by Drue M Scott
The orchestrated movements of naked flesh before him became more erratic. Sweat began to darken the sheets as a swift roll of bodies led to the dark-haired beauty assuming control. The young man consented with ease. Still thrusting, he was clearly close to the moment. The moment, Brennan pondered, this should be fun to watch. The young man wasn’t particularly handsome nor was he homely. I wonder what Mikale would think of him? The passing thought frustrated him slightly, but Brennan quickly turned his attention to the fact that the man clearly knew how to use what he had been blessed with to his advantage. A strong body and fair endowment certainly worked in his favor. His mid-length, brown hair reminded Brennan of the men he saw when he was younger. Normally they were out in the wilderness for days or even weeks, and rarely kept themselves all that proper. Then again, they had little reason to do so, and no one really to impress. Most were usually stout men with sturdy limbs and strong jawlines. They carried themselves with a confidence this generation—the generation he now found himself thrust into—lacked. Faux confidence based on hours at the gym, but not a goddamn one of them could take care of themselves in the time I was raised. Shifting his perspective in order to better take in all the heated pawing, Brennan further noticed how unencumbered they both appeared. Not a single care in the world, save for the orgasm that was sure to come. Her legs bent at the knees rested her neatly upon his hips and gave her strength to lift herself in time with the man’s thrusts. She tightened them frequently in rhythmic succession. She was pretty, not exactly Brennan’s type, but her soft skin glowing from sweat and her long dark hair flowing to her movements demanded attention. Brennan could see pulses of her life-force radiating out from her. So much of her essence was floating in the air he could smell her desire. Her thin waist accentuated her breasts heaving in time with her gasps for air. Her left breast is distinctly smaller than her right one. Brennan giggled under his breath. It seemed peculiar that an imperfection would draw his fascination so easily. Beauty was always to him something unique and quite specific to the beholder. What one found beautiful was something innate and rarely under one’s complete control. His tastes, for as far back as he could remember, were far from critical, but a noticeable shift had taken place since the incident. Did shredding Kyna’s energy change my desires for women? Could there ever be another woman as beautiful as she? His thoughts rambled. A quick glance down to the bed, however, snapped him back to the moment. The two bodies once moving in perfect unison suddenly became uneven and lost all rhythm. The dark-haired, lopsided-breast woman began to shake slightly, and the mildly handsome, stout young man’s legs, stretched out underneath the weight of her, flexed hard as he belted out some stringing together of words Brennan could barely make sense of. She still raised and lowered her hips, enjoying his girth and length inside her, but his counter thrusts were no longer in-time. It was a beautiful dance that lost a step along the way, and neither partner could fully regain control or get in sync with the other. Throwing her head back and lacking the ability to speak, she moaned under labored breath. The pulses of life-energy rippled away from her curves giving a liquid appearance to the air. Brennan felt his own arousal begin to poke at him. He could hardly hold back his excitement to see who would turn lust into death.
“She’s going to kill him.” Words he hardly recognized as his own, gurgled in the back of his throat. Did I say that out loud? Increasingly, Brennan was becoming aware that he was split. Not soul-split, but rather multi-minded in confusing ways.
Noticeable heat, well, visible enough to Brennan, rose from their bodies. It was like lines of misty fog radiating from their impassioned flesh. Their movements slowed, and clearly, the peak of energy had begun to wane when the man lifted his torso from the bed and grasped the woman firmly behind her head. He was certainly a strong man, by appearance, and when he flexed his arms Brennan took notice of how his physique glistened in the small amount of light in the room. Pulling her into his passionately aggressive kiss, the man held her tight. Still writhing upon his now softening penis, she consented to his forceful grip with a raking of her nails across his back. Blood beaded up in several spots as her nails dug deep into his flesh. His groan at her nails drawing blood sounded more of pleasure than pain. Loosening one hand from her head, the man eased himself back to the bed carrying her with him. Gliding his free arm behind his own head his fingers searched for something under the pillow. Brennan perked up again. A pulse in his own tailored pants tapped at his attention momentarily. Here it comes. His heart raced in anticipation. His fascination, which was divided in equal parts, swelled within him. He enjoyed seeing the naked flesh, his heart raced at the anticipation of the death that would soon be coming, and he loved the fact that he could feel his own manhood grow hard and push against the fitted clothes he wore.
