(c) Ignis Fatuus. [R]

by tea-boy. Tue 31 Mar 2009, 7:30 am

Title: Ignis Fatuus.
Rating: R Swearing, gore, and content of the sexual nature.
Author: Moi.
Genre: Angst.
Status: One-shot.
Summary/Exerpt: His sickly, yellow skin sweats in the moonlight. Delusions spill endlessly out of his cracked, blood-spattered lips. His eyes dilate in and out of focus just pleading to be toyed with.

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Thick, black circles are permanently carved into his skin. Shaking hands shove a long, white stick between yellow, rotting teeth and the spark of a worn-down lighter begins the toxic process. We’re all just looking for another way to kill ourselves. His heavy breathing is almost pleading: “Help me! Fix me! Kill me!”

His sickly, yellow skin sweats in the moonlight. Delusions spill endlessly out of his cracked, blood-spattered lips. His eyes dilate in and out of focus just pleading to be toyed with.

“Help me! Fix me! Kill me!”

A stream of liquid falls down his chin as he guzzles vodka straight from its bottle. Just keep the toxins flowing, you’ll soon be just fine. He breathes in slowly; treating it like it’s his last. We’re all just begging to die. His bony structure rests uncomfortably against a stone wall. His leg bounces up and down quickly as his anticipation rises. Where is his sickness? Where is his cure?

Don’t worry, I am here. I run my hand a cross his cheek and he quakes ever so slightly. Tales of pseudo-reality still spew from his lips in frantic mumbles as I lead him to the bed. Ave Maria, well where are you now? More murmurs.

“Help me, fix me, kill me.”

He ponders on everything for a moment- and he starts laughing. A hysterical shriek of laughter escapes his body and he shakes violently as the vibrations rip through him. The kind of bone-chilling, semi-psychotic laughter echoed through the darkness with a sickening smile. The kind of laughter that only we could understand. We’ll just laugh all the way to the asylum, merrily painting the walls with blood and vomit.

We roll on to the bed and he just keeps laughing. He looks up at with his deathly complexion and hollow eyes. There are men who’ve become shells of their former selves, and then there’s him. The boy who never was.

I can almost hear his bones cracking beneath the sheets as we move. Faster and faster now. Bleeding lips and closed eyes. Soaring pleasure and a horrible darkness. Chemical reactions raced through him. He clenched his ink-stained hands. Harder, faster, harder, faster. Use me, thrill me, tear me down.

“Help me, fix me, kill me!”

His mind raced in ecstasy as he felt an indescribable pleasure pass through him. The pinnacle of feeling, the pinnacle of numbness. He clung to me like a sick, broken puppet, a fragmented porcelain doll shattered in the chaos. His emaciated figure shook against my body, cold and wrecked. His ink-stained hands dug into my chest as his eyes stared out blankly. I smiled a sly smile.

Paint the fucking walls.

He breathes shallowly, in and out at the same pace. He laughs, but this time it’s weak. Small tears roll down his cheeks and leaves lines where the dirt has been washed away. A saint and a sinner can’t share the same vessel. The vicious shaking becomes worse as sobs rack his frail frame. Just another breakdown. He reaches across the bed and takes another gulp of vodka. Absolution through liver failure. He looks over at his still-smoking cigarette, but can’t make the effort to grab it. He just sits there with his pathetic sobs and decomposing body.

And I just look at him.

For once, he meets my eye. The tears stop. His empty eyes just stare into mine. And there is no sadness, there is no life. He licks his lips of blood and cracks. Once again, dreary nightmares fall quickly and quietly from his mouth. Fantastical stories of wingless angels and demons that visit him in the night. Red eyes that watch him from all around and steel claws against his skin. He just keeps spilling it all out in frantic whispers. He looks to me.

“Help me, fix me, kill me,” a pause, “Please.”

I am your sickness and I am your cure.