Suffering Is So Much Better

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Secrets in the night...
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He placed his hands on either side of his head and tried to breathe.

Was he dead yet? Had he finally willed himself to nothingness? But he could still hear the music....the hurtful, angry music that he listened to becausehe felt hurtful, angry, and oh-so-destructive. Could one hear when one was dead, could one press fingers that glistened white like cancer into the wild tangles of twisted and spiked and gelled hair?

He heard a sandpapery rattle, and realized that it was his lungs fluttering, watched beyond the peak of his chin as his thin, spidery chest crept its way upwards before sinking, defeated, to rest again.

He breathed. He lived.

Disappointed, he closed his eyes, and tried not to cry.

Naked, cold, he rolled the papery husk of his worm-white body to the side and pulled a blanket over his head, and imagined that he was cocooned within the warm, membranous sac of a womb, and that when he emerged, he would be transformed. Not-quite-dead, instead of the hovering, tired not-quite-alive that he was now. Sooner or later it would come. Sooner or later it would take him.

It was the memories that took him now, however. Memories of designs carved in his skin by unseen hands, pictures that he painted without ever lifting a finger or a blade, spells written upon the writhing parchment of his own body. He walked down a path of milky white semen stretching into the moon like a rippling wet ribbon, and tilted his head back, stroking his vulnerable naked throat with his blunt, ragged nails and wishing that they would not break when he sharpened them. He looked up to the moon with his red, red eyes, through the sheaf of his red, red hair, and called it Father. It was the only father he knew, for his demented, fearful mother with her withered sacks of breasts would not tell him from what loins sprang the seed that created him.

A droplet of pearly moisture splashed from his footsteps to his lips, and he licked its saltiness away and remembered twelve. Twelve, and not much smaller than he was now, perhaps not quite as thin with the layer of childish softness that had melted away by now at the ripe old age of fourteen. He remembered sweat, and the smell of engine oil, and a massive, heavy, laboring body, hard and coarse with man-hair, remembered grunting, remembered the corners of his mouth stretching, cracking and bleeding. He remembered his mother finding the man in the house and, despite her tiny, wispy mass, browbeating him in the name of the absolution of sin until the man cursed and fled, leaving the boy a bruised, sticky, satisfied mess with a new flavor in his mouth and a new taste for pain. Since that night the boy had abandoned the name that she had burdened him with, and called himself Sin.

The river of man-essence vanished, washed away by a veined tide of red birth effluvium, and he sank into it, drifting further downwards into his memory-dreamings and tasting the hot, meaty saltiness of it filling his lungs. He drowned and died in that blissful darkness, swathed in the warmth of some mother's dying, a phantom imagination of her broken-glass scream singing him to sleep.

For a short, short while, he truly slept, his mind drifting in some soft, cloudy ether, as innocent and guileless as that of the child that he should have been but never was, not even in the moment that he clawed his way free from his mother's birth canal. Perhaps the screams that had lulled him into somnolence had been a memory of hers.

He did not dream. That much was a blessing.

When he awoke he was damp and even more chilled, his gaunt cheek pressed against cool earth rather than the sheets of his bed and the detritus of the forest floor tangled in the bloody color of hair that floated in a wild cloud of tangles about his head, like thorned and spiked brambles; one frail, skeletal hand was threaded through the wispy down of pubic hair so soft that it could only belong to a sweetly untouched boy. He stroked it for a moment, savoring the silky texture, and then sat up, brushing the dirt from his clammy skin. For a moment he was dizzy, disoriented, and then he saw the sleep-runes crafted upon his naked arms, scratched there by his slumbering mind for the purpose of carrying his limp and unresisting form from his bedroom. He frowned at them, and then raked his nails across the lines of sigils, breaking their seals and their magic with the fresh rents in his flesh.

Blood ran down his arms like dozens of tiny rivers, making new paintings from the old, and he smiled.

