Tidbit: Flesh


I love the rampant destructive eroticism of this world.

Only humans could look at their existence and see the beautiful in the obscene, purity in excess, completion in termination. Excellence in grotesquery.  Sadomasochism is inherent in every thought and movement and we spend our lives studying ourselves, learning what makes us tick, wondering why something provokes awe while another provokes disgust, and often, why the two emotions can be connected to the same object. Religion is as perfect an example of self-torture as any, depicting intense suffering as holy salvation. The concept of revelry in excess applies still to the denial of all but the necessary, an excess of puritanism, an excess of resistance to temptation. Likewise, spiritual wholeness can be found in loss of control and release from the concept of ‘too much.’

No other creature is as immaculately drunk on its own senses as a human being. No other creature seeks as tenaciously to complete and understand itself. No other creature will hunger so voraciously for the suggestion of perfection, and no other creature is as willing to gently hold death as a symbol of the unknown. It is a fascinating, awkward, gibbering philosophy, and I adore it.

When I found her, she was curled upon a decrepit garden bench beneath a streetlight, glittering pink heels hanging from two crooked fingers as she stared in wonder at the stars above. Her white gown was filthy- green and brown grass stains, all over her knees and shoulders and, I guessed, her back- and hitched up over her thighs, revealing flashes of threadbare Hello Kitty underwear as she kicked her toes up in the air. Her thighs and knees were smeared with hour-old blood, but it did not seem to bother her. She was unaware of me. The faintest tones of a broken lullaby drifted from her lips, accompanied by the sickly sweet aroma of vodka and vomit that never failed to turn my stomach. I continued to near her regardless, fascinated, entranced by her messy copper curls, her brilliantly painted neon-pink nails. She seemed to vibrate with the effects of a party drug I was unfamiliar with.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out here alone?” I threw out my voice as clearly as I could manage it, still a few paces from her bench, pressing my hands into the pockets of my jacket as she lolled her head to the side. Her eyes glittered as she struggled to focus on me in the dark. A dizzy grin spread across her face, gaze finally locking on my form, carelessly free and heavily drugged. I swallowed rising bile. She was more than a little drunk. I could forgive her that; I was more than a little thirsty.

“Thass what I came here for.” She barked a mirthless laugh. “I like the danger. M’names Lucy. What’s yours?”

“I try not to give my name to girls who court danger.” Melody. My name is Melody. I bit back the words in favour of self-preservation and walked a little nearer, offering an apologetic smile as I entered her little hemisphere of light. She was even more intoxicating up close. “May I sit with you a while, Miss Lucy?”

Her grin spread wider and her cold, clammy fingers found mine before I had even lowered myself onto the seat. “Be my guest.” She purred, resting a foot on my lap. “I don’t bite. Much.”


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