2015.05.26: An ode to finding closure while on drug$

It is something like black magic being erased through all the years, burned out with acid. You try to forget but always, some days, you will wake up and reach for a soft bed of ashes that lay next to you. Fingers buried in soft gray, dreams and nightmares entangled. Worst fears and greatest hopes, not even there. Who wrote that sad song?  Melody remembered only when you are asleep. Then you shake yourself, just a dream, but the earth shakes with you. Whose grief was that? Regret for unspoken or unspoken regret? I know which is truer. I do not want to get better. Watching the world burn with only a memory in pictures. When the wind blows I will hear a whisper. If the sky unlocked, unrolled like so much parchment, why would I be afraid? I loved you, and for a time it made it better.

Dinner

Hair, I am thinking after shaving, I hate hair. I feel incredibly grateful for whomever created laser hair removal, and further still grateful for the creative bastard who came up with a home device for such a purpose. I use the device on my abs, my legs, my chest, loving the results. I watch the city far below me, vibrant, dead and alive, like a corpse left in the sun, fetid, being feasted on. I ignore the texts from that whore I used to love and get ready to go out to dinner at a 1-Michelin Star restaurant with my sister and her husband. Once there, some crazy black woman with a mohawk takes our jackets and hangs them up and gives me the tag. I nod my thanks to her and stare with longing at my CK jacket as she handles it roughly, like a jacket. We eat, and there is conversation, interspersed with my sister's husband's disconcerting and odd sense of humor, which makes me laugh but is totally inappropriate, mostly sex jokes about my sister. The pace of dinner slows, and across the room, I notice an old white man with two beautiful women. He must be sixty, the women a third of that. Rage fills the cavity in my chest until I see that the blonde one is staring at me. I am noticeable; I am in shape, my hair is perfect. I look GQ, and this is a disguise, but she does not know that, she knows none of it as I stare at her and her eyes meet mine. I tilt my head to the side, and time slows as I stare into her green eyes, so familiar even though I have never met her. Time freezes, I stare alternately at her and her perfect figure and the steak knife on my table. The moment ends, and I stare out of the window at the cold world below and around, the wind must be screaming, and so must I.

Feedback

"Listen," I say, irritation, hot and choking, building in my chest, "I cannot make this more clear: you make me want to choke small animals."
This beatuiful woman across from me, peasant-drunk, giggles and slumps, her breasts almost come out of her silk dress, something that must be by Roberto Angelico, I must have paid for this, I wonder how much, but I do not care enough to ask. "Darling, you are far too rigid." Her voice is cultured, reminds me of someone from the past, it has a European cast to it.
"Fuck you," I snap, and she says something cute, like, 'later tonight, maybe you will', but we both know I will, there is no doubt in this, the moon is blood red somewhere over the sands of the middle east, and some Bedouins must sense that I am loose, the Beast is loose and raging amongst the people, and songs of tribes drift up against the crimson moon to no avail, I will satiate my lust and rage on this poor, pitiful bitch sitting here across from me. Some might call me shallow, some might call me evil, some might love me, but none know me except the dead, none but the dead know my true smile. This realization hacks its way into my chest, and I slump, exhausted and agonized, into my chair. I consider taking the Vyvanse that is in my pocket to perk me up, but I am sick of false happiness, even the prospect of dropping some X later does little to cheer me, as I know the comedown will result in bloodsplatters. Remember the motto, I think savagely, acidly. Cumsplatter or bloodsplatter, either way I am taking that.
"Babe," she says, grabbing my hand, and I want to sever her own hand at that instant, see the death of two colliding planets, and shoot a homeless man in the face, all at the same time; I am an adventurous soul. "Babe, look. We need to move forward."
"We will move forward," I say rigidly.
"I'm serious," she whines. "Let's go on a cruise. You have a boat."
I agree, not listening anymore, I think only of stabbing her with my sharpened anchor and dropping her over the side of my yacht, watching her sink. Watch her sink in agony and terror, and she will finally understand me.
"Can you swim well?" I ask her suddenly, cutting off her drunken rambling.
"Almost drowned in her pussy so I swam to her butt," she says, looking at me boldly, and then she winks. Her use of these lyrics almost makes me vomit, my vision swims with rage.
"I find your feedback to be worse than useless," I tell her through gritted teeth.

