Sandra

If I could find my way, through the trees and the darkness, following my footprints covered with snow now, the same path I've used under the last full moon of Spring, would I find you again? Could I warm you in my embrace, could I kiss life back to your bloody lips, could I simply say "Love me"?

And would you open your eyes and whisper my name, for my name was all I ever told you?

But I wake up, naked on the couch, alone in my empty house... reaching out for your ghost, to grasp the lingering echoes of desire, to feel your transparent weight mingling with my sorrow, fvcking my mind. Again.

("Whoever he is, he is a monster", Sandra's mother cried, "He took away my little girl!")

Little? Of course.
For little do you know...

He was drunk already, late at night, one of the first warm nights this year, the 4th of May, and the first night without rain, when the doorbell rang, yet he expected no one, for who should visit him this time, long after midnight, the entire world wrapped in silence? With widened eyes he got up and opened the door, and darkness came in to embrace him tightly, to kiss him and to whisper: "It was hard to find you."

He blinked, but she was real, like the bullet hole in her nape, like her naked body smeared with humid soil, like the taste of wood and rotten leaves on her lips. She was as real as reality could be, and she felt really good in his arms, his fingers trailing through drying mud to explore the silkiness of her skin. He whispered her name, but she kissed him again, hungry and demanding, it was her right to blame him, though her blame was sweet, even sweeter than the night in her back. Somehow he knew he was dreaming, for she was dead since March, dead and buried, her dreams as well as her plans for the future, nineteen short years of existence he has ended within a split-second, pulling the trigger to send a final thunderbolt through her mind.

He has asked for forgivenness a thousand times, but he never has expected any.

Why should she forgive him?

Sandra... I tried to reduce you to "a shot in the nape of neck, 22 gauge, hollow point bullet, extremely short distance", but it doesn't work. You are in my head. On my mind. Even in my heart. I see you, hear you, miss you. I start to fantasize about you. I recall the silken texture of your skin, the odor of your perfume mingling with the scent of your blood.

I don't regret that I've killed you.
I just wish... I've tasted you first.

~*~

Jan 2020: Why did they send me here? Cause I'm an expert for infrared in digital times? And why did I take a walk during break, just to realize that I've been here before? Not on this little country graveyard, but around on the streets. At night. Two years ago in Spring, Worm Moon, close to the Equinox.
"You're heaven's sent", you've said and got into my car as if you knew me for a hundred years. These words, and your smile, so sweet and far from innocence. Both haunt me still.
"Always loved, never forgotten", the epigraph frames your picture perfectly. For damn... it's true. I can't forget you. Like you can't forget me.
Maybe it was love at first sight. But I drew my gun and gave us no chance.
Sandra. Not in this life.

~*~
 

--~BITTERSWEET WINE~--

"Sandra... what's..."
With a sigh he swallowed hard. It was useless to ask. He knew what was wrong. Her brown eyes widened: eyes of a disappointed child, a wounded deer, big pools of humid soil, rain running down her cheeks, her full lips pale and slightly trembling. Her naked form flickered. Salty drops speckled his abs. With furrowed brows he stared at her, watching her body become more and more transparent. Don't disappear on me, he thought. Don't leave me this way. Their fingers entwined. A touch of panic. The fragrance of rotten leaves and despair intensified. Her perfume swamped the room. He could still feel her, cold on his lap, slippery around his persistent hardness, but somehow it felt... disgusting. She was so young. Sweet. Beautiful. Tiny branches stuck to her long hair, drying mud accented her nudity. Zipties adorned her wrists. She always tasted of dew and cordite. Her tears annoyed him and broke his heart.  

