My Blood-Stained Canvas Chorus
OOC Notes: Spoilers for "Born Under a Bad Sign." Rape. Character Death. Self-Injury. Graphic Violence. Blood. Gore. 1st Person Present.
At first, everything is black and the only thing getting through to me is the sound of her angry, fearful words. "No" and "Sam" and "don't" and "stop" jab frantically and clumsily into the darkness and I feel like laughing at her weakness and her pleading, but I don't. I just growl against the hair under my nose, groaning my intent with filthy turns of phrase that alone make her tremble. I take my time, breathing in the scent of her herbal shampoo and steady sweat, savoring the way that I'm already destroying bits of her even though I've barely started.
Then, everything whirrs and shifts, time skipping ahead to the best part.
I can finally see her, so bruised already, with blues and burgundies bursting over her face and the skin of her arms as I grip the bindings that connect them. She struggles under me, jerking around, as if I can't hold her down with just one of my massive hands, and squirming, as if the movement of her hips does anything more than get me more interested. Really, there's no way that she can get herself free of me, but she doesn't seem to understand that nothing is going to stop me from fucking her bloody and throwing her away. It's just a fact now. I know that Dean won't be interrupting us this time and I have no intention of wasting my chance to finally finish this just the way that I've always wanted.
This so-called woman might think that she's some kind of tough chick, some kind of indie, mama-free, hunter-type, but she's just some little girl with silky blond hair that yanks real nice. I tug at it hard and bring tears to her pretty blue eyes, eyes so big and wet as they stare up at me like I'm some kind of monster instead of just a calculating man with needs to fulfill, whether or not she's up to it right now.
The gag, newly tied off and stuffed into her mouth, isn't enough to block all the delicious little noises she makes as she tries fight against what's happening, fight against the way my free hand slices open her jeans, not caring that her thighs and calves split under the blade along with the denim. Her mumbles and squeaks give way to bursts of muffled screaming as my movements aggravate gashes that would need to be stitched closed if she was going to live long enough to see them heal. Of course, she won't. Her blood his hot and thick on my hand as I grab at the wet and ragged edges of her cut-away jeans, stripping them from her before going back to shred her whorishly sheer and lacey boy-short underwear. I'll definitely have to remember to tell Dean about those and about all the gleaming pink and white-blond hidden underneath.
Her tits are sweet too, writhing with the rest of her as I tear open her t-shirt and reach for them, mauling them for a moment, just for good measure. Then, I fling the scraps of cloth aside, along with the knife, and press my hand against her cunt with more finesse than is strictly necessary, since I don't intend to keep her around all that long. It's not about making her happy, though, of course, as if I could. I just think it would be even more distressing and degrading for her body to make her feel even a little pleasure while I'm tearing all her freedom and dignity away as I rip at her skin and intrude into all of her very private spaces.
The violence speaks to something in me and my blood-smearing fingertips make me feel more naturally creative than any paintbrush or instrument has ever made me feel. I'm an artist whose mode of creative action is ground in brutality. Rape and murder are complimentary acts in my one man play, and they're the processes through which I form broken and bloodied art pieces for my audience to enjoy long after I've traveled on to another stage. Won't Ellen just love this?
Laughing and grunting, I fuck her and it's quick and dirty and hard and hot and slick and twisted and fun. And, when it's done, I think about slitting her throat, but then decide the product wouldn't have the uniquely sick beauty I'm seeking. So, instead, I split her skull open with the butt of the knife, mashing the meat and the bone gleefully until there's a halo of gore spread out over the worn wooden planks of the floor.
I get up then, wiping the whole of my blade on the messy remnants of another dead hunter, and the silence that settles over the scene of my work and my play makes me grin. It's done and it was everything that I thought it would be. More than that, I grin because I did all this. Just me, this time. Just me.
Then, everything is gone, as if a thick black blanket has been thrown over my eyes.
Many long moments later, I can see again, but the space is different now, my body oriented horizontal and low to the ground instead of vertical and high above a soiled bit of prey. Hearing those words running through my mind, the bits of criminal desires flash, as if on cue, as gruesome but somehow still arousing movie clips of flesh and tears and come and blood. I'm on my way to being ill even as my cock aches for attention, painfully hard, and I refuse to touch it, rug-burning my thighs with the rubbing of my hands. They feel so unclean for even wanting to release that pressure, for wanting to give me peace I don't deserve, my intended pleasure born from seeing those things, from imagining myself doing those things.
The knife under my pillow finds its way into my grip, but I haven't sensed anything beyond the echoes of my dream- no, nightmare. This blade isn't for defense, though, and it isn't for gutting human lives either, thank God. It's for these times, late into nights that I work hard to forget, when I split my own skin, subtly, repeatedly, until the only blood and tears and pain in my head is mine, until I no longer feel even half the urge to come from the evil some demon stirred up inside me ... until I feel like me again. That's when I drag myself into the bathroom, to throw up, patch up, and clean up. Then I slip back into bed, too scared to close my eyes lest I hear those tortured little whimpers in my ear.
