07 > Gallery of Femininity: Wide Eyed and Hopeful (part 2)
this holy reality, this holy experience.
choosing to be here in...
The white was stained with crimson. She layed on all fours. On the floor. Looking across at the wall. She was breathing heavily and soaked in blood. She had carved herself like a turkey. She'd pushed herself. Fucked herself. Cut herself. She made her insides spasm and groan and scream for help at the same time. All of her nerve endings were burning synapses waiting to be released like firing pistons.
It hurt like hell. It was horrible and euphoric. Her whole body was shaking, as she still held the striaght razor. The blood was in swirls on the floor. In droplets on the walls. She was naked now, and covered in it. Her clothes were crampled in a pile on the floor.
What had Christine accomplished?
She still lied there, shaking. The climax had come and gone...There would be so many scars. She couldn't even remember where she had cut herself or how many times. The blood told the tale, and when she saw it. Smelt it. Tasted it. That's when she started to know.
...this body, this body holding me, be my reminder here that i am not alone in
this body, this body holding me, feeling eternal, all this pain is an illusion
That's when she couldn't stop. A blur. A cacophony of visions. All unified with one distinct purpose: the truth. She stopped knowing what that was.
Still, she shook. Like a puppet being held by an epileptic, she shook. Only it was with vigor. All the wisdom lie right infront of her, on the bathroom floor. The patterns were obvious, and she only needed to come close to death to know. She'd done it.
She pushed the ballgag out of her mouth slowly. The orgasm and seering agony that had come all at once caused her to bite down on it so hard that it was permanently marked now. Just like her. The blood and cum that fell to the floor from between her legs told her exactly what had been wrong.
It was too much, however. The blood loss, that is. As she shook there, getting cold on that bathroom floor, she began to die. The knowledge, The epiphanies had come too fast and too soon. She wasn't ready for what she had done. Her parents would discover her in the morning, covered in her own blood, with a ballgag hanging around her throat. Suicide, most would think, but few would really understand.
twirling round with this familiar parable
spinning, weaving round each new experience
recognize this as a holy gift and
celebrate this chance to
be alive and breathing
Few would realize that she was just a casuality of the war for enlightenment. Like so many others that go unnoticed, or whose memory are killed by ignorance.
Still, though, what will always cause that nagging of doubt in the ignorant's minds: None could say that Christine didn't die with a look in her eyes. Pure, undefiled determination and knowledge. She would live her life as if she knew she was going to die from that moment onward. She would make sure that she got everything from every second she was on this planet.
And the funny part?
From the moment she first stepped into that bathroom, she did.
(GALLERY OF FEMININITY: A collection of images of various women from the LiveJournal Random Image Generator turned to Stories. Short blurbs that are introspection into how Women affect men, society, and vice versa. I don't know how long this will last per se, but I hope to have one a week until it is done.)
all but the image is (c) 2005 Eric Logan Taylor.
[01 > Night Cap.]
[02 > The Road to Metamorphosis.]
[03 > Defining Perception.]
[04 > One of Many.]
[05 > Locked in Stasis.]
[06 > Wide Eyed and Hopeful (part 1).]
choosing to be here in...
The white was stained with crimson. She layed on all fours. On the floor. Looking across at the wall. She was breathing heavily and soaked in blood. She had carved herself like a turkey. She'd pushed herself. Fucked herself. Cut herself. She made her insides spasm and groan and scream for help at the same time. All of her nerve endings were burning synapses waiting to be released like firing pistons.
It hurt like hell. It was horrible and euphoric. Her whole body was shaking, as she still held the striaght razor. The blood was in swirls on the floor. In droplets on the walls. She was naked now, and covered in it. Her clothes were crampled in a pile on the floor.
What had Christine accomplished?
She still lied there, shaking. The climax had come and gone...There would be so many scars. She couldn't even remember where she had cut herself or how many times. The blood told the tale, and when she saw it. Smelt it. Tasted it. That's when she started to know.
...this body, this body holding me, be my reminder here that i am not alone in
this body, this body holding me, feeling eternal, all this pain is an illusion
That's when she couldn't stop. A blur. A cacophony of visions. All unified with one distinct purpose: the truth. She stopped knowing what that was.
Still, she shook. Like a puppet being held by an epileptic, she shook. Only it was with vigor. All the wisdom lie right infront of her, on the bathroom floor. The patterns were obvious, and she only needed to come close to death to know. She'd done it.
She pushed the ballgag out of her mouth slowly. The orgasm and seering agony that had come all at once caused her to bite down on it so hard that it was permanently marked now. Just like her. The blood and cum that fell to the floor from between her legs told her exactly what had been wrong.
It was too much, however. The blood loss, that is. As she shook there, getting cold on that bathroom floor, she began to die. The knowledge, The epiphanies had come too fast and too soon. She wasn't ready for what she had done. Her parents would discover her in the morning, covered in her own blood, with a ballgag hanging around her throat. Suicide, most would think, but few would really understand.
twirling round with this familiar parable
spinning, weaving round each new experience
recognize this as a holy gift and
celebrate this chance to
be alive and breathing
Few would realize that she was just a casuality of the war for enlightenment. Like so many others that go unnoticed, or whose memory are killed by ignorance.
Still, though, what will always cause that nagging of doubt in the ignorant's minds: None could say that Christine didn't die with a look in her eyes. Pure, undefiled determination and knowledge. She would live her life as if she knew she was going to die from that moment onward. She would make sure that she got everything from every second she was on this planet.
And the funny part?
From the moment she first stepped into that bathroom, she did.
(GALLERY OF FEMININITY: A collection of images of various women from the LiveJournal Random Image Generator turned to Stories. Short blurbs that are introspection into how Women affect men, society, and vice versa. I don't know how long this will last per se, but I hope to have one a week until it is done.)
all but the image is (c) 2005 Eric Logan Taylor.
[01 > Night Cap.]
[02 > The Road to Metamorphosis.]
[03 > Defining Perception.]
[04 > One of Many.]
[05 > Locked in Stasis.]
[06 > Wide Eyed and Hopeful (part 1).]