We're Red and It's Perfect. She's Dead, and It's Beautiful.
Note: This story is not about us, has nothing to do with us, and not
inspired by us. It's just an overly edgy, offensive, kind of gross short
story that I wrote. I don't know if you'll really like it, but I wrote
it because maybe one day I want to be a writer. A real writer who writes
real things that I think are interesting and thought provoking. This is
my first ever attempt at anything real, that I sort of think is
okay-ish. I put it in here, because maybe it is a landmark for my life,
maybe it is just terrible and way too overt. I'm nervous to share a lot
of my thoughts out loud or in writing. I think sometimes there is
something wrong with me. But it is here because you are everything. You
are my everything, so why not share with you something that means a lot
to me. I hope it is not too hard to get through, and makes you feel
included in on my brain.
Tears well up in my eyes. It hurts, why. Everyone's laughing at me. I
can feel them staring at me. I was wearing my mothers gown. At school.
How did this happen? The entire school was there, in the hall, in the
hall, and I was there, embarrassed. Scorned. But I was just dreaming.
The cicadas cry in the summer. Incessantly. I was dreaming. Again. I
haven’t been to school in a while. It was summer though, a particularly
hot one. I left my window open overnight. There was a fly buzzing around
my ear. More than one. June is a long month for me, but at least I can
stay home. My father passed away in June. It'll be about a year from
tomorrow. The latchkey kids are playing out in the street, I can hear
them. They laugh incessantly. I get out of bed. It's routine for me. I
don’t usually get out of bed. Only when I can no longer stand the taste
of my own breath. But this morning was different. I hear Mom on the
phone downstairs. I get curious about my mother’s calls. She’s very
private, but from what I’ve understood, she talks to many men, each time
with a different name. She’s been shopping a lot more recently, so I
assume it pays. Her new sweaters are colorful, a little too colorful for
me. And the prints.. “What did I tell you about leering in on my phone
calls!” She’s caught me again. “Don’t give me that fuckin look, its
creepy. You’re a creep, just like your father!” I often contort my face,
I can’t really help it, it just goes that way. My mother didn’t much
care for me, as is why I haven’t been to school in months. But I guess
that’s the status quo these days. Parents don’t worry too much about
who, where, or what their children are up to. I removed myself from the
hall, away from the landline to give my mother the privacy she desired.
I feel hungry today. We don’t keep much food in the house. My mother’s
always eating out. On dates at those flashy late-night lounges. She
didn’t feel a need. I'm a few years out from being an adult now. Old
enough to no longer require my mother’s cooking, even though that was
always few and far between. I’ll go for a walk. It’s hot out. Like I
said. It’s June. I have my cassette player with me. I hate a lot of
things, I’ve learned to hate a lot of things. Not by choice, but as a
necessity. Hate was good. Hate was normal. My mother hated my father, my
father hated me. So you would think because my mother hated my father
and my father hated me, the one who bore the most hatred from the man
she hated above all would get some relief. But this was not the case.
She hated me just as much as she hated that man. I was given his face.
His vulgar, disfigured face. I love music. I’m particularly into a lot
of the current hot New Wave bands. Duran Duran, The Cure, Talking heads.
Springsteen was a genius, Madonna was for fags. I appreciated Madonna,
although I wasn’t a fag. Apart from my father’s dashing good looks, I
inherited his love for women. My father loved women. He loved them a
little too much. I don’t blame my mother for hating him. I can say this;
he died doing what he loved. As I walk through the
neighborhood, towards town, I pass by a park. I see a girl there,
sitting on a swing. She’s surrounded by three other girls. I can’t make
out what they're saying, but it’s a familiar scene. I know those three
girls. Not that I know them personally, but I know the type. My mother
is away from home quite often. Often enough, and long enough, for me to
enjoy myself when I know no one's watching. It’s a nightly ritual. Those
three girls standing there. Those girls. The type of girls that often
frequent my imagination during my nighttime activities. The type of
girls who would surround her on the swing, full intimidation, perfect
formation. I'm sure they aren't friends. I stop and watch. From afar.
“Hey! I just love your blouse…” “Yeah! Yeah! I like your leggings too!
So colorful! They're just perfect, you must tell me where you got them!”
