The Bloody Battle

The eve of battle dawned and the last words of courage slipped from her lips. It was not long now. Dusk descended leaving casting the battlefield into darkness; what remained of the night sky was stained red with the promise of blood.

Warrior goddess, your time has come.

Her heart ached in synchrony with the seeping wound. She repressed the desire to clutch desperately; better than she had fallen at such an infliction, but she would not tell. Brandishing her weapon, she placed a steady hand on the young girl kneeling before her.

‘Our people have fought this evil since the dawn of mankind. It is time you learned to protect yourself. It is okay to be weak. It is okay to cry. But never – never is it okay to admit defeat. One day it will be your turn to pass on these teachings, but until then you will grow strong and resilient in the eyes of our enemy. Take to battle with pride, take shit from no one, and remember that I will always be here.’

‘Mum,’ the young girl groaned, accepting the sanitary towel from her mother, ‘stop being so dramatic.’ Her mother chuckled, hugging the hot water bottle to her lower stomach.

‘Oh, young fool. You know nothing of the pain yet to come.’


Periods are a bitch. As an attempt to distract myself from my own, here is the tale of a mother teaching her daughter of the soon to come curse of the female body.

What?

Monday had come and gone with little consideration for the contract. Heavy fingers paused above the keys of the laptop, unsure of their journey. Slowly, she typed out the following message: ‘I’m sorry.’

The clawed fingers curled around her shoulder, a false reassurance, as she backed away from the screen. She had failed her task. It was too late. The skin of her shoulder, captured by the talons, separated from her body as cheese would slip from a pizza slice.

Satisfied with the quality of the payment, more hands emerged from the shadows, repeatedly sinking into her body and claiming what was rightly theirs.

Transaction completed, the seeping mass of muscle and bone that remained collapsed to the floor. The contract fulfilled, and payment made, only the promise of never again breaking schedule survived.


I missed two Mondays in a row, so yes I am a shitty person. So as an apology please accept this shitpost as a lazy substitute.

Stain

It was a stubborn stain of a unique complexion – a blush pink mark which spread across the surface like a growing contusion. ‘No pain, no gain’ she whispered as the bleach bit at her hands and seeped into microscopic cuts at the fingertips. Gritted teeth bared the signs of stress as the ritualistic cleaning continued.

The circular motions of the sponge steadily infused the pink of the stain into the transparent cleaning solution, forming a palette of varying hues. Coral, magenta, and salmon mingled with no distinct boundaries into an abstract work of art. The towel used to mop the mess took on a psychedelic pattern.

The last of the stain surrendered to a final rinse and bitterly descended the drain. Slow movements eased the rigid muscles in her fingers, relief at the completion such an arduous task making the motions more durable. A well-deserved bath was long due.

She lowered herself into the filling bath, allowing the water to lap gently at her body, the numerous bubbles bringing childish enjoyment to the serene joy. Eyes fell shut as the bath reached its maximum capacity. Breathing slowed to the hushed sounds of slumber.

The water surrounding her took on a familiar pink tint, each breath forcing out a ripple of the colour. Molten skin slowly sloughed off her forearm, the gelatinous lumps buoyant in the bath water. The tell-tale sting of bleach-treated skin was no longer unpleasant, but a titillating sensation.

Stubbornly waking, she withdrew herself from the bathtub. A faint red ring remained as the water drained away, depositing the gelatinous skin fragments at the base of the bathtub. Rummaging through the bathroom cleaning cabinet, she removed a more petite bottle of bleach. Using the remaining contents, she liberally sprayed the tub before rinsing the scene away.

Slipping on the silk dressing gown that hung from the door, she let the sleek material sooth the wound. Within a month she would be the human embodiment of purity – perfection. Her fingers ran the length of her thighs, body thrumming at the thought. The surface was textured but the patches of skin no longer gooey to the touch and, like patchwork, the scars wove together into a discoloured quilt of flesh.


I have no idea if this makes sense, and it is semi-finished, but a late post is better than no post.

