Published on February 7th, 2013 | by The Alchemist56
Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Alchemist’s corner. The theme for the month will be – Twisted Love.
Its the month of Valentine and Love is in the air. Some say love is not true unless it is mad, overwhelming, consuming. All-consuming. Do you believe this?
Either way, we will take this assertion and twist it, then extrapolate it to its limits. Perhaps we will even extrapolate beyond.
This experiment is based on some ideas which I have had in a dark corner of my mind for a very long time and over the years they have mutated, changed, and taken on several different forms. One of them clawed its way out of me almost two years ago as one of the very first stories I wrote on my own blog and they are an examination of the suddenness, intensity and madness that can be ‘Love’. I have now completed them and we will exorcise this madness together.
I will present the first here again, today. It may be familiar to you already. The other two will follow in the coming weeks. They are a bit of an anti-valentine trilogy. I have co-written the other two stories with the young and promising Joshua S. Lean (@_NEBULAR_) and the darkly delightful Chioma (@weird_oo) .
Read. Enjoy (or not). See you on the other side.
It was love at first sight.
Actually, it was more than love; it was something much more profound. He felt pain when he first saw her. The kind of pain that only comes with seeing someone who is the personification of all you desire and knowing that from that moment on, you are a willing slave to them.
He had to make her his own. Take her into him. He desired more than her body, he wanted her soul. She would be his escape.
Tunji had always been a loner.
He spent more time in his own head than anywhere else. Cursed with a face that was not attractive enough to be considered desirable and yet not ugly enough to be considered ‘of character’, he had never become a true social animal. He had been bullied a lot in the days of his adolescence, which had only served to make him more reserved. Angry too. That special kind of intimate anger that comes with experiencing oppression and powerlessness simultaneously.
He had no friends save for Femi, residue from a family friendship. He knew Femi only stayed friends with him because of their family history. They had been friends since childhood and so they continued to be friends: circular logic. With no shared interests and only a few perfunctory text messages exchanged every other week, what they had was not a true friendship but a relationship of function. For all practical purposes, he was alone.
At night he occupied himself with pornography and masturbated his sorrow and loneliness for the day into a tissue. Frequently the tissue also relieved him of tears. Every so often, he weighed his life on the scales of continuity and found himself wanting. He would find himself contemplating suicide but could never summon the courage to end his life. His existence dragged on, pulled along by cowardice and a sense of grandiosity. He could not bear to think of dying as he had lived – despondently. He was waiting. Waiting for the girl that would love him unconditionally, accept him for who he was and maybe finally give him a reason to die.
Kerna was a whore.
At least that’s what they called her to her face. They called her much worse behind her back but she cared little what they said. Their words were as empty and hollow as their knowledge of her past. What could they know of the pain that had been visited upon her by her parish pastor Rev. Umokoro? What could they know of being flagellated with a leather strap whilst being forced to fellate the priest at the tender age of nine? What could they possibly know of being tied with discarded wires to the pillar in the priest’s living quarters while he repeatedly forced himself into her mouth and repeated Matthew 15:11 before forcing her to swallow his vile seed. She would never forget those words.
“What goes into a man’s mouth does not make him ‘unclean,’ but what comes out of his mouth, that is what makes him ‘unclean.’”
No. They knew nothing. So she pretended not to hear them when they drove or walked by her special spot on Allen Avenue and sneered at her, oblivious to the fact that their husbands would call out to her a few hours later once the sun went down. She was doing what she could to survive. Waiting for someone, something, to take her away from the pitiful existence she called her life.
Their eyes met on a cold, cloudy night in September.
Tunji had just finished his daily lap of the rat race and left the office late but there was no okada in front of his building to take him home as usual. He was walking toward the roundabout where he thought he could get one. He kept his head down as he walked as though hiding it from God, shuffling his feet forward. It was dangerous to be out by this time, walking down the high street alone, surrounded by whores and vagabonds, but he did not really care, what did he have that was worth being taken away from him violently?
As he looked up briefly to ascertain his location, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, standing across the road and he felt the bittersweet pain of desire as Cupid’s jagged arrow tore through his soul. She wore a short blue dress, exposing almost all there was of her creamy thighs and rendering her considerable breasts more or less free of their brassiere jailer. She was dressed in the attire of her trade, lavishly lecherous and lascivious. But it was not her appearance that he was drawn to. No. Her sorrow called to him like a beacon, her weariness of life she wore on her head like a resplendent crown of thorns. His beauty, his queen: Miss despair. To him, she was Aphrodite incarnate and broken. She was the Mona Lisa, defiled and scorned. She was his carrion Cleopatra. He ached for her. In that instant, she had become the unwitting object of his silent supplications.
