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12/05/2019 10:43 PM
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Surviving the finale
It's said when you die you see the most beautiful scenes of your life. That's not true. I saw the night sky, a radiant full moon and millions of stars. I felt cold and tired but I forced my eyes to stay open. Pain was the knocking on a distant door. Agony kissed my lips and forehead. Death approached me: a silent ship on a silent ocean. Drifting away was easy... I managed to draw my cell phone. To call for help. Speaking slow: "Been attacked, badly injured. Massive blood loss. 0 Pos. Dying." I described the place. I thought of my lover. I remembered our first time. (It's said when you die you see the most beautiful scenes of your life. It started to become true.) My lids fluttered. I craved a cigarette. I longed to sleep. And I whispered my last words to the phone: "Save my life!" Ambulance and Police arrived at the same time. My eyes were still open. The night turned to day with blue lights and headlamps. I felt hands on me. I saw faces. I heard sirens. I listened to voices; some yelled in panic. "Special Agent Jack Crawford. FBI. This man's a killer. He's the Dragon. His name is Francis Dolarhyde. He slaughtered two families. He killed four officers. Let me pass! Let me see him!" "Sir, this man called for help, he is in our hands now." "Jack... he will die. Let him die!" "No! No, he will suffer for this! Where is Will, you goddamn son of a bitch? Where is Hannibal?" "Mister Crawford, please..." "Ya, doc him up! Save his ass! I'll drag him cross country: he will get the chair!" "Sir, you know your state is more than critical. We'll intubate you now. We'll lay access to your jugular vein. Don't move, please. We have to do all the first aid here. --- Sir, can you hear me? Blink, if you..." I blinked. My lips curled to a smile. My face got covered by a mask. I took a deep breath. The reptile inside me purred. "I won't let you die", he cooed.
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11/02/2019 09:17 PM
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Laundanum for my Soul
--~For Nigel~-- "I don't need a mirror. I see my reflection in my lover's eyes." It's hard to believe in beauty when there is only pain, a tight rope around your neck, a sign you are branded with, a birthmark you can't get rid of because nobody cares, so "beautiful" is farther than the moon: you know it would be easier to reach this magical silver coin than anything close to this unreachable trait, which slowly but surely loses its meaning. The world gets betrayed of its colors, charms and enchantment, and life itself becomes martyrdom, a lonely journey through the circles of hell. Of course there are still moments you dare to smile, blessed little timespans you are able to forget about what you are, but these glimpses are rare and mostly combined with a brutal awakening. You are a monster, Francis, and no one will ever love you. If the world calls you a monster already, it's easy to become one. You swallow down your tears and kindness, and allow the cold around you rule your mind. No hope, no love. No light. When there is only darkness... make darkness your best friend. 
At the end of February I was sick with fever. Because I couldn't leave the house I lived on tea and Whiskey, instant soup and antibiotics. An overdose of cough syrup and codeine drops made me dizzy, so I slept a lot, and, with my temperature reaching its peak, I fantasized even more, but at this point I didn't feel bad any longer. I was just weak, tired and stoned, dreaming about the weirdest things. Loneliness whispered to my ear, and though I knew I would survive this cold, I wished somebody would care for me.  It must have been early dusk, for I remember that I opened my eyes to a breathtaking sunset, blood seeping through the curtains and liquid fire trickling down the walls, when this unknown man walked into my room, stopping in front of my bed and smiling at me as if the unshaven sweaty guy wrapped into three warm blankets was all he has ever longed to see. He appeared curious and friendly, and he was forbidden handsome, but, bitch, please, who let him in? If I did... I must have been sleepwalking. I must have been in trance. Like I was in trance when I gazed at him, his beauty confusing and arousing me. He sat down on my bed and took my cold trembling hand. The angel of death, I thought all of a sudden.
