Folks, I'd just like to note - this story can be quite disturbing for some, so PLEASE don't read it if you are easily frightened or have a problem with sexual or drug-related topics. But if you are sure, well then, read on! Comments are very appreciated.
Spoiler! :
Have you ever felt so much pain that you started calling morphine "liquid Christ"? I have.
I did it because of envy. Not because I was particularly inconvenienced by his grunting, her moaning, or the scraping of their bed against the floor at night. I did it because he lead a life I wished for but could not have. She didn't even love him, I bet, they just used each other for casual sex. We all know this story: I was the nice guy every girl said she wanted, and he was the sexy jerk that every girl actually wanted. No, no - wait - this sounds like a murder story, does it not? What is the ghastly thing I continue to omit naming, you ask. Well.
The set-up is not important. The thing I did - I simply asked them to fuck a little quieter, if they didn't mind. A reasonable request, if you ask me. Polite, to the point. He didn't think so, I guess.
They gave me a little clicker with morphine inside of it when I was finally admitted out of the hospital. That's when I started likening the drug to Christ. I would whisper inside my head for the Lord to march through my body and make the pain from the broken bones go away. And with that, I made sure never to forget cursing the ever-present moaning, groaning, and scraping above me.
With enough motivation and the Internet, anything is possible, it is only a matter of time. Seven days is how long it took me. Seven days of following a chain of links, dead ends, and loops before happening on an obscure Serbian blog which gave me exactly the information I needed.
I finished making the doll by six, just around the time she returned from school and he returned from work. It was a fat little thing consisting of plump grass tied around a skeleton of sticks. A little lock of black hair adorned its head, held there by a rubber band.
Everything had to be perfect. A stack of pillows, clothes, and whatever else I could find sat atop my bed, so I could climb on top and hear better. It would not be perfect if their love was not loud enough, because I wanted the rage to build up in anticipation of justice.
They started at 10:32. As the noises filled my room, I stared down the little doll, barely holding it in a crooked, shaking hand. It was so easy to finish everything now, and I derived a sadomasochistic pleasure in denying myself such a quick finish. No; I wanted the hate to fill me like it never had before. Top to bottom, all-encompassing. I brought the effigy closer to my mouth and, after breathing in with a quivering gasp, gently exhaled warm air over it.
A loud groan from up the stairs told me everything worked. "Jesus, baby, it was cold outside. Warm me up like you did just now. More." More, he asked. He asked for more.
"Don't you worry now, my beautiful," I whispered to the doll. "More is coming soon."
My gaze was affixed to the doll, my breath rolled over it for the next half an hour. My smile was wide and twisted, and on my exposed lips I could taste the salt of tears.
"I love you so much," she said.
"I wish you were in my arms forever," he said.
"It begins," I said.
The needle only went about a millimeter in, but it was enough. The scream startled me, and then doubly so as she screamed as well. My fingers found the morphine clicker by themselves, and I could only barely hear what was being said through the haze of amplified pleasure. The Lord walked inside my veins, but I was doing the work of Moses. Eye for an eye. Disproportionate retribution for disproportionate retribution.
"Oh my god, you're bleeding."
A loud bang - he fell to the ground, moaning. I fell on my back, wanting to moan too, but biting my lip.
"I'm no goddamn woman," he said. "I'm not supposed to bleed out of there."
"You will be what I want you to be, honey," I said. "Why don't you be a dancer? Do a little dance for me."
I pierced the doll's left foot. Another scream, then tumbling, so hard that paint chipped from the ceiling. Come now; let's see how much you will love him when all the machismo is taken away.
"Come on, do something! Call the ambulance!"
"Yes. Oh, god, where's the phone. Hold on, they'll help."
"But don't forget," I whispered. "It will take them twenty minutes to get here."
"Help me," he said.
"Here, put your arm - yes, hello, he's bleeding on the ground, I don't know what's wrong, send an ambulance to..."
The anger intensified the pleasure, but it made body coordination difficult. I only wanted to hold the doll more closely so that I could strike with the needle at the next body part, but I underestimated my strength, and felt a quiet click underneath my finger.
"Oops," I said.
I think there were words about his arm, but I could scarcely hear because of the screams mixed with the words, and the morphine mixed with my blood. So much pleasure. Moses, the god of Vengeance. Who knew that your hated act could feel so good?
For the next ten minutes I felt as though I was floating. The needle in my hand, now seemingly with a mind of its own, struck the doll methodically in every place it could find. My weight evaporated, and so did my thoughts. My world consisted only of me and the ceiling in front of me, on the surface of which I could almost see the man above writhing in agony.
"Please stop," she sobbed. "Please. I don't want you to die."
The needle paused, and so did the screaming, simmering down into moaning. He moved then, maybe to prop himself up and stand. I could hear his hand disturb what sounded like a shallow pool of liquid.
"Don't die," she repeated. So even when the big strong hunky jock is reduced to broken rubble, she continues to love him. I laughed a little. No - I laughed so hard that I dropped the needle. What a stupid girl.
"Don't die. I will not live without you. Please don't leave me. Please - please."
"He should have thought of that before responding to a simple request with fists, little girl," I said. I pushed the little button on my wrist a few more times, and, just before another wave of morphine washed over me, snapped the doll's head off.
