My father was an abusive alcoholic whose idea of fun was to
get pissed real good and bit my mother to a bleeding pulp.
He killed her when I was 7 years old and I stood there and
watched as he tore bits of flesh and fat and veins off her
body and crushed them against the wall painting it a
disgusting shade or red and yellow. When my brother turned
25 he ripped out my father's heart with his bear hands and
shoved it down his throat. Seven years later, at 32, he died
in the gutters of this city, holding his own guts in his
palms and wondering just how is it that he got there. I was
18 at that point, and the only family I had was an aunt who
was hospitalized after peeling off all the skin from her
boss's body using a razor blade.
That was when I met Jay. He was the only beacon of light in
what seemed to be a life consumed by death and hate and
darkness. He was the only friend I had, or the only one who
hasn't left me when I wasn't looking, anyway. He raped me
every other day while his girlfriend watched. The one
recollection I have from my late teens is his fingers
invading me and his tongue on my body and those dead eyes of
Cassandra, his girl, looking at me. He wasn't gay, he just
like having sex with 18 year old guys, the draft old fool.
Both him and Cassandra died at the hands of a mob assassin
who simply had the wrong address. Jay had his cock cut off,
put into his mouth, and then his head cut off and forced up
his arse. Cassandra was inserted with an inner-vaginal
grenade that blew up inside of her and tore her stomach from
the inside out.
I think I was 24 when I started writing, I wrote the
"letters" in a bunch of porno magazines and started drinking
in the same bar my father used to get drunk in.
That was where I met Arian, the one woman I even loved or
cared for or understood and the one person in this world who
didn't plot to hurt or kill or cripple me all the bloody
time. My three years with her were the only period in my
life which I never wished had been different. We would make
love all night long and sleep until noon and walk around the
streets all day, pretending to know where we were going or
why. She was a two bit porn actress, and she was the goddess
of my world. And when I lie in my bed at night I can still
remember her perfume and that smile she smiled just for me,
but it's all just faded memories now. She died, just like
the rest of them, far too soon, when she was 29 and I was 28
a man named Erik Gordon drowned her in the preserved semen
of the forty three members of the Raven Cycle cult as part
of a ritual to summon up the anti-Christ. A week after I
found out who was responsible for her death, all forty three
of them were grinned to no more than dust and blood. By me.
But her death proved one thing to me; I need to make a
difference, because I get one chance and one chance alone.
Life never works the way they should, and neither does
death, I guess. I force people to open their eyes and see
the world as it is because we all get just this one chance.
After this life, who's to say all the murderers and rapists
and pedophiles and Satanists go to hell? And all those who
are righteous and just go to heaven?
I've seen nothing but death in my life, and realized life is
all I have.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I thought of quite enough
death for one night.
I'll just go and throw up now.