Chapter Text
The sensation of being torn apart and mauled to death by wolves in my sleep isn’t a new thing for me to experience. I cannot die.
I've always been wandering around, completely aimless in any direction. I never stopped, lest it was to hunt and eat raw meat, or find water to drink, dirty or not. Not as if the lack of cleanliness could affect me. Especially not as if I even need to eat or drink anymore, either. I don't know why it is so, but I do. I've never gotten ill as far as I can remember. Sustenance is no longer needed for me, and I don't even want it, either. Yet I still indulge, because this body, as forsaken and rotten as it is, still tells me to. Instinct is the only thing that drives me. It's like my reflexes aren't even my own. And so I force down raw meat and murky water down my dry throat, only to hack it all up onto the ground before my feet 75% of the time. My disgusting, disfigured body rejects it all. Can't say why.
As ridiculous as it is to know how clueless I am about myself, it is undoubtedly true. I've forgotten how I looked. I sometimes palm at my face, hesitantly feel around. I don't have the mental capacity to make a mental image of what I think I look like. I've tried looking at my reflection in water, but it's always the dirtiest and muddiest of water, and I could only make out faint blurs. All I know is that my hair is dark blue, and the ends are faintly red. I don’t need a reflection for it. It's long and reaches down to my thighs. I also study my own body. It is tattered, littered in scars. I don’t have much to say about my body.
Maybe one day I'll find a clear puddle and see myself for who I am, or maybe I will refuse to. Maybe something might trigger within me if I saw myself. A flood of memories? Would I want to know? As much as I know, I am indeed rotten to the core. If it were available to me, I probably wouldn't know what to do if I had the opportunity to see my face. This reluctance that is rooted within me, why is that?
I often think about what led me here. I knew that my mind was once full of rampant thoughts and memories from when I first set off long ago. That same mind is now nearly devoid of anything. I've become such a hollow husk - I can't fucking think of anything.
I swore it hadn't been too long since I set off. Maybe. Has it? I don't even know why I still walk. I don't even know where the fuck I am, but I know it's too late to turn back. It's too late to turn back and return to a place I no longer remember. Couldn't do it even if I tried. Where the hell would I even go? Even if I did arrive, would I even know it's the place? I even thought about trying to go back, actually, but something within me would painfully feel as if it was being prodded at ever so gently by the sharp edge of a knife. Threatening me sweetly: a warning that I must've promised to myself at the start of this journey. I don't know what pushed me to such a point to make me feel like that.
Yes, perhaps it's my cold, unwillingly beating heart that still clearly remembers what I forgot, as once in a while it races with unforgiving rage. When it strikes me, it paralyzes me. I get blinded by it, all my senses get assaulted as if I'm being possessed. I don't understand why. And it’s never been any other emotion other than sheer anger. It's always anger. Its occurrences are unscheduled, spontaneous, and hardly manageable. It happens multiple times a day, as well as never at all. I am in constant unease about when I will lose control of myself. I’m not used to feeling an emotion so deeply. I fear the moment that this foreign heart inside of me brings out this innate, vivid desire for me to go into frenzy, a primal urge I must've always been suffering from for a long time. It even forces me awake almost every night. It gets me delirious, and makes me forget all reason that I never knew I still retained.
And every time I wake up after it, I am greeted with the pungent scent and acrid taste of something coppery. When I looked around the area, there would sometimes be unidentifiable viscera scattered about. I don’t have any sort of medical knowledge, so I wouldn’t know what exactly these parts would be.
I eventually pieced it together that I had been taking this violence out on animals and sometimes even people. I had been killing in cold blood.
Every time I wake up, my clothes get a little more tattered and crusted. It's more blood. Don't know if it was from me or someone else.
Every time I wake up, I feel a little weaker rather than rested, as if my slumber meant nothing.
Every time I wake up, my body seems to have been smeared with organs or something else.
Every time I wake up, my mouth reeks of rotten meat, my tongue violently assaulted by the complicated taste somewhere between the taste of vomit and metal.
And most of all, every time I wake up, I finally get to feel another emotion. Something much like dread. Disappointment. Disappointment in what? Something I wasn't able to do? No matter how much I seem to have slaughtered, it is always as if it meant nothing. I always wake up feeling helpless, like a cornered prey animal ready to lash out, and absurdly hungry for more brutalism.
I cannot say I understand why that is.
—
I may soon forget these current thoughts I have, as my memories become littered with even more holes, my brain being eaten away at, like how moths eat away at clothes. Once I've run dry of my ability to think, and my agency is stripped away from me, I wonder what becomes of me then? Maybe much like who I become whenever I lose myself in a blind fit, or worse.
