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Send to FriendThat isn't to say that I avoid all human contact altogether. There are a few associations with which I am forced to participate in. For example, there is my drug dealer that I meet every Friday evening. I'm not sure what his name is, but that is irrelevant to the point; he gives me what I need, and that's all that matters. How else would I get my fix of weed when I need it without him? And then there is my landlord, Carl, who I the rent every week; on time, too, I might add. Always on time. And of course there is that job I uphold at the local elementary school, as a janitor of course (me, a teacher, dealing with all those loud-mouthed, snot-nosed, obnoxious little puke children screaming their heads off? No fucking way, man!). It's not a bad job really; I just clean up other people's messes. Every time someone needs me, they call me, I do whatever they want me to do, clean up whatever I have to clean up, and then I leave. That's it. The worst aspect of the job, I suppose, is probably cleaning up the bathrooms. Would it be too much to ask that at least some of the kids remember to flush after taking a massive dump once in a while? It's make cleaning the toilets a little bit easier, to say the least. Oh well, you get used to it after a while. It's not a bad job, really; I can do what I have to do in peace, at least most of the time. And while the kids think I'm some kind of weirdo freak (who doesn't, really?) they're not that big of a problem. They leave me alone and I leave them alone and everyone's happy. And once Friday afternoon rolls around and I cash in my paycheck at the bank, getting my rent, food, and all my bills paid off, I can then go and buy my weed, and everything will be cool from then on until shitty Monday morning.
And that pretty much sums up everything that makes up my shitty life. I don't have any friends, no family...no family members I'm actually still on speaking terms with, anyway. Nobody gives a shit about me at all, and most people who know me for any lengthy period of time wind up hating my guts after a while. If I died tomorrow, no one would bother showing up at my funeral--if a funeral were even held for me in the first place, that is--no one would give a damn. I have no one to turn to, no one who would care in the slightest of what had happened to me. But I don't need anybody and I don't care about anyone else other than myself anyway. The whole fucking world could drop dead in a heartbeat, everyone gone except me, and I would be perfectly happy. Being the last man standing, the last man alive, the final link to the human race has always been a wet dream to me. Think about it: I could do whatever I want to do, without fear of getting caught, without worrying over whether or not I was breaking the law, if I would go to jail and end up getting raped and fucked up the ass by my fellow inmates in the shower stalls. There would be no shame, no persecution because I'm different, because I'm such a deviant to a society that I hold nothing more than hatred and contempt for, because I violated a pathetic moral, ethical, code, a stupid taboo that I never even fucking believed in, in the first place. What doesn't sound appealing about it?
And yet, as difficult as this is to believe, even for me, even to this very day, there was one person whom I had actually cared about, whom I had even come to eventually love, and who had also loved and cared for me as well. I never would've thought it even remotely possible that I could possibly feel an emotion such as love, compassion, or that I could ever in any way care about another human being other than hating their guts the way they no doubt hate mine, but it's true, nonetheless.
Her name was Eve Sanders.
22 years of age when I had met her all those years ago. Dark hair (dyed), dark eyes, almost ghost white skin; she was a Satanist, where I am and always have been an atheist, but we never let those differences get between each other. We had so much in common, despite my believing religion of any kind to be a complete waste of time (which I had brought up a few times, but gave up when I realized she just wasn't interested in what I had to say regarding that issue). She still shared in my wretched hatred and contempt for the rest of society and just about every other human being alive, believed in most of the things I believed in, and oh the times we had together, rejoicing in the suffering of others. When a "disaster" or "tragedy" would occur and be reported in the news, we would look at each other and smile affectionately in great jubilation for such a wondrous occurrence, which Lady Luck had kindly bestowed upon us.