The moon was high overhead, as full and ripe as a grape, so swollen that it looked as though it might burst its soft skin and spill the pus and juice of its innards across the sky. He did not know exactly where he was, but the scent of the autumnal North Dakota forest around him was familiar, and he flared his nostrils, testing for the familiar scents of home, of the sickly-sweet smell of the incense that his mother burned at her altar and that seemed to cling to the trees for miles around, for the baby-powder smell of her shriveled raisin body. It was there, somewhere to the west, subtly underlacing the heady miasma of loam and rain and decaying leaves, of animal musk and rotting bones and patches of ravaged fur--not as strong as he was accustomed to, which meant that he could be five or fifty miles from the brownstone house with its candles and statues of Christ. At least he had his bearings, for whenever he decided to return home.

If he decided to return home.

His bare feet rustled softly on the forest floor for a few steps, and then he slipped into a fluid crouch, his naked white body prowling soundlessly through the trees, flitting amidst the brush like a little ghost cat, flickering in the darkness like a snowy candle pillar topped with a bright ruby flame. That flame burned in his eyes as well, lighting them, making them wild and hungry and predatory, and he could have laughed as he breathed in the cold, spicy flavor of the air. He was a beast of the forest now, a creeping maggot-white thing of strange humours whose veins ran with something other than blood, and he imagined that his teeth were pointed, filed down to delicate razor edges as he had so longed to do but feared to. For the piercing in his left ear he had been chained to the altar for a week, left without food while his mother prayed over him, exhorted the demons to leave him while he silently begged them to take him, take him home. The pain of the candle wax on his pallid, delicately veined skin had been exquisite; the gnawing ache in his stomach and the droning wail of her voice had not.

He felt that ache now and bayed to the moon, greeting his Father, and when an owl hooted an echoing reply he shrieked at it gleefully before lowering his head to snuffle at the air, mouth opening to let his tongue catch the myriad scents. Ancient skunk spoor still lingered, refusing to dissipate--but over it, fresher, hotter, intoxicating, was the scent of warm, soft fur and throbbing, pulsing veins, and Sin thought of bright, beady eyes, imagined the rabbit crouched trembling amidst rustling green leaves that held its scent as close as a dying lover, imagined it petrified with fear--fear ofhim, and the thought made him snarl softly, made him taste blood and power upon his tongue. To sate himself, he twisted his head, small teeth nipping and nibbling at a pretty picture-wound upon his shoulder and reopening it so that he might lap at fresh, hot copper-flavor--and then he lowered his head, swinging his shoulders forward, and opened his nostrils to follow the scent.

The blood lingered warmly on his tongue, and the magic still lingering in it crept into his eyes, made every detail stand out like an acid trip, marking the soft-furred rodent's tentative path like a blazing trail. The animal that was once a rake-thin skeleton of a boy prowled forward, fluid, making the air ripple with a bestial power that did not seem to match his slight form, and far away other predators of the night paused in their hunting, paused in their feeding, and shied away.

Farther distant, something dark and hungry and seeking rippled, shifted its ancient mass, and began to move.

Something rustled in the bushes to Sin's left, and he froze, one hand drawn up, his thin body tensed and utterly still, the ridges of his spine running like a single chain of mound-topped mountains along the plain of his naked back. He lifted his head, eyes wide and wild and searching as he breathed in the air, sifting the smells--and then slowly turned his head to the side, crimson eyes seeking, searching, burning the air. Bright black marbles stared back at him, hypnotized, terrified, gleaming and rolling helplessly as tight-strung muscles trembled and threatened to snap like violin strings--and then a high, yellow scream arced across those strings as white hands snapped forward and crushed over struggling limbs, purple-glossed lips parted, dull white teeth gouged into fur and flesh and bone and painted a translucent ivory canvas with thick scarlet.