“This isn’t you, Brennan.” The smallest voice pecked at his mind. It was distant and weak. It felt like an echo of words that had been shouted from a fathomless void a thousand years prior and had only just made it to his consciousness. But they were true. Brennan knew he was not this man. Anger rose up again pushing the realization away in favor of the violence soon to take place. Control was not easily maintained.
The knife the man had pulled from the soft coverings of the black, cotton pillowcase glistened under the specks of light the candles and moonlight provided the dark room. Brennan could not take his eyes from their kiss though. It was feverish and sloppy but held a passion he longed to feel again. He found them both equally appealing suddenly. Just moments earlier neither would have grabbed his attention from any number of meaningless tasks, but now, he could hardly contain his own lust. He could remember the feeling Melissa gave the men she fucked before murdering. It was lustful and erotic, tainted ecstasy. His heart quickened further, and a single bead of sweat traced his hairline and down his temple. His love for being a physical form capable of sweating further aroused him. The sparkling blade rose higher and so did the pulsing beneath the grey fitted slacks Brennan wore. The anticipation was nearly more than he could bear. With a sudden movement, almost quicker than human eyes could see, the knife plunged deep into the woman’s back. Her scream was muted as the man held her fast to his lips. She tried to fight, but under his grasp, she was merely a lamb caught in the jaws of a lion. The blade slid in and out of her flesh easily and repeatedly. Each time, it carried with it a spray of dark fluid into the air. Its color was hidden in the dimly lit room, but Brennan knew it was red. It was as red as his anger. It was the deepest of reds that could drown-out all other colors; it would blanket the world. A splash of the dark fluid extinguished one of the candles set farthest from Brennan. Only a moment later another splash landed upon his cheek. Her blood poured down from her back, thick as syrup soaking the bed beneath the sweating man’s body. Smearing their faces, blood mixed with saliva and ran down the man’s face from the kiss that stole her breath. His hardened abs flexed tightly in time with each insertion of the blade. He continued to hold her to him as their lips pressed heavily to one another reddened further with every stab.
Time floated off in a haze of fevered feelings that Brennan could not make sense of. He was clearly attracted to the violence, but could not balance that fact with who he thought he was. I am changing. The thought disturbed him, but not as much as he felt it should have. If I am changing, then who, or what, am I changing into? The woman’s fight had been completely extinguished when Brennan noticed the man peering at him.
He had ceased kissing her and was now tracing the tip of his knife along the woman’s tatter flesh while staring directly at Brennan’s darkened figure, which was motionless in the shadows of the room.
Brennan hadn’t given thought to the fact that he was corporeal and could be seen. Now, it was clear that his voyeuristic fun had been discovered. The man, however, seemed to care little for the audience and instead, licked away the blood-tear mixture streaming down the woman’s face as he flung her from his naked body and raised himself from the bed. Without a second glance towards
Brennan, the man moved slowly to the bathroom, whose doorway was straight in front of the bed and on the adjoining wall to Brennan’s right.
A singular sight caught Brennan’s undivided attention; drops of blood undoubtedly mixed with sexual fluids dripped from the man’s endowment. His member was soft but hung nicely and swayed slightly with each step he made towards the bathroom. Heat flushed Brennan’s face as he paused a moment to wonder if he was embarrassed that he had been discovered or turned on by the fact that the man didn’t seem to mind being watched.
“You should kill him; kill you should. It would be fun, and fun is good.” Each syllable pounded against Brennan. The distinctness of their psychotic nature sickened him. The understanding of where they came from frightened him. Goosebumps rose on his whole body. Despite his disgust, the idea did have some value to it. Killing a killer can’t be all bad. He posited.
“You should probably join me instead of sitting there in the shadows,” the murderer’s voice called out from the bathroom. The familiar sound of falling water filled Brennan’s ears louder than it should have considering the distance he was from it. The man coughed clearing his throat, “I could use some help washing the blood from my back if you don’t mind.”
Gliding effortlessly to the bed, Brennan lifted the soiled blade from the blood-wet surface and raised it to his nose. Deeply inhaling, he searched for a scent. What scent he hungered for wasn’t apparent, but it all felt outside of him anyway. “Kill him,” his voice sounding less like his own thundered against his efforts to put the knife back down. “Fucking kill him.” Brennan began to visibly shake.
“You can leave,” The softer voice weakly entered his mind, “just go back to the meadow.”
