willswench
Cadet
Isn’t it weird how we all feel a little bit strange sometimes? How our worlds just seem to stop revolving and our lives seem to stop still?
My life is an aria; some Italian masterpiece that I cannot decipher. It’s written, I do believe, in a dead language that I am not aware of – because no matter how hard I try, I cannot unravel the mystery of my own song.
Isn't it odd how we become numb to the pain, and how our tortured thoughts just seem to fade away into a mindless oblivion because we have made or dreamed of something that is perfect?
I dream of something perfect…
I dream of soft, satin skin awaiting my touch, eager for my nails to mark its delicate flesh; for my fingers to make it itch, to make it tingle. I dream of soft, pert breasts just begging for red lines to mar it, so that I can write my name in blood; so I can leave my mark.
I love the feel of silk beneath my fingertips, and in my dreams, her blood tastes better than any vintage wine I’ve had the pleasure of sampling..
Have you ever looked at somebody for so long that their face begins to change? Begins to mould itself into something other than what you have grown to know? It used to happen to me when I was a child. I would look at my mother, watching me in the dark, and she would become the vision of my nightmares. Right before my eyes, she would metamorphosise into a demon, her face becoming black and her eyes becoming non existent. I would cry, and she wouldn't know why. I would scream, and she couldn't come near me.
My mother didn’t comfort me in my darkest hours…and neither did anybody else. I’ve been to countless psychologists who have diagnosed countless ridiculously named syndromes within me, all stemming back from my cold, unloving childhood. I’m like a text book of syndromes, I do believe, and I often wonder what I’d be worth if I sold myself for psychiatric research.
Money, like sex and fine wine, are the only pleasures I know.
In my dreams, my mother and father were monsters, waiting to devour me alive, spitting out my bones and grinding them down into nothingness.
With Sydney…with my beautiful, subconscious, Dream Miss Bristow… it is different.
She’s like a recurring nightmare, because she is the vision of my weakness; my one and only vulnerability. She is the image of what I want, but will never have.
In my dreams, I look across the room from my chair, and I see her face change before me. Her eyes, which had before seemed so lifeless and so tired, become alive. They sparkle in the abstract moonlight that is the shimmering chandelier above us, glistening in their gentle chestnut brown way. Her mouth, which had been so dead and so dormant, becomes a depiction of beauty as it opens up into a wide, loving smile. Her face, which had been so sad, lights up as though she were dancing.
'When we dance, angels would run and hide their wings.....'
Something inside me makes an astounded realisation, one which makes my cold heart suddenly ignite, its chilling, Arctic Ice blending and warming as if by some miracle cure. I realise that, quite possibly, I am in love with this woman. This thought occurs to me when I realise that she is smiling at me.
I look around the room, and I see for the first time where I am. The walls are ivory, shining from beneath the illuminated diamonds in the middle of the intricately designed celing. Tiny cherubs smile at us from all around, all wearing my face, built into the decor in a renaissance painting kind of beauty. Candles burn all around, forming a circle of light, reflecting on the silken curls that fall about her shoulders.
Still she smiles, and it’s only for me.
Her dress is burgundy satin, probably French, and it feels like dove’s wings. She is as beautiful to touch as she is beautiful. She is perfect.
She is perfect, and in my dreams, she is mine.
I take her in my arms, and the music begins to play. Softly at first, it fades into the background. Nothing will distract me from her serene face, not even the sound of angels singing. Choirs of innocents cannot take my eyes away from her. They cannot draw my gaze from her…from my weakness…from the woman that will probably spell my end, in one way or another.
'A priest has said my soul salvation is in the balance of the angels...'
I shall never be salvaged, if not by the love of this woman.
We dance in circles, becoming figures in a wind-up musical box, spinning forever entwined in each other's arms. Crimson petals fall upon our heads, mirroring the ornamental snowstorm I owned as a child. I used to sleep with it next to my bed, winding it up and revelling in the delicate sound it made. If I listen carefully, I think the music is the same......
Like the dream. Always the same... always this room, and always her. Even when I was with Allison, it was always Sydney who danced with me in my dreams.
She danced with me in reality, too, but it was a dance of death. A dance with the devil. I didn’t like that dance, but it was the only dance I could get, and so I indulged myself in it. I think she knows what she does to me…
Our lips meet, her tongue gently lapping over my lips before entering my mouth. I’ve kissed a dozen women, but I’ve never been kissed like this before. Her hands circle my waist, before resting on my chest, pushing me down onto the ground. The floor is covered in candlelit rose petals, the ones that had fallen down onto our heads, and scattered about the way they do, they look like a silken blanket. The smell is euphoric.
She climbs on top of me, her long legs at my sides, removing my clothing efficiently. She is efficient in everything she does, and this is no exception. I love the way her hands skim past my flesh, feather-light, leaving my nerve endings standing so far on end another touch would burn them.
“Beautiful”, she says, as she tongues my chest.