The boy-beast buried his face in the rabbit's throat, chewing at its gamy, steaming flesh, licking at the blood that spilled over his face and coursed down his chest. The creature's dying scream echoed in his ears, and he threw his head back and sang it back to the sky, glorying in his kill. It had been too swift, but it was enough; he lapped at the still-coursing fluid matting thick brown fur, and only wished that it possessed the flavor of suffering so that he might be sated fully.


As he leaned back against the trunk of a tree, pulling his knees up and cradling the dead rabbit to his chest like a baby, still occasionally favoring it with a loving lick, he thought of his mother and laughed. Mommy loves her only baby, he thought nastily, and grinned a death's-head grin as he slashed his nails at the animal's stomach over and over again, ripping it open. Maybe he could divine her future and death in the entrails, or at least divine his, though he had never done such a thing before, but it mattered little--for by the time that he had finished savaging its gut, he had forgotten all but the pleasure of soft, yielding flesh beneath his hands, and laughed madly as he looped the thin strand of the intestines around his neck like some macabre jewelry.

"I am home, " he cried to the night, and then "I AM HOME!" he screamed, throwing himself to his feet and casting his arms to the sky, head tossed back as he twisted in a wild, frenzied dance as ancient as the stars themselves, the language of eternity painted upon the naked flesh of his body in blood, just as his ancestors had done before man could even be called man, before spoken words and fire and clothing. "Take me back, Father!" he screamed to the moon, and then laughed, not the slightest bit disappointed when there was no answer; his father never answered him, because his father wasn't there. His father wasn't anywhere, his father didn't exist, his mother had turned away from Christ one night and let herself be loved--no, let herself be wantonly, vulgarlyfucked by Nature itself, and now she tried to tame her son, Nature's son, with her repentant prayers.

Rapturous, maddened, Sin grinned and tore at his hair, scratched at his chest, brought his bloodied fingers to his mouth and sucked at them, licked them over and over again until they were long clean before plunging them past his lips, raping his mouth as the heavy, scarred, dirty and sweaty memory-man had done, imagining the taste of man-salt on his tongue and threading his free hand in softly curling hairs once more. He licked and sucked and nibbled, stroked and touched and taunted, danced and whirled and laughed until he collapsed, panting, upon the forest floor, the impact of his body sending fallen leaves flying in a rust-colored cloud. He could hear the music again, the hurtful, angry music, although the CD was miles away at home, sitting in another world of sanity and civilization, resting snugly in his stereo. Such hard, bitter music, making wild flavors riot in the back of his throat, making colors dance in swirling confusion before his eyes, and he raked his fingers through the neon glow, watching its vapors trail behind his touch.

"It's coming for me, " he whispered, and wiped at the drying blood caking his grin, leaving behind a purple-and-red streak on one of the few clean spots left upon his hand. "It's coming...." Eyes wide and glazed, mad and sightless and oh-so-bloody-red, he stared up at the sky, drifting in a timeless bliss.....Calm, so suddenly calm in comparison to his screams and frenzied thrashings of only moments before, his fingertips trailing through the crimson fluid painting his chest and stomach, streaking symbols in the scarlet haze, writing new spells and new songs upon his skin, covering his entire torso with a story of death in twitchy little squiggles, gasping and sighing as he painted the scream onto the soft pink skin of his throbbing boy's sex, giggled at how closely the gleaming wet droplets matched the color of those soft, soft hairs.

On a sudden whim he gouged his nails into that pulsing flesh, and cried out hoarsely, joyfully--and then froze as something echoed his cry, throwing it back at him in a low rumble of sound that almost resembled words in a familiar voice.

"It's here...." he hissed to the forest, as though in warning, his slender frame tensing as he sat up slowly, eyes so wide that they seemed to float like rubies in a sea of milk. He could feel it prickling the air around him, making the fine hairs on his arms stand up within their stiff coating of drying fluid, making the sigils on his skin burn with a cold fire. He stood and cast his eyes to the moon--and then he saw it.