"Hello, gorgeous", he said. His voice was low and accented. His lips bewitched me to stare at them, imagining I could slip between them to slowly melt on his tongue. Still perplexed I managed to smile. His smile nearly broke my heart. A pitiful coughing fit later he allowed my runny eyes to feast on his naked body, the first nightly shadows accenting the tender curves of his muscles with lavender brushstrokes. I know that I blinked several times, completely exhausted from heavy breathing, and with the light slowly getting dim he looked like a moving statue to me, so I somehow still doubted that he was real, for real life isn't the plot of a p0rn movie, a fvcking beautiful lad coming to your house to repair your dishwasher though you don't even own any. While I managed to unwrap one of my arms to reach out for this delicious vision slowly drowning in the darkness of my sleeping room he instantly grabbed my hand again, lifting my three sweaty blankets to slip underneath them, his lips meeting mine to the first amazing feverish kiss. Needless to say that he took my breath away, but I didn't care, I kissed him like there would be no tomorrow, his spicy cigarette flavor mingling with my bitter taste of codeine. His arms slipped around me in a tight embrace, and while I still struggled with the assumption that I must be dreaming, I noticed not all parts of my body felt weak. His touch convinced me that I was wide awake. He never told me how and why he came to my house and into my bedroom. Yet since this evening he never left me. In the exhausted silence of a blurry dawn I asked him about his name: Nigel. But I'm inclined to call him Mygel, for he is truly MY anGEL, my omnipresent savior. I think I created him from my wildest imagination and my deepest desire to be loved, so I fell for him long before I got to know him. I simply relished the idea of him. The idea he could exist. The idea he could be mine. My fever dream lover. My beautiful obsession. If Nigel had come with the intention to get his hooks in me and make me addicted he succeeded completely. I am addicted. To the way he looks at me, the way he smiles when he says "I love you", the tiny wrinkles in the corners of his flickering eyes. I'm addicted to the velvety texture of his lips and the flavor of his saliva. The shameless way he kisses me and the greedy way I kiss him. I'm addicted to his body, the soft arch of his spine, the wiry fur covering his firm chest, the endless pleasure between his thighs. The way his skin curls against my fingertips, the map of shivers I leave on him every night. The scars and marks, the tiny flaws, this horrible tattoo on his neck. The heat he enkindles, the bliss that makes me rise and fall. His skillful hands. His moans, gasps and growls, this blessed moment he closes his lids and bites his lower lip when another well known little death washes away all of our senses. I'm addicted to the words I find for him. The poems I write on his skin. The words I didn't find yet, and those waiting to be found somewhere in the depths between heat and damnation. I'm addicted to our love.
I'm addicted to his beauty.
I'm addicted to the magic between us.
I'm addicted to my reflection in his eyes. Of course I'm not sick anymore. Yet the fever never left me. 
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11/02/2019 07:48 PM
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Mirrors & Stitches, Blood & Breath
--~MIRRORS & STITCHES~--
(For Will)  "Sleep, Puppy. Sleep."
It was impossible to take his hand away. His palm fitted so perfectly. It covered the thick welt on Will's side, and, gently exhaling his melancholy into rainy darkness, Francis wished he could send all his love and unearthly power throughout his hand to smoothen the injured skin, to heal this wound completely, to make this scar disappear. And to make things undone. All these things. All these years. All this pain... (Washed away by love and rain.) "I'm here to protect you."
One floor above the bedroom, upstairs in the moonlit attic, hidden behind the iron door of his antique Mustang safe, his giant scrapbook kept the memories of his entire life: snippets from his past, photographs, drawings, newspaper clippings... chapters filled with blood, sweat and tears. His collaged diary. The collected stations of his journey through hell. His survival. His becoming. Breathing the bewitching melange of printers ink and graphite, glue and marker this book finally reflected his admiration for one single man: Dr. Hannibal Lecter. But then... there has been someone else, someone reserved and emotionally unstable, someone the head of the B.A.U. Jack Crawford has lured out of privacy, out of the harmony of a little house close to a lake he used to live in with his wife and son and a pack of dogs. Someone whose empathy was large as the sky, but likewise fluctuating, someone who should be kept far away from any crime scene: Special Agent William Graham, the FBI profiler who nearly died by catching the Chesapeake Ripper, more than four years ago. Francis shivered, nuzzling closer to the sleeping body. He dug his nose into Will's curly hair. Zoe whimpered in her snooze. Buster's paws tickled his back. A little smile curled the Dragon's lips. Rain drops softly pecked the windows. 
