Golden
Finally wrote something today. It's around 3,000 words long, so beware, and it just sprung from my fingertips-literally. I was in suspense writing it as someone reading it, hopefully.
Golden
I knew from the very beginning that I wanted to kill her.
She was so beautiful. Her golden hair curled into perfect ringlets; her blue eyes shined like stars. Her pale skin was just so smooth and touchable, and ever so soft. She looked so delicate, like a porcelain doll just waiting to be shattered. There was no doubt about it: I loved her. I loved her with all my heart, and nothing in the world could change that. There was nothing that made me happier than just sitting and watching her smile.
Yet, every time I closed my eyes, I saw her dead. I saw her body lifeless and limp; I saw her open eyes dull, the shine gone. At first, it frightened me. But then, gradually, strangely enough, I started to accept it. I started to enjoy it; I started to fantasize about it. I started to think of myself as an artist: I wanted to draw red cuts all over her flesh with a knife; I wanted to find that perfect shade of blue as I strangled her; I wanted to whip her and find the perfect blend of pink.
And the more I fantasized, the more possibilities opened up, and they were endless. At first, they were simple things: I could drown her, I could shoot her, I could hang her. But then, they started to become more elaborate. She was like a canvas, and I saw so many things I could do.
Soon, I couldn’t take it anymore. All the fantasizing brought me great pleasure, but it didn’t bring me any ecstasy. I felt hollow inside, and I needed that filled. So one day, as she was washing her face in the sink, I came in and held her head under the running stream, turning it to the iciest cold that it could be. At first, she thought it was a game. She playfully tried to get back up, but I held her firmly. Then, she began to become frightened: Her voice became so endearingly timid, and I found myself grinning as I looked down at her drenched curls. She started to cry, telling me that, if this went on any longer, her head would split apart from the cold. All these sounds-her whimpers, her sobs, the water rushing down the drain-oh, how they overjoyed me! I was never a religious man, but at that moment, I felt as if I had confirmed the presence of a heaven, because I surely must have been in it.
I didn’t kill her that time, though. There was too much for me to do; I couldn’t just let her go so easily. So I turned off the water and tugged her head back up by her curls. I left her sopping wet, standing there, still sniffling. Tears still streamed down her face, but silently. She was so beautiful…. Her standing there, looking at me with those beautiful, pained eyes…that was even more luscious than her smile. And I, I told her that I loved her. I kneeled down and hugged her, told her that I loved her, and that she was the loveliest creature in the world. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she understood.
Days passed, and I didn’t do anything to her again. Sometimes, I was frightened. Some fragment of me told me that this was wrong. But as I fantasized even more, that fragment shattered, and it disappeared. It was buried by my thoughts, and I could care less for it.
While she was sleeping one Sunday afternoon, I crept into her room. I had with me a coil of rough rope, and with it, I tied her, spread-eagled, to the bed posts. She stirred a little, but she didn’t wake. Then, I slipped off her pajamas. There she was, almost glowing with her beautiful radiance…I couldn’t resist. I unsheathed the knife I had with me-a small one, but very sharp-and I held it above her stomach. I trembled for a moment, but with the thoughts of what I was about to do, and the premonitions of such pleasures that I would behold-and then, I let the knife slip, and cut into her, but only slightly. Her blood welled up, and it trailed down her body, a gossamer ribbon of crimson. She winced, but she was still asleep. Shaking, I leaned in and inhaled the metallic scent of her blood, and my tongue slipped past my lips. I licked that trail of blood, and it was more delicious than anything I had ever tasted before. I licked the cut, and I knew that I had to have more.
I cut into her body again, and she awoke. She saw me, and our eyes met. At first, she looked confused, dazed. Her expression was so cute. Then, as I cut into her again, she cried out with the pain, and her expression changed. She tried to cover herself, struggled against the rope, but in vain. I had been a good boy scout, and I knew how to tie my knots. With each incision I made, she cried out, and she was soon sobbing. I criss-crossed cuts into a tapestry of beautiful red threads. I left her face untouched; it was too beautiful to mar. And as I touched her, licked her, I whispered into her ear that I loved her, and that she was a good girl. I told her that these cuts only made her more beautiful; I told her that she was my angel, my most beautiful angel, and that she was mine.
