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Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2017
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tenets of predation II: love & lust
“Oh, you silly little man. There are no heroes.”
This is the first thing Malice tells me when I wake up. She sneers at me with my teeth resting
on the cold barrel of her gun. Her smile is like a blade and I remember why I fell in love with her.
We're in a two bedroom apartment that is stripped clean beside the metal-chair I sit in, that's
bolted to the floor, a table in worn teak full of stains and scratches and a small TV-bench in
chipped white with a TV sending dead frequencies in front of me. There's an open ventilation
in the ceiling. The neighbors are watching Jeopardy at a blaring volume. The sound bounces
off the slick concrete walls.
Thick, black drapes cover up two of the windows. The others are covered by messy duct-tape,
magazines and pieces of cardboard boxes. Occasionally when she moves throughout the room,
rays of light that make their way in here hits her hair, making it seem like black latex.
It's cut short with an undercut. She has streaks of white, two of them, in her lopsided bangs.
She looks at me from under eyelashes and hair with the dead stare of a shark. Two empty black
wells that hides something sinister in their depths.
From the ventilation in the ceiling, somebody answers a question.
“What is 'sanguinary'?"
She's a fork tongued bitch and I want to marry her and I will kill her. Malice swiftly pulls the gun
out of my mouth, chipping my teeth as she does so. I hear the shattered pieces hit the concrete.
I call her a cunt and she whips me with the gun across my face. My eyebrow splits and it
makes me think about the first time we fucked. I feel the warm blood trickle, then it flows, gushes.
“Manners,” she tells me and I want to laugh, but my teeth sings like tuning forks that are trying
to vibrate at a frequency that can shatter bones.
Malice takes out a cigarette. Malice stares at nothing. Malice rolls the cigarette between her fingers,
back and forth. She lights it and exhales fluorescent snakes in smoke slithers around us.
She says, “Here.” Malice holds it so I can take a drag. Ash crumbles and falls down on my chest.
It tastes sour. The smoke gets stuck under my skin, sticky like bile, filth that only disappears with
bleach and frenetic work with steel-wool. The puddles of blood looks like Rorschach-tests and
someone slams the game buzzer on Jeopardy again.
“What is 'hypnagogic hallucinations'?"
She might be perfectly still, leaning against the wall but there's violence in the air. Her manners
and her conduct, even her brushes, are hostile in nature. Malice emits something pernicious.
Her eyes locked on mine, glazed with a violent intent and the glow of debauchery yet to come.
“You can still let me go,” I say, my head throbbing with dull pain, “Look, I don't care about this.”
My wrists and my ankles are tied the metal chair with piano-wires. They dig deeper into my flesh
and with each inhale and exhale I feel the blood drip, drip, dripping.
“You said that you loved me.”
Malice jerks her head back. Her laughter sounds like retching cats.
She says, “Don't be stupid.”
She says, “Love? This?” with her finger points at me then her.
“Oh, honey, this is not love.”
Malice coughs up more proverbial hairballs then says, “This is just casual fucking, sweetheart.”
She flicks a finger at the bottom of her cigarette package and says, “At it's best, we're hate-fucking.”
“Love,” Malice scoffs and lights another cigarette, “Bitch, please – what are we, fifth graders?”
I think that Malice will actually kill me this time and from the neighbors, I hear,
“What is 'tropane alkaloids'?”
The second thing Malice tells me is that all human life is a repetition of past mistakes. According
to Malice, the apes have evolved into humans for millennial, Holocene upon Holocene, endlessly,
without getting it right. We are doomed to repeat history because we refuse to forget it. She said
that we're not built for peace and harmonious conditions, we don't seek salvation or reconciliation.
We seek destruction, simplified fantasies that explain and defend our depravity so we can keep it.
Malice picks up the remote and puts on public television. A preacher is condemning us all to hell.
“What the flesh gives is easy to see,” the preacher says.
Malice picks up a gag-ball.
“No. Please, Mali-”
She grabs the back of my head and shoves it in. The straps are pulled so hard that blood starts to
seep from the edges of my mouth where they cut into me. I attempt to scream and realize what
futility really is. Malice mouth turns in to a sneering blade again. She turns the volume up.
“..fornication, impurity, lust, idolatry, sorcery and enmity, my friends. He does not look kindly upon your
strife, intolerance, anger and intrigue, the blatant heresies, your power struggles-”
The idea of God has always seemed like a backwards belief to me. You can't bully and threaten
god, you can't pay him off. Your eternity in the hands of someone you can't blackmail.
“To combat sin and free ourselves from the throes of sin, y'all need to understand sin. Sin will make you do
some crazy things. Amen?”