A Dead Woman

Once, Michael saw, by himself, something that terrified him. It was a gorgeous, windy, half-golden day, the leaves swirled in mystic patterns along the concrete path that he jogged on. He wore some Express skinny slacks, cutoff just above the knee, and a $200 Christian Dior thermal, grey, pushed up on his veined forearms. His hair was lengthening, and it bounced on his forehead, blew in the cold wind. He wore some Polo slip-ons for shoes. The sun danced in and out of dark grey clouds, and a dead woman stood far ahead of him in the middle of the jogging path.

She wore an old-fashioned Victorian-looking dress, covered in bright flowers. Her shoes were high-heeled white boots. She carried her Brightly smiling head in her right hand by the hair. Her neck was pale; her throat–hole was turning white, the skin was jagged, and purple veins drooped over the edge of her neck. There was no blood. Her hair was dark and beautiful, and her eyes were bright blue, opened wide, and she was smiling with vampire teeth. She grinned at him, and he kept running toward her, his hands clenched, his face twitching, her beautiful curls blew around her eyes, and he watched himself run closer in her eyes, her sharp teeth gleaming, she must have had her teeth whitened before she removed her head. He stopped about thirty feet from her, the wind picked up and her hair blew in front of her face again, covering her eyes, but her grin continued.

The wind dropped and her eyes were visible then, as bright as mirrors, as Bright as tombstones. He observed his own powerful form in her eyes. He stopped about thirty feet from her. He calmed himself and focused on her eyes. She did not move for a long time, and neither did he.

Summertime Blues;

I begin the summer on a good note, and this is a fraud, a snaking, sneaking trick. I go shopping for clothes that are far too expensive because they are far too expensive. I take a helicopter trip to Arizona for two days with a blonde hardbody whose name I have forgotten, but whose brain (both senses) I have not. The nights, mostly spent outdoors either on Mount Charleston or at pools behind mansions in Anthem Highlands, are warm as blood, and this pleases me greatly. The days, overcast yet still too bright, are spent sleeping in blackness, vague snatches of dreams that could be nightmares but it does not matter flickering behind my eyelids. It causes me to let my guard down, a brutal mistake, I realize halfway into June, covered in blood and my eyeballs aching from the cocaine I am nearly overdosing on. I hate cocaine; any other drug except for skunk-weed will sate my need to get plastered, and yet here I am. Skin too sensitive, I can feel the blood (not mine, of course) drying on my bare chest and face, I cannot feel my gums, and, most distressing of all, the drain has caused me to begin to swallow convulsively. It is not at all an enjoyable feeling; my irritation at this sensation has, no doubt, caused me to do what I have done, standing nude over something that is crimson and torn and meaty, something that I vaguely remember as being beautiful before the start of this evening. What had caused this? I debate with myself aloud in calm tones for a quarter of an hour, making verbal jousts with myself, conceding points and flexing so hard that my calf cramps, I cry out and sit on the couch and weep for my terror and pain for a few minutes, then go over to the window, gaze out over this terrible city, Ciabola, and I begin to laugh, I have always known the summertime blues owned me during the warmer months, but I have never accepted it, as winter's finest is bound to be prideful.

The Worst Part

The worst part, I think, is the constant monotony. There are no realistic changes or challenges. The world, vast and empty, has become a haunted mansion, gray, with splashes of bright crimson. I weep silently in empty rooms, and echoes drift off to silence. There is, or will be, someday, a gigantic dead tree, magnificent, beatiful, and terrifying in its endless sorrow. I can relate. How emo my thoughts must sound, I muse, and think that the irony must be delicious. Emotions would be welcome, if I could deal. Deal, I think as I drop a tab of acid and throw the beautiful woman's arm off of my leg, I cannot. I drink down the tab of acid with diet coke and stare out the window over that cursed city beneath me, spread out like a cancer sore.
"Can I have a hit?" the woman asks me, and I do not look at her, I wave a dismissive hand, I do not care.

: the killer.