The scars stayed with her for weeks, but every time I saw them, I smiled. They were my creation, and only mine. I don’t know if she understood how much I loved her. She looked at me differently now, with her eyes hardened. I don’t know if she hated me, if she despised me, but there was no reason for her to. At least, I thought so. I was giving her all the love she could ever ask her, and I knew she appreciated it. Maybe she didn’t understand it, but I knew that, deep down, she knew it.
The next few days were a mix of activities. I pinned her to the wall by her throat, and she coughed and sputtered and turned blue before I let her down again. I took a lighter and burned little designs into her skin as she wailed and tried to pull herself away. And for the first time, I kissed her. I forced my lips onto her, held her roughly until she submitted and opened her mouth, crying the whole time. Oh, how savory she was….
One day, though, I was tired of her. I wanted a break from her, and I didn’t want to see her again for a while. So I took her down to the basement, and I tied her to a chair. I tied her so tight that I remember that, when I untied her, her body was pink from where the rope dug in. After I tied her, I tipped her head back, and I put a cloth over her face. I made sure that she couldn’t move, and then I started to drip water onto her. Drip, drip, drip. She undulated, and I knew that she felt as if she were drowning. So I left her like that to suffer until I wanted her again. I went back upstairs and turned off the light. As I closed the door, I heard her starting to cry, but I didn’t care.
Two days passed. I went out to buy groceries. I read a few magazines. I went out to the park and fed the pigeons. I watched a movie. She didn’t enter my mind again, until I passed by a jewelry display as I was walking to the bus stop-I had planned on going to the book store, but after seeing the sapphires sparkle in the display…they reminded me of her eyes, and I rushed back home. I had to have her again. I dashed into the house, and I unlocked the basement door. I turned on the light and bounded down the steps. And there she was, as I had left her, silent now, as if she had accepted her fate. I knew the tension that she would feel, though. She would wait for that next drop to fall. The tension would mount, mount until she felt as if she’d explode, and then it’d dissipate after the drop fell. Then, it’d repeat. I untied her and I took the rag off her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her overall expression was calm. I was so proud of her, yet I didn’t know why.
I dragged her back up the stairs, and she followed, without protest. As we were going upstairs, I heard her stomach growl. She must’ve been very hungry after two days without food. So I got the idea that I’d feed her. I led her up to my bedroom, and I locked the door behind us. I disrobed, and I pulled her toward me. I forced my length into her mouth, and I had a strong grip of her hair. Sometimes, I’d shove it in so that she’d choke and gag, and that sound was music to my ears. She was silent, crying, and I was in heaven. I forced her to swallow it when I came, and after that, I unlocked the door and tossed her out. I lay down and fell asleep as I listened to her sniffling.
Of course, I had had sex with women before. It wasn’t difficult to pick up some lonely person on a street corner. But with her, it was different. With her, it was a completely new feeling. It wasn’t mechanical with her, and I didn’t feel like a machine. I felt as if I were being blasted off to the highest planes of ecstasy, and every time I had sex with her, it was like I reached a higher plane. It was amazing, absolutely amazing. And I knew that it must have been for her, as well.
Later, I started to beat her. I loved to watch her being tossed around, and I loved to watch the blue bruises blossom. Then, the bruises would turn green, brown, yellow, and fade. I felt as if I could sit there and watch them forever. But I felt as if it wasn’t enough. I based her face against the kitchen counter once, and her lip started bleeding, and a couple of her teeth chipped. So while I left her standing and bleeding, I squeezed out some lemons and forced her to drink the undiluted juice. And then I kissed her, tasting the mix of the blood and the lemon juice.
