Sometimes at Night

It sounds strange but the Russian roulette of  my emotions for you get the better of me. It’s funny that I need physical sensation to remember the act of dying. I sit trying to put it into words but there are none really. None that matter at least. The cold metal barrel and the soft beckoning taste of gunpowder always astound me. It isn’t like anything I have felt before. It is good to remember how to feel at least. It’s like trying to catch a dream.

I know I can do it even if this doesn’t make much sense. I remember what it was like but I there is a block there when I get to how it is supposed to feel. The familiar ache is gone but it has left something infinitely more horrible behind. Everything is so much quieter now so much more peaceful which makes it all the more devastating. I would do anything to get me back. Anything to break this silence.

 

How do you say to people that something is wrong… no I mean really really wrong like horribly deadly carving yourself up into little itty bitty pieces wrong?

And here for those of you who like them are nifty pictures.

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Moral Calculus

It is funny that people respond more to the rehashed photos and sayings that I include rather than what I am actually saying. This happens here as well as in reality. What is really funny about the whole thing is my soul is being flayed alive in a parody of hell on earth. Don’t worry I don’t feel it anymore.

Not even the fact that I went from being relatively OK and dealing with it to a full blown psycho in the space of weeks seems to bother anyone. Maybe that’s because I hide well in every realm but here and the world that used to live inside my head. The true difference between a psychopath and a sociopath is that one doesn’t feel the difference between right and wrong and the other knows the difference and just doesn’t care. Which do you think I am becoming?

How long can a person not feel before they become amoral. Pain teaches us what to avoid or in my case what feels the best. It is how I cope with all of the other stuff sometimes through sex or on the edge of a knife. Without pain we don’t avoid the things we normally would. Yes, I am more than a little bit insane but I am good at seeing things for what they really are. I am above all else honest with myself and others to a fault. It gets me into trouble more often than not.

It is not that I don’t know it hurts others it is I just don’t care. I know that on some level I should and I once did but that was in the endless stretch of time that I fondly classify as before. What is really ironic is the same thing that makes me so ruthless as makes me more capable. Faster, harder, more calculating than I ever was even at my best. Most noticeable is that my aim is better and in speaking, writing, hunting, and fighting I am much sharper and everything is clearer now that I am not fettered by emotion or empathy. I sleep less, eat less, drink less, and am generally vibrating with adrenaline all the time. I can make practical logical choices despite the consequences to other people.

I am finding that there are a lot of things that are unneeded and most people do things that are just contrary all the time. Sometimes what I say is mistaken for malice but for the most part it is because I just don’t understand why it bothers them. I should and I am sure I used to but its just not there anymore. Is this better? If you look at it in terms of efficiency it seems so or would if it were not so very wrong. I could very easily become the killer that I always knew was inside me and is probably buried deep inside us all. I introduced myself to that particular darkness a long time ago. So here is the equation which is greater the need to kill or the fact that I used to think it was wrong even if I knew they deserved to die. Its simple math or it should be. Shouldn’t it?

I am watching, standing back as little bits of my soul are flayed and have long since given up praying for it to stop. I can hear the bits that once made me who I am shrieking in pain as they are torn, shredded and tortured until there is nothing left and I have to admit its beautiful, much like pain is, or the razors edge is.

I know the damage I do to myself is viewed as wrong but I don’t care
I know that I am just wrong and have gone so far from OK that even I can see it but I can’t seem to bring myself to care
I know that what I am thinking probably enough to get me locked up or worse but it doesn’t bother me anymore
It probably should
I know that I am searching for something but I don’t know what or what will happen when I find it
I know I crossed a line somewhere and I did it on purpose and I don’t care that I did
I know after they tried to help I became different, something new and they didn’t care

They played in my head once too often, their own private sandbox, prodding because I am an unusual case, tearing things up with their clumsy fumbling. They thought they were helping, making me face something without realizing that I already had. Never thinking that it would turn me into something dark, desperate, and hungry. It isn’t facing something that’s the issue I already knew what was down there. They just let it out. I would say god help me but god help them is more appropriate.

