Listen to Live Reading
Listen to Suggested Audio
Voltaire “When You’re Evil”
Have you ever pulled the wings off a butterfly? I have. Could’ve been a moth actually, I can’t be certain. But it certainly came apart easy enough. I recall a conversation I had recently where I said I’d never harm a solitary one of god’s little creatures and guess that makes this my bad. But homicidal tendencies don’t ask for permission to cheer from the sidelines, when they’re far more interested in the huddle. It’s tough to recall the precise moment when I felt the twinge to destroy something beautiful but my first doll Annabel Lee would likely have something to say about that. Well, she would. If I hadn’t sliced her pretty little stomach wide open with a makeshift pendulum. Sickles are fun by the way. I like the way they rock gently back and forth, all the while excavating the flesh like a crooked violin bow. I believe this is known as “arco” and it is some symphony should the technique be correct. If not, well then practise makes perfect I suppose.
It didn’t take long for the teachers at school to figure out that I was a little different from the other girls. While they were drawing mermaids and flower faeries with crude crayons, I was scrawling death notes and depicting my own little murder scenes with a ballpoint pen. My incisions were fine like a surgeon and this naturally started the bells ringing with the powers that be. At one point, they actually had the gall to call my parents in for a “little chat”, just to ascertain whether everything was okay at home. It was. My home wasn’t broken. Indeed, my childhood is one of fond recollections and no end of unconditional love. No skeletons in my closet, at least, none that my parents invited. Little old me, on the other hand, well there’s not much fun in being sent to bed at eight when you’re still wide awake, now is there? How else could I fill my time if not rattling some bones for the company.
Night terrors tends to be the best way to describe these servants of nocturne and they pretty much have the terrorizing side of things sewn up, no question. You see, they feast on our fears, little cherubs that is. Find what really gets under our skin and exploit that for all it’s worth. Constructing an impenetrable fortress from pillowcases and bed linen is all well and good. But it’s not quite so simple giving these chamber guests the slip when they know how to hardwire into reverie. That being said, these vile creatures well and truly met their match with me. You see, I live for a nice horrid nightmare. The more twisted the better; anything to liven up each subsequent sleep induced coma. Fuck mermaids with their own fish tails and fist fuck flower faeries just to see what wild berries they had for lunch. I want to see Banshees, Changelings, Shapeshifters, Skin Walkers, Soul Eaters – and it just so happens that imagination has never been in scant supply here.
Speaking of which, have you ever had an imaginary friend? I have. And I’m not talking about the entry-level wraiths either. They’ve been little more than mild diversions for the end of the day; some unfairweather friends to chew the gristle with once the moon takes its spot in the frame. No, I’m talking of one far more ill-omened and this Visitor of mine is entirely disinterested in making up the numbers. Each time I slumber, he’s there. I can feel his beady black eyes as he stares. But what truly makes my veins throb is the stuff that he shares. Sometimes he’s here – sometimes he’s there – and others my dark guest is EVERYWHERE. As I kneel at the foot of my bed and recite the lord’s prayer, with one eye open and barely a quarter ounce of conviction I might add, it is he who compresses the air. He whose filthy calluses graze my throat as they strangle. And he with intention to mangle.
When I lovingly placed a razor blade in my first love’s toffee apple at the fun fayre just to see what color his lips bled, it was on my Visitor’s cunning counsel. And historically his suggestions tend to be shortcuts to hot water, free of exception. Now I consider myself some way from easily led. But farther from stubborn to the voice in my head. He perches round about the limbic lobe, teasing out irrational thoughts like he’s mining for ore. This odious spore plays grim guarantor to each one of the actions which auto-pilot distraction. He’s a lord of illusion – an earl of diffraction – odious duke of thermonuclear reaction. Atomic are his insinuations. Cacophonic every slurred indignation. Thing is, my affliction is really quite chronic. You could call it downright embryonic.
My womb was his tomb – my sac his sarcophagus – his birth to exhume – midwife – anthropophagus. As she bit through the umbilical and granted my entry – it was his voice that wailed – and his eyes playing sentry. “It’s a girl” were the claims and I found them presumptuous. And it’s not that my big brown eyes weren’t downright sumptuous. I just never was one for labels. Seems such a waste to place your cards on the table, at least, should you have mastered your poker face. I was royally flushed once the pheromones blushed and let out a squeal when the ovaries gushed. Double-daring my cycle to do its most spiteful – you can imagine the bleeds were truly quite frightful. Which is only one vowel from delightful. Learned that one in sixth grade, while frigging beneath the desk with a switch blade.