One day, I came home, ready for my usual routines, and she was gone. I walked around the house, looking for her, but all I found was a note on the kitchen table. It was only three words long: I hate you. That infuriated me beyond anything I could ever imagine. How could she hate me? I was lavishing all my affection on her, and that was how she repaid me? Angrily, I got into my car and drove around the city until I found her. She stood out with her beautiful hair, and I shoved her into the car. As we drove back home, I hissed at her what I was going to do to her, and she just sat, staring angrily out the window. When we got home, I pulled her inside by her hair, and I locked her into the closet. I knew that she hated the dark. I knew that she was claustrophobic. I left her in the closet, screaming and wailing and beating at the door. It was the loudest she had been in weeks. Finally, when she quieted, I opened the door again. The door was red with blood, and her fingers were numb and bleeding where she had been trying to scratch her way out. She was crying, and I licked her tears and sucked her fingers, telling her that I still loved her and that I would forgive her. She just stared past me.
I realized that I was more in love with her than in the beginning. I realized that I needed her. And as these feelings mounted, I felt as if I needed to kill her. I hadn’t killed her yet. But then I realized that I had done almost all that I wanted to, and that it was time. I started to think about how I could kill her. It had to be something fitting for her. I couldn’t let my best work of art go to waste. And then I decided that I’d just complete things full-circle-I’d drown her. Just like the first time, only this time, I’d kill her for sure. So I went home that day with a big smile on my face, whistling as I twirled my house keys on my fingers.
When I got home and opened the door, I heard an unnatural silence. I knew that something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I advanced around the house, finding all the rooms downstairs empty. The TV was on, and children’s cartoons were playing, but the TV was muted. I went upstairs, and all the bedrooms were empty. Then, finally, I entered the upstairs bathroom.
I saw her sprawled out on the floor, and I thought she was sleeping. But then I noticed the empty bottle next to her. It was my bottle of sleeping pills, for when I had insomnia. The last time I’d checked, there were at least thirty still in there. And now, none of them were left.
At first, I didn’t understand the scene. I couldn’t take it in. I had believed that she didn’t know about the sleeping pills. She was too young to understand about those kinds of things. But then, it began to sink in: She was dead. I couldn’t believe it at first. I kneeled down and checked her scarred wrist, but there was no pulse. I put my hand in front of her nose and mouth, but I felt no breath. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t. She was dead, completely dead.
Then, I got up. I felt calm. But then, something started to well up inside me. As it reached the surface, I began to scream. But it wasn’t a scream of despair-it was a scream of rage. She had taken herself from me! I was supposed to kill her, and she denied me the opportunity! I raged and hit the wall with my fist. I didn’t feel the pain, and I didn’t care that my hand was bleeding. I gathered her up, and I shook her. I shook her and I felt her neck crack, but she was already dead. I hit her lifeless body over and over again, but she didn’t wail. How could she? How could she! I went into my room and got my gun, then went back and shot at her again and again, vainly trying to fulfill my wish. But she didn’t bleed, and she didn’t die again. I was crying with my anger, and I kicked her, hit her, threw her around, but to no avail.
I heard the doorbell ringing, but I didn’t answer. I just sat on the tiled ground, playing with her hair with one hand, and loosely holding the gun with the other. I heard the splintering of wood downstairs. Someone had broken in, but I didn’t care. I heard people coming up the stairs. I heard them advancing down the hall. Then, they tossed open the door of the bathroom, and I saw two policemen.
They told me that the neighbors called about screams. They said that I was going to be arrested on charges of child abuse and, once they saw her lifeless body, first-degree murder. They told me to put my hands up and come quietly; they told me that I had the right to remain silent.
And I did. I got up, and I looked at my beautiful eight-year-old daughter again. Tomorrow, I realized, would have been her birthday. Then, with a trembling hand, I raised my gun to my temple.
If I couldn’t take her, I’d take myself.
I heard the gun shot and I heard the police yelling. It was probably only a split second before the bullet entered and everything went black, but it felt as if that moment lasted for ages. During that moment, I suddenly felt at peace. I saw her before me, and she was dressed in all white. She reached out her hand to me, and she was smiling. She said to me that we could start over. She said that she could forgive me. She told me that everyone made mistakes, and she wanted us to go back to the beginning, when we were happy together. I reached out my hand to her, and we almost touched. But I decided to pull my hand back, and clutched it to my chest.
She looked just like her mother. And since she had killed her mother, I wanted to kill her. And though she was willing to forgive me, I would never forgive her.
