Nocturnal Love

The therapists say in the most discreet way possible that I do not possess the faculty of love, and thus I am pathologically weak—a sorry ass who can’t stand up in front of her life for two seconds unless she takes drugs, which shrink the time span from two to one. “We have been giving you the shovel, but you are the one who dig the hole and bury yourself in.” was what they obliquely expressed when thrusting a prescription of elaborately detailed inventory of exotic terminologies. However, they were only partly right about the weakness propaganda—I may not stand up before my life, but I can before others’.


While thinking about all this and that, his bedroom lighted on. I saw his shape emerging faintly behind thin curtain. I drew a bead on that elusive shadow, my stare shoot straight in full force through the lens, the hair-thin cross, but died short before it reached its aim, that my eyes fell bleary and the dim shape disappeared on my retina. I waited for him to pull the damn curtain over till dull pain grew sharp and extended from my shoulder—I must’ve looked funny, a woman my size, my teen age, being in a tree opposite a stranger’s house, shouldering a rifle that barely fit her vulnerable image, a suitcase, tucked away in branches, was by her side, and she was trying bit by bit some awkward positions so to keep the balance. However, the first stage of my assault was perfect with preparation; I was under the camouflage of nocturnal sky and black trunks, I’ve checked the nearby area to come to know that the neighborhood was quite isolated, I’ve been observing my target for a week and now I’ve made sure I’ve got everything I need in the suitcase, therefore the last thing required was patience.

Soon my predatory patience was rewarded. As soon as he drew the curtain to check the window I shot him down, to have him injured enough only to be handicapped, preferably, lost conscious also, but not altogether dead or near death. I paused for five seconds to see if I drew to myself unwanted attention before trespassing. I tied him with all my might to the bed poles, each limb to each, gagged him, and throughout the process he had been like a moribund wild dog—I’ve transgressed things as such for approximately a month but each escapade has been as tiring as one another. Rifle put away, I pointed my a.25 caliber to him: “don’t you dare scream.” The poor thing, barely realized what happened, was groaning semi-consciously. I assailed him with rifle gun-stock repeatedly till he fell silent.

Dreadfully silent. I sniffed the air. A dog was barking from a peaceful distance like from above the sky. I watched this man attentively how he resembled the one I love. I stooped slightly to kiss his lips, to feel the great emptiness, before arranging a set of butcher knives, a flesher and a surgical knife out of the suitcase. I slit his throat and observed his death where his flailing efforts for survival fell limp in an aesthetic destructive gradation of flesh being deprived of blood and sunk into an elegant grey. So long as the dead body was mine as an object and his death of my art creation, the necrophiliac manipulation was allowed to take place with great pleasure. I cut off his arms and legs with larger knife first to endow him a kind of susceptible air, and then I went into a ritual of holding him, kissing him and lastly masturbating on him. At last, to end the show, I only gouged out his grey eyes as souvenirs, which suggested that I wasn’t in a huge appetite for usually at least I took the heart also.

Around three o’clock I got out from the backyard, and within thirty seconds I was away on my motorcycle. Some blank sweetness sipped through my heart as if it was hardly a crime but a teenager date, or it was emotional haemorrhage that renders one in a not-so-painful shock. I agree that pervert violence is just the ultimate form of manipulation and possession, not altogether love, despite love involves possession and control over one’s partner. Although I’ve just claimed ownership over one man, one soul, for all the victims of this world, for all the distorted pleasure, it was a bottomless pit refused to be subjected to consummation. I will continue to seek out victims that resemble my heart’s true love compulsorily to satisfy the pathetic darkness until one day, my darling, too, shall finally fall victim to my killing spree.

And the last bit of humanity in me shall die away with him.