I somehow found refuge in a depressing excuse of a home in some city. It's a city where nobody knows me. Nobody recognizes me. This home was poorly taken care of by its former owner. I won't be any different. It’s perfect for me to stay here for as long as I’m able. But I’m just not fucking sure what to do with myself. My innards ache more than ever for blood and viscera.
—
I came to discover that I can somewhat ease my spontaneous bouts of violence.
I’ve never felt that opening myself from within to the outside world would make me feel so hot and heavy. I’ve never felt so feverish. I’ve never felt both sickly and alive. I’ve never felt such heat well up in my crotch just from the mere action of me tearing myself open.
The unexplainable feelings of utter rapture that flood both what’s left of my brain and even my cock, as I slowly tear the flesh of my arms, my legs, my abdomen down to the bone, until I give in to the pain in my pants and stroke myself for as long as I can til I’ve run dry, is an experience that I’ve been living off of as of late.
Once I’ve cum, my vision fades. All sounds around me lower down into a synchronized hum before I grow limp and die. For the first time, I felt it was truly going to be my last death. I later had to get up and clean my own mess. Nobody's there to wash my wretched blood and filthy semen off my body and my sheets, after all.
How long has it been since I moved in here? How long has it been since I’ve been self-mutilating and killing myself to regulate my mind, as well as to get off? Given that it’s been long enough for me to have forgotten, I guess it's simply been a while.
Pleasure has grown to become just as vivid as anger to me. It’s become intoxicating. I've begun doing this to absolve myself of the violent urges I get, urges I can’t understand why I have. Yet something in my mind must be truly twisted, as my ability to differentiate between both feelings started to fade. Have they become synonymous? Have I made myself even worse, even when my bouts have lowered in frequency?
My place has a porch. I spend my time there, and look at the city once in a while. I live by the outskirts, where there is dim lighting and barely any noise from traffic and partying crowds. The city is vast, yet it only feels tighter for me to breathe in, much like it's a cage enclosed all around me. Cooping myself up in this room must’ve been the problem, so I’ve started going out, believing it’d reverse the effect. I seem to catch the attention of people when I stand by them. They come talking to me. When I respond, it is seldom and cold. They don't seem to understand that I don't want their advances on me. They’re mosquitoes, draining every ounce of energy from me, the more I interact with and even observe them. I began to feel even more suffocated. I wonder if they’re the same as this anywhere else.
All I’ve been doing is continuing to go outside. I come home to masturbate, kill myself, and repeat it all over again.
—
Medium-length, black hair. Jet black. Like a void. Her eyes, too, are like black holes. Almost inhuman, especially in the way blood drips from her mouth. Does she know why that happens? Is she as clueless as I am about myself? Not only is she so thin, she’s so short. Maybe too short. I could make out her reaching up to my chest, my collarbone at best. She’s so pretty. She looks disgusting. I wouldn’t even touch her. She reminds me of myself. Do you remember when I mentioned I never saw my face? I still remember that thought. Don’t know why. Since then, I still never looked at myself. I learned to close my eyes, to turn my head whenever the opportunity was given to me. She’s like a mirrored reflection of myself. That was when I knew that seeing my own face was no longer a necessity for me.
She’s been on my mind for a while. There are nuances about her that I cannot describe without feeling uncertain of my own words. I’m not good with words. I more like think with my heart, my guts, and especially my dick. I’m impulsive. I’m distasteful. But being as disgusting as I can means I can lay bare my naked body and mind. It feels so fucking good. I’ve never been turned on so much. I’ve learnt how much being vulnerable, exposing the wounds created on you, whether it be from yourself or someone else, and itching them, makes you feel free and moan in rapture. We are only truly bare when we are animalistic, able to scream, claw, bite, cry, and the like.
I crave the constant flaying of my twisted mind. It’s what keeps me, at the very least, leveled. I need her to do it for me. Save me. Mutilating myself dry til my entire room is flooded with my blood and cum is no longer enough. I can’t say when it started to become meaningless for me. I long to return the favor to her, too, even if she doesn’t deserve such tenderness; I’m doing it anyway. I want to ease her repressed cries for help. I know she wants that, the moment I looked into her eyes from my porch. She begs to be saved. She doesn’t deserve it, but I’ll give it to her. I want to reopen her wounds and heal those scars she’s burdened with, maybe even make new ones for us both, maybe just for fun, and fulfill all of the raw, nasty desires that she is unaware she even has.
I want to comfort her - A foreign urge I’ve never once had, even for myself.
I want to hurt her. Humiliate her.
It’s only been a month since I kidnapped that bitch.