Abysmal Tale Number Two: The Cycle.

Welcome back.

This is a story of one with not quite the complete soul others take for granted everyday, and a section of a never ending cycle of death.


I call this one, The Cycle.


Another day, another endless boring day of life. I do the things I do every day and I do them well, like a machine programmed with some old worn out code, forgotten by all. I do not care one way or another how it happens, but it always seems to go this way, this exact way. Constantly.

I have a name, but I do not wish to share it with you. You may read this and you may know me, the real me underneath this mask you see every day and the one that some try to get past. Now it is my turn to speak out and there is no better way to do it than to show the entire world, now is there?

Let me tell you of my life, my dreams, and my power of course. I was born with the ability to see things that others cannot see. I was born with the power to; well let us just call it reading between the lines of what people really mean. This had come at a high price, let me tell you of this price.


These prices are nothing physical, it is entirely spiritual, or if you do not believe in that sort of thing, let’s just call it a mental disability. I have no room in my life for love, compassion or sympathy. The ones who live on this make me sick, physically disgusted in ways that defy description here with words. It makes you want to lash out in anger and frustration at anything living, just so you can watch them suffer for your own enjoyment. We all have our demons in us. Mine just happen to be real.

I cannot go to places and see people who are happy, it drives me insane just looking at them, filled with rage and hate that has no logical source. It is a fire that fills my body with energy, this is the only time I feel truly alive, when I hate and despise another human being for simply existing. I am completely alone in my feelings, they speak to me, they tell me to do terrible things, but I find them attractive. The cold chills filling my body with anticipation are unbeatable in this respect, you would have to experience it yourself to truly understand. Until then you will never know how it is.


So I go places, my eyes give me away to the unconscious minds of the people I am around when I enter a place, they can feel my hate when they look at me, it drives them away from me, this is a problem. But it is a problem easily fixed, I force myself to suppress the hate one more time, just one more time. I can do it, but it's never an easy task, it always fights for dominance, I promise it will have its chance and the beast inside of me waits patiently for its chance to strike out against the world, but it will not wait in silence.

Tonight, I will go to some club. I dress up and make myself look good enough to get into the place. Controlling people is easy enough, a word here a suggestion there and you get what you want, eye contact is the key. This is no easy task. People can always sense what you really want when you look into their eyes, I pass this time around and in to the wasteland I go.

I am a predator of the highest order, my senses come to life and nothing escapes my attention, nothing. The lights are flashing rapidly, people everywhere not paying attention to anything but themselves, completely oblivious to their surroundings, and as more of the alcohol is consumed throughout the course of the night it becomes more severe in this situation.


It is time to play my game, I make the rules I am the game. I see her there, alone and helpless. She is wearing red and her eyes are brown and her hair is perfectly matching. I read her body language with ease, she feels nervous and she knows I am watching her; this could not be a more perfect situation for me. I make my move and make my way through the crowd with ease, the people move out of my way, I will them to move and they do.

She looks up at me with those beautiful and endless eyes and she looks into mine. She is far to wasted to realize the danger she is in, too far gone to know the horror that I have planned for her in the near future, but, first thing is first of course. Introductions are made, conversation established. It takes a few sweet words to get her to open up to me; it only ever takes just a few words to get them to open up.

One thing always leads to another, but I am in complete control of the situation, I always know what I am going to do next. I consider it a talent I have and soon enough I am leading her out of the club..And out into the street, out into that lonely dark street. Now would be a perfect time to strike. No witnesses, but no I am just not that simple, I continue to lead her on with words and sometimes I wonder if she even knows where she is at?


Not more than ten minutes later We are at my house. I know what she is thinking; I know what she wants now. I consider that as the highest form of treason in my world though, now I strike. I lead her to a bed, not my bed of course this one is a special one. If she was more aware of the situation she would have noticed the small details I had left out, but she does not notice at all, perfect.


With in minutes she is out of that dress and on this special bed of mine. I study every inch of her body and commit it to my memory that is almost near perfect. Her body is not perfect in the traditional sense of the word, but to me, it will do the job just fine. My anticipation grows and I play out one of her fantasies, I am beginning to wonder if this not on the minds of every woman out there at some point. I tie her up, no tie is not exactly right, we will use the word chain, or shackled if you will.


Slowly I place her into her earned submission, she does not complain oddly enough, then I walk away from the scene and leave her in silence for only a few minutes, just enough to let her body cool off and allow the torment to begin for her just a bit early. Just as that sweet voice of hers starts to make a sound, I return, and when I do her eyes go wide with horror, and she starts to scream and struggle against the chains.


The movement of her body is special and unique in its own way, it is very entrancing and it is good to watch. The beast inside of me comes out. The reason for her screaming is in my hand, there is a blade that reflects the light off of it. I suppose it would be terrible, but this is not my problem. I wait until she can no longer struggle, she is breathing hard and only has enough energy left to scream, and she will scream.

I let the beast out and self control is all but a distant memory, the movie is about to start and it is a private showing just for me. That blade traces across her white skin, it will not cut, not yet. It almost sounds like she likes it maybe it thinks we are kidding and do not mean to do this thing. How wrong she would be. The blade slides through her skin with ease, then the blood comes out of her. I pull the blade up the length of her leg, one inch at a time, moving so slowly. I have to cherish these moments while they last, I have to remember the screams and the reactions to the pain.

Her muscles and body comes to life. We envy this reaction. We bleed every day and feel nothing. Her obvious rejection makes us more determined to finish our work. She begins to cry and beg to be let go. We would listen to her but we already have what we want. That knife eventually moves to the inner thigh then it comes out, we repeat the same motions on the other leg, again cherishing every scream drop of blood and involuntary reaction from the body, it is invigorating to say the least, well to us anyway. She does not feel the same way, but who cares what she feels, as long as it is pain, this is all that matters to us.

We slowly move to the midsection and insert this blade once more, not too deeply though, just enough to make her feel it, and she does once again. So she does not try and kill herself too early we hold her down. We are close enough to smell her fear now, and she is close to losing her mind we think, but you can never be too sure about these things at times like these. The blade runs across her once perfect mid section, now it is all bloody, it covers everything. She actually looks beautiful like this and I almost want to stop, almost.

Her breasts are also stained with her own blood; she is shaking, going into shock much earlier than I had expected her to. This is not suffering, this is not pain. This is a disappointment and I will have none of it anymore. I slice her throat open in a fit of rage that I was supposed to be curing, but I failed this time. From left to right her throat opens up and her life blood spills out onto the bed sheets and some gets on me it is rather disgusting to have anything that is not yours, on you. She gurgles her last breath and finally she is released from me.

Anything she was is gone now, I am not sated. But then I suppose I am never free of my curse, because like the rest of my life this too is perfectly normal, and it always fails to work. I am nothing if I am not persistent in my methods and I will keep doing this until my need is taken care of. I will clean up later on I decide as I move from the scene to go make something to eat.

Tomorrow is a new day, and the cycle will start all over again.