Borderline Evil

borderline evil 

we judge ourselves by intentions and others by their actions. but that is irrelevant for me. my intentions are my actions. i will only show you everything from my eyes - it lacks objectivity, exaggerates, some time invents. but you'll never even have an idea of what it's real. back and forth, it's a fucked story, just like my brain. 

in third person, the story starts at the end, walking down the corridor toward my death. you cannot understand what it felt like to love him. I was fascinated by him, his brain, another genius, more than me. he was physically different but i had no concept of how he would challenge me more than I could have been otherwise. he brought me back to life. from a life lived with the slow, thick, boring, worthless others, only he could invert my world. 

darkness consumed everything as I arrived at the uni, smothered by winter, a season begging only for time at home cuddling coffee and dreams. arriving with the painful anticipation of the waste of life that I knew as two hours of seminar, i saw him, sacha, late but not quite as late as me. he stared as did i as i knew and wondered if he could possibly understand my feelings, unwilling to inquire but knowing the answer without. I notice the details you miss, ignore, discard, thinking peculiarities without feeling it odd. eyes of undefined colour, hair black, thinner than would be wise but smirking. a smirk you would want nothing to do with than to slap but I didn't. i simply sat and watched. 

introducing ourselves only confirmed impressions of intelligence. listening to each intently, reasons for being a part of the course copy-pasted and slightly bastardised for their own purposes. originality is a word in a foreign language. a class on becoming a professional writer but one struck me as odd, not only lacking a desire for publication but no concern for criticism, no interest in improvement, pointless presence causing anger within me that i have only felt when witnessing other mistreatments of six thousand pound. losing time appears to be frequently in my future. 

i write notes not for memory but for mutual respect. even one person sitting at the table simply ambivalent to the work that others have taken 

the time to comment, to criticise, to help, even to hurt, placidly writing nothing in a place where others would desperately love to sit if they could find the money, the time, the acceptance. she appreciates nothing. i am not amused. 

appearing as an iguana he struck me as different not just from me but from the great unwashed, a painfully accurate euphemism. envy, jealousy, desire for what i cannot have, all three certainly but something more, the something to make me better than the others, to finally give my mother a reason to be proud of me. i would eat his brain if it meant that i could have it. the something was a number. life is numbers; everything is numbers, a credit card, a scale, a chocolate wrapper, a whiteboard. i wanted his something, the number of his intelligence, imagining it off the iq chart. i’m not stupid as f**k but i feel far from him, too far. he said not to envy him while he teaches me everything he knows. i want to know more, always more. there is never enough. i must be challenged each day, each hour, each minute, each second. i want more. i want him. 

our brains were shared, telling, showing, teaching. i knew. he knew he would die young, barely four years my senior. i suspect he won’t survive another decade. beyond that we are both fucked in the head, he is sick of body. my experience tells me that brilliance is the opposite of long life, brilliant life, desire for challenge, taking risks, dying young. people like us are not built to live long. i make myself sick with all the acronyms we fear. ed. bpd. ptsd. ocd. self harm. suicide. of course i see things but they don’t bother me. they’ve been my constant companion for twenty years, the same cartoon animals, animal noises without speech. i told the doctors my medical cocktail was far large enough already. i will die young anyway, more so when i was f*****g my ex. 

nobody comprehended why we were together. ugly as f**k, living with his parents without money, allergic to everything, shorter than a lawn gnome and almost hairless at twenty-six. full body hair, though, as if gravity took out a vendetta on what was missing from his head and glued it everywhere else. from a teenaged life with a feeding tube, he was slightly less thin than a growth-stunted rhinoceros. ironic, given that almost all food made him sick. as he began to lose weight, he sadly didn’t lose skin. 