The report on Tattle-Crime.com has been shameless and offensive, showing Will in his hospital room, pale and half naked, one hundred tubes and catheters attached to his body, 23 fresh stitches exposed to all hungry readers. He knew these photographs so perfectly well as if he has taken them himself, prints of them filling pages of his diary. He remembered that he has prayed Graham would perish for apprehending the Ripper, this adorable diabolic genius, who has received a new nickname in the meantime: Hannibal the Cannibal. Four years ago he longed to make Will suffer, but with time... rage has faded. Rage has changed. Things have changed. All things. The tapping of the rain made him sleepy. Trees whispered with the breeze. He closed his lids to a recollection of Will's face, a close up taken by Freddie Lounds. He refused to recall the bulletin's sensational words, he just tried to remember why he has felt this weird kind of sympathy all of a sudden. His tired mind started to drift. Back to the house of the Leeds, back to 4 corpses with mirrors in their eyes. Back to the family staring at him. Back to the dying woman he has taken... Back to his own naked body, slick with blood, bathing in the silvery blue light of a silent full moon. He bit his lower lip and suppressed a moan. Abruptly he knew why. "Don't look at it", he exhaled. Don't try to slip into my brain and think my thoughts. Don't see them with my eyes. Don't reconstruct the sacrifices by crawling under my skin. Don't do this, Will. Cause if you do and come too close I have to show you who I am. And I will hold your family's life between my jaws. I will devour you. All of you. And spit out the bones for your dogs. --~*~-- But now... these dogs slept draped around them to keep them warm. Like he held Will tight to keep him from sleepwalking and meeting the stag. Francis shivered again. The hand covering Will's scar trembled slightly. How many stitches would it take to mend a fractured soul? No stitches at all. Still smiling he blew a kiss to Will's neck. Winston started to snore. Teacups and mirrors don't get unbroken. But the cracks can be filled with liquid gold. Inner wounds will never heal, but love embalms them. "I will protect you", he whispered again. The investigator turned in his sleep, and Francis wrapped both arms around him, his left hand slipping back underneath Will's shirt to cover the scar again. Hidden underneath his palm: the wound that Hannibal has inflicted. Lulled by the rain he fell asleep. We're all safe. By now. Because I love you. Because I love you both.
--~BLOOD & BREATH~--
Leaned against the whitewashed wall of the corridor Francis released a deep soulful sigh. Patience is a virtue, he thought and rubbed his eyes. He tried to listen to the dialog behind the door, but the acoustics were lousy, and the scraps of conversation he was able to overhear didn't make much sense. It didn't matter: he knew the script by heart, like he knew that Doctor Alana Bloom would leave the cell soon, in three, two, one... her perfume tickling his nostrils the moment she passed by, a touch of vanilla lingering in the air. It stirred his hunger, and absentmindedly he stared at her hips, swaying down the hall in a dark slack suit, her heels slightly clicking. With a blink he turned round and grabbed the door. Noiselessly he sneaked up the transparent wall, pressing both of his palms against the glass, his widened blue eyes scanning the bleak surroundings for a moment, before they focused on the man standing in the middle of the empty room.
"Mmm, Hannibal, you're always so good with words. I deeply enjoy them every time."
Distracted by his own breath misting the glass his lips curled to a smile. With a low growl he leaned in and licked the cool surface, his eyes narrowed now, meeting the other man's glance. "I can't wait to befall you. Tomorrow night. In the glass house. On the cliffs." 
The man on the other side of the crystalline veil did not move. Not even his eyes moved. He stared to a point somewhere in a far distance, and slowly but surely Francis asked himself if Hannibal was able to see him. Apparently not. Apparently he wasn't really here, though the presence of this spartanic cell felt real enough to him. Once again he pressed his palms against the glass, noticing his fingerprints and his breath, fogging the surface anew. With a smirk he drew a heart in the middle of the opaque circle the exhaled air of his lungs has left. A heart. And an arrow. Then he stepped back, tilting his head from side to side till his little humid drawing covered Hannibal's chest. "Blood and breath, saliva and skin, life and death and the whisper of sin", he murmured. Slowly the misty heart disappeared. "You know this will be the end", the Doctor suddenly said, his voice emotionless. He turned his back on Francis.