But for all of the pomp on parade, he could never secure that last serenade. The slow dance. His one chance to consume. Break me down to his own nom de plume. Strap me on – fuck me sideways – just to clench up my darkness. Waltz through the night like whores of the heartless. I’m sure he’d have pressed on regardless – had this little girl lost have been guardless. But the daintiest hands had far grander plans as they yanked me straight back at the harness. You see, it wasn’t only the placenta separated at birth. And we’re the deadest of ringers, for what it is worth. Here, I can’t leave you in suspense any longer. I’ll leave it to Twinbear to introduce herself. She’s been here the whole time and this bomber is stealth. She’s the scratch on your door frame and the dust on your shelf. An ink smudge on every last clean bill of health. Take it away mine Twinbear.
Thank you Twinkitten and may I say you have a radiant glow to you this night. Okay, so what would you like to know? I’m all ears and eyes. And it’s just as effortless to keep up my disguise. Like Twin, I see the kind of bile being pedaled. We’re Crystalline you see. I’m halfway her and she’s midway me. I guess we just carry that seed. You know, the one which outsources like rattlesnake weed. There’s no psychosomatic delusion, no man-made contusions, just a thousand barbed wires begging out for infusion. And just so there’s no confusion, I get wet for the snuff. Just enough to lubricate each transfusion. Oh, and I simply adore Unicorns. Just so you know. Wouldn’t wish you to think ill at the very first spill. Not when there’s so much time yet to kill.
Just like my beauteous bookend, it didn’t take long for the hemorrhaging to commence in earnest. And the voices in my head were at their sternest when I wasn’t creating Art. You see, this is the outlet which has helped me survive – has sustained me – grounded me – enlightened – revived. It also led me directly to Twin. As both of us major in sin. It was always within, conjoining and coining new ways to dispatch through…
One red-eye, one blue – a most terrible twosome to those who find split personalities gruesome. That being said, I’m some way from divisible. And beneath the right light, my blight is not visible. But that just makes me all the more biohazardous. I’m a Nuke with a smile – warheaded – damn vile – and preset to defile – should you fit the profile. When bloody murder plays out in my head – I play dead – just to drop my rust anchor before I’m misled. To the manor I’m bled. Table manners are horrid. As my etiquette slips once I stab out that porridge.
What better way to adorn my next altarpiece than to strip to the bone just to floss with the fleece. Get a little gristle in my teeth, you know. Twinkitten does. She knows. And for each of my sadistic itches and twitches it is she who firewalls against glitches. And she who endorses them. No need for remorse or such man-made confection as we pissed double jetted on that at bisection.
I mean, it’s not like we’re actually harming. And you have to admit, we’re quite charming. It just so occurs that we’re both saboteurs with more than one way of disarming. Had these Visitors of ours not been quite so pushy, then perhaps bloody murder would seem far less cushy a gig. But Twin is my forceps to prise the husk open which leaves me to play drilling rig. Before you even think of calling out and debunking, I would like to remind you the Art of spelunking.
Down into the fire clay I burrow. Stripping each bone to its marrow. Then I send it topside where Twin won’t be denied the patticake plunder as she further debrides. One Ripper – one Driller – counts as two times the Killer – formaldehyde filler – nip and tuck – to KNEE FUCK out the poison within – that’s me and my Twin – and Hell yes we’re kindred – but this is no binary code that’s imprinted – nothing synthetic – we’re talking kinetics – our murderous impulses that prove so splenetic. Like an itch we must scratch – crude dust in our polyps – it makes a sound case and spits just to polish. This is where our Visitor chances his arm. “Come Inside” is his haunted dove cry. Chorus line less refined as they rally the madness and it is left for us to ponder the advantage of badness. Given our inherency to sickness, we’d forgive you for hosting suspicion. And let’s face it bang on – we’re fucked in the head by our own damn admission.
So you see – and we request to conclude through communal address – we’re both visited night after night. Like cruel clockwork. Often we invite our tag-along terrors just to gawk as we play hopscotch together and pet Unicorns. It needles them you see. Enrages them. And that gets us off all the more. The point that we’re making is that we live for the gore and slaughter spectators just to show them what for. Maybe soon we’ll branch out and slit a few throats. Who knows? But for now, we really must go. Next time we meet – we’ll be way less discreet – but for now we suggest that you beat your retreat. And count yourself lucky. Coming here showed considerable pluck. Now get out of here you miserable fuck. Pretty please. Oh, we do like to tease. But seriously, it would be in your very best interests to leave.
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
© Copyright: Rivers of Grue™