Malice grabs a flattened leather satchel the size of a A4-paper from the teak table with scratches
and stains. The air is thick and from the pixelated screen pet-humans say in choir,
“Amen.”
“You know,” Malice says as she pulls up what looks like a miniature-set of butcher knifes, “when
someone puts a dick in your mouth you can either suck it or you can bite it off.”
Malice looks at me with her porcelain eyes and she always looks like damp grief is stuck in her throat.
Malice moves closer. She smells like wine, vaguely of cigarettes and sweat, but that might be me.
Her arm graces mine and the scent of her hair is still intoxicating. She pushes a needle in my neck.
My heart skips a beat and that starts the oscillations. The small insignificant oscillations, that grows and grows.
“And you, my dear,” Malice says, laughing, “you sucked that dick like there would be actual gold in the
money-shot.”
I can barely make her out as she melts into the dripping reality she injected me with.
“We are all stained by sin, so we all have or will commit acts that goes against God. The point I am trying to
make this morning, is that sin takes us further than we want to go and costs us more than we ever want to
pay.”
The last thing Malice tells me is that we have suppressed and beaten our own species into submission.
During the perpetual whistling of the whip, we have been reduced to neutered house-pets. Every instinct
is questioned, every desire carries the weight of a hollow morality.
"And morality, she says, "is a disease that only afflicts humans."
Those small oscillations clashes together into a single, ever more violent tremor that seems to erase
reality as if I lived inside a sketch magic drawing pad - the fabric of reality falls apart like it was all
wet sand to begin with. Faint crepuscular rays flicker in the dark that enshrouds me, with water prints
of Malice. Vague after-images of Malice fingers that looks like the delicate, fine scalpels of drunk surgeons.
“And we need Gods help to wage war against it, and to snuff our devils out,” the distorted voice of the
preachers chimes, his voice dropping an octave with each uttered word.
I can feel her gently dragging her fingers across my four day stubble, the spot where you slit the jugular
open to bleed someone out and all I can think is, fuck her and fuck me for loving her.
“Don't worry,” Malice says as her voice becomes trails of vapor dissolving beneath my gravity eyelids.
"Where you're going, you'll never be the gazelle again."
Dysphoria surrounds me, engulfs me, becomes me – like a thin coating it takes the form of corrosive emotions,
the after-images contorts into grisly scenes of mutilation that sinks into the black mire of imagination.
Like the toy a kid dismembers, I'm torn to pieces and fall prey to something bigger than time.
“Oh, you silly little man. There are no heroes.”
This is the first thing Malice tells me when I wake up. She sneers at me with my teeth resting
on the cold barrel of her gun. Her smile is like a blade and I remember why I fell in love with her.
We're in a two bedroom apartment that is stripped clean beside the metal-chair I sit in, that's
bolted to the floor, a table in worn teak full of stains and scratches and a small TV-bench in
chipped white with a TV sending dead frequencies in front of me. There's an open ventilation
in the ceiling. The neighbors are watching Jeopardy at a blaring volume. The sound bounces
off the slick concrete walls.
Thick, black drapes cover up two of the windows. The others are covered by messy duct-tape,
magazines and pieces of cardboard boxes. Occasionally when she moves throughout the room,
rays of light that make their way in here hits her hair, making it seem like black latex.
It's cut short with an undercut. She has streaks of white, two of them, in her lopsided bangs.
She looks at me from under eyelashes and hair with the dead stare of a shark. Two empty black
wells that hides something sinister in their depths.
From the ventilation in the ceiling, somebody answers a question.
“What is 'sanguinary'?"
She's a fork tongued bitch and I want to marry her and I will kill her. Malice swiftly pulls the gun
out of my mouth, chipping my teeth as she does so. I hear the shattered pieces hit the concrete.
I call her a cunt and she whips me with the gun across my face. My eyebrow splits and it
makes me think about the first time we fucked. I feel the warm blood trickle, then it flows, gushes.
“Manners,” she tells me and I want to laugh, but my teeth sings like tuning forks that are trying
to vibrate at a frequency that can shatter bones.
Malice takes out a cigarette. Malice stares at nothing. Malice rolls the cigarette between her fingers,
back and forth. She lights it and exhales fluorescent snakes in smoke slithers around us.
She says, “Here.” Malice holds it so I can take a drag. Ash crumbles and falls down on my chest.
It tastes sour. The smoke gets stuck under my skin, sticky like bile, filth that only disappears with
bleach and frenetic work with steel-wool. The puddles of blood looks like Rorschach-tests and
someone slams the game buzzer on Jeopardy again.
“What is 'hypnagogic hallucinations'?"
She might be perfectly still, leaning against the wall but there's violence in the air. Her manners
and her conduct, even her brushes, are hostile in nature. Malice emits something pernicious.