"Why did you do it?" she sobbed. A shiver ran throughout her limbs, and he shivered, too, biting his lower lip and moving a little faster. She nearly broke his fingers. The pain inspired his senses. A deep lustful moan escaped his throat. He couldn't close his eyes, he had to stare at her, feasting on her smooth everlasting youth, drinking her presence like bittersweet wine. His body was covered with fingerprints and scratches, a map of insatiable hunger and confusion. She longed to learn, and she has learned a lot already. He wondered for how long their strange affair would last. It was sick, and they shouldn't enjoy it. But they both did. In a way.  
"You know why", he growled through gritted teeth, balancing on the brim of his climax, "I have told you a thousand times." Her grief overwhelmed him. In the half-light of a dawning morning the entire scene appeared unreal. Maybe he was just dreaming. Maybe his remorse made him dream of her since March two years ago.  

Sandra... her name trickled from his lips the moment he finally closed his eyes to savor the end of another act, his lust spreading inside her, his desire a song slowly fading. The lyrics were always the same. Her cold lips brushed his forehead, his lids, the corners of his mouth. He kissed her tenderly.
"Why did you do it?" she asked anew, as if a million explanations and excuses wouldn't be enough. "Truth is... that I'm just one of your full moon casualties... an innocent victim, a sacrifice for the Dragon."
"A dead stray on the wayside. A road kill."
She slapped his face in an instant. His eyes sprung open, glancing at her in deep blue anger. "I hate you", she hissed, her brown eyes welling with tears again.
"And I deserve it", he snarled. This very moment he wished he could make her die completely, so she would never haunt him again. Sandra: Rest in peace, now and forever.  

"I love you", he breathlessly confessed.
"I love you, too." With the first ray of light she disappeared, leaving him to his guilt and the echo of her voice.  

~*~
 

--~FEVER~--
(End of March)
 

And without sound or warning she was here again, all of a sudden, next to me, her naked body tightly pressed against mine while I still nestled my own form into Nigel's arms, and I felt her tiny cold hand on my sweaty forehead, and I knew that no one else could see her except me, that she was my ghost, my private mirage and enigma, summoned from the depths of my guilt and regrets, and she kissed me tenderly, whispering: "Fvck, you got high fever."

I just nodded, I felt it all over and most of all inside of me, the fiery breath of restless sleep and bewildered dreams, a heavy cure to make me finally better. Yet I was at the beginning of all doom, and a possible end wasn't in sight for a long time. Fever always made me emotional, sentimental and vulnerable. A weak little boy, trapped in an empty house, desperately searching for help or salvation. Fever was a dramatic adventure, my powerless body fighting its demons. At least Sandra accepted that sex was no option tonight. Her presence didn't soothe nor bother me, I simply surrendered, gratefully inhaling Nigel's scent. Was he sleeping already?

If so... there was still hope he could be able to see her, sense her, maybe just smell the fragrance of humid soil and rotten leaves, but I was too exhausted, too tired myself to wake my husband. "Who is this handsome man?" she exhaled against the shell of my ear, causing my skin cover with goose bumps. I snarled and coughed. My chapped lips curled to a smile. "My soulmate. The one I need more than I need my own life."

"He would descend into hell to get you back", she suddenly said and tightened her embrace, resting her head on my chest. I gasped for air. My throat was dry and sore. Swallowing became a painful experience. Why are you here so often, I wanted to ask, but I felt like a fading song, slowly drifting into oblivion. Seriously I didn't care at the moment. Her lonely soul meant no harm.

"Sleep, Francis", she cooed, her cold little hand slipping underneath my sweaty shirt to remain on my abs, "You're blessed with true love. Life and Death adore you. The Dragon and the Moon protect you. Even your ghosts ache for you. You're safe. You're safe. So sleep, beautiful sick man. You don't need absolution. You don't need forgiveness. You need to get well again."

~*~

--~THIS NATURAL PROCESS OF VANITAS~--
(May 2020)

"Did you know that putrefaction starts with the exitus of a person? The moment the body cools down decay sets in. Insects crawl up. They smell rot long before we smell it. Greedy little bitches. But it was night, and it was cold, so they waited till sunrise. Then the first fly came. Buzz, buzz... Buzz."