At odds with himself, Brennan felt increasingly weak. Each conflict of thought seemed to drain him further. His energy poured from him as blood from a grievous knife wound to the throat. If he did not give into his lust or leave the room, he was sure he would pass out. Flickers of light pulsed from his being, and his physical form shifted in shape looking like water held behind a thin flexible membrane. A clear body bag harboring the essence of who he was, threatening to burst open, and spill away.
“Was the man’s body not appealing to you?” A deep sarcastic voice rose up strong in the midst of his weakness. “Do you not desire to pleasure yourself with his…?”
“Stop!” Giving himself over to the idea of returning to the meadow, Brennan stole-up the energy he could from the turmoil inside him and ignored the hate. The task was far more strenuous than he thought it would be. Reconstituting himself as a being, and not a weakening shell, cost more and more each second. His first attempt to phase out was unsuccessful. It simply caused a spark of light to bounce off his presence and illuminate the bloodied room. “Goddamnit, Brennan, concentrate.” He wasn’t sure if his words were audible or only in his thoughts, but the self-motivation seemed to work. Broadening his shoulders, taking a deep breath, and flexing his muscles, he set his sights squarely on the meadow and the warmth of its embrace. None of his corporeal rituals were necessary, but they were a way to focus his energy and build up his strength. Blue orbs of light danced around him and inside him, casting strange shadows across the room. With the blink of his eyes, he was gone.
As Brennan’s form faded from sight the bloodied knife fell back to the bed in time with the naked killer exiting the bathroom. “Were you not going to join me?” His words dropped off heavily at the sight of the blade in mid-air falling to the bed. The disbelief of what he witnessed shifted his disposition from cocky to shock and disbelief.
Lost and Found
Quickly running to the kitchen sink, Sergei placed his bloody finger under cold running water. It burned.
“Damnit!” He caught himself shouting as he pulled his hand away. The pain surprised him. It wasn’t unbearable by any stretch of the imagination, but it had certainly reminded him that it was there. Slowly returning his hand to the running water, he angled it, so that the cool liquid would run over it in line with the edges of sliced skin as opposed to against it. The change in position, he hoped, might lessen the sting. “I am here.” He spoke the words aloud. “What the hell does that mean?” His mind began to hurt equal to the burning discomfort of his finger under the water. “Why would I…” He couldn’t even finish the thought before a sickness welled up from the depths of his chest. Am I going to throw up? His stomach turned, his heart raced, and his skin became pale and moist. Reaching for the faucet and turning from the sink were the last tasks his mind and body would accomplish before falling limp onto the cold tile floor. Hearing faded off just moments behind his sight carrying with it the lingering sound of a voice whispering, “Help me. I am here.”
Blinded by a sudden swirl of lights and images, Sergei fluttered in and out of consciousness. Foreign feelings and thoughts invaded his mind, and though each of them felt as though they originated within him, he couldn’t help but recognize that they were distinctly external. Another mind was present, a different entity, someone or something not of him definitely invaded his thoughts. Muted sound echoed in his head like guitar strings being plucked in a vast empty music hall. Each moment, it grew louder and its intensity was becoming more than he could bear. Instinctively shielding his ears in a futile attempt to mute the internal noise, Sergei curled himself up on the floor and let out a muffled sound that felt like a scream to him. Images of the park began to flood back visually. Though his eyes were closed, he could see as clear as fine crystal all the sights from that day. They were, however, from a uniquely different perspective. He was sitting next to a man, a rather handsome man, who appeared concerned and heavy laden at the same time. The lament he could sense in the man resonated within his own soul as he began speaking.
“Do you believe in the devil? I was asking you if you had ever heard of or met anyone who claimed to be the devil.” The origin of the question eluded Sergei’s understanding, but he was certain it was one he desperately needed an answer to. Peering around him a sudden shock overtook his senses. Somehow, he knew the man sitting next to him—his name is Stewart—and he knew the park was the same one, in which he suffered critical wounds, but he was witnessing it from a completely different perspective. Emotions threatened to consume him. Walking towards him, he noticed the figure of a man, a very familiar man. He knew the form well because he saw it daily in the mirror of his bathroom. Quizzically, his brain crashed up against his ideas of reality. He was staring at himself walking towards the very bench he was seated upon. Without warning, everything shifted; Stewart was no longer near him but in his place was a much more malicious entity. The Devil. Flashes of light and pain, beyond what his brain could muster an understanding of, shot through his entire being. Abruptly, it all faded into nothingness. He was still there; he could still see himself, but it all felt distant like the living pulse of all things had been removed. With anxious anticipation, he helplessly watched as his body was flung back by an invisible force. Blood filled his mouth. The blanket of some dark force covered him, and the whole scene went black. There were no sounds, no feelings, no sight; the universe ceased to exist apart from the three words that started this entire calamity, “I am here.”