Sewing

She was not an inexperienced sewer but she was not a good one either; the scattered marks on pierced fingertips could certainly attest to this. Nonetheless, she posed needle in hand deciding the best approach to the task at hand. Black thread, she nodded to herself, don’t want to overdo it with the colour. She suspended the thread high above her head, the glare of the bulb outlining the barely visible strand. A gentle hum danced across her lips as she threaded the needle, already she could envision the completed project. It had been Gwen’s idea. The two were tied at the hip, as the saying goes. She excitedly pressed her finger against the prick of the needle. Repeated stabbing had made her somewhat immune to the pain of sewing.

The end of the thread traced each movement she made, chasing the needle as Jo prepared her equipment. A spare spool of black thread lay within arm’s reach of her seat stood neatly before a rusting tool box. Rogue clumps of knotted wool escaped from the hastily closed lid, their tails tangled around various screwdrivers and wrenches. Organisation was not a skill of hers but convenience was. Why buy a new box when you had a perfectly good one with available space at home? It was absolute genius, although it did require a good disinfecting before she willingly added her sewing equipment. Besides the spool she placed a pair of dainty nail scissors, and besides that a pair of rather intimidating garden shears. The shears were decaying at the handles, but still had plenty of life left in them – or at least that’s what Jo continued to tell herself. In the small space left between the scissors and the spool, she set a mug containing an odd brown liquid and rested a towel against its side.

Finally prepared, she took her seat on the table needing as much room as possible. Taking a hefty handful of material, she positioned the needle above the marked spot. Jo pressed the tip of the needle gently into the material, watching the red droplet form around it, before fully penetrating it. A fine stream of red flowed freely, lessening her grip on the needle. Worry lined her face as she momentarily grasped at the slick metal, expression only relaxing when she had successfully forced the needle out the other side. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the panic to subside and wiped both the needle and her hands on her bare chest. Gwen’s sleeping figure had not stirred at the wound, still resting peacefully under the influence of Rohypnol. It had been difficult to acquire, but worth the struggle.

Swiping the towel from the side, she dipped it into the strange brown liquid. Taking to her feet, Jo swabbed the fluid onto her right side, hoping that it would not stain as she liberally applied it.

The smile returned with sudden vigour and she lay back on the table. Taking the needle in one hand she grabbed her side with the other, pulling a chunk of the flesh towards Gwen’s body. Having learned from the first stich, she held the needle in a tight fist and drove it through the hunk of flesh at her side. She winced at the pain, folding in on herself as she ignored the warmth that slowly seeped along her back. With deep breaths and gritted teeth, she continued with the project, determined to meet its end-point.

Each stich sounded with a wet slap from the force of her hand. Sharp hitches of breath came from Gwen as her sleep became more restless, the sounds striking a discord with one another. Excitement fled into Jo’s veins as she neared the final stitch; it seemed that she would wake just in time to reveal the surprise.

Teeth bared in animalistic pride, she tore through the thread with pointed canines. A length of thread approximately one foot fell to the floor, hanging loosely between Gwen’s writhing body and her own calm figure. Groping blindly for the mug, her fingers met with the familiar ceramic allowing her to spill the soothing antiseptic on the open wounds surrounding the stitches. Soon, the towel replaced the mug and she wiped away the excess fluid, the red and brown infusing into a disgusting wasteland beneath the table.

From her hair, Jo pulled at the strand of the bow that held the hair from her face, the bow collapsing into one long strand of ribbon. Interlacing this ribbon between their stitches, she finished off with a decorative bow just over their waist.

Gwen’s body had stopped fighting, her form now flaccid. The sharp, hitches of pain had mellowed into deep, concentrated breaths that gave the impression of the struggle for air. Her hand lay limp against her side. Her eyes open and void of emotion, staring relentlessly upwards. A creeping hand belonging to Jo intertwined with her own, which did not respond.

Jo smiled, placing a delicate kiss on Gwen’s cheek. They could only get closer. They were tied at the hip. Literally.