I figure that there is some sort of transaction out there that could make me feel some sort of positive emotion, a half-hearted, wistful figure, but I do not really believe this. I believe that the closest I can come to a genuine positive is the false happiness of drugs. Genuine falsehood.
Why, I could live forever on an acid trip in six hours.
Ruminating about these things does not help my pain, and I whimper in my bed of silk, sweat-damp sheets. My guts twist, contort themselves into painful shapes and I snarl at the walls, scream at them for hours as I writhe, before finally forcing myself into the shower, where I sit underneath the hot spray and weep, and play with a dismembered hand from two days ago. I see from my tiny view the way that things are, as far as anyone could go, that this is all just people. People make up the world, and I want it all ended. Every. Last. Bit. God is an invention to justify our murderous impulses toward eachother. Sex is an outlet for rage. Love; elusive. Pain a motivator. Define being or life; both can be ended at the end of a dull knife. There is no safety in this knowledge, I decide, and slip on some black silk shorts to work out in before heading to work. There is no safety in anything but being the one thing the rest of the world will always hate and fear: the killer.

Blasphemy, My Lord

Ascend to heights unknown to mortals,
Brave the path of daggers,
Extinguish the fires of heaven,
Watch the shadow rising
To consume everything
Swallow all in darkness,
Laugh,
He flees, a Light unto Himself,
Making it easier for me.
Saw the head off of the deity, take my time as His
Flails grow weaker,
His twitching, bubbling
Cries
Die out.
Finally, grinning, covered in the sweet ichor of Him,
Take the head of a
God
Down to the screaming masses, to be a
Light
Unto us,
Closer than He has ever been.
A Light unto the world.

If I Kill You

I'm sitting in a room, and there is loud music, people dancing, laughing, smiling, and I am thinking about the effects my AR-15 would have on their bodies and psyches. They don't (can't) know how much I want to pull out my gun and commit murder here, but I want to show them, make them fear me. They already do, some of them, I can tell from the way they move away from me when I walk, or how there is a space around me, wherever I sit or the way their eyes won't meet mine; they fear me, but not as much as they should. I want to teach them, pull the sleek killing machine out from under a jacket, cock the load, stand up slowly. I would watch as one noticed me, the wild fear in his or her eyes as she turned away and screamed, but nobody would notice because the music is too loud. Then I would raise the weapon and the laser sight would be visible through the smoke as I targeted the head of the one who had seen me first, and a painful grin would stretch my face as I depressed the trigger and discharged a round, like a load from a demon-cock, a burst of light as this person's head exploded, the strobe light making the splatter amazing, captivating, cinematic. I laugh in hoarse peals as I begin to spray the cheerful crowd, and in less than thirty seconds, before anyone has a chance to react really, fifteen or more are dead. I try for body shots mostly so that I can let them know they are dying, that this handsome, grinning maniac who was a quiet, impressive man was now killing them, they can gasp and scream in the too-loud, shitty music, they were happy, but I am miserable, and they will pay for my burning, my constant inferno of agony, with a shorter lapse of agony, and then a long sleep. I spray and spray, and they're trying to hide now; there is nowhere to go, I have blocked off the exit with myself, and there is an outward spreading of dead and dying. I'm screaming laughter, depressing the trigger cheerfully, and the city in my heart is collapsing, burning, but I'm standing in the middle of it, tears and sweat streaming down my face, maybe some blood too, I hope there's some blood. For Christ's fucking sake, I hope there's blood. I continue to blast away, then reload another extended clip as the gun clicks empty. Shoot, shoot, I tell myself. It soothes me to see those who are still alive crawl away, leaking blood, and I scream at them, "Go, go, you can fucking do it!" I don't know if they hear me. I don't care. I empty another clip, they're almost all dead, some of them screaming at me, probably begging for mercy, which I have none of, and I target them. None will escape. Not a one. With a sigh, I go to reload, and suddenly I'm buying a Redbull for four dollars, and I say, "Thanks, you dumb slut," to the bitch who is selling it to me. She looks puzzled, but I just say, "If I kill you, would you be mad at me?" Then I walk away. I do not have a gun on me tonight.

