Dead Desires

A story about a necrophiliac

White, pale skin. Cold, dead skin. Never moving from their solid state. This is how he liked them. The control over the dead is a powerful thing. They cannot resist. Cannot push you away. They must accept what is happening to them because, well, they’re dead.

These bodies can do nothing as he runs his fingers up the cold dead skin. They do not move as he clutches at their arms and drags them from where they rest. Only days old at most, everything is still intact. Everything is perfect in his mind. They are unmoving, unknowing and no sound utters from those colourless lips. The feel of their cool skin is what he desires the most. He wants to hold them close to him, to know that he is in control.

Oh, the control, the knowledge that they cannot fight back. Forcing them do to what he wants without their knowledge, without their consent.

These thoughts gnaw at his mind day in, day out. As he walks through the teeming streets he imagines the people around him as cold and dead. He sees himself grappling at their throat as they gasp and struggle until the last breath escapes them and they are no more. Then he will take their cold bodies and hold them to him. These people around him do not know of what he thinks. For that they should be grateful.

For to be inside his mind is to be in a cesspool of dead desires. All dark and dank, the only light is a small torch which he holds. This illumination is his reasoning of these dead demons. This light tells him that he is fine, that he is like many people out in the world.

He holds tightly to his light. For without it he would become smothered by these corpses. There must be others out there like him. He cannot be the only one. He dare not think that he is alone. The only pulse in a room full of bodies that beat no more.

What would the people around him do if they knew? Would those people whom with he worked shun him and turn him out? Would he be locked in a padded cell? Or, more likely, a prison cell. He dashes into a dark alley and crouches down, hiding from the people on the street. Few stopped their progress and stared curiously after the thin pale man. But after a few moments, they shrugged their shoulders and moved on – pushing him from their minds.

But he remained hiding from the world. Surely he would be locked away. And if they locked him away, everyone would know what he had done. All of his secrets would be put on display for the world to see. The media would portray him as a monster. People that knew him would be disgusted by him. His own family would pretend they had nothing to do with him. And if they shut him in a prison the inmates would make sure he paid in full for what he has done. It wouldn’t matter if they had murdered fifty people. The only thing they would be able to think about is what he has done with the dead bodies. They will despise him and spit upon him. They will beat him and bully him until he can take it no longer.

The man shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself tightly, rocking backwards and forwards, small moans escaping from his lips.

His light was faltering. Soon it would be gone. No matter how hard he tried to keep it alight, it would extinguish and that would be the end of that. He would not be able to reason his way through any more. He would no longer have control over the dead bodies. He would have no control over anything. Everything would spin away from him. Where would he be then?

His nails dug into his skin and he closed his eyes tightly. He could still hear the people walking along the street just metres away. He could hear them laughing and enjoying themselves. He wanted to be one of them. One of those people who didn’t have to carry the burdens that were weighing him down. Each thought was like lead upon his shoulders. Tears slipped down his cheeks.

He was losing control. And there was only one way that he knew how to regain it. He stood, breathing deeply and angrily pushed the tears from his cheeks. He brushed down his clothes and walked back into the crowds. No one noticed him enter. No one paid attention to him as he hurried back to his home.

He nearly ran back to his home. He needed to feel in control once again before everything fell apart. He would be in control, as soon as he was alone with his dead desires.

Author's Note

Another piece of writing I wrote for another site.
It was originally meant to be in first person, but I just couldn't find the inspiration to write it that way, so it ended up in third.

Reviews

[Jack Shellfish]

Nice piece. You mentioned that you were tinkering with the narrative structure and decided to switch from 1st to 3rd person. Have you considered writing using a 2nd person narrative? I think it'd work well with your story and add to the sense of alienation and loss of control that you have developed in this piece of prose. I always think 2nd person narritives give a very unsettling feel to a story, might just work.... just an idea!!!

[nostal]

The notion of insanity.
Felt like saying that.
Great job.
This is well-written,
and very descriptive, physically and emotionally.