Page 66 of Penance

Charlie

Christmas Day

Amacabre symphony of cries is my only vice. I don’t like a lot of other noise. I don’t like to be around a lot of people. Humans, in my opinion, are scum of the earth. They take, they break and like a plague, they ruin everything they touch. Then there are those who are a special brand of evil, the ones who don’t only ruin the earth but other humans too. They’re my obsession, my poison, my antidote. I feed on their life force before I put them in the ground.

I protect what I love and destroy whatever tries to take that away from me; no one will ever steal what is mine.

My family business thrives on the certainty that there are people on this earth who do bad things. Not one member of the Swallow family is innocent in this game we call life, we just play it differently.

Louder.

Bloodier.

Dirtier.

Moreviolently.

Blood pools around his toes that barely scrape the floor. A man strung up from a meat hook like the filthy beast that he is. His arms stretching high above his head, bound together with rope, intertwined with barbed wire. If I just hook his hands up with barbed wire it’ll slash his wrists from the weight of his body, killing him far too quickly.

I need to make him bleed.

Slowly.

Every inch of him is covered in glistening ruby, thick crimson coating his skin. Drying like scales, flaking off in some places, wet and dripping in others.

No.

I like the blood.

The smell, colour, texture, thetaste. Everything about it has me lit up inside like that fucking monstrosity of a Christmas tree my dad has displayed upstairs.

The smell of the Norway spruce wafts through this daunting marble mansion in thick, cloying waves. It makes me think of the outdoors. The harsh howl of the winter wind, the setting afternoon sun low on the horizon. The feel of the damp earth squelching between my naked toes.

The want to run, theneed.

To strip myself bare, thrash my way through the dense forest. The sharp pine branches lashing at my pale, inked skin. Beads of scarlet dripping down my chest, coating me in hot sticky claret. The bottoms of my feet splitting open, a trail left behind,ofme.

Closed in, trapped. I don’t like small spaces; I need large open areas. I need freedom, to stretch, breathe, to think. I sometimes feel so trapped inside this tight skin of mine that I want to dig my fingernails beneath my flesh and peel it all back.

Display my insides.

Tendon, muscle, bone.

I’ve seen it all. Felt it all. Exposed it.

I want to see my own.

Feel it, expose nerves and tug at veins, press my fingers in so deep I get lost inside myself and never find a way out.

The lone wolf.

Except, this wolf has a pack. Oftentimes feeling suffocated by it, all the while, still missing something, a single component perhaps. A feeling, an emotion, adesire.

A mate.

For my badly beating heart, for mypain.

Someone I could destroy as they destroy me. Someone else who has suffered the way I have. Someone who wants to play in the dark with me, appreciate my art for what it is.