The candlelight makes me glimmer, and I think that in my dreams is the only time I will shine for anybody. For her. Nobody else would ever quite do.
Still the music plays…
She eases me inside of her, and I feel her walls enclosing in on me. If claustrophobia was this good, I’d be a certified case, because this feels better than anything I’ve ever experienced. I once thought that my first kill was the highest rush of my life, but I’d only been twelve years old back then, and had yet to experience the touch of a woman. Twelve year old boys are so easily pleased.
I found that my expectations grew along with my kill list and my sex-drive.
I sit up, because I like to be in control at this point in my dream. I’ve been led up until now, by her, by Sydney, but its time for me to take it into my hands.
Before long, I am on top, my hips snaking and circling, watching her face, knowing that her pleasure comes from me. I am inside her, within her, and she does not feel the dirt and the filth of my darkened soul. She sees the light in me, and it is intoxicating.
I love how her legs wrap around me, how she pulls me close to her, her fingers digging deep into my back as she does. I love how her breathing is ragged in my ear, and she is lost for words…because the real version of Sydney always has something to say to me. She always has some hideous comment that will cut me right to the bone but leave me wanting her more.
I like the dream version better. She is speechless because I have rendered her that way.
“Oh…” is all she can say. “Oh..oh…”
The music has stopped, but she is more mesmeric than the jingle of my childhood, anyhow.
I push myself harder, now, deeper inside of her. The movement is frantic, frenetic, and we are clawing each other like animals, now. Gone is the gentle lovemaking that we had been indulged within, replaced by a carnal, feral lust for completion.
We both want to reach that perfect moment…that period of ecstasy. She writhes herself beneath me, her hands grasping at my hair, before I finally release myself, and she lets herself go, too.
The intimacy is what keeps me sleeping...like a sedative, it holds me still and calm, and I cannot move, because this moment is what keeps me sane. Perhaps I am insane, and that is why the moment comes within a dream.
Afterwards, she lies in my arms, wrapped up in my warmth, counting the stars that dazzle across her vision, and I feel complete.
“Sark”, she whispers, “don’t ever let me go.”
In my dreams, I never will.
I don't want to wake up anymore. I want to stay like this forever until the stars, like the petals, fall down on me. I want to dance forever in this sleeping Heaven, where nothing can bother me again. I want to hold her in my arms, keep her safe and warm.
I don't want to see her hating me again.
In my dreams, I can change it...but in reality? I'm unsure I could even try....
Hellfire's a promise away, I'd still be saying I'm still in love. Still in love
Sydney will always be but a lifetime and a dream away from me.
My life is an aria; some Italian masterpiece that I cannot decipher. It’s written, I do believe, in a dead language that I am not aware of – because no matter how hard I try, I cannot unravel the mystery of my own song.
Isn't it odd how we become numb to the pain, and how our tortured thoughts just seem to fade away into a mindless oblivion because we have made or dreamed of something that is perfect?
I dream of something perfect…
I dream of soft, satin skin awaiting my touch, eager for my nails to mark its delicate flesh; for my fingers to make it itch, to make it tingle. I dream of soft, pert breasts just begging for red lines to mar it, so that I can write my name in blood; so I can leave my mark.
I love the feel of silk beneath my fingertips, and in my dreams, her blood tastes better than any vintage wine I’ve had the pleasure of sampling..
Have you ever looked at somebody for so long that their face begins to change? Begins to mould itself into something other than what you have grown to know? It used to happen to me when I was a child. I would look at my mother, watching me in the dark, and she would become the vision of my nightmares. Right before my eyes, she would metamorphosise into a demon, her face becoming black and her eyes becoming non existent. I would cry, and she wouldn't know why. I would scream, and she couldn't come near me.
My mother didn’t comfort me in my darkest hours…and neither did anybody else. I’ve been to countless psychologists who have diagnosed countless ridiculously named syndromes within me, all stemming back from my cold, unloving childhood. I’m like a text book of syndromes, I do believe, and I often wonder what I’d be worth if I sold myself for psychiatric research.
Money, like sex and fine wine, are the only pleasures I know.
In my dreams, my mother and father were monsters, waiting to devour me alive, spitting out my bones and grinding them down into nothingness.
With Sydney…with my beautiful, subconscious, Dream Miss Bristow… it is different.
She’s like a recurring nightmare, because she is the vision of my weakness; my one and only vulnerability. She is the image of what I want, but will never have.
In my dreams, I look across the room from my chair, and I see her face change before me. Her eyes, which had before seemed so lifeless and so tired, become alive. They sparkle in the abstract moonlight that is the shimmering chandelier above us, glistening in their gentle chestnut brown way. Her mouth, which had been so dead and so dormant, becomes a depiction of beauty as it opens up into a wide, loving smile. Her face, which had been so sad, lights up as though she were dancing.
'When we dance, angels would run and hide their wings.....'
