Bad men and dark places (a love letter)

 

Roots - Adjusted. Copyright RTVisions (used with permission)

Roots – Adjusted. Copyright RTVisions (used with permission)

When I see the bad men, I follow them to the dark places.

I am a willing witness.

The bad men make me watch.

I follow them into the dark places. The scary places. The places where heart-rates pulse and moans echo. Where shadows move, and the terrified are drenched in cold-sweat. Drenched in bladder-loosened piss. Drenched in screaming gouts of viscous blood. Drenched in tears.

I know not what they will show me, but I know it will be dreadful. I understand what happens, what will happen. I know, and yet I still go to see. To observe. I am a willing witness.

I see the flashing knives.

I see the dirty axes

I see the bared teeth.

I see the flesh being cut, skin being flayed, the blood being drunk.

I am repulsed by what I see. Horrified, terrified, excited. I cannot resist. The bad men take me to the dark places, and show me things. I want to see.

I am a vulnerable victim.

The bad men make me the prey.

They make me a target. I flee from them, I flee from the dark places.

I cannot escape the bad men. I am chased, pursued. I can hear them running, hear their steps, their taunts. I tire quickly, too quickly. My breath is rasping, burning and my muscles shake with exertion, terror. I cannot escape the dark places. They are endless blackened walls, eternal twisted forests, infinite shadowy recesses. Each turn leads to more horror, each step brings me closer to my ending. I am a vulnerable victim.

I feel their hands around my throat.

I feel their claws piercing my chest.

I feel their drills penetrating my skull.

I feel them grasp me, penetrate me, murder me.

The bad men make me scream. Make me bleed, die, live. I cannot resist. The bad men take me to the dark places, and do things to me. I want it to happen.

I am a bloodthirsty beast.

The bad men make me the monster.

They give me their twisted desires, their awful passions, their dark thirsts.  I work to please the bad men, to please the dark places.

I love the bad men. They make me hunger for the chase. Hunger for the hunt. Hunger for the kill. I slaughter at their whim, the world drowns in blood on their instruction. I bask in their praise. I love the dark places, I enjoy them, need them. I howl in the darkened forests, stalk the dim corridors, rampage through the desolate wastes. I am a bloodthirsty beast.

I taste their acrid fear, pungent and carrying on the night air.

I taste their salty blood, squirting, spurting. Steaming.

I taste their soul, tortured and trying to escape a cooling corpse.

The bad men make me kill. Make me slaughter, maim, exalt. I cannot resist. The bad me take me to the dark places, and make me do things. I want to do them.

I want to be a bad man, and bring you to my dark places.

The bad men take me to the dark places, and I cannot resist.

With each page I witness the horror the dark men carry inside, and I see the darkness reflected inside me.

With each line I feel the victim’s terror, and I feel the shiver down my spine, a sympathetic chill.

With each word I understand the beast’s hunger, I hear it growl, and I understand the ache, the need, the taste.

The bad men tell their stories. They let their victims scream through their art, let their beasts howl through their novels. I read their books and their dark places speak to me. My own dark place has begun to whisper back.

I want to be a bad man, I want to take you to my dark places. I want you to stare, to bleed, to murder.

When you see the writing of this bad man, will you follow me to dark places?

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