it simply gave him the impression of an elephant on a starvation diet that was only working sometimes. i may not be the world’s greatest genius but he made me look like a rocket scientist, simply didn’t challenge me at all, bored the ever-living f**k out of me. lazy and sweet and nice. every other woman’s desire. except for the rhinoceros-meets-drawf-elephant looks. with no self confidence, it must have been that he stared at me as if i were a diamond, sparkling for only his eyes as no man had ever done. told i am beautiful, pretty, sexy, i saw none of it in the mirror, felt none of it inside. i am a monster, hideous creature staring back from the reflective depths. 

i visited stockholm with him, the syndrome at least, loved him, that man who wanted me sick as the sicker i was the more i couldn’t do without him. he was jealous, wanted to lock me away to keep me from recovering, to keep me his broken w***e in a tower with no windows. i needed him, was his, only his, his property, his paralysed vagina. overdosing was my wake up call, heart stopping for minutes and death only being defeated by accident. i returned to spain in the heat of his threats that leaving meant we would be over, a familiar diatribe about men having needs. i was simply a bound and gagged sex organ to him, a hole for his every desire 

to penetrate. spain was the end of his routine as we left each other. feeling the air free me even as i was trapped inside the flying cigar gave way to a repeated thought of vengeance. i will hurt those who hurt me, kicked me when i was down. he gave me the shovel to dig my own grave but i must kill them with success and bury them smiling. and then some. 

i will help you. his words. i doubted. he simply did. i had never planned specifically to hurt him, only vague thoughts of misery. now it was different. we planned, a plan for us. i say that’s when we became evil, together. but we were far beyond that already. at that moment we became more than best friends. it was best friends, ’till death do us part. nothing could come between us. our future, however short, was limitless. 

it was knowing the risks that excited us most. pranking, hurting, playing tricks on each other most of all. the worse the better. no limits either on us or on others. we never fucked each other but we fucked each other up better than sex, than orgasm. we love, we trust, so soon. i would give my life for him. he knows it. 

my plan was only how, missing where and when. he helped. decided, perhaps, is a better word. 

disappointing him, making mis cry, it terrified me. he could leave me without looking back but i would not survive without him, my oxygen in human form; at least, i thought he could. life suddenly lost sense without him. the excruciating pain people caused, even me, lies, disappointment, betrayal. i must be punished for causing him pain, scratching my skin until red ink poured onto the flesh embodying the lies whispered in his ears. he forgives me. i think. he drives until we stand silently planning what is to come. i cannot even feel regret even now. i had no worries for what we were to do only whether he would have fun, enjoying it as much as me. 

then what happened? the officer asked. drove. i replied coldly. i know he did but then what? arriving became waiting without speech as he held my hand and i touched his back. my looks were met with grins. we were having enough fun it could not possibly be a good sign for anyone else.

limitless. we were simply pure evil. better than love. than sex. than the sickly sweet taste of cum dripping from your lips. more powerful than giving birth, giving death. the kill. pure heroin coursing through my veins infecting my conscious, tearing my subconscious to the pieces it so desired to be and putting them back in any order it chose, infecting my blood with power.

is it fun to run down someone who has hurt you? the officer is confused. first he ran, clearly not believing the danger. as surprise turned to fear to panic to flight, he ran but it was slow motion to us. more speed would have been thrilling, blood boiling in veins, limitless power of causing fear. he ran only a few miles. the game had to end. it is boring when it is too long.

i want more. more? always. he grinned again as if i hadn’t noticed the first time. or the second. how could you understand how i felt without living it as me? walk in my shoes? forget my shoes. walk a day in my underwear and we can talk.

we slowly approached the body, tasting the emotion of power without remorse finally ended but not yet even begun, the sugar of rust mingling with the sweat in the air from the chase of the hunt. i almost hesitate to describe to you simply how sexually excited i was. almost. but i’m not that shy. i was moist. wet. soaked through to the point of almost dripping from my trousers. he said only one thing. you know you want to and i won’t judge.