Wow. Well, how about that. Looks like you were right to suspect me - this was a murder story after all. The most unusual thing, though - she screamed even louder than he ever did when his head came tumbling on the floor. No matter the amounts of morphine, no matter the level of righteous satisfaction I felt, I could not help but feel - if only just a little bit - that I had wronged someone.
I did it because of envy. Not because I was particularly inconvenienced by his grunting, her moaning, or the scraping of their bed against the floor at night. I did it because he lead a life I wished for but could not have. She didn't even love him, I bet, they just used each other for casual sex. We all know this story: I was the nice guy every girl said she wanted, and he was the sexy jerk that every girl actually wanted. No, no - wait - this sounds like a murder story, does it not? What is the ghastly thing I continue to omit naming, you ask. Well.
The set-up is not important. The thing I did - I simply asked them to fuck a little quieter, if they didn't mind. A reasonable request, if you ask me. Polite, to the point. He didn't think so, I guess.
They gave me a little clicker with morphine inside of it when I was finally admitted out of the hospital. That's when I started likening the drug to Christ. I would whisper inside my head for the Lord to march through my body and make the pain from the broken bones go away. And with that, I made sure never to forget cursing the ever-present moaning, groaning, and scraping above me.
With enough motivation and the Internet, anything is possible, it is only a matter of time. Seven days is how long it took me. Seven days of following a chain of links, dead ends, and loops before happening on an obscure Serbian blog which gave me exactly the information I needed.
I finished making the doll by six, just around the time she returned from school and he returned from work. It was a fat little thing consisting of plump grass tied around a skeleton of sticks. A little lock of black hair adorned its head, held there by a rubber band.
Everything had to be perfect. A stack of pillows, clothes, and whatever else I could find sat atop my bed, so I could climb on top and hear better. It would not be perfect if their love was not loud enough, because I wanted the rage to build up in anticipation of justice.
They started at 10:32. As the noises filled my room, I stared down the little doll, barely holding it in a crooked, shaking hand. It was so easy to finish everything now, and I derived a sadomasochistic pleasure in denying myself such a quick finish. No; I wanted the hate to fill me like it never had before. Top to bottom, all-encompassing. I brought the effigy closer to my mouth and, after breathing in with a quivering gasp, gently exhaled warm air over it.
A loud groan from up the stairs told me everything worked. "Jesus, baby, it was cold outside. Warm me up like you did just now. More." More, he asked. He asked for more.
"Don't you worry now, my beautiful," I whispered to the doll. "More is coming soon."
My gaze was affixed to the doll, my breath rolled over it for the next half an hour. My smile was wide and twisted, and on my exposed lips I could taste the salt of tears.
"I love you so much," she said.
"I wish you were in my arms forever," he said.
"It begins," I said.
The needle only went about a millimeter in, but it was enough. The scream startled me, and then doubly so as she screamed as well. My fingers found the morphine clicker by themselves, and I could only barely hear what was being said through the haze of amplified pleasure. The Lord walked inside my veins, but I was doing the work of Moses. Eye for an eye. Disproportionate retribution for disproportionate retribution.
"Oh my god, you're bleeding."
A loud bang - he fell to the ground, moaning. I fell on my back, wanting to moan too, but biting my lip.
"I'm no goddamn woman," he said. "I'm not supposed to bleed out of there."
"You will be what I want you to be, honey," I said. "Why don't you be a dancer? Do a little dance for me."
I pierced the doll's left foot. Another scream, then tumbling, so hard that paint chipped from the ceiling. Come now; let's see how much you will love him when all the machismo is taken away.
"Come on, do something! Call the ambulance!"
"Yes. Oh, god, where's the phone. Hold on, they'll help."
"But don't forget," I whispered. "It will take them twenty minutes to get here."
"Help me," he said.
"Here, put your arm - yes, hello, he's bleeding on the ground, I don't know what's wrong, send an ambulance to..."
The anger intensified the pleasure, but it made body coordination difficult. I only wanted to hold the doll more closely so that I could strike with the needle at the next body part, but I underestimated my strength, and felt a quiet click underneath my finger.
"Oops," I said.
I think there were words about his arm, but I could scarcely hear because of the screams mixed with the words, and the morphine mixed with my blood. So much pleasure. Moses, the god of Vengeance. Who knew that your hated act could feel so good?
For the next ten minutes I felt as though I was floating. The needle in my hand, now seemingly with a mind of its own, struck the doll methodically in every place it could find. My weight evaporated, and so did my thoughts. My world consisted only of me and the ceiling in front of me, on the surface of which I could almost see the man above writhing in agony.
"Please stop," she sobbed. "Please. I don't want you to die."
The needle paused, and so did the screaming, simmering down into moaning. He moved then, maybe to prop himself up and stand. I could hear his hand disturb what sounded like a shallow pool of liquid.
"Don't die," she repeated. So even when the big strong hunky jock is reduced to broken rubble, she continues to love him. I laughed a little. No - I laughed so hard that I dropped the needle. What a stupid girl.
"Don't die. I will not live without you. Please don't leave me. Please - please."
"He should have thought of that before responding to a simple request with fists, little girl," I said. I pushed the little button on my wrist a few more times, and, just before another wave of morphine washed over me, snapped the doll's head off.
Wow. Well, how about that. Looks like you were right to suspect me - this was a murder story after all. The most unusual thing, though - she screamed even louder than he ever did when his head came tumbling on the floor. No matter the amounts of morphine, no matter the level of righteous satisfaction I felt, I could not help but feel - if only just a little bit - that I had wronged someone.
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