I have always been a sadist myself, tickled when I hear of a great tragedy such as yet another school shooting (kids these days) and find it quite sexually stimulating upon seeing the carnage that has resulted, the pain and suffering it had wrought upon the victims and their families. The Marquis De Sade has always been my favorite author of all times; I still can't get over the torture and perversions that that man had imagined back in his day. The 120 Days of Absolom, Philosophies in the Bedroom, and his other material had helped to get me through my most trying times, puberty, kept me sane during that time of great strife and turmoil. I read them all over a hundred times and will probably never get sick of them; there's some sick shit right there, folks. As a teenager I sometimes masturbated while reading the text in those books, the way some boys will masturbate looking through their stashed issues of Playboy and Hustler; my fantasies were always of a more violent nature. My wet dreams included whipping a girl with a beating a woman to a bloody pulp with a spiked club, peeling another woman's skin off with a dull rusty razor, and other such torture methods that were very painful for the woman, very enjoyable for me. Of course, as far as anyone else I ever knew was concerned, my getting off on that sort of thing, ejaculating at such dreams and feeling as though I had died and gone to heaven made me a monster, made me downright evil. And maybe I am evil, but you know what, I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, the idea of good and evil is perhaps one of the most ridiculous concepts I have ever heard, but that's irrelevant.
The point I'm trying to make is that they've always found my sexual fantasies to be quite disturbing. It's one thing to have a harmless fetish, but the things I've always gotten off on would be enough to disturb any "decent" human being (a category that I will never fall under so long as I live). Hell, even I found my fantasies disturbing at first, not because of the subject matter but because I had gotten so much pleasure out of it, because I had come to orgasm from such wet dreams and such sexually violent fantasies. What kind of monster spit up from the very bowels of hell could I have possibly been? But of course I got used to the idea in no time flat and even came to enjoy and appreciate it in and of itself. I wouldn't give it up for the world actually.
Eve not only understood these fantasies and these feelings but shared in them as well. She knew exactly what went through my mind because it went through hers as well. Thus we had that mental bond, that attachment to each other that I never thought I'd ever experience with another human being period. Our bond of empathy--an emotion I previously never thought existed--grew and evolved and we quickly fell in love. She became the only thing on my mind and I the only thing on hers. We'd been made for each other; it was fate, if you believe in that sort of bullshit. I don't, but hey, people have a right to believe in whatever load of manure they so desire. In any case, if there was such a thing as being "meant to be" then I guess you could say that we were "meant to be." In any case it was like a fairy tale relationship...of sorts. I suppose if you wish to compare us to a pair of Hollywood lovers (in movies, not the real-life actors themselves, mind you), the closest we would come, that I can think of anyway, would be to Mickey and Mallory of Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers; only we just a passionate hatred for society and all the people in it--we weren't homicidal maniacs, as much as we both fantasized about getting involved in that sort of thing.
Though I'll be honest with you; some of the things I wanted to do to her at times, that I dreamed and fantasized I was doing to her right at that very moment, they were horrible things, things that no normal person would ever dream of doing to someone he or she loved. But then again, as I've mentioned many, many times before, I'm not like other people. I'm very, very different. There were times when I wanted nothing more than to rape her right then and there, worse, cut her open, to spill her insides over the floor, holding her down as she squirmed and spasmed in throes of shear agony as I pealed off every layer of skin, one by one with a dull and rusty razor blade, fucking her while I am doing it. And I'm not talking about when we fought, either. I never thought about doing any of that shit after we had had a fight and walked away mad at each other, never. And besides, we rarely ever fought at all during the 6 months we'd been together anyway. These were things I thought about doing to her while we were in bed, fantasized over while we had sex, which greatly improved my performance.
But I never would have done any of that shit to her! Never in the world, no matter how much I dreamed and fantasized, no matter how badly I wanted to, no matter how strong the desire (which had at times reached nearly insurmountable levels), would I have actually acted upon the urge. They were just harmless fantasies, albeit rather violent and perhaps downright deplorable by most people's standards. But they were my own and they were special to me in their own rights.
She had wanted to do similar things to me as well. I remember one crisp autumn night beneath the stars she had confessed to having fantasized on a couple of sexual occasions digging her sharp fingernails into my flesh, using my body as a pin cushion, digging in hard enough and deep enough not only to draw blood but to peal the skin and muscle open, cut me straight to the bone. On others she had wanted to cut my belly open and sink her teeth deep into my intestines while I am still conscious, still feeling the horrible pain as I die that slow and horrible death, minutes passing like years in my delirium of pure agony, worse than that of a hundred gunshot wounds to the gut. These were things that merely turned us on; and neither of us felt the least bit of anger or resentment toward the other for having such violent and deadly fantasies. We had an understanding in that department and we both knew that there was nothing wrong with them as long as they remained fantasies. There was nothing strange or "kinky" about the way we fucked each other either; just straight-up consensual sex in bed, enhanced by both of our fantasies.