No Struggle

The moonlight crept through the window, dancing along her skin. Dust spiralled and twirled between the beams of light, slowly approaching the girl until they landed upon the yellowed skin. Deep gashes dominated her forearms, blood seeping from the wounds; the deep red rivulets printed on her skin. Staggered breaths escaped from her lips, the small puffs of mist becoming lost in the moonlight. Her eyelashes fluttered as she fought for one last moment. It wasn’t really a struggle if she didn’t fight.

Twelve hours. She had timed it perfectly. In twelve hours they would find her. In twelve hours they would find her body, her veins exposed to bitter winter air as the last drops of life coagulated at their openings.

An autopsy would be demanded. Just in case there was a chance that they weren’t to blame. Just in case they hadn’t murdered yet another person.

But they would find nothing.

Nothing except the wild scratches lining the inside of her thighs, the skin beneath her fingernails, and the mutilated remains of her vaginal opening. The barbed wire clenched in her bloodied fist draped down her body, caressing her hips before becoming lost in the stringy remains of her sexuality. The penetration was excruciating, but she fought against the pain for the satisfaction. It wasn’t a struggle if she didn’t fight.

Despite the pain and the blood, her only relief lay in the fact that at least this penetration was by her own will. Her own choice. Her own consent. The last one wasn’t.

The bleeding then was nothing in the light of her new state. But that didn’t make it hurt less. The rips healed, the bruises faded, but the scars remained ingrained on her soul. But, she didn’t fight. She didn’t fight. There was no struggle if you didn’t fight. There was no rape if there was no struggle.

Well, she’d struggled now. She held the remains of her struggle in the meeting of her thighs, in the perforated skin of her hands, in the receding soul that screamed for salvation through her eyes.

There was no struggle if she didn’t fight.

This was a god damn struggle. But at least this struggle ended with peace.

To Any Potential Readers

If anyone has read any of my previous posts, they will be aware of the dark content which they contain. This is a warning for any potential readers that if you have any past-experiences or mental illness that could be triggered by certain content then please read the tags before reading a post. I write from such dark topics because I have an interest for horror, thriller, and the unknown, but I do not wish for this to have any adverse effects on potential readers. If a post will have any particularly strong topics I will give an advanced warning.

Next Monday’s post will contain the follow warnings: rape/implied-rape, self-harm, self-mutilation, suicide/implied-suicide.

Please take care, and approach my posts with caution.

-Fleeting Temptations

My Child

My child. My. Child.

The words, so unnaturally they form in the depths of my throat. Yet as they slip from my tongue… So right.

That is my child.

Her black curls cradle her face oh so perfectly, each spiral moving of its own accord in a stunning resemblance to the Medusa who tempted Zeus so. And how she tempts me.

I wish to possess her deepest desires and anxieties, to be the breast she rests upon in times of need. To be the symbol of beauty and love that shapes her future. To be her mother.

A giggle bubbles from her throat as I approach. She knows – senses – that her mother is near. That I am near. Oh, my child. Worry not. Our time is soon. I cannot care for you just yet. I need just a few more moments to prepare.

There’s not long left, now.

Don’t worry.

My hands are contaminated, I know this. But how you tempt me. My hands, though tainted, shall envelop you in the warmth of my love.

Do not cry my child, mother is here now. The bad people are gone. They can no longer keep me away.

Do you see that? That hand print is a sign of my love.

Every day I watched you – I couldn’t leave you unsupervised in their care. Everyday I rested my hand against that window pane, preparing myself for the day I could rest it against the curve of your neck.

Hush those tears. I know you are too young to understand, but just know this.

I love you, my child.

They’re not here to tell you lies anymore.

Mother. Father. Cruel lies. Evil lies.

You are mine and no other’s. I have known this since the beginning of time.

You are mine.

My child.

 


[This story is a previously written one, in which I attempted to take on a different style of writing from my usual one. It is a very open-ended text that could be interpreted as you wish, however it was written with one specific idea/concept in mind. Maybe some day I’ll share my own interpretation of the text I’ve written]