psychopathy

Memory in a Dream

Tonight is one of those nights where the nightmares are real and they just won’t stop. Where if I could bring myself to touch someone I might just want that contact. Not even the person I am currently staying with sees that I flinch away when they get too close, I haven’t looked in a mirror for years, and I don’t seem to sleep anymore. I know after seven days my fingernails will get brittle, my skin and hair will dull, and my body will begin to break down. I look at this clinically because I can no longer feel anything – the well meaning ones took care of that.

I realize in a detached way that there is something like broken glass inside me, churning around as I move. I am almost afraid that when I cough beautiful red will stain my lips and I will know that the glass is real and not something I imagined. It will bubble up and spill over looking for all the world like an over filled glass. Pouring down in the restless tide desperate to overtake ground. Just as real as the red that pours out of a thousand tiny cuts so carefully hidden from the world. Its stunning in its own way and there are people who can see that for the tragically beautiful sight it is.  The same way someone looks after everything else is done and the only thing left that they can do is cry because of its loss. There is purity in that sight unlike anything that people normally feel or witness. Just as there is purity in inflicting and receiving pain.

No one notices that the nightmares leave me screaming or that my heart beats too hard against the razor shoved carelessly and deep within it. I am surprised no one hears me break, slowly, so slowly over time.

I am waiting for the hallucinations to start. A nifty side effect that even the most hardcore drug addict would envy if they weren’t so real and so inescapable. Then they will come with their solutions, their quaint notions, and their tired cliches. Eventually they will say every thing will be alright except that it never is because they can’t see what I see. They don’t know what I know.

The blackouts have already started… some long purged defense mechanism gone haywire. Making me forget entire blocks of time because it can’t protect me from itself so it tries to protect me from everything else, even the things I don’t need protection from. Now I can’t even escape into my own world, I can just watch from afar wondering what the architects have planned.

It won’t let me rest. The cycle has gone one long enough for me to be wary of closing my eyes wondering what I will see when I do. I see it but I can’t feel it anymore and I can’t decide which is worse.

twisted

Lost

They took something from me something important and although I can remember it I can’t seem to mourn its loss and I need to. The sadness is gone, the guilt, the pain all gone. Unfortunately everything else is too. I know what they meant to take but instead they took it all, everything that makes me who I am, what I am. I look out from a shell not loving, hating, crying, or screaming because I can’t. It is an eerie silence inside my head now.

They said it would only hurt a little bit but this lost emptiness is worse than pain, so much worse. They didn’t know that this would drive me crazy. At least the with the pain I had something to hang onto. Now there is just nothing. People around me watch only now realizing that what I am doing is trying to feel something, anything. My actions get more and more desperate, going farther, pushing harder, just to feel. Now even I wonder how far I will go just to feel.

drug

There is Nothing Again

In the past weeks I have tried to write honestly I have. Unfortunately everything seems to be coming out just wrong. It is like I can no longer use writing to articulate what is in my head and even the world inside me seems bleaker than normal. I can still see it, it is still there but I no longer live there. I am no longer a part of my own world. It is like looking through glass frosted over by wicked cold letting me see but not feel anything but a cold that not even my world contained. Anyone who is wondering about that world is welcome to read, more than a few posts contain glimpses of that world.

It’s like having a limb severed, being able to see it, but not feel it, not touch it. Not be a part of it. One wouldn’t expect it but it is quite painful actually. To not be in touch with something that has tortured me so beautifully, leaving me twisted and broken. It is much like not being able to touch the one that can twist you into a wonderfully broken thing and make your mind fly apart with the sheer ecstasy of it. Yeah you know who I mean. Only this is worse. That person is just a person, outside and at times replaceable. This is a part of me.