Biting his lower lip Francis closed his eyes, finally taking a deep drag from his cigarette, the heat of the glowing end stingingly approaching his knuckles. Sandra's voice was low, not much louder than his breath, yet her words resounded in his ears, summoning details he -possibly- never longed to visualize.
March 2018... Golden rays of breaking day trickling through the canopy of leaves, speckling the mossy ground and the naked body tied to a tree. The mud that covered her skin slowly dried with the warmth, particles of soil raining down with every movement of the branches. She was beautiful, artwork in the morning breeze, (kind of) alive with the changing of light. No (visible) signs of decay. Not this early. Just glittering dew, and a street of ants, scurrying up her thighs, joined by some flies, these omnipresent gourmets, inspecting the bullet wound on the back of her head, shimmering wings slipping in and out the net of wild brown hair. Birds twittered. A deer broke through the brushwood, pricking up its ears and sliding by without a care. This dead young human meant no harm. Sandra's lids were half open, though Francis could swear that he has closed them, tempted to kiss her inviting lips while his gloved hand covered her eyes. He didn't. Instead he pulled one of her front teeth, leaving a special Mahjong tile on her tongue. Greetings from the Tooth Fairy!

The mist cleared up. The ants reached the dark triangle of her sex, the street parting now, a line of explorers crawling up her flat stomach. More drying soil rained down. More flies gathered, attracted by blood and other body fluids. (They smell rot long before we smell it.) He wished to wipe them from her face. Remembering her lifeless body tilting against the passenger door made him shiver. Recalling her weight in his arms made him moan. The vision blurred. He wouldn't wait for crows or foxes... He wasn't inspired to watch this natural process of vanitas.
"Did you know that a jogger found me? Did you know I've been a Jane Doe for more than 24 hours?"

The cigarette burnt his fingers. Francis hissed and dropped the stub, yet ignited a new one. He shook his head and opened his eyes again, looking at her with a sad smile. Curling smoke danced through her features. She nodded and smiled back at him. Young and beautiful. Innocent and seductive. She would always stay this way...
"No, I didn't know", he replied frankly, his own voice nearly as low as Sandra's. His throat was dry. The fragrance of tobacco mingled with the o-so familiar perfume of her body. Her nudity aroused him. "I watched the news and read the papers. That's all the info I got." (But though I never saw a rotting corpse I know about decay... Some people die their entire life through. Some people never really live.) "Will Graham said this crime breaks his heart. Your mother called me a monster that took away her little girl. I'm a depraved, perverted, necrophilic sexual sadist. Chilton longs to study me, while the FBI simply wants me dead." He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled a sigh with a puff of smoke.

"Who is Chilton?" Smoothly she slipped onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. She did not wait for an answer. Her lips sealed his in an instant: a deep hungry kiss, her tongue eager to choke his throat. She was Spring while he was Autumn already, her mouth tasting of humus and rain, his flavor Whiskey and nicotine, yet their bodies conjoined perfectly, slick and slender, a sensual dance of limbs and nature. She was a Dryad, he always knew it, and he was -maybe- a fallen angel.
"Mmm... my lustful Jane Doe", he purred to her ear.
"My handsome pervert..." Her lecherous moans confirmed and rewarded him.

Unheard by both of them a fly buzzed against the window...


~*~

"Bismillahi rahmani rahimi..."
Sandra's appearance flickered several times. I furrowed my brows.
"Don't tell me you believe in God", she gasped.
"I don't believe in him", I frankly replied, "I just know he exists."
"But why you call him?" Her full lips formed a delicious pout. " Do I scare you?"
"You never scare me", I chuckled and reached out for her. "But I've been curious... about your reaction."
"You're such an a**hole, Francis!"
"My little sssssuccubus..." I sealed her lips to a deep lush kiss.




