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Keep Bleeding, Love

Submitted by DaBeast at 2008-10-03 01:12:33 EDT
Rating: 0.6 on 6 ratings (6 reviews) (Review this item) (V)

Keep Bleeding, Love



I settle the headset over my ears, flip the switch, and speak into the air with a false hardiness, "Welcome, guys and ghouls, on this All Hallows' Eve, to the Midnight. This is Guy Fawkes and I'll be your host for the next three hours so call in! The number's 555-4312 and tonight, I wanna hear your spookiest stories! If they're good enough, I'll put you on the air and you can share your tale with the KFAX audience and, at the end of the Midnight, you'll get to vote on the best story by hitting the KFAX website. Winner gets a $50 gift card to the shop of their choice and their story gets showcased on KFAX online!"

A lean to one side, hit two buttons, give the kid in the booth the thumbs up, and back to spiel, "This year, we're gonna start the Midnight with a little ditty. Here's "Bleeding Love" by some pop starlet with a name that I can't bother to remember. Call me! I'm bored!"

I cue the music. Now comes the wait...


-_-_-_-_-_-


"Closed off from love
I didn't need the pain
Once or twice was enough
And it was all in vain
Time starts to pass
Before you know it you're frozen..."

The music flutters from a broken speaker somewhere nearby but she doesn't pay attention. Heels slip on the rain-slick pavement and she falls, again. The dress - oh! the beautiful red dress! - it's torn and it's dirty and the hem is ragged and caked with mud and pieces of debris. Her long, curly black hair is damp with the rain and it sticks to her cheeks and her neck as if, somehow, it would shield her. Her eyes, so beautiful and blue and wide, are panic stricken and terrified and sweet. She knows she shouldn't but the instinct is too strong, the imperative primal, and she can't resist.

She looks back.

The icicle enters her throat and the red sprays as if from a sprinkler.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"But something happened
For the very first time with you
My heart melted into the ground
Found something true
And everyone's looking 'round
Thinking I'm going crazy..."

Her blonde hair is sweat slick just like her skin where it isn't clothed in blood. She dances from the chains around her wrists, resisting the gravity and the metal and the pulley system and her body bounces off of the western wall as she fights it. She's tired as much from the terror as from her struggle but she doesn't give up. Her lips, so red and full and lovely, part on another scream and it rises over the music.

Her song, that's the real music.

A hundred little slices to her sweet, tender limbs and that flesh so warm and inviting and wonderful exudes a heady primitive perfume. Days and days have passed, but still she fights. Her will to live is strong.

She won't die until that will has exhausted itself. It has been sworn and so it will be.

But, until then, she sends forth the rapture with her wonderful song and it is heard and it is good.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"But I don't care what they say
I'm in love with you
They try to pull me away
But they don't know the truth
My heart's crippled by the vein
That I keep on closing
You cut me open and I..."

Her scars are many and they cover her arms and her thighs but still she feels no joy, no life. She takes the razor blade and opens a new pathway to the pain that tells her she must be alive, for, if she weren't, then there would be no pain.

The pain tells her that she is real and she needs it more than air, or water, or food.

The blood flows slowly, at first, so she slices into the flesh, again. The pain! The pain isn't everything; it's the only thing. The pain is God and she worships, obediently.

The bedroom door opens. A tall dark figure stands limned in the light from the bulb in the hallway.

She looks up.

"Here, let me."

Dutifully, she holds forth the razor blade. Her voice is tiny and her darkling eyes are bright. "Yes, please. Make me alive."

Somewhere, nearby, there is music.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
I keep bleeding
I keep, keep bleeding love
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
You cut me open..."

The green dress is tattered and dirty but it swirls around her, a billowing cloud of grimy emerald. The dark figure holds her close, arms clasped tightly around her waist, and they dance to the music, together in a universe comprised of chords and rhythmn and notes.

Her feet are bare and the bottoms have been torn open and the blood has smeared the floor and made of it a treacherous slick and the emerald and the crimson are the only colors that exist in this space.

Slowly, they turn together, through patches of light and darkness and the beauty of it isn't marred at all by the film of death covering her eyes.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"Trying hard not to hear
But they talk so loud
Their piercing sounds fill my ears
Try to fill me with doubt
Yet I know that their goal
Is to keep me from falling..."


They talk and they medicate and they lock people away but what good do they ever do, really? None at all. Fuck the prozac and fuck the doctors and fuck the God-damned solitary.

Solitary only breaks those that haven't learned to love it.

Thorzine is a laughable injection and did it save that pretty nurse? No. Her eyes as dark as the back of a closed closet, her lips as rich as cabernet, her menthol kisses, and her whiskey rough voice and those pretty, perfect breasts that bled so fucking perfectly when the dull, stolen butter knife slid into the interstice between gland and muscle.

The blood is all! So salty, so sweet, so pristine as it ran in little rivulets down her abdomen and into the soft, hot spaces between her legs and when you tilt her just right, she becomes a cup and to drink from her, over and over and over again, was nothing more nor less than unadulterated joy.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"But nothing's greater
Than the rush that comes with your embrace
And in this world of loneliness
I see your face
Yet everyone around me
Thinks that I'm going crazy
Maybe, maybe..."

Fingers gliding across her sharp cheekbones, feeling the lashes brush against the fingertips, the curve of her mouth falling beneath the palm. Sightless eyes, the orbs plucked long since, and to stare into the dark holes is like staring into the face of God. Her hair is titian and the lights pick out the golden heights of it and it radiates back, a halo around her soft face.

The dimples on the back of her knees is tender and as sweet as her fluids and draining them all into the gallon jugs is tricky and arduous but well worth the effort.

