits. I will smoke socially and drink socially, neither of which I usually do alone. But I have only been drunk once, nor have I ever been under the influence of drugs. But now there are boys and girls years my junior doing exactly that. Smoking everyday. Drinking to the point of total inebriation every weekend. Fucking their 'boyfriends' after two weeks and insisting that it was love. 


Whether it is ignorance or an incredible talent for denial, our generations have faltered and stopped. Their intelligence quickly becomes stunted, their speech lacking in anything short of repetitive expletives as they scream at each other in an apparent show of communication. Who are these girls in orange make-up and cheap mascara? Who are these boys with their marijuana habits and backwards hats? I don't know them. Society won't recognize them. Parents turn their backs, either in ignorance or denial or dismissal or shame. I won't ever know. I don't want to ask for fear of what they will tell me. 


Is this what humanity has become? A chaotic 'institute' where the bastard children of a broken generation run free, their lives a downward spiral? The young are the future, and if so the future is a bleak one. I would pray to them if I thought that God had not already abandoned all hope. 


- K.B & M. H