His heart rate doubled and he heard his own blood pump through him turbulently. Panic set in. He was consumed with a mad lust and desire which he did not know how to react to. It was utterly irrational. He felt his feet begin to saunter forward, toward her, slowly at first and then faster with more purpose as a dark resolve which he did not know he had gained momentum.
She saw him walking toward her and in that moment she knew she wanted to lie in and die in his arms. Through his eyes she saw his soul and knew that she had been made whole. He arrived in front of her and stood close, very close, invading her personal space. She did not resist the invasion, she simply stood her ground and stared into his crazed eyes. As they stood there she peered into his eyes and saw her Angel of death. Face to face they remained, breathing into each other’s mouths for almost a full minute before he finally spoke:
“How much for a night?”
The walk to his house had seemed to last an eternity which was a good thing, because they had shared a lifetimes worth of stories in the two hours it had taken them to get there. Now they were in in his room, silently staring into each other’s eyes, lost in mutual despair. After what seemed like an eternity of comfortable silence, they both spoke at the same time, in unison:
“I want to die”
It was the culmination of everything they both wanted, as though they had been waiting for each other, each one waiting for their escort to the underworld. They had no illusions about where they would spend their afterlives, but surely it could not be much worse that their present states.
A deep passionate kiss that seemed like the first time for them both. No other kiss in their entire lives had held so much fire, so much passion and desire.
They quickly undressed and fell to the floor in a sweaty tangle of fevered passion, sweat and desperate lust. Foreplay set aside, he slapped her face violently, repeatedly as he entered and thrust deep into her and she scratched his face in response, leaving deep cuts in his cheek even as she thrust right back and bucked wildly under him. They persisted. When his legs felt weak and he slowed the pace of his thrusts, she dug her fingernails into his side, below his ribs, dragged her upper body up to his neck and bit deep into his flesh. He bled. She bit harder and felt his warm blood flow into her mouth. He howled before curling his fingers into a fist and punching her in the face, breaking her nose. She moaned and screamed simultaneously. Blood ran down her face and his neck. There was a confluence of these red streams at the place he entered her. He thrust faster as they both began to laugh madly, bleeding, moaning, and sharing their bodies and diseased souls. As he felt himself nearing the climax, he bit her nipple and pulled her hair from behind; she reached out and dug her fingers into his neck in return, and then they ripped away suddenly, peeling away skin and leaving bloodied wounds. They crested on the wave of pain and passion together.
She pulled away from him and rolled onto her side, curled into a fetal ball. He struggled to his feet, his ears ringing, and went to the kitchen where he found his large serrated cutting knife, and retrieved it. He took three candles, the knife and an old rope and went to the bathroom. He turned off the lights, plugged the bath and lit the candles, arranging them in a triangle around the dirty tub and lighting them before walking back to the room and taking her by the hand.
“It’s time” . He said
“I love you”. she replied
“You are my queen”. He said lovingly
They kissed passionately and walked to the bathroom where he sat her by the tub. His hand was shaking but his heart beat steady with resolve. He had to have her, all of her and then he would be free. They would both be free. He lifted the knife to her throat trying to remember where the carotid artery was as she closed her eyes and readied herself for the blade. He cut swiftly. She let out a rapturous gasp as her life essence sprayed onto his chest and torso and mixed with his tears and blood as he wept from the intensity of the emotion he felt. It was pure, undiluted joy. Exultation.
He methodically severed the rest of her head from her body. He tried to be gentle with her but it required some effort to cut through her spine. When he was done, he kissed the lips on her severed head and set it down at the edge of the tub before using the rope he had taken from the kitchen to suspend the headless corpse of the only woman he had ever loved upside down from the rigid bar across the ceiling, draining her blood into the bath tub. He climbed into it and sat there, enjoying the calming feel of blood dripping onto his naked stomach and the level of life fluid rise around him. He gazed into the eyes of her severed head as he sat there, absorbing the spirit of her through her lifeblood as he contemplated what he had to do next.
Tunji was at peace and for the first time he could remember, he was happy. The events of the last four hours had been nothing short of amazing. Inconceivable, yes; unbelievable, yes; still, amazing. He let out the deep breath he had been holding and slowly lowered his head into the bath of blood, fighting his natural instinct to breathe, to survive. He went under and held his breath until he felt himself begin to feel disoriented. His lungs burned and begged for air but received blood instead as the darkness engulfed him and the last bastion of resistance in him finally surrendered.
He gave into the warm darkness and let it take him to be with his one true love, draped in a garment of her essence.