-fin-
Cross-posted to FictionPress.Com and Xanga.
Wusai
Golden
I knew from the very beginning that I wanted to kill her.
She was so beautiful. Her golden hair curled into perfect ringlets; her blue eyes shined like stars. Her pale skin was just so smooth and touchable, and ever so soft. She looked so delicate, like a porcelain doll just waiting to be shattered. There was no doubt about it: I loved her. I loved her with all my heart, and nothing in the world could change that. There was nothing that made me happier than just sitting and watching her smile.
Yet, every time I closed my eyes, I saw her dead. I saw her body lifeless and limp; I saw her open eyes dull, the shine gone. At first, it frightened me. But then, gradually, strangely enough, I started to accept it. I started to enjoy it; I started to fantasize about it. I started to think of myself as an artist: I wanted to draw red cuts all over her flesh with a knife; I wanted to find that perfect shade of blue as I strangled her; I wanted to whip her and find the perfect blend of pink.
And the more I fantasized, the more possibilities opened up, and they were endless. At first, they were simple things: I could drown her, I could shoot her, I could hang her. But then, they started to become more elaborate. She was like a canvas, and I saw so many things I could do.
Soon, I couldn’t take it anymore. All the fantasizing brought me great pleasure, but it didn’t bring me any ecstasy. I felt hollow inside, and I needed that filled. So one day, as she was washing her face in the sink, I came in and held her head under the running stream, turning it to the iciest cold that it could be. At first, she thought it was a game. She playfully tried to get back up, but I held her firmly. Then, she began to become frightened: Her voice became so endearingly timid, and I found myself grinning as I looked down at her drenched curls. She started to cry, telling me that, if this went on any longer, her head would split apart from the cold. All these sounds-her whimpers, her sobs, the water rushing down the drain-oh, how they overjoyed me! I was never a religious man, but at that moment, I felt as if I had confirmed the presence of a heaven, because I surely must have been in it.
I didn’t kill her that time, though. There was too much for me to do; I couldn’t just let her go so easily. So I turned off the water and tugged her head back up by her curls. I left her sopping wet, standing there, still sniffling. Tears still streamed down her face, but silently. She was so beautiful…. Her standing there, looking at me with those beautiful, pained eyes…that was even more luscious than her smile. And I, I told her that I loved her. I kneeled down and hugged her, told her that I loved her, and that she was the loveliest creature in the world. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she understood.
Days passed, and I didn’t do anything to her again. Sometimes, I was frightened. Some fragment of me told me that this was wrong. But as I fantasized even more, that fragment shattered, and it disappeared. It was buried by my thoughts, and I could care less for it.
While she was sleeping one Sunday afternoon, I crept into her room. I had with me a coil of rough rope, and with it, I tied her, spread-eagled, to the bed posts. She stirred a little, but she didn’t wake. Then, I slipped off her pajamas. There she was, almost glowing with her beautiful radiance…I couldn’t resist. I unsheathed the knife I had with me-a small one, but very sharp-and I held it above her stomach. I trembled for a moment, but with the thoughts of what I was about to do, and the premonitions of such pleasures that I would behold-and then, I let the knife slip, and cut into her, but only slightly. Her blood welled up, and it trailed down her body, a gossamer ribbon of crimson. She winced, but she was still asleep. Shaking, I leaned in and inhaled the metallic scent of her blood, and my tongue slipped past my lips. I licked that trail of blood, and it was more delicious than anything I had ever tasted before. I licked the cut, and I knew that I had to have more.
I cut into her body again, and she awoke. She saw me, and our eyes met. At first, she looked confused, dazed. Her expression was so cute. Then, as I cut into her again, she cried out with the pain, and her expression changed. She tried to cover herself, struggled against the rope, but in vain. I had been a good boy scout, and I knew how to tie my knots. With each incision I made, she cried out, and she was soon sobbing. I criss-crossed cuts into a tapestry of beautiful red threads. I left her face untouched; it was too beautiful to mar. And as I touched her, licked her, I whispered into her ear that I loved her, and that she was a good girl. I told her that these cuts only made her more beautiful; I told her that she was my angel, my most beautiful angel, and that she was mine.