At first, everything is black and the only thing getting through to me is the sound of her angry, fearful words. "No" and "Sam" and "don't" and "stop" jab frantically and clumsily into the darkness and I feel like laughing at her weakness and her pleading, but I don't. I just growl against the hair under my nose, groaning my intent with filthy turns of phrase that alone make her tremble. I take my time, breathing in the scent of her herbal shampoo and steady sweat, savoring the way that I'm already destroying bits of her even though I've barely started.
Then, everything whirrs and shifts, time skipping ahead to the best part.
I can finally see her, so bruised already, with blues and burgundies bursting over her face and the skin of her arms as I grip the bindings that connect them. She struggles under me, jerking around, as if I can't hold her down with just one of my massive hands, and squirming, as if the movement of her hips does anything more than get me more interested. Really, there's no way that she can get herself free of me, but she doesn't seem to understand that nothing is going to stop me from fucking her bloody and throwing her away. It's just a fact now. I know that Dean won't be interrupting us this time and I have no intention of wasting my chance to finally finish this just the way that I've always wanted.
This so-called woman might think that she's some kind of tough chick, some kind of indie, mama-free, hunter-type, but she's just some little girl with silky blond hair that yanks real nice. I tug at it hard and bring tears to her pretty blue eyes, eyes so big and wet as they stare up at me like I'm some kind of monster instead of just a calculating man with needs to fulfill, whether or not she's up to it right now.
The gag, newly tied off and stuffed into her mouth, isn't enough to block all the delicious little noises she makes as she tries fight against what's happening, fight against the way my free hand slices open her jeans, not caring that her thighs and calves split under the blade along with the denim. Her mumbles and squeaks give way to bursts of muffled screaming as my movements aggravate gashes that would need to be stitched closed if she was going to live long enough to see them heal. Of course, she won't. Her blood his hot and thick on my hand as I grab at the wet and ragged edges of her cut-away jeans, stripping them from her before going back to shred her whorishly sheer and lacey boy-short underwear. I'll definitely have to remember to tell Dean about those and about all the gleaming pink and white-blond hidden underneath.
Her tits are sweet too, writhing with the rest of her as I tear open her t-shirt and reach for them, mauling them for a moment, just for good measure. Then, I fling the scraps of cloth aside, along with the knife, and press my hand against her cunt with more finesse than is strictly necessary, since I don't intend to keep her around all that long. It's not about making her happy, though, of course, as if I could. I just think it would be even more distressing and degrading for her body to make her feel even a little pleasure while I'm tearing all her freedom and dignity away as I rip at her skin and intrude into all of her very private spaces.
The violence speaks to something in me and my blood-smearing fingertips make me feel more naturally creative than any paintbrush or instrument has ever made me feel. I'm an artist whose mode of creative action is ground in brutality. Rape and murder are complimentary acts in my one man play, and they're the processes through which I form broken and bloodied art pieces for my audience to enjoy long after I've traveled on to another stage. Won't Ellen just love this?
Laughing and grunting, I fuck her and it's quick and dirty and hard and hot and slick and twisted and fun. And, when it's done, I think about slitting her throat, but then decide the product wouldn't have the uniquely sick beauty I'm seeking. So, instead, I split her skull open with the butt of the knife, mashing the meat and the bone gleefully until there's a halo of gore spread out over the worn wooden planks of the floor.
I get up then, wiping the whole of my blade on the messy remnants of another dead hunter, and the silence that settles over the scene of my work and my play makes me grin. It's done and it was everything that I thought it would be. More than that, I grin because I did all this. Just me, this time. Just me.
Then, everything is gone, as if a thick black blanket has been thrown over my eyes.
Many long moments later, I can see again, but the space is different now, my body oriented horizontal and low to the ground instead of vertical and high above a soiled bit of prey. Hearing those words running through my mind, the bits of criminal desires flash, as if on cue, as gruesome but somehow still arousing movie clips of flesh and tears and come and blood. I'm on my way to being ill even as my cock aches for attention, painfully hard, and I refuse to touch it, rug-burning my thighs with the rubbing of my hands. They feel so unclean for even wanting to release that pressure, for wanting to give me peace I don't deserve, my intended pleasure born from seeing those things, from imagining myself doing those things.
The knife under my pillow finds its way into my grip, but I haven't sensed anything beyond the echoes of my dream- no, nightmare. This blade isn't for defense, though, and it isn't for gutting human lives either, thank God. It's for these times, late into nights that I work hard to forget, when I split my own skin, subtly, repeatedly, until the only blood and tears and pain in my head is mine, until I no longer feel even half the urge to come from the evil some demon stirred up inside me ... until I feel like me again. That's when I drag myself into the bathroom, to throw up, patch up, and clean up. Then I slip back into bed, too scared to close my eyes lest I hear those tortured little whimpers in my ear.