~*~

Referring to profiles and crime documentaries most serial killers drive a Van or an SUV. An amusing fact, because I, too, own a Van, a black 1976 Chevrolet G-Series, and I care for this car since more than 15 years now. I even repair it myself, and though I don't need such a big vehicle, I somehow love it, yet I'd never kill somebody in there or use it for transporting corpses. NEVER EVER!
 
But that's a lie. I shot Sandra on the passenger seat.
And I drove her to the forest.
And I left her there. Alone. Naked. Tied to a tree.  
 
Damn, girl...
Thanks to you they know that I drive a Van.
Thanks to you I became part of the cliché.
 
Who cares?
My little succubus.
I love you more than my car.





--~BRAVEHEART~--
(May 2021)

"O damn, that's too romantic!" Sandra wrapped herself around me and sobbed relentlessly, hiding her face in my hair. I tightened my embrace and rocked her gently on my lap. Her tears broke my heart.
"Shh, Baby... that's just a movie." Over her shoulder I watched William Wallace get castrated. My own balls clenched instantly. I took a deep breath. "Mel Gibson is still a man..." It should be a joke, but my voice trembled.
"Would you die for love?" she whispered to my ear.
"Wallace died for his country. For the freedom of Scotland."
"Would you die for love?" she stubbornly repeated. Her voice trembled as well. My shirt was wet from her tears.
"I would fight for love", I finally replied. "This I know."
"But..." She looked up and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "You killed so many people..."
 
I tilted my head and furrowed my brows. For an endless moment I just stared at her. "Do you really believe serial killers are brave?" Her brown eyes widened, still shimmering with tears. I lifted her chin and licked her salty lips. "They aren't brave, baby. None of them is, and I'm no exception. I'm not your prince in shining armor. My white stud is an old black Chevy van with a tiny speck of blood on the backrest of the passenger seat. It's your blood. Your DNA. Your life. Your precious youth..." With a sigh I closed my eyes. "I'm a predator. A scavenger. I'm far from being a hero. It's more like in this song: no bravery, just sadness."
 
"Don't be sad", her cold lips softly brushed mine. "We all die for love. In this or that way."



~*~
17th of November 2022

“God damn, I'm no necrophiliac!”
Anger washed over me, hot liquid silver, dazing my senses this very moment. I tried to breathe, but I couldn't. My eyes widened. I gasped for air.
“So how would you call it?” she whispered, her voice soft, yet with a charming touch of amusement. Her arms slipped around my chest, her cold lips nibbled my shoulder. I shivered. Finally I released my breath. “I dunno”, I confessed. “You are... a ghost. A succubus. And I'm... sick to the core.”
“You are my lover since four years now. I refused to become one with the light because of you. I love you, Francis. And I do not care how they call you. When I'm with you I'm alive. Do you really think that I understand what's happening? I don't. But I feel. I still feel. You! And you feel more than good. And that's all I need to know. All I need to understand."
“You're not the only one. Not the only dead woman I...”
“Shhh... I'm the only one who returned to you. My sweet killer. My beautiful perv. Would it be different if your doing would be called another way? Would you feel better?”
I turned around, staring at her like I've never seen her before. Slowly I shook my head. No, it feels good the way it is. It feels perfect.
Sandra... With a deep lustful moan I dragged her back onto my lap, kissing her greedily. Her taste trickled down my tongue.



(“For those who believe no proof is necessary.
For those who don't believe no proof is possible.”
― Stuart Chase)

~*~

End of December 2022
Noiseless and naked she slipped on my lap, wrapping her dirty arms around my neck and kissing me full of growing hunger. "Damn, Francis, you taste like an ashtray", she giggled.
Softly growling I bit her nose: "That's the usual Dragon flavor: ash, smoke, sulfur."
"You don't taste of sulfur", she pouted, her lips temptingly close to mine again.
"Later I will...", I purred, "Just believe me: Later I will."




--~February 2023~--