The scars stayed with her for weeks, but every time I saw them, I smiled. They were my creation, and only mine. I don’t know if she understood how much I loved her. She looked at me differently now, with her eyes hardened. I don’t know if she hated me, if she despised me, but there was no reason for her to. At least, I thought so. I was giving her all the love she could ever ask her, and I knew she appreciated it. Maybe she didn’t understand it, but I knew that, deep down, she knew it.
The next few days were a mix of activities. I pinned her to the wall by her throat, and she coughed and sputtered and turned blue before I let her down again. I took a lighter and burned little designs into her skin as she wailed and tried to pull herself away. And for the first time, I kissed her. I forced my lips onto her, held her roughly until she submitted and opened her mouth, crying the whole time. Oh, how savory she was….
One day, though, I was tired of her. I wanted a break from her, and I didn’t want to see her again for a while. So I took her down to the basement, and I tied her to a chair. I tied her so tight that I remember that, when I untied her, her body was pink from where the rope dug in. After I tied her, I tipped her head back, and I put a cloth over her face. I made sure that she couldn’t move, and then I started to drip water onto her. Drip, drip, drip. She undulated, and I knew that she felt as if she were drowning. So I left her like that to suffer until I wanted her again. I went back upstairs and turned off the light. As I closed the door, I heard her starting to cry, but I didn’t care.
Two days passed. I went out to buy groceries. I read a few magazines. I went out to the park and fed the pigeons. I watched a movie. She didn’t enter my mind again, until I passed by a jewelry display as I was walking to the bus stop-I had planned on going to the book store, but after seeing the sapphires sparkle in the display…they reminded me of her eyes, and I rushed back home. I had to have her again. I dashed into the house, and I unlocked the basement door. I turned on the light and bounded down the steps. And there she was, as I had left her, silent now, as if she had accepted her fate. I knew the tension that she would feel, though. She would wait for that next drop to fall. The tension would mount, mount until she felt as if she’d explode, and then it’d dissipate after the drop fell. Then, it’d repeat. I untied her and I took the rag off her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her overall expression was calm. I was so proud of her, yet I didn’t know why.
I dragged her back up the stairs, and she followed, without protest. As we were going upstairs, I heard her stomach growl. She must’ve been very hungry after two days without food. So I got the idea that I’d feed her. I led her up to my bedroom, and I locked the door behind us. I disrobed, and I pulled her toward me. I forced my length into her mouth, and I had a strong grip of her hair. Sometimes, I’d shove it in so that she’d choke and gag, and that sound was music to my ears. She was silent, crying, and I was in heaven. I forced her to swallow it when I came, and after that, I unlocked the door and tossed her out. I lay down and fell asleep as I listened to her sniffling.
Of course, I had had sex with women before. It wasn’t difficult to pick up some lonely person on a street corner. But with her, it was different. With her, it was a completely new feeling. It wasn’t mechanical with her, and I didn’t feel like a machine. I felt as if I were being blasted off to the highest planes of ecstasy, and every time I had sex with her, it was like I reached a higher plane. It was amazing, absolutely amazing. And I knew that it must have been for her, as well.
Later, I started to beat her. I loved to watch her being tossed around, and I loved to watch the blue bruises blossom. Then, the bruises would turn green, brown, yellow, and fade. I felt as if I could sit there and watch them forever. But I felt as if it wasn’t enough. I based her face against the kitchen counter once, and her lip started bleeding, and a couple of her teeth chipped. So while I left her standing and bleeding, I squeezed out some lemons and forced her to drink the undiluted juice. And then I kissed her, tasting the mix of the blood and the lemon juice.