She tastes almost as good as her rapidly cooling flesh.

The blood is warm and wet and sticky but so is the orgasm.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"But I don't care what they say
I'm in love with you
They try to pull me away
But they don't know the truth
My heart's crippled by the vein
That I keep on closing
You cut me open and I..."

Mother! No! Not the closet! Not again! NOOOOooooooO!

The door slams and the chair scrapes over the wooden floor before it snugs into place beneath the door knob. The rug crunches as it's pushed into the space between the door and the floor.

This is loneliness, here, in the mothball-scented darkness, with only the cockroaches for company. They know you're a discard, they sense it with their little antannae, and they crawl over you slowly. The sting of bites is from the spiders, angry at being disturbed. The bites and the splinters from the old wooden floor sliding into your flesh and the cockroaches feasting on the blood and then it starts.

Outside the door, the smell of cheap cherry liquor, the gutteral laughter of crude men, and the grunting as the bed begins to squeak and protest and there... she's crying out... her alcohol-fueled ecstasy evident and loud and uncaring.

Money crinkles as it changes hands and then there's the silence, for a little while, before the music begins and the symphony happens all over again.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
I keep bleeding
I keep, keep bleeding love
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
You cut me open..."

The man is angry and she isn't here to take the brunt of it because she has stolen his wallet and she has gone, forever.

His fists are the size of hams and they're as cold and implacable as a frozen chicken and they strike like hammers. The face can't take much abuse and it takes very little before the nose is nothing more than pulp and the mouth a swollen, bloody mess and the eyes are red, then purple, then black and then the darkness comes, again, but the pain never, ever stops.

Life is pain, then, yes.

And when the face is no longer recognizable and the body is huddled, there, upon the floor, the kicks begin and he's a man that earns his meager living in manual labor, so his boots have steel toes and it's a simple thing, really, to break ribs and crack bones; and then the organs begin to take the brunt without the bones to protect them. And then the darkness comes more heavily and it is a Heaven.

So Heaven is the Nothing. Then... God must be there, somewhere, in the Dark.

And I ask for Him but He does not answer. So, then I plead. And then I beg. And then I prostrate myself, there, in the Dark.

He does not come.

But the music does.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"And it's draining all of me
Oh they find it hard to believe
I'll be wearing these scars
For everyone to see..."

The bones reknit, the cuts heal, and the body returns somewhat to normalcy, but the scars and the limp and the grotesque will never ever leave. There is no insurance, there is no money, and there is no benefactor for a child found dying in a dumpster behind a fast food restaurant in the bad part of town so there is no plastic surgery, there is no kindness, there is only revulsion.

The once-hated Dark is now Home and only there may I ever feel completely, wholly alive. But then, even that fades away. So, then the pain becomes a sometimes habit that escalates into an all-consuming need until it, too, loses its flavor. Then I find the blood, for a while, but not long enough.

Then, one dark night, in an alley behind a sleazy bar and I hear her voice again for the first time in over a decade. She has degenerated from whore thief to an addled, crack addict desperate enough to do anything for a fix.

It is there, in the alley, where I feel her neck beneath my hands and taste her blood for the first time.

And then I feel Alive and there, in the distance, is the music.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"I don't care what they say
I'm in love with you
They try to pull me away
But they don't know the truth
My heart's crippled by the vein
That I keep on closing
You cut me open and I..."

The next one was nothing so eloquent or so Right but it was even more necessary for it answered the Question and I knew, then, that Her Blood was not the best, it was merely the first.

And I held the little whore close and I danced with her through patches of light and darkness and the music swelled and surrounded us and made us One.


-_-_-_-_-_-


"Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
I keep bleeding
I keep, keep bleeding love
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
You cut me open and I
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
I keep bleeding
I keep, keep bleeding love
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love
You cut me open and I
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love..."

I cut the music and speak into the air, "Hey, Brandy! That was a GREAT story! You've definitely got a shot at the Grand Prize. Let me just get your full name, address, and phone number for our records. Keep listening to find out if you're our All Hallow's Eve contest winner."

She speaks and her voice is tender and soft and sweet and I imagine how her blood and flesh will feel upon my tongue and I smile.




There_Will_Be_Blood_Tonight.jpg
There_Will_Be_Blood_Tonight.jpg


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Submitted by kaos-king at 2008-10-03 09:08:18 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by zoobie2000 at 2008-10-03 08:37:38 EDT (#)
Rating: -2

wtf i'm not reading all that

Submitted by F.J.Bell at 2008-10-03 06:45:18 EDT (#)
Rating: 0

I loathe that song...

Submitted by DaBeast at 2008-10-03 06:38:55 EDT (#)
Rating: 0

Hrmm well, when considering the story cast of characters, that the "hero" of the piece is just to the left of "stark raving psycho", it seemed "disjointed" was the best way to go. Ah well. This will show me not to let a chick pick the radio station in the car next time.

Of course, it could just be my own perversity speaking, for I did enjoy trashing one of her "favorite songs" (see *blechpop*).


Submitted by sexualchocolate1984 at 2008-10-03 05:16:50 EDT (#)
Rating: 1

Must check the number of reviews, 1 x +2 does not mean a good post.

This was OK, long, tedious, disjointed, but OK.

Submitted by EmissionImpossible at 2008-10-03 03:40:40 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Oh I cant read this at 20 to 9 in the morning.


Hello? Yes? Oh! Heh, heh, uh ... if you're looking for that big donut
of yours ... um, Flanders has it. Just smash open his house. (Closing
the door.) He came to life. Good for him.

-- Homer Simpson
Treehouse of Horror VI