We were very deeply in love by the end of the 6 month period. I don't know if either of us trusted the other 100%, but we certainly loved each other and that more than made up for whatever lack of trust was present. It was great, what we had, our seemingly endless love, our eternal flame.
But the flame wasn't eternal after all, and our love did die after awhile. Nothing lasts forever. Although it didn't exactly end the way you might think it did. She didn't exactly dump me and I sure as hell didn't dump her either. What we had was much too precious to just throw away like that (and as I write this, looking back on it all, I find it very hard to believe that I would have ever felt that way about another person no matter who he or she happened to be, but what can I say? It happened, and I've already come to terms with it). Instead what had happened was much worse; unlike a break-up, there was no hope of getting back together after this.
And after it was all said and done, after things had ended between us, I can honestly say without a shadow of a doubt that love is a wasted emotion and not worth any of the time or energy or heartache that results. Oh sure, it was great while it lasted, a purely heavenly experience, but the pain and misery I was in was pure hell. I was depressed, actually depressed at having lost her, and for the longest time, too. I've gotten over it by now; this is years ago we're talking about. I'm over it, but it's still quite painful to think about.
I had already known something wasn't right when I pushed in the front door to her apartment. She had always locked her doors, even when she was home. And who could blame her, really, considering the rough neighborhood she lived in? It was even worse than the one I live in, much, much worse. She always had her doors locked, but not this time. I lightly leaned over it for a second or two and it pushed inward just like that, that easily. I didn't' even touch the doorknob. Something was amidst here, something wasn't quite right at Eve's place of residence. I was actually sweating, my heart beating rapidly against my chest as my stomach churned even tighter with each year-long second that went by. I was actually concerned for her, worried about what might have happened to her.
"Eve!" I called, but heard no answer.
She was nowhere in her living room or bedroom, which were both a clutter of shit and scraps of papers, dust, lint, and old magazines, some from 5 or 10 years before. But of course, it had always been like that, so it didn't have to mean something bad had happened to her.
I didn't even know if she'd been home or not. Maybe someone had broken in. A burglar, perhaps. But nothing was missing that I took notice, anyway.
What the hell is going on here? I wondered, unsure if I even wanted to know.
"Eve!" I called again as I approached the bathroom to see if she was somewhere in there, hoping she wasn't, hoping she wasn't even home.
I turned the doorknob to the bathroom door and went inside and that's when I found her, my Eve, lying naked in the bathtub, the faucet still on, the tub now overflowing and flooding the entire bathroom floor.
"EVE! NOOOOO!!!!!"
I could see traces of red and pink within the bath water, her diluted blood. She wasn't moving, her eyes gazed ahead, staring blankly at me at me, and I saw the deep bleeding crevice over her throat. And I knew right away that she was already dead and beyond help. I was absolutely devastated. The love of my life was now out of my life; she had gone to that realm beyond. I had figured out then what had most likely happened. Someone had forced his way inside her apartment, forced Eve into the bathroom, raped her, slit her throat, and left her here in the bathroom, running the bathwater most likely to wash away any semen or other form of DNA evidence that could possibly be traced back to him. That son of a bitch had done to Eve such horrible and barbaric deeds, deeds which I would have only done to her in my most wild and erotic dreams and fantasies; but this sick bastard had actually acted upon them. He acted upon them and had robbed me of the love of my life, the only person could ever truly come to care about and the only person who would ever give a damn about me.
I pulled Eve's dead corpse out of the tub, and felt her dripping cooling water over me and not caring in the slightest, only to hold her in my arms one last time. I was truly devastated, truly a wreck after finding her like this. I didn't break down and start bawling, but I felt a lump in my throat, and few tears scrolling down my face.
Imagining what she had gone through, the fear, the suffering she had endured, I could feel my penis growing harder very quickly. I was distraught, but I was also getting very horny as well, and knew that had it been the other way around, she would have felt exactly the same way I did right now. I shed my clothing, knowing that I just had to have her one last time, and after I had been completely naked, as she was naked, I then proceeded to fucking her dead corpse.
May 04, 2001