i licked the taste of rust from that lifeless face, salt from his sweat. he fucked me. i raped him. does it make a difference at all in the darkness? in the death? in the street? it can’t be different here. there is something curious about sex with the dead. it is far easier. there is no other pleasure to consider. i could pretend to be a man. the kind of man who has always taken me for pleasure but given nothing back. just as he always had in life. a receptacle for his almost-penis. a deposit for his semen like a dirty twenty slipped barely noticed into an envelope at barclays, deposit receipt not required.

satisfied for the first time from that body i looked into the headlights and simply stared at sacha’s silhouette. if he weren’t turned on i was crazy.

he was content. satisfied. you’re beautiful. i wasn’t but i believed him and i still do, even knowing it was a lie.

and sacha?

what happened to him?

he pressed the question, blatantly and painfully eager to finish even though he knew the answer and didn’t want to know in the least.

home with adrenaline pouring intensity from my pores, hungry for him, desperate, needing uncontrollably. i broke and in breaking broke him. the golden goose of evil, i took inside, tasting each mouthful of brain with curiosity as to why it appeared normal in death. i couldn't swallow through the tears of what i had done. possessing without satisfaction but destroying to possess.

you will be judged in court before a jury of your peers, as if you were normal enough to even have peers. with this confession, you will simply be executed. the sooner the better if i may be so bold.

you haven’t been listening to me, have you? you just can’t understand the sweet violence of my sexual passion. it was in my head. it made me spin, a drug from inside, nothing i have ever felt before or since. it was real. more real than the conversation we are having. more real than the death that you promise me. it was what every sexual encounter cries out to be. not that they don’t cry out. but they cry out in pain or pleasure but not in question. this is what they would ask if you could tell sex to demand more for itself. not for me. not for my partner. but just for the essence of sex inside. it is what sex must be but i’ve always been too scared to make it before. 

in the case of ashley benedict spencer, has the jury a unanimous verdict? please share it with the court.

we find the accused guilty as charged of premeditated murder. murder in the first degree.

and what say you in the case of sacha kozlov, have you reached a verdict?

we find the accused guilty as charged of non-premeditated murder. murder in the second degree. 

do you now understand that you have been found guilty by your peers for the murders for which you have been tried? i hereby sentence you to the only sentence open to me in the case of you, unrepentant and happy, death by lethal injection. you will be remanded to custody in a women’s correctional facility that i cannot name here in open court where you will be kept separated from the other prisoners until the date of your execution. if you decide to waive your right to an appeal, your death will take place on the third sunday from this date in accordance with the law. the gavel was the loudest sound yet i cannot remember hearing it.

they looked as if i were a monster but i am not. i simply wanted to play. it was nothing. a game. only a game. a game they could all have played had they simply desired more than feared. it was beautiful.

sacha was there looking at me from the gallery. he smiled. i laughed.

you wanted more. you said it. he whispered it into my head completely still while the others moved around him as if they couldn’t see him in the seat staring at me.

i tried to be someone else but nothing changed. nothing fitted me but this. this is who i am inside. i have found myself at last in the moments before the end but in those moments leading up to now i knew it even if i had not yet admitted it to myself.

he was suddenly sitting next to me. what are you doing? why wait? come with me.

i looked down at the knife in my hand, cold but welcoming. the screams deafened me as it tore through my neck. blood covered the edge of the gallery and chaos erupted but i saw nothing from the floor.

today is the end. look the test in the eyes. it is a game and i have won. if you cannot see it, simply feel it. watch your friends run and hide when you want to play. there are no limits.

i have only one memory that fills my head as it empties of its crimson warmth.

before i sacrificed him for food, he didn't beg, didn't ask why or how or when. simply told me one thing. you are so fucked up, just like me. it’s why you’re perfect. don’t ever believe otherwise. 

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

This was really great. I'm not sure if I've read your stuff before. I like writing about writers, and this touched on a lot of the elements that make us who we are, without turning into some melodramatic bullshit. At times it got sort of abstract, but there was enough dramatic continuity to keep me reading. This is a piece that deserves some turtle wax. That's a good thing. Having something to edit means you have something. Thanks for the read. I was going to nip out for a smoke, but didn't because you hooked me.