“Will it let me back in,” is the only question that I can ask because it is no longer my choice. They think that banishing the darkness with pharmaceuticals is the only way I will be free. What I don’t tell them is I like the darkness, enjoy it, it makes me whole, without it I am a ghost locked inside myself. I can’t feel, I can’t write, I can’t laugh, love, or breath. Stealing a part of me is something only a lover should do.

broken_wings

The Clowns are chewing away in the most painfully unpleasant fashion

A hate has been rising up in me. It started as a slow burn that only twinged a little bit. You know the feeling when you see, do, or have done to you something that is only slightly unjust. It can be pried out of you with a kind word or happy thought. If it is not excised it continues to grow into a burning, a torturous heat with hard edge. It can still be cut from your heart by pure unadulterated lust and the wonderfully rough sex that comes with it. The kind of physical contact that leaves you sore and aching in the morning because you both have taken the hate out on each other and are better for it. This is the kind of fucking that most people only engage in once or twice and think that it is adventurous. The kind where the participants have no idea how close they’ve come to tearing each other apart.

It wandered into the territory of a bright flame as it grew. The hard edge to it becoming a bludgeon working further into my soul. Twisting into it like something wrong and painful. Although much harder to do because the edges of the heart are torn and bruised it can still be torn from the body, but only by using another as you are used in a visceral meeting of the two sexes. The kind of fucking that not many know and others think they’ve gone insane to engage in. The kind where you rip into the other person taking pain and pleasure instead of just giving it.

Then it turned to a roaring fire as it continued to grow. The edge to it is no longer hard but sharp as it shreds the heart piercing the soul before pulling out again only to ram back in. The only way to extinguish it is bloody and painful and kept quiet in the dark.

Finally the flames of the fire turned dark as it consumed me until it wasn’t a fire at all anymore just a burning hatred that echoes up from my eviscerated soul. A wealth of it pours off of me causing even the most oblivious of people to shy away. A darkness so deep and black that to rip it from me would tear apart what little is left. So entwined in what is me it would pull out my very soul. Still it burns deep inside leaving bladed teeth marks wherever it touches.

creepy-clown-monster-face

Breaking

I expect sand as my eyes slide open and am surprised when the storm from the night before has not covered me. I wonder if that is how I got buried in the first place oh so long ago. Slowly I sit up and contemplate the bars of my prison, they were alive and moving only yesterday. Dead and cold is somewhat better than the chitinous clicking and scraping of large insects moving around. I run my hand over them feeling the spines and tiny hairs scratch against my skin. Hair embeds itself deep into my flesh instantly causing it to itch underneath my calloused palm. The hair seems to burrow deep twisting and turning worming its way into the muscle where scratching the skin will bring no relief from the writhing. Only an torturous insatiable itch.

Shuddering I try not to think about the endless hours of torture ahead while I dig at my own flesh, tearing it to make a feeling stop, a feeling that might only be a phantom but still feels just as real. I know that later I will scratch it until it bleeds onto the harsh white sand beneath me. In a way I miss the pain of real life but not enough to live it.

Trying to ignore the squirming in my hand I reach up to brush the hair out of my face only then realizing the world looks different. What I first thought was sand sticking to my skin is smooth instead of the grainy rush I came to expect from the tiny shards of glass that make up the sand in this place. It takes me a minute to notice that the skin is too smooth, to cool against my fingertips. My hands slide forward chasing my cheekbones they are there but too smooth too cool and too unmoving. My fingertips caress the smooth surface covering my cheeks tracing slowly back to my ears which amazingly are free of the enclosure. The pads of my fingers brush backward through my hair almost panicking at the lack of buckles or straps.

