You are Minebyxsioux©
That scraping sound on my windows again. I crawled off the bed with an effort, it is awfully cold. Flakes of rust came off the hinges as I forced the windows apart and cool air rushed in from the night and I hunch into my thin robe as far in as possible. The moon-washed backyard is empty, as I lean out of the sill to peer into the gloom. It's always the same, nothing. This has happened over a week now, and I promised myself not to bother the next time. As I closed the window, my breath caught in my chest in a painful gasp. It was hard to make out the shape of it on my bed. Then somehow, I sensed, not saw, a woman. She slowly raises her arms, and I stumble to them, dazed and in a trance.
Her hands are as cold as they tug and yank at my clothes urgently, just like her tongue, which fluttered all over me, ears, mouth, neck and down and down...........
The morning sun burns into my eyes, and I blink away the sleep. Yet it was not sleep which the body craved. It was not blood that ran in my veins, but a dull ache, my head in the clutches of a persistent throb. And despite of it all, my body was tense as a drawn bowstring. The sheets were cold, and the mattress lumpy, but I am least bothered.
I am overcome by an otherworldly hunger, undreamed and un-thought of, overwhelming. I craved for her. And true to my anticipation, she came.
She straddled me, trapping my arms to my sides with her thighs. There was brief flash of silver in the darkness. My clothes fell away under the razor edge of that small silver knife, one that I would eventually inherit. Once again, I saw that flash of silver, and before I knew it, felt its sting all over my body, the incisions swift, small and precise as a surgeon's. She bent over and put her cold lips to the welling blood on my body, her sharp teeth raking my ribs, as her hands held my hair in a tight grip. I could only lie still, waiting for the ice of her womanhood to put out the fire in my loins. And when at last she did, it was almost painful, cruel. But as she rode my manhood in a rhythmic up and down motion, I was past caring. For the teeth on my neck nor the long nails gouging my chest. She ravaged my body and my manhood relentlessly throughout the night. I was clay in her hands, puppet to her will. "You will be mine", was all that came out of those blood-smeared lips.
I begged her to stay, but she pushed my away with contempt. And just like a whiff of smoke that is borne away by a breeze she was gone.
Another day of anxiously pacing my room. God knows what has come over me. As much as I shuddered at the thought of her icy touch, my entire body longed for her - those demanding yet cruelly thin lips, that skillful and teasing tongue, those long-nailed icy fingers, and above all, her womanhood, like the smoldering fires of hell.
At dusk, I was roused from my sleep by the phone. It was a few moments before my fogged brain registered what was being said. Within the hour, I had boarded a plane home.
I was an hour too late. My mother had not been able to hold out any longer for her only son. Sorrow, and more than that, guilt, overcame me. I let my friends take me to the study and took the glass they offered my mindlessly. The spirit stung my eyes as it went down in a warm rush. That night I drank myself to sleep. But neither was the refuge I was seeking. Reason does a crazy dance at the very edge of my sanity, my mind playing tricks. Surely reality must be more painful than the twisted and warped visions we call nightmares? I fear for my sanity!
The corridor is damp and dimly lit. At first, I heard nothing. Then like a train speeding towards me in a deafening crescendo, the wails and the moans hit me like the sudden surge of a cold November draft.
On each side of the corridor, people moaned and cried out from behind locked doors. Some were straining against the tiny square of wire-mesh on the doors, making choking animal sounds, the whites of their eyes wild. Without realizing, I started to run, panic and confusion urging my cold bare feet. Yet the cries hounded me, urging me on. I pressed my palms against my ears, but that only made it worse. For the sounds that I had been hearing were all inside my head and the faces doing a pantomime for them.
I ran on. Looking back, I saw nothing but darkness. Cold sweat poured down my body, the salt biting into those numerous gashes. My legs felt rubbery, but they kept carrying me forward. Pain lanced my chest with every breath that I took. The corridor seemed to stretch on for miles and miles into the darkness.
Suddenly the floor melted, and I fell headlong into a black and depthless chasm. My clothes were torn and ripped out of my body by what seemed like hooks and jagged edges protruding from the sides of this tunnel.
A hook or something that felt like it ran itself through scalp, leaving my skull raw and white. Another drew a line down my neck in a long and painful trail of blood and tissues. I was past screaming. The flesh below my right eye was ripped open, the blood mingling with my tears. My body was a mass of raw flesh -- ribboned, shredded and gouged. But even as I plummeted, I heaved and poured out my intestines down the tunnel.
At long last, I saw the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, only this was at the bottom of it. I held my breath as it rushed up to meet me; my eyes focused on the strange pattern of the tiles, which I realized was my own bile. I searched for a handhold crazily, when I slammed onto the floor with a cold thud, biting down on my tongue. The last thing I felt was the taste of my own bile, mixing with the blood from my own mutilated tongue.
It is the cold and the itch that awakes me. My body is tingling and itching with the sweat that bathes me from head to foot. As I move to turn on the lights, a cold yet familiar voice reaches out the darkness, "I wouldn't do that if I were you". But I willed myself against that mesmeric tone. The sight that meets me is one which can only belong to the darkest nightmares. My whole body is one huge festering wound, creamy pus oozing from the gashes, running down my body in wet sticky trails. My room itself is thick with a sweet cloying stink. My eyes water and my jaw quivers as I try to suppress the rising bile in my throat.
I open my mouth to scream, and make an effort to rise, but she pushes me back firmly. I stare up at her incredulously as she undresses and climbs on top of me. Her mouth muffles my protests as her lips lock into mine. I can feel all of that sticky cream oozing from my body tainting her alabaster skin. She does not seem to notice, if anything, she seems to enjoy herself all the more. It was the same as before, only this time, she was slow, gentle and patient. My pain was forgotten in the whirlpool of her depthless eyes. I was lost. I was in another dimension.
It has been days since the funeral. I have neither visited nor encouraged any of my old friends or neighbors. I guard my privacy possessively. As I think of her, I trace my fingers along those familiar incisions and cuts. They have healed now. She comes very often. But when she does, they are precious moments that we share.
The door opens suddenly and the maid gasps as she sees the scars on my chest and abdomen, her hand flying to her open mouth, eyes wide with terror. She stands rooted to the spot, until I beckon. I am not surprised as she walks up to me, eyes blank, hand limp at her side, feet dragging.
You are mine...