Something inside me makes an astounded realisation, one which makes my cold heart suddenly ignite, its chilling, Arctic Ice blending and warming as if by some miracle cure. I realise that, quite possibly, I am in love with this woman. This thought occurs to me when I realise that she is smiling at me.
I look around the room, and I see for the first time where I am. The walls are ivory, shining from beneath the illuminated diamonds in the middle of the intricately designed celing. Tiny cherubs smile at us from all around, all wearing my face, built into the decor in a renaissance painting kind of beauty. Candles burn all around, forming a circle of light, reflecting on the silken curls that fall about her shoulders.
Still she smiles, and it’s only for me.
Her dress is burgundy satin, probably French, and it feels like dove’s wings. She is as beautiful to touch as she is beautiful. She is perfect.
She is perfect, and in my dreams, she is mine.
I take her in my arms, and the music begins to play. Softly at first, it fades into the background. Nothing will distract me from her serene face, not even the sound of angels singing. Choirs of innocents cannot take my eyes away from her. They cannot draw my gaze from her…from my weakness…from the woman that will probably spell my end, in one way or another.
'A priest has said my soul salvation is in the balance of the angels...'
I shall never be salvaged, if not by the love of this woman.
We dance in circles, becoming figures in a wind-up musical box, spinning forever entwined in each other's arms. Crimson petals fall upon our heads, mirroring the ornamental snowstorm I owned as a child. I used to sleep with it next to my bed, winding it up and revelling in the delicate sound it made. If I listen carefully, I think the music is the same......
Like the dream. Always the same... always this room, and always her. Even when I was with Allison, it was always Sydney who danced with me in my dreams.
She danced with me in reality, too, but it was a dance of death. A dance with the devil. I didn’t like that dance, but it was the only dance I could get, and so I indulged myself in it. I think she knows what she does to me…
Our lips meet, her tongue gently lapping over my lips before entering my mouth. I’ve kissed a dozen women, but I’ve never been kissed like this before. Her hands circle my waist, before resting on my chest, pushing me down onto the ground. The floor is covered in candlelit rose petals, the ones that had fallen down onto our heads, and scattered about the way they do, they look like a silken blanket. The smell is euphoric.
She climbs on top of me, her long legs at my sides, removing my clothing efficiently. She is efficient in everything she does, and this is no exception. I love the way her hands skim past my flesh, feather-light, leaving my nerve endings standing so far on end another touch would burn them.
“Beautiful”, she says, as she tongues my chest.
The candlelight makes me glimmer, and I think that in my dreams is the only time I will shine for anybody. For her. Nobody else would ever quite do.
Still the music plays…
She eases me inside of her, and I feel her walls enclosing in on me. If claustrophobia was this good, I’d be a certified case, because this feels better than anything I’ve ever experienced. I once thought that my first kill was the highest rush of my life, but I’d only been twelve years old back then, and had yet to experience the touch of a woman. Twelve year old boys are so easily pleased.
I found that my expectations grew along with my kill list and my sex-drive.
I sit up, because I like to be in control at this point in my dream. I’ve been led up until now, by her, by Sydney, but its time for me to take it into my hands.
Before long, I am on top, my hips snaking and circling, watching her face, knowing that her pleasure comes from me. I am inside her, within her, and she does not feel the dirt and the filth of my darkened soul. She sees the light in me, and it is intoxicating.
I love how her legs wrap around me, how she pulls me close to her, her fingers digging deep into my back as she does. I love how her breathing is ragged in my ear, and she is lost for words…because the real version of Sydney always has something to say to me. She always has some hideous comment that will cut me right to the bone but leave me wanting her more.
I like the dream version better. She is speechless because I have rendered her that way.
“Oh…” is all she can say. “Oh..oh…”
The music has stopped, but she is more mesmeric than the jingle of my childhood, anyhow.
I push myself harder, now, deeper inside of her. The movement is frantic, frenetic, and we are clawing each other like animals, now. Gone is the gentle lovemaking that we had been indulged within, replaced by a carnal, feral lust for completion.
We both want to reach that perfect moment…that period of ecstasy. She writhes herself beneath me, her hands grasping at my hair, before I finally release myself, and she lets herself go, too.
The intimacy is what keeps me sleeping...like a sedative, it holds me still and calm, and I cannot move, because this moment is what keeps me sane. Perhaps I am insane, and that is why the moment comes within a dream.
Afterwards, she lies in my arms, wrapped up in my warmth, counting the stars that dazzle across her vision, and I feel complete.
“Sark”, she whispers, “don’t ever let me go.”
In my dreams, I never will.
I don't want to wake up anymore. I want to stay like this forever until the stars, like the petals, fall down on me. I want to dance forever in this sleeping Heaven, where nothing can bother me again. I want to hold her in my arms, keep her safe and warm.
I don't want to see her hating me again.
In my dreams, I can change it...but in reality? I'm unsure I could even try....
Hellfire's a promise away, I'd still be saying I'm still in love. Still in love
Sydney will always be but a lifetime and a dream away from me.
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