“You guys are so funny… why would you ever want to dress like a dyke,
she looks hilarious!” “Hahaha we're just kidding, I could never. What a
queer… and look at that blank stare on her face, it's so hideous!” The
girls continue with their insults, I watch the proceedings from a safe
distance, interested in the direction things are going. They begin to
grab her shirt, lifting it up, exposing her. One of the girls pulls out
a small pocket knife, the other two hold her arms up. It’s interesting.
She doesn’t seem to react. She’s like a corpse. Her face hardly changes.
The girl with the knife begins carving into her stomach. The other two
laugh. I catch a glimpse of her face, no reaction. It’s impressive. I
couldn’t say that I would be able to stay as stone cold as she was. The
girls finish their engraving, the marking barely legible from my line of
sight. Seemingly satisfied, the three begin to walk off, smirking and
cackling amongst each other, putting out their cigarettes all over her
before they disappear out of view. Like I said before, it’s interesting.
Out of curiosity–and bordem–I walk over. She’s laying face up at this
point, still wearing the same blank stare she had on during the previous
encounter. I stand overtop of her, the word “dyke” clearly visible to me
now. I don’t say anything, I am just interested in her face. It’s
unnerving, unmoving, unbreakable. It’s beautiful. As the blood drips
down her stomach, seeping into the dirt, she remains still. I follow her
eyes. They're looking up. Not at the sky, not at the clouds, not at the
birds, not at the rays of sunlight. Something higher, much further than
I could see. Outstanding. “What’s your name?” I ask. “It’s dyke” “What’s
your name?” I ask, ignoring her first response. “Like I said before,
it’s dyke” “I was watching you before. You never told those girls your
name, and I don't think they knew you. So how did they know what name to
carve into your stomach?” I act smart. “Lucky guess.” She’s annoying me,
but she looks beautiful. Her gaze that is. That blank look. I get
curious again. I want to see what other faces she might make. I grab a
clump of dirt, her blood has fully seeped into it now. In my hand,
balled into a fist, I shove the dirt directly into her open wound,
making sure to spread it across her entire stomach. She leaps up,
howling in pain. I see a new expression, I see her teeth as she screams.
It’s simply beautiful, I've never seen anything like it. As I am
entranced by her mouth, now wide open, I fail to respond when she sinks
her teeth directly into my shoulder. An act of retaliation. Through my
shirt, her teeth pierce my skin. I’m met with a sharp pain–a new
sensation. I cry out, fall to the ground. She’s on top of me now, the
blood and dirt from her stomach dripping onto me. She’s latched onto my
collarbone, her teeth are deep into my shoulder. I feel a burning pain
throughout my body. I am unable to move. Time passes, maybe a few
minutes? Lost in this new feeling, I come to my senses. “Ouch! Get the
fuck off me you crazy bitch!” I shove her to the ground. I get up and
collect my bearings, but she's a fighter. I feel a similar
sensation–this time, on my left calf muscle. She’s bit me again. I fall
on my rear. But I fight back. I scratch at her stomach, each slash I can
feel her engraving opening wider, the warmth of her blood underneath my
fingernails. This goes on for a while. I start to get lightheaded, her
movements match mine. We fall to the ground. Lying in the dirt. More
time passes. I wake up to the blistering sun, and a burning body. She’s
bit me. She’s scratched me. I’m bleeding, but it doesn’t really hurt.
She’s still unconscious, laying face up in a similar fashion as before.
This time, I lay down next to her. I try to mimic the blank expression
she wore when I first walked over, but I have no one to confirm its
accuracy. She wakes up after a while of me sunbathing. She doesn’t move,
but I hear her breathing shift. I glance over. This is the first time I
get a closer look at her. She has messy red curly hair, a crooked face,
freckles, a hooked jew nose, and big bushy eyebrows. Frankly she’s
hideous. But she’s beautiful. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
As I lay there, beside myself, I remember something. Something I almost
forgot. Something that felt so distant, a feeling from a lifetime ago. I
was hungry. I hadn’t eaten. I turned to her again. “Come into town with
me, I am going to get something to eat” She doesn't react, which doesn’t
surprise me. I omit any sort of follow up. I stand, grab my cassette,
now covered in dirt, and walk back in the direction I was heading. As I
make it a few steps away, I hear her shuffling behind me. I turn and see
her standing, inching towards me. I wait for her to catch up. We walk in
stride, in silence. I'm an awkward guy, I'm many things. A melomaniac, a
ciniphile, a racist, a masochist, a sadist, a homophobe, an artist, a
poet, a pervert. But above all else, I’m awkward. As we walk together,
nearly hand in hand, I am overwhelmed with this feeling of awkwardness.