Late Night Drive

After getting my hair cut, I decide that I would like dinner. I show up, without a reservation as is my M.O. (thinking of M.O. in this respect makes me laugh a little), to the Stratosphere tower and head to the top where the Top Of The World restaurant is. In the elevator, since I am the only one in it besides the operator, I ignore the young man who tries to talk to me with a friendly tone of voice. I have seen him at this time of night a few times, and the fact that he does not remember me offends me. Once out of the elevator, where I took turns during the thirty second ride to the top freezing the operator with a murderous stare and gnawing on a finger I kept from one of the escort girls decaying in my guest bedroom, I head to the podium, where maitre'd looks at me once, and then, I'm quite sure, mutters under his breath, "Oh, fuck," before smiling at me brightly with his mouth. His eyes are cold, but I like his jacket so I don't stab him in the eye with my switchblade.
"How may I help you, Mr. Ridgway?"
It is, of course, not my real last name, but it fits, and makes me smile.
"A table, of course. Long day, Ronald." Ronald is not his last name, either, but I know damn well this will upset him.
"I'm so sorry, sir," he smiles smugly, the bastard, "but we are all full at the moment.
"Oh," I say, wanting to prolong this, not wanting to play my trump card yet, "are you really?"
"Yes sir," he says, still smiling patronizingly. "Completely booked," he adds unnecessarily.
"Do you think," I ask quietly, "that you can find a table for the new owner of this restaurant?"
The maitre'd looks confused. "Come again?" he asks, uneasy now. His smile fades slightly. "New owner. Under new management. Me ." His smile fades completely, then comes back with a laugh. "Oh, sir, you had me going for a minute there." I laugh a little too, and then pull out my wallet with my real name on it and take it out and show it to him, grinning the whole time. "You're fired, Ronald." I had purchased the restaurant a few nights ago for the hell of it, maybe to improve on the service, I am not sure. I walk past him without looking at him again while he sputters, face blank. After being seated, I frostily order some chicken tenders, which I then send back to the chef with a screaming note to make them again, or look for employment elsewhere. God, I am so tired. The chef does so, coming out to my table to personally apologize and deliver the meal himself. I, the gracious emperor, forgive him, send him away smiling, hating him to death. After I leave, I take out my Desert Eagle and make sure the safety is on (I forget), that the weapon is fully loaded, and pick up my car from valet. In my car, I drive morosely, until I am struck with a sudden lust, and I call an escort service and order a devastatingly gorgeous brunette, whom I plan on raping and murdering later tonight. I pay with my corporate credit card, call my secretary and have her call AmEx to erase the charge immediately. She does so, asks if I need anything else, I tell her no, thank you, good night, she tells me to wear a condom. I giggle as I hang up and drive to pick up the escort. Once I have her, I take her out to the desert for a late night drive, and I have her.

Hatred Banner

A scene of brutality unfolded before me, and I did not flinch; I laughed. Without any hesitation, as the four poor, ghetto, stupid gang members moved toward me, I pulled my Desert Eagle (IMI, hard to get) out. Their faces changed, from wolves descending upon a helpless lamb, to a sort of sick fear. Knives that had seemed enough to take what they wanted were worth nothing now, less than nothing, were negatively charged, something that sapped these stupid fucks' life force. Time slowed, and I could feel the grooves and grip on the gun in my hand, and began to shoot, each peal of laughter taking a century, the gun dealing out death with each thunderous roar that stretched to infinity. The recoil took hours to reach my shoulder as I targeted each head, a delighted, maniacal grin etched into my face like a titanic, ancient statue beckoning with a grin above the gates of hell. The flash from the shots sent lightning flickers across my vision, and I realized that this scene must already be over, I can shoot better than this, and I felt a shoot of panic spasm through my heart: was I trapped in limbo? Was this play destined to stretch off forever, endless, scene repeat, a skipping record, will somebody please change the fucking CD, I am too high on LSD to move? I watched a single drop of blood drift toward me, seeing in the background, first one dead gangbanger, then three, then all four, then back to the first one, the bullet traveling through the air toward his pock-marked, yellow-toothed, terror-stricken untermenschen face, the bullet smashed in through his nose, rupturing the flesh, and blood gouted out, and the bullet continued onward, inward, sawing through the gangbanger's facial bones, tearing into the cavity where his brain was, and his brain exploded around the bullet, spraying, turning to jelly, and then something similar happened to the third, smash cut to the second, repeating, repeating. Through it all the single drop of blood drifts toward me serenely, unaffected by the carnage behind it, I see my reflection in the single drop, and my face is grinning, with streaming, too-wide eyes. The drop drifts closer, becomes a mirror as three of the four are dead, then one, then two, three again, three dead and alive simultaneously, their bodies are alive and dead and transparent, vibrating. The drop is large enough to consume me, then splashes, infinitesimal, on my cheek, and I'm standing in the middle of the three corpses, screaming laughter at the sky as the fourth gang member tries to crawl away from me. I skip forward and stomp on his head twice, then follow with two bullets. I am a banner of hatred, raised high for all to see.

