slashsmut single destina beecher keller

Dead Souls

by Destina


Wishes are dangerous little things we give birth to in the time between lights out and the end of lockdown in the morning. They come out kicking and screaming and you circumcise them right then and there, just cut the end of them off and make them scream, because you can't create anything inside Oz that isn't stunted and mutilated. I don't wish anymore. I don't waste time on dreams that exist just so they can die, so they can drag you down deeper into the hole and make you less of a man.

What I might have wished? Doesn't matter. That was before I saw that hole open up, before the edges of it expanded underneath me and the bottom dropped out. You know what's in that hole? Dark eyes and a cock that will make you a believer, and a nightmare that sounds like fire crackling or twigs snapping or bones popping.

There's a giant, cancerous circle down there in the depths, and you walk around on the white line, tearing away at your face and screaming. Eventually you can't make any sounds at all. It's more merciful that way. Round and round on the line, mumbling the mantra. You made me bleed, I'll make you bleed, you made me bleed, I'll make you bleed.

Keller asked me a question last night when he was coming inside me, when he was moving slow and sure and so fucking easy in there, just like he owned me. Which I suppose he did right that moment, right in that little space of time between lights out and breakfast, over the course of that long fucking night when the world might be coming to an end outside. I didn't care how hard he fucked me, or how he touched me, or what he said in my ear as he came. Maybe I needed him, or maybe I needed to know he needed me. Maybe the goddamn revelation rained down before he moved in on me, and maybe it didn't.

It was an interesting question, one I didn't think I needed to answer anymore, so I turned my face away but he didn't stop asking. He apologized, he kissed me, he put his hands on me like some sort of cult priest full of freaky goddamn absolution. I won't let him touch me where it counts. I'm a fucking elephant, I know it all and I never forget. I've got it all my rage stored away for time-release delivery, pain medication in its purest form.

I used to like it in the dark as one shitty day gave over to another in this hellhole, when everything turned black and shapeless and ugly like the inside of my head. There's nothing but filth in there now. Exprience stacked up against the core of human goodness Sister Pete tells me is still inside me. Personally, I don't fucking see any humanity. It's not there. It's gone forever now.

So I gave myself to him, because it's not really much of a gift, just damaged goods. It's fitting.

That Nazi fuck tried to take my life away. He came after me when I was standing there as open and pure as the day before disaster. He yanked me out of my hole just to cut me and crucify me, just to penetrate me with hate and set me free. Chris came to the rescue, a fucking mercenary on a white horse, with a little checklist and a ledger full of notes on the debt he's owed, trying to make it seem like I'm all paid up. But I still owed him. I hadn't paid and he hadn't asked, but he wanted what was inside of me and I didn't think I had it in me to square it up. Just that one thing he wanted, just that one bit of knowledge, that scrap I was keeping for him. I was surprised he still had that question on his mind, lurking around in there and making him needy.

He leaned over and licked the edge of my ear just the way he knows I like it, just the way my body told him I wanted it. And he took me slow, almost like a lover would, like a human being would, if I were being fucked by something human, someone real, someone who loved me. Someone who wasn't part of the fucking delusion.

When he whispered to me, the words came out soft, hot, and it made me shiver, and that made him come. And he couldn't talk for a minute, which was fine because I wasn't crying, really, I was just giving it all back. There wasn't enough left of me for it to matter, and he was collecting it all and putting it together just to suit himself anyway.

"Was it you? Christ, Toby, tell me. I've got to know."

You made me bleed, I'll make you bleed. Who's to say, anyway? I'm bleeding, now, motherfucker. I'm fucking dying. I've got you in me, and I'll never get you out.

"Toby, aw, fuck, Toby, tell me it wasn't you." He moaned it in my ear like a litany, like a goddamned pleasure so perfect it hurts to touch it, and I can't believe how much he wants the answer, how bad he's aching to get to my soul. If he can see inside me, he can make believe this is all just some fucking fairy tale where a kiss and a fuck makes it all better, where tenderness takes away truth.

I couldn't bring you flowers, so I gave you what you helped me grow in this garden of hate. It was sharp, and it burns, and I don't care any more.

Who says romance is dead?

End.
destinaf@hotmail.com


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