As any awkward guy would do, I scramble for something to fill this
silence. As my eyes dart around, I remember what I have with me, and who
I am. “So you must like music right… Who are your favorite bands? What
album are you currently listening to? Right now I'm really int-” “No, I
don't listen to music” She replies curtly. “What about movies? Do you
have any favorite movies?” “No, not particularly” “Well… what about
books? Im sure you've read Ludlum-” “No” Fuck. This girl was impossible
to talk to. But I couldn't help it. She was frumpy, plain, gaudy, but
the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in the entire world. I forfeit
any other attempts at conversation. We continue our walk, passing by a
school, a church, a grocer, gas stations, benches, and vagrants. We
reach a corner, there's a hotdog stand. A small line, not too long of a
wait. I half guide us over there, stepping in the back of the line. As I
stand in line with her, I am able to closely examine her legs. There are
several scars running up and down the inside of her thighs. She’s
wearing very small shorts, I can see the hairs on her legs, unshaved.
I'm getting excited, but the large paper mache hotdog atop the hotdog
stand brings me back to reality. As we get to the front, I order us two
hotdogs. Extra mustard, no ketchup. I pay with the coins I brought with
me from home. We sat down at the nearby picnic bench. To my surprise,
she sits next to me, as opposed to across. “Do you like hotdogs? I think
they’re great in the sum–” “No, I don’t eat meat” She says in a deadpan
tone. By this point, I'm not surprised. I choke down both of the
hotdogs. She remains next to me. I can feel her glancing at me every so
often. I get nervous. I'm shy, and awkward. I've never actually sat down
and ate with a girl before. It’s new, it’s exciting. All of my previous
attempts at starting a conversation were in vain. But I get an idea.
Something pops up into my head. A thought that only a twisted pervert
like me could concoct. A disgrace. “I get real horny when I bleed… Do
you?” There. I went and did it. Any other circumstance would've been a
no-go, but given that we were walking around in public, shirts covered
in blood with open wounds all over, I figured I'd better give it a shot.
Nothing else worked, so why the hell not? “Yeah” Finally, a response
that didn't begin with the word “No”. I was happy. This was progress.
Little by little. I was getting excited again. I could barely contain
myself. I was foolish to ever think I could replicate her stone cold
poker face for even a second. My mother tells me all the time how
hideous my face is. It contorts to every emotion I feel. What can I say?
I can’t really help it. She can totally see exactly how excited I am
right now. I was right. I see her eyes locked on to me. She’s looking at
me– directly. I think for the first time since I met her. She doesn’t
take her eyes off me. It’s been a while. It’s intense. I don't know how
much longer I can take it. I'm going to finish… Right before I finish
that thought, she moves her face closer. The motion of her face being
brought closer to mine replays in my head. All while it's happening in
real time. It plays over, and over. Slow, fast, on repeat, fast, slow. I
feel my face getting hot. Her face is almost touching mine. I
instinctively close my eyes– I don't know why, I've never been in this
position before. As my eyes are closed, my lips move on their own. I'm
sure I look like a spaz. As I prepare for the first kiss of my life, it
feels harder than I expect. Instead of the embrace of some soft, wet
lips, I feel abrasive enamel. My lips are pinched together, a sharp pain
overtakes my lower face, and it doesn't stop. She’s biting my mouth.
She’s biting my mouth, and she's not letting up. It hurts. It hurts it
hurts it hurts. It hurts so good. If I said before that I was going to
finish something, well I was in the middle of finishing it now. It’s
possible 5 more minutes go by, or maybe 5 years, maybe 5 millennia. I
have no idea. Time passes. And my underwear is now soggy. She lets up.
And looks at me again. This time, her gaze looks different. It looks as
though she’s now looking down at a cockroach in her bedroom. One that
she has just squashed, and is watching writhe in pain before it loses
all oxygen. I burst out of my seat, my face beet red. I am overcome with
embarrassment. I need to get out of here now. Before I make my grand
escape, I mumble something to her. “Come again, by the swings. Maybe
tomorrow. Please?” I turn and run home before I can look at her face,
before I can confirm her reply. I sprint home, fast. I'm excited. I'm
not a boy anymore, I'm a man. I'm in love. I'm a man in love. As I run
home, I trip. I skin my leg, the same leg she dug her teeth into. It
feels like an insult. This doesn’t feel nice. But it doesn’t matter.