Rolling like a self-contained ocean, it flowed across the sky, black and empty and sweeping like the bodiless wings of decaying crows; it looked oily for a moment, reflecting the light of the moon, and then it sucked it into an empty, airless void, shifting inconstantly and containing all of the stars in the universe upon its nonexistent skin. Sin threw his head back and opened his arms wide, as though welcoming the massive, eclipsing thing into an embrace--and it paused in its consumption of the night, and he had the distinct sensation that it was looking downwards, seeking, searching....searching for him.

"I'm here, " he said softly, and then laughed wildly, triumphantly. "I'M HERE!!!" He made the words ring with power, and the symbols on his body throbbed, made him shudder with carnal ecstasy as he stretched his arms upwards, reaching, longing, emaciated muscles straining as he yearned towards it....and then it beat, pulsed like a giant heart, its star-dashed surface rolling outwards the like vibrations of thunder that somehow sounded like speech once more.

"Yes....yes, Father...." He hardly realized that tears were streaming down his face, realized nothing more than this dark, miasmaticsentience above him, growing closer, closer, settling like morning mist upon the land, blanketing the forest in the heavy silence of its presence....and then it was around him, swathing him like warm oil, blinding and choking and suffocating and completely immobilizing him.

For a moment he panicked; for a moment he thought to struggle...and then the caresses began, like a thousand slow, warm, moist tongues lapping at his body, reading the story painted upon his skin with every touch, cleansing him of the sacred blood, bathing him in smoky black benediction. Tensed muscles relaxed, and he hardly heard the moan that spilled from his throat to be muffled in the thick darkness, heard only the deep, muscle-quaking vibrations of the entity surrounding him, heard it thrumming in the timbre of his own thoughts, andFather...he thought through a haze of bliss, felt the waves of recognition and love and approval shivering from it through him at the thought.

It stroked his lips, stroked the small of his back, cradled him closer in its embrace--and then it was prying past his lips like a gently invasive kiss, exploring the inside walls of his mouth, and his curled fingers clutched at its insubstantiality, making him ache for some solidity to press and slide his burning body against. Parting his lips further, he closed his eyes and watched the stars explode behind his eyelids as it slid down his throat, as soothing as warm milk as it stole his air and crept into his lungs, and then it was creeping down his back and up his legs and enveloping his hungry flesh in a pulsing sheath, probing at his secret places with a questing tendril. He would have cried out if he could have, and only satisfied himself with writhing in that smoky-insubstantial grip and screaming in his mind.

Yes, Father, yes....he cried in willing acceptance, and then arched within the velvety-warm cocoon as he was invaded further, fire-hot lancets of pain spreading through his veins slowly, oh-so-slowly, each gradual touch and push prolonging the sweet agony, the suffering, so much more deliciously than any swift stab of discomfort could have--and then the blackness was in his bloodstream, filling his eye sockets, and the pain exploded, burning his mind away into nothing but blank, ashy whiteness.

He did not know how many hours passed before he awoke, but dawn had not yet begun to color the sky when he cracked his lids to stare up at a clear sky, stifling a groan as black-pure eyes tinted with circles of red protested in pain, the same beloved pain that touched every last nerve in his body. He was alone now....so alone.

No.....not alone, for he felt something stirring in his blood, some lingering essence of soul-devouring nothingness, distilled and refined in his bloodstream into a vital fluid so personal, so precious to him that to spill a single drop would be to bless whatever surface that it fell upon even as it scored through it like acid. His Father...his Father was with him, now and forever, sending shuddering ripples of pleasure and power coursing over his skin every time that he closed his eyes, making his dead, white skin twitch with joy. It had finally come.....it had finally come and taken him.

"Thank you, Daddy, " he whispered, and giggled--a strange sound, sick and sinister and wet and bloody, a sound that caught and tore itself upon the jagged edges of sharp little sharklike teeth.

Mommy,he thought, and then nearly laughed again at the sing-song hunger in his mental tone, at the ticking, rattling changes that made him smile.

Mommy.....I'm coming home.

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