Hours had filtered by, but Sergei remained prone on the kitchen floor. The ceramic tile, in various shades of grey, stood in stark contrast to the droplets of blood that had spilled out from his finger and ears. Water from the sink faucet trickled at a heavy pace and echoed its descent into the basin with rhythmic crashes. The golden hue of dusk lent its glow to the room shifting the otherwise brightly painted walls to a muted yellow. The kitchenette table that Sergei so frequently dined at appeared out of place with its dark rose-wood color set against all the other shades that livened up his small home. Each moment passed in slow motion with the setting sun elongating the shadows cast throughout the rectangular kitchen. The first sense to return was his hearing; the water reverberated in his ears with each droplet sounding like car crashes as it hit the basin below. Violent an
d damning, the noise pounded out a headache blurring his struggling sight as it slowly moved the world back into focus. Then pain: abrupt and agonizing. Heaving uncontrollably, all the remaining contents of his stomach spilled forth. Sergei wasn’t sure where it came from, but his entire body, his soul, his very existence, ached in a way that he had never known before. Emotional agony compounded by physical distress and intermixed with a fire that raged from within him tore at his nerves, searing all other sensations. A great sorrow washed over him. Attempting to stand, he slumped over requiring the steadiness of his kitchenette table-for-two in order to keep from heading face first back to the cold tile. Surveying his body, as best as possible, he noticed the fine details of his person were dramatically more in focus. The blue of his jeans was rich and vibrant, and each cream-white stitch forming their snug shape stood out. His green and blue plaid shirt looked to him like a billowing of soft material shifting its depth and shadow at his every move. He could see each hair on his arms—its length, its color, its thickness as it sunk into his skin. Finally able to make it to a fully erect position, Sergei’s body began to pulse with energy, radiating out from him in waves of color he swore he could see.
Moving from the kitchen to the living-room he paused. His body was moving, but a conscious effort to make it so had not entered his mind. The rather small house Sergei had called home since moving to Atlanta suddenly felt even smaller. The thought of moving towards his bedroom barely entered his mind, and suddenly, he was there. How is this possible? Sergei’s mind struggled with what he felt. He understood the concept behind “muscle memory” and the idea of doing mundane tasks on “auto-pilot”, but this was something different. It was like moving a body part that had fallen asleep; he knew he was moving, but the sensation of it was muted, almost non-existent. Out of fear or cautious determination he set his mind to the bathroom mirror that hung on the door directly opposite his bedroom. It happened again. The thought, before it was completely formed, resulted in him standing in the spot he wished. The execution of his actions eluded him. He half expected to see his body had suffered some type of disfiguration as he looked on the reflection of himself with fear. The placement of the mirror in his small house had been on purpose. The reasons behind it seemed odd momentarily as he pondered them. He had set the mirror facing outward and perfectly aligned to square off the bathroom doorway looking to it from his bedroom. It was an easy way to double check his appearance each day when he was finished getting ready for work without having to return to the claustrophobic confines of his washroom. Plus, it often served as a self-help tool as he would, frequently since his divorce, recite affirmations while peering into it. As he stood there now gazing so intently upon his figure, he couldn’t help but find himself enthralled by the clarity with which he could now see. Thankfully, there were no hideous wounds or contorted limbs. In fact, the precision of detail he could make out from the distance he stood was far beyond what he believed to be normal. His eyes were never really bad, and he certainly didn’t need glasses, but how he could see things now made him wonder if he had needed them all along and was just too stubborn to go get them. Awkwardly, but with preternatural speed, he removed his shirt. His chest thick and solid tapered down to his solid abdomen. The small patches of hair between his pecs and surrounding his belly button were darker than the hair upon his head by at least three shades. The definition of his arms, his broad strong shoulders, the veins running along his forearms, it all was so perfectly in focus he felt like if he tried hard enough, he could literally see into his skin and down to the bone. Moving to drop his pants, if my arms look this good, I bet my cock looks like a…, he mused undoing the first snap of his button fly jeans.