Thursday, February 3, 2011


She sits quietly in her room, a crumpled square of paper pressing tightly against her heart.  The full moon shines through her open window, the pale white light glimmering against her black tresses.  She has not yet read the words on the ragged page; she fears what she may find.  Slowly, under the glow of the moon, she carefully unfolds the paper she knows will shatter her heart.  She reads it slowly first, absorbing every word, taking in every meaning, assimilating every thought, idea, and emotion.  She can see him toiling over the page, grinning after finishing a clever line, becoming frustrated when all thoughts leave him, and carefully making the leaf with the threads of his heart.  Tears fall from her eyes and stain the page, smearing the boy’s signature at the bottom.  She moves from her window and collapses onto her bed, clutching the sheet tightly against her bosom.  She knows she will not sleep tonight, or for many nights coming.  She looks at the page once more and begins to read aloud into the pale glow of the night.
            The vibrations make me feel nauseous.  Or I suppose it would be ‘awkward’ the closest human feeling I can equate, for I do not get ‘nauseous’ in the human sense of the word.  My human male is out on a hunt, the music pounding loudly around us all.  We are at what is called a “club”, some all night party where the music is loud and bad and the people share no morals; the lust in the air tastes like sweaty musk.  I am not amused and apparently neither is my human.  The ‘catch’ here is not of his liking, not of his standard.  Anything to remove ourselves from this mess, I permeate.  He nods to himself in mental agreement (of course he listens now).  Quality over quantity I mused. 

            Seeing the lights in the city is always my favorite part of our midnight excursions.  The light mix of emotions in the air allow for a nice, relaxed meal, away from the intruding seduction.  I look at my human, his dark brown eyes thoughtful and piercing, looking out into the black water below.  His wavy onyx hair is long, causing him to brush it from his face.  I prod his essence out of curiosity, looking for some sort of sign as to what he is thinking.  He motions for the driver to raise the window separating them.

“What are you doing?” he says looking at me…or where my presence is.

I was just curious, you’ve been enigmatic lately I exhaled.

“Lately? Try 3 years.  We’ve had this discussion before.”

Yes, yes I know…I’m just always so very hungry.

He looks away back into the deep forbidden water.  I suppose our conversation has ended.  The car stops at the corner, my human paying the driver and stepping out.  Another night, another place, another seemingly meaningless face.  He walks smoothly to the bartender and orders a drink.  She is an attractive female, her hair a red as if the sun was about to set, her features sharp and intelligent.  He talks with her only for a moment before joining his friends…and yet I know he has already made his decision.

            There’s an alarm.  A loud, constant noise that drones on unending, reverberating amongst the halls.  Would you please quiet down? I politely extruded.  I’m just doing my job, sir, sorry. the alarm resonated.

Suddenly, there is a gunshot to break the monotony and I witness the black shroud of fear and death descend over the building.  The wail of police sirens can be heard not far off, a few early birds already screeching to a halt in front of the bank.  They are covered in a golden glow of righteousness, a sweet honey.  If only they knew it were for naught.  I sense an abnormality inside and investigate.

             The read aura of bloodlust bathes the safe, mingling with the mortal human red of blood.  It appears I missed a death; if I could frown I would.  The emotion released at death is a momentous thing, not one someone like me readily enjoys.  Imagine a buffet that contains all flavors, all delicious scrumptious amazing morsels possible.  Now imagine that the buffet is crammed down into a single meal without losing its potency.  That is what death is to me, the culmination of a person’s emotions.  It is quite a beautiful thing.  A masked figure enters the safe grabbing a filled satchel.  He steps over the body of what I assumed was a bank guard but in actuality seems to be an accomplice.  I follow the criminal, and sensing the stigma of death on his essence I enter it.  I am in a barren room, a door in front of me, and a child sitting in the center.  His back is facing me and he is rocking back and forth muttering under his breath.  I move toward the door ignoring the child.

“Won’t you play with me?”

I stop.  I have no physical form, no being so to speak, even inside the essence, so the child should not be speaking to me.  Can it be?  I turn.

“won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme? won’tyouplaywithme?”

The child’s left had is bleeding profusely.  In his right, he holds a small razor, blood dripping from the glinting blade.  He is methodically slicing off his own fingers!


            With every word the blade sinks deeper and deeper, cutting through dream flesh and dream bone.  The child looks up at me, at no one.  His eyes are hollowed out empty sockets, black bile dripping from the orifices.  Horrified, I slipp through the door, the drab oaken room fading from my view.  Even as an ethereal being, the inner notions of humans can be somewhat disturbing at times.  The first thing I notice now is the air.  Not the taste or smell of it, I have no lungs nor nose, but a simple certain familiar haze.  I am in a dimly lit space of what seems to be a warehouse, lights spotting the ceiling giving the area an eerie mood.  Now I finally realize what the haze is, a pale purple coat of dread.  Erupting from the crates ahead of me is a figure of a man, lit ablaze as if he has just returned from the gates of Hades.  He runs, clam and collected past me, agony strewn across his charred face.  He trips and falls to the ground, the flames magically dousing themselves.  The smoke from his burnt flesh rises to the air, carrying a pale blue delicacy of relief.  The body has no features besides that of a black film, as if his skin is no longer skin but some metal or rock, the constant conflagration hardening his surface.  The man groans, slowly rising first to one knee panting, then to his feet.  He tilts his head back unleashing a terrifying scream, filling the space with blast after blast of rage and hate.  He begins to run anew, the newly burned flesh of his feet cracking and sticking the floor.  There is a sound like that of a doorbell, loud, beautiful, and dreadful.  Even I reverberate from its grandiosity.  Another wave of anguish and the man is ablaze once again, continuing his marathon of pain.  I witness this cycle repeat itself an infinite amout of times, fascinated by the man’s subconscious reasoning.  Is this self-torture, a burden placed on his essence to atone for some terrible deed?  Or is he trying to strip himself from humanity, burning away his emotions; his pain is his sanctuary.  I ponder the inequities of humans, losing myself.

            He and the girl at a table in the corner chatting, sharing falsities of this and that.  I am watching from afar, more interested in what he would deem his ‘friends’.  You see, he believes in a world where true friendship no longer exists in society.  True friendship is a bond that is created at birth, someone who shares this bond with you shares your experiences, your feelings, your thoughts and ideals, from the very moment of existence.  A very foolish notion, I personally believe, if believing were I thing I could do.  I suppose, after some thought, his idea of companionship is more modern; a cruel view of the world in which trust is a usual commodity given out to anyone in return for some sort of payment.  Even so, it is no excuse to plunge into moral depravity, to sin in excess just to validify ones own existence, ones own purpose; to feel everything they can possibly feel.

Ironic, how I, a devourer of feelings, judge another on wanting to feel.