Her eyes locked on mine, glazed with a violent intent and the glow of debauchery yet to come.
“You can still let me go,” I say, my head throbbing with dull pain, “Look, I don't care about this.”
My wrists and my ankles are tied the metal chair with piano-wires. They dig deeper into my flesh
and with each inhale and exhale I feel the blood drip, drip, dripping.
“You said that you loved me.”
Malice jerks her head back. Her laughter sounds like retching cats.
She says, “Don't be stupid.”
She says, “Love? This?” with her finger points at me then her.
“Oh, honey, this is not love.”
Malice coughs up more proverbial hairballs then says, “This is just casual fucking, sweetheart.”
She flicks a finger at the bottom of her cigarette package and says, “At it's best, we're hate-fucking.”
“Love,” Malice scoffs and lights another cigarette, “Bitch, please – what are we, fifth graders?”
I think that Malice will actually kill me this time and from the neighbors, I hear,
“What is 'tropane alkaloids'?”
The second thing Malice tells me is that all human life is a repetition of past mistakes. According
to Malice, the apes have evolved into humans for millennial, Holocene upon Holocene, endlessly,
without getting it right. We are doomed to repeat history because we refuse to forget it. She said
that we're not built for peace and harmonious conditions, we don't seek salvation or reconciliation.
We seek destruction, simplified fantasies that explain and defend our depravity so we can keep it.
Malice picks up the remote and puts on public television. A preacher is condemning us all to hell.
“What the flesh gives is easy to see,” the preacher says.
Malice picks up a gag-ball.
“No. Please, Mali-”
She grabs the back of my head and shoves it in. The straps are pulled so hard that blood starts to
seep from the edges of my mouth where they cut into me. I attempt to scream and realize what
futility really is. Malice mouth turns in to a sneering blade again. She turns the volume up.
“..fornication, impurity, lust, idolatry, sorcery and enmity, my friends. He does not look kindly upon your
strife, intolerance, anger and intrigue, the blatant heresies, your power struggles-”
The idea of God has always seemed like a backwards belief to me. You can't bully and threaten
god, you can't pay him off. Your eternity in the hands of someone you can't blackmail.
“To combat sin and free ourselves from the throes of sin, y'all need to understand sin. Sin will make you do
some crazy things. Amen?”
Malice grabs a flattened leather satchel the size of a A4-paper from the teak table with scratches
and stains. The air is thick and from the pixelated screen pet-humans say in choir,
“Amen.”
“You know,” Malice says as she pulls up what looks like a miniature-set of butcher knifes, “when
someone puts a dick in your mouth you can either suck it or you can bite it off.”
Malice looks at me with her porcelain eyes and she always looks like damp grief is stuck in her throat.
Malice moves closer. She smells like wine, vaguely of cigarettes and sweat, but that might be me.
Her arm graces mine and the scent of her hair is still intoxicating. She pushes a needle in my neck.
My heart skips a beat and that starts the oscillations. The small insignificant oscillations, that grows and grows.
“And you, my dear,” Malice says, laughing, “you sucked that dick like there would be actual gold in the
money-shot.”
I can barely make her out as she melts into the dripping reality she injected me with.
“We are all stained by sin, so we all have or will commit acts that goes against God. The point I am trying to
make this morning, is that sin takes us further than we want to go and costs us more than we ever want to
pay.”
The last thing Malice tells me is that we have suppressed and beaten our own species into submission.
During the perpetual whistling of the whip, we have been reduced to neutered house-pets. Every instinct
is questioned, every desire carries the weight of a hollow morality.
"And morality, she says, "is a disease that only afflicts humans."
Those small oscillations clashes together into a single, ever more violent tremor that seems to erase
reality as if I lived inside a sketch magic drawing pad - the fabric of reality falls apart like it was all
wet sand to begin with. Faint crepuscular rays flicker in the dark that enshrouds me, with water prints
of Malice. Vague after-images of Malice fingers that looks like the delicate, fine scalpels of drunk surgeons.
“And we need Gods help to wage war against it, and to snuff our devils out,” the distorted voice of the
preachers chimes, his voice dropping an octave with each uttered word.
I can feel her gently dragging her fingers across my four day stubble, the spot where you slit the jugular
open to bleed someone out and all I can think is, fuck her and fuck me for loving her.
“Don't worry,” Malice says as her voice becomes trails of vapor dissolving beneath my gravity eyelids.
"Where you're going, you'll never be the gazelle again."
Dysphoria surrounds me, engulfs me, becomes me – like a thin coating it takes the form of corrosive emotions,
the after-images contorts into grisly scenes of mutilation that sinks into the black mire of imagination.
Like the toy a kid dismembers, I'm torn to pieces and fall prey to something bigger than time.
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