My heart pounds in my chest as I trace the lines at the edge of my hair. The cool metal blends with my flesh curling into it. The itch is momentarily forgotten as I realize that this might be folded into my skull wrapped up in with flesh and bone. It is only now that I feel the weight of it. My fingers skate back across the cool metal marveling that it is not being warmed by my flesh and body heat only to realize that I have no heat of my own anymore. I have been here too long and it seems that this place is turning me into it. I lean back hard wondering if the mask is metal at all. Maybe it is like the bars of the cage, not metal but alive and slowly taking over.

twisted

Ever wonder why there’s sympathy for the Devil

I don’t own Lucifer nor would I really ever want to… Angel, Morning Star, Prince of Darkness and all.

Lucifer sat staring out over the windswept rock. It was a time of peace for him even after he’d fallen. Breaking dawn had always been his favorite time of day and the rocky Irish coast his favorite place to be. There was something about the spectacular beautiful display of dawn over the staggering gray of the cliffs and the deadly swirling darkness below. This day he arrived here just before dawn a heavy mist clung to the rocky cliff hiding the sharp rocks and swirling water below. He waited peacefully for the dawn chorus to begin. As the first hint of sun hit the horizon he took a breath and began to sing.

While the moon her watch is keeping,

All through the night

While the weary world is sleeping

All through the night

O’er thy spirit gently stealing

Visions of delight revealing

Breathes a pure and holy feeling

All through the night “

He smiled adopting an Irish lilt to his voice as he sang watching the gray start to seep from the sky.

Though I roam a minstrel lonely

All through the night

My true harp shall praise sing only

All through the night

Love’s young dream, alas, is over

Yet my strains of love shall hover

Near the presence of my lover

All through the night”

He closed his eyes enjoying the feeling of the soft breeze and sweet sound of the ocean below, rocking gently in an unheard rhythm.

The girl stared at him. He was the most stunning thing she’d ever seen. Soft black hair hung down just past his shoulders and was tied back with a black ribbon. He seemed to move with the song he sang his voice sending chills through her with its soft beauty. She watched his back expand as his chest rose when he began the next verse. Muscles rippled even through the linen shirt he wore.

Hark, a solemn bell is ringing

Clear through the night

Thou, my love, art heavenward winging

Home through the night

Earthly dust from off thee shaken

Soul immortal shalt thou awaken

With thy last dim journey taken

Home through the night”

She hadn’t realized that she’d moved forward as he sang until she realized she was standing at the edge of the cliff beside where he was sitting. She reached out to touch his cheek to brush away the tear she saw there. Her hand hovered beside his face the strands of black hair that had escaped its tie sliding over it.

“You’re song is beautiful don’t stop singing,” she said quietly as he ended the last note. A soft peaceful smile played against his face.

“There is no more to sing,” She couldn’t help but think that his speaking voice shined as much as his singing voice. Her heart broke at its sound. His eyes still closed he turned toward her voice as she spoke. She wondered if his eyes were as beautiful as the rest of him. She was inexplicably drawn to him. She closed her eyes for a moment attempting to remember how she got there. Why she left her warm home before dawn because of the sound of his voice? She shook her head confused for a moment. He reached out and ran his thumb along her delicate cheek sighing softly as he did. A soft frown flickered over his features as he did the unthinkable. He opened his eyes and she screamed stumbling backward her foot catching on the edge of the cliff.

Lucifer drew in a breath as the catalog of her sins flooded his mind. She was ruined by the shepherd’s kisses and chose to lay with him before she’d been married. She’d done this willingly and over again. A sad smile crossed his lips as he watched the beautiful young girl fall still staring into the endless obsidian pool of his eyes. Only when she disappeared into the mist and the violent waves and rocks below did he close them. For a moment he’d forgotten it had been so long since he sang. He’d forgotten that only sinners could hear him sing and only sinners and demons would be drawn to the sound of his voice.

Tears slipped down his cheeks he’d only wanted a moment’s peace before the fight started. He’d only wanted to relax for just a moment after years in the cage. He sighed again stretching out his black wings. The shining feathers damp with the mist glittered. Strong muscles flexed as he prepared to take flight. The darkness of his position settled around him like a cloak as he took wingLucifer_the___Morningstar___by_dwinbotp (1)