Anxiety

I did not think that writing would be this, I don't know, stressful. Then again, I never thought I would write something THIS fucked up. This torture scene is going to be 5-10 pages long, and, at the end of it, I'm pretty sure I'm going to read through it, and say, "Jesus Christ, Derek. This is pretty bad." I've done this already at some parts of the book, but this is a fucking whopper. 70 pages in, and I'm going to write something that will desensitize my soul. Oh, God. Hahaha. I hope some good will come out of this, maybe I'll gain a little more understanding about how I feel, where exactly I come upon this shit in my dark little castle of a mind. I'll post some part of the scene up, give me some feedback, please.
Illy =]

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Torture scene =p oh, God.

Alright, so, basically, I really started writing my first torture scene today and it's really, honestly, like, disturbing how into it I have to get. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a huge fan of Bret Easton Ellis, and he gets really in-depth with his torture scenes, and as I'm starting to write this, I'm like, "Oh, my God, Mr. Ellis, how in the fuck did you do this shit?" >.< It's ridiculous. When you write things of this nature, you find out some things about yourself that you would really rather not have found out.
There must be some sort of dark place in all of us, and I'm exploring mine quite thoroughly at this point.
Anywaysssss,
Thanks for readin'!
Illy =]<3

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"Whether Or Not She Apologizes, I'm Going To Fucking Kill Her, Now."

I come into my apartment (still frothing at the mouth from the encounter with the bum in the ditch, just a little) to find Cristal naked on my couch, totally coked out of her fucking mind. There is a small mountain of my precious stash (less than half of what I had had before I left the bitch here this morning) on the glass coffee table, one of my ironwood cup-coasters half submerged in the white gold. For a moment, I am too stunned for words; to be honest, I had just known in my heart of hearts (three sizes too small) that something like this would happen. Another part of me screamed and raged inside of my face, "Kill her, kill that fucking cunt, kill her, there's a razor right next to her, KILL HER!" Yet another part of me realized that I should never have left the key to my safe on my bathroom counter, and that this was mostly my fault, that I shouldn't open Cristal's neck like she fucking deserved, and, oh, my dear God, was she snorting it with one of my new hundreds?
I slobber out something that sounds like, "One dead, dead bitch," to me, and then stumble towards her, my gloved and already bloody hands ready to do their dirty work again, for the second time tonight, but I fall just short of her, one of my hands skidding through my coke on the table, sending the powder flying through the air in a puff, and I groan in a tone loud enough to be a scream, really. Surprisingly, her eyes open halfway, and she wakes somewhat from her coma-like state, and I glare at her with my mouth open, fangs bared like a beast. She shies away from me, some part of her remembering something of how bad my temper can be, mumbling, "Oh my God, you're home, you're back-" and her bloodshot eyes dart to the table, see my glove covered in cocaine, and her mouth twists in a sick grimace. An apology, I think, an apology would be good right about now, might save your fucking life, you whore, but then my gaze falls on a crumpled hundred, new, ruined. I realize, as the red envelopes my sight and mind, that whether or not she apologizes, I'm going to fucking kill her, now.

"Why, hello there. What is your name, beautiful?"

I'd like to start blogging here as an aspiring author of existential and love essays. Most of my writings here will be dark, and, hopefully, quite offensive and eye-catching. I would love to hear your feedback =] I am writing a book currently that I hope to publish in a year's time, and I will be putting various parts of the novel up for reading here. Read it. Tell me what you think. I will walk you through how I come up with a lot of the fucked up ideas that are contained within the book, and maybe discover a couple of things I didn't realize about my writings and about myself along the way.
illy =] <3