One day, I came home, ready for my usual routines, and she was gone. I walked around the house, looking for her, but all I found was a note on the kitchen table. It was only three words long: I hate you. That infuriated me beyond anything I could ever imagine. How could she hate me? I was lavishing all my affection on her, and that was how she repaid me? Angrily, I got into my car and drove around the city until I found her. She stood out with her beautiful hair, and I shoved her into the car. As we drove back home, I hissed at her what I was going to do to her, and she just sat, staring angrily out the window. When we got home, I pulled her inside by her hair, and I locked her into the closet. I knew that she hated the dark. I knew that she was claustrophobic. I left her in the closet, screaming and wailing and beating at the door. It was the loudest she had been in weeks. Finally, when she quieted, I opened the door again. The door was red with blood, and her fingers were numb and bleeding where she had been trying to scratch her way out. She was crying, and I licked her tears and sucked her fingers, telling her that I still loved her and that I would forgive her. She just stared past me.
I realized that I was more in love with her than in the beginning. I realized that I needed her. And as these feelings mounted, I felt as if I needed to kill her. I hadn’t killed her yet. But then I realized that I had done almost all that I wanted to, and that it was time. I started to think about how I could kill her. It had to be something fitting for her. I couldn’t let my best work of art go to waste. And then I decided that I’d just complete things full-circle-I’d drown her. Just like the first time, only this time, I’d kill her for sure. So I went home that day with a big smile on my face, whistling as I twirled my house keys on my fingers.
When I got home and opened the door, I heard an unnatural silence. I knew that something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I advanced around the house, finding all the rooms downstairs empty. The TV was on, and children’s cartoons were playing, but the TV was muted. I went upstairs, and all the bedrooms were empty. Then, finally, I entered the upstairs bathroom.
I saw her sprawled out on the floor, and I thought she was sleeping. But then I noticed the empty bottle next to her. It was my bottle of sleeping pills, for when I had insomnia. The last time I’d checked, there were at least thirty still in there. And now, none of them were left.
At first, I didn’t understand the scene. I couldn’t take it in. I had believed that she didn’t know about the sleeping pills. She was too young to understand about those kinds of things. But then, it began to sink in: She was dead. I couldn’t believe it at first. I kneeled down and checked her scarred wrist, but there was no pulse. I put my hand in front of her nose and mouth, but I felt no breath. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t. She was dead, completely dead.
Then, I got up. I felt calm. But then, something started to well up inside me. As it reached the surface, I began to scream. But it wasn’t a scream of despair-it was a scream of rage. She had taken herself from me! I was supposed to kill her, and she denied me the opportunity! I raged and hit the wall with my fist. I didn’t feel the pain, and I didn’t care that my hand was bleeding. I gathered her up, and I shook her. I shook her and I felt her neck crack, but she was already dead. I hit her lifeless body over and over again, but she didn’t wail. How could she? How could she! I went into my room and got my gun, then went back and shot at her again and again, vainly trying to fulfill my wish. But she didn’t bleed, and she didn’t die again. I was crying with my anger, and I kicked her, hit her, threw her around, but to no avail.
I heard the doorbell ringing, but I didn’t answer. I just sat on the tiled ground, playing with her hair with one hand, and loosely holding the gun with the other. I heard the splintering of wood downstairs. Someone had broken in, but I didn’t care. I heard people coming up the stairs. I heard them advancing down the hall. Then, they tossed open the door of the bathroom, and I saw two policemen.
They told me that the neighbors called about screams. They said that I was going to be arrested on charges of child abuse and, once they saw her lifeless body, first-degree murder. They told me to put my hands up and come quietly; they told me that I had the right to remain silent.
And I did. I got up, and I looked at my beautiful eight-year-old daughter again. Tomorrow, I realized, would have been her birthday. Then, with a trembling hand, I raised my gun to my temple.
If I couldn’t take her, I’d take myself.
I heard the gun shot and I heard the police yelling. It was probably only a split second before the bullet entered and everything went black, but it felt as if that moment lasted for ages. During that moment, I suddenly felt at peace. I saw her before me, and she was dressed in all white. She reached out her hand to me, and she was smiling. She said to me that we could start over. She said that she could forgive me. She told me that everyone made mistakes, and she wanted us to go back to the beginning, when we were happy together. I reached out my hand to her, and we almost touched. But I decided to pull my hand back, and clutched it to my chest.
She looked just like her mother. And since she had killed her mother, I wanted to kill her. And though she was willing to forgive me, I would never forgive her.
-fin-
Cross-posted to FictionPress.Com and Xanga.
Wusai