Nothing can ruin my mood. I'm on cloud nine. I'm elated. I'm elated. I'm
a man. I made it. I want to tell my mom, mother. I want to tell her
everything, I want her to know she’s wrong. I'm loved.
I'm leaving. I don’t know when I'll be back. You're old enough now, I
don't need to be wasting my time hovering around you anymore – Mom. It’s too late. As I arrive at home, I read a note left stuck to the
fridge. Mom’s left. My mother, the great woman she was. Gone. It appears
she's jet off to Monaco, Italy, Greece, Thailand, or any one of the
other prostitute wastelands. To live with one of her so-called
benefactors, husband, sugar daddy, lover. I don't care what she calls
them. They're pimps. Pimping her out for money. That's it. Money. A
waste, useless, horrid, disgusting money. Far more degenerate than
anything I could ever do. And she's nothing to them. Nothing but their
whore. One whore of many whores. One whore, two whore, red whore, blue
whore. One-hundred whores, One-thousand whores. Whores galore. It's
disgusting, and I want nothing to do with it. I'm glad. I'm glad she's
gone. She never cared for me anyway. And I don't need her anymore. I'm
loved. There's a girl that cares about me. Someone out there that is
willing to hurt me. Hurt me because she loves me. That night I had the
best sleep of my life. I dreamt of her, bathing in blood. I'm no longer
in school. I'm no longer in my mother’s gown. Nobody’s laughing, I'm not
scorned. I'm loved. I'm enveloped in a red bath of our blood. It’s warm.
So warm. I never want to leave. I woke up the next morning. I've
ejaculated in my pants. It’s warm. I'm warm. The sun is shining down on
me. Its rays tickle me. I'm warm. The latchkey kids are playing outside.
Their usual antics. Their screams and laughs massage my ears. I'm warm.
I skipped breakfast this morning. I'm not hungry. Instead get dressed.
Laundry is done. Perfect. Mom washed the whites before she left. I put
on my brightest white t-shirt. I'm excited for the shade of red it will
be when I return this evening. It's about noon now. I step outside. The
blistering sun soothes me. It’s nice. It’s warm. I see her again. She’s
laying face up, like last time. It seems the girls have paid her a visit
again. Fresh marks, this time all over her arms and legs. Perfect. More
places for me to violate. We fight. We dance. We touch. It hurts. And it
hurts all over. I feel as though we become one. My body eventually grows
numb from the pain. It burns everywhere. I feel like I'm on fire. I can
barely breathe. Her marks stretch every inch of my body. With every new
mark, the deeper into my flesh she dives. Perfect. My days go on.
Everyday, a new wound. With each day. More blood is spilled. I've lost
weight. Maybe I've skipped breakfast one too many mornings, maybe I've
lost too much blood. I don't care. It’s fall now. The leaves on the
ground offer too much cushioning for our daily activities. It makes it
soft, gentle. I don't like it. I can't wait for winter. It's January
now. I think a new year? Maybe 1987 now? I can't be sure. We've met
every day without fail. I guess this is what it means to be in a long
term relationship. I love it. The colder days make for an even more
pleasurable experience. I'm sure she feels the same. We haven't said a
word to each other since the first day we met. We don't need to. That's
not how we communicate. I've lost a considerable amount of weight now. I
can tell. I don't often look at myself in the mirror, but on the rare
occasion I do, it's always a surprise. I can feel my body getting
weaker, but it's better that way. It makes the pain more potent. I'm
sure she feels the same. It's February now. The days are freezing. But
we don't dress for the cold. Only a tshirt. A tshirt as proof of the
blood we exchange. Our flesh needs to be as close together as it can be.
This is how we've always done things. Today’s a particularly cold day.
But even so, I feel so warm. She makes me feel so warm. This is what
love is supposed to feel like. It's supposed to hurt. Today she's going
easy on me, her bites don't burn and her scratches don't cut as deep. Is
she getting weaker? It’s annoying. Is this our first fight as a couple?
I push her harder, I squeeze her harder, as a way to encourage her to
turn up the heat a little bit. I think this will work… It always has.
It's not working. Instead she's loosening up her grip even more. It's
like she's not even trying. She's gone limp. Now I'm getting really
annoyed. She's completely stopped trying. I'm forced to let go and look
at her now. Look at her face close up again, so I can see what the deal
is. She's lying face down in the snow this time, that's unusual. Oh
wait. She's dead. It’s beautiful.