My best friend Ben
folder
DarkFic › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
893
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0
Recommended:
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Currently Reading:
0
Category:
DarkFic › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
893
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
My best friend Ben
My Best Friend Ben
(Author’s note: didn’t really like the ending, might be changing, for future reference. Flames, criticism, welcome.)
People say that there is something wrong with me. Told me that I had a choice.
Do I enjoy men in a way I am not supposed to?
Yes. I did, do, and always will.
They told me my passions were dirty, that I had no business enjoying such things or even existing.
They told me God hates faggots.
I said that God is dead.
I was whipped for the first time in my life that night.
I screamed.
I think I broke my vocal chords.
They left the room, taking their joy with them. All sounds, remained.
Giggles, cracks, tearing flesh, screams, drip-drip of slow blood spill, laughter, hate… Haunting.
My reptilian blood lay on the floor, blackening with age before my eyes, my tears joined soon after. Pathetic, as always. I can keep my screams, wretched cries of pain to myself, but my tears never cease.
The next night, they come back. They come with knifes. They have enough mercy, or stupidity, to keep them sharp. I don’t feel it. I’ve done it myself enough times to make my nerves numb.
I let out peels of laughter, making the steady cuts on my chest slice deeper. I may be pathetic, but they are fools.
One delivered a swift blow to my nose, torrents of blood stream out. Fascinating, still so much blood to give.
I eventually make it back to the rooms we share, grins plastered on their faces, contentedly sleeping. A wry smile makes its way onto my face, though lacking any real humor.
At least I can make someone happy.
I am the needle in my own vein, I am the unsustainable high that courses throughout your system for two seconds.
I was everything. I had life, I had joy, I had relationships, I had love.
I am nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Gone are the days when I had laughter. Dead are the days when I spoke. Decayed are the memories of what I have heard.
I wondered not when they would stop, but why.
Would they grow bored of me?
Would they take pity?
Would they get hungry?
Would their arms hurt?
Did you know that when blood congeals on you, it gets cold? I never really thought blood could turn cold.
The next few days are the same:
***
“Are you a faggot?”
“No.”
“What are you?” hopeful tones, every time.
“Queer.”
Maybe it’s possible that skin can separate from muscle.
Turns out they leave because they get hungry. They eat steak. Well-done. And wine. Red wine.
Return, I’m unconscious.
Bring me to life, squeeze me dry.
I don’t scream anymore.
***
I was found dead three days after he plunged the dagger into my stomach.
My best friend, Ben.
My friend, death feels cold. Death is welcoming, death is kind.
I went to neither heaven nor hell, but a place that lies between. I am the groaning muscles in your back, I am the bones you crack, I am the creaks in your doorways, I am the rapes committed, I am the chains that rattle the floor, I am the murderer you stalks your sleep, I am the one who hears your soundless cries, I am the one who died.
I am the one who kills you at night.
I am the one who will never care.
When I was fourteen, I was raped. Confused, angry, hurt, and depressed, I went home.
I saw him the next day, as if nothing happened. Again and again, we met and talked, until scar tissue memories went from burning red, vivid, to pale white, barely there.
It’s only happened once after, and he took great joy in my pain. We used to do everything together.
My best friend, Ben.
(Author’s note: didn’t really like the ending, might be changing, for future reference. Flames, criticism, welcome.)
People say that there is something wrong with me. Told me that I had a choice.
Do I enjoy men in a way I am not supposed to?
Yes. I did, do, and always will.
They told me my passions were dirty, that I had no business enjoying such things or even existing.
They told me God hates faggots.
I said that God is dead.
I was whipped for the first time in my life that night.
I screamed.
I think I broke my vocal chords.
They left the room, taking their joy with them. All sounds, remained.
Giggles, cracks, tearing flesh, screams, drip-drip of slow blood spill, laughter, hate… Haunting.
My reptilian blood lay on the floor, blackening with age before my eyes, my tears joined soon after. Pathetic, as always. I can keep my screams, wretched cries of pain to myself, but my tears never cease.
The next night, they come back. They come with knifes. They have enough mercy, or stupidity, to keep them sharp. I don’t feel it. I’ve done it myself enough times to make my nerves numb.
I let out peels of laughter, making the steady cuts on my chest slice deeper. I may be pathetic, but they are fools.
One delivered a swift blow to my nose, torrents of blood stream out. Fascinating, still so much blood to give.
I eventually make it back to the rooms we share, grins plastered on their faces, contentedly sleeping. A wry smile makes its way onto my face, though lacking any real humor.
At least I can make someone happy.
I am the needle in my own vein, I am the unsustainable high that courses throughout your system for two seconds.
I was everything. I had life, I had joy, I had relationships, I had love.
I am nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Gone are the days when I had laughter. Dead are the days when I spoke. Decayed are the memories of what I have heard.
I wondered not when they would stop, but why.
Would they grow bored of me?
Would they take pity?
Would they get hungry?
Would their arms hurt?
Did you know that when blood congeals on you, it gets cold? I never really thought blood could turn cold.
The next few days are the same:
***
“Are you a faggot?”
“No.”
“What are you?” hopeful tones, every time.
“Queer.”
Maybe it’s possible that skin can separate from muscle.
Turns out they leave because they get hungry. They eat steak. Well-done. And wine. Red wine.
Return, I’m unconscious.
Bring me to life, squeeze me dry.
I don’t scream anymore.
***
I was found dead three days after he plunged the dagger into my stomach.
My best friend, Ben.
My friend, death feels cold. Death is welcoming, death is kind.
I went to neither heaven nor hell, but a place that lies between. I am the groaning muscles in your back, I am the bones you crack, I am the creaks in your doorways, I am the rapes committed, I am the chains that rattle the floor, I am the murderer you stalks your sleep, I am the one who hears your soundless cries, I am the one who died.
I am the one who kills you at night.
I am the one who will never care.
When I was fourteen, I was raped. Confused, angry, hurt, and depressed, I went home.
I saw him the next day, as if nothing happened. Again and again, we met and talked, until scar tissue memories went from burning red, vivid, to pale white, barely there.
It’s only happened once after, and he took great joy in my pain. We used to do everything together.
My best friend, Ben.