The Dragon furrowed his brows. The end? The end of what? This episode? Slowly he shook his head. "Some glass will break. Well, lots of glass. And the ocean won't stop eroding the cliff. The sea is greedy. Like I'm greedy, you see? Greedy to see you transform. One time. Just one. All things start and end at the right place to the right time. Not now. Not tonight. And not tomorrow. Sure, we will fall. You will. I will. Even Will will." As if to underline his words Francis licked the scar on his upper lip, moistening his smile. "Some may think it's the end but it isn't. There will be pain. Incredible pain. And disappointment, maybe even more painful. And amounts of blood and breath. But we turn the page and start a new chapter. And wounds will heal and become scars." His blue gaze still focused on the spot where the tiny heart has been Francis stepped back again, slowly drawing his gun, his silencer already adjusted. Likewise slowly he pulled the trigger. The glass broke into a million of shards. Blood and red wine bloomed on Hannibal's side.
Welcome to reality. 
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09/29/2019 04:34 PM
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Corn Dust
--~Based on the Hannibal-Episode "Sakizuke"~--
How to start? How to describe something incredibly beautiful and unbelievably sick? Something divine and perverted. Unique. And morbid. Obnoxious. Merciless. Powerful. One of a breathtaking kind. Fortunately just one. Though there should have been two, I think. Or maybe not. One was enough. (I've been there. For several hours. I followed you. It wasn't easy. The danger of being caught was hazardously high. But I took the risk. My disfigurement has made me shy: I've learned to become invisible. Unseen. Unheard. I melted into the landscape. I was dirt and corrosion and the corn all around. I didn't even breathe. I watched you walking up the granaries in your kinky plastic suit. And without a sound I slithered closer...)  A picturesque place on the countryside, four silos and a nearly endless labyrinth of maize, a lonely road in between, glistening in afternoon heat, the sky above of the deepest azure, flecked with fluffy cotton-wool clouds. A peaceful composition: a rural still life, its tranquil charms close to Van Gogh. Not a single bird disturbed the painted blue. Some cars stood around, abandoned and forgotten, silent remnants covered with flash rust and omnipresent dust, their broken windows reflecting the sun. The heavy scent of ripe corn mingled with the warmth of metal and soil, nearly covering the fragrance of embalming fluid, resin and slow decay. One of the silos exhaled death into the motionless air. (Though my heart hammered so loud I've been scared its beating would echo throughout the entire tower, I could hear the muted sizzle of the liquefying drug foaming up on the spoon. Why didn't he get up? Why didn't he try to fight this moment you condemned him to death? Nestled into his creation he just stared at you, awe and confusion in his eyes, exhaling a moan when the deadly needle deflowered his vein. You watched the junk leaving the syringe and talked about God. Your favored topic, it seems. Killing must feel good to him, too. I wondered that you didn't hear me hiss.
"There is no God", the dying man said.
Not for you, my friend, I thought.
"Certainly not with that attitude", you replied.)  There once was an eye at the bottom of a granary. A giant eye, staring at the sky through an air vent in the middle of the roof. A giant eye in amazing shades of olive and brown, big and round and full of visions. God's eye. Or the mirror image of God's eye. Or its travesty. Or just... a symbol of emotionless cruelty and wasted dreams. A lot of wasted dreams. Side by side in a perfect circle, surrounding another perfect circle. A sample board, starting with milky white and ending with dark coffee. Arranged material, bent into shape, naked and genderless: 47 bodies, sewn together with grotesque stitches, arms and legs fixated with special glue, carefully slathered with all kinds of conserving balms keeping rot and insects at bay. A taxidermic masterpiece of art. (About 60 had to die, those 47 have been chosen. The others have been drowned in a river far away. Disposed waste. Garbage. Useless.) Only 17 of them got identified later. There once was a giant eye at the bottom of a granary, its pupil built by 47 extinguished lives, selected because of their skin tone. There once was an artist who slayed about 60 men and women to create an incomplete vision. And there was an emotionless killer in a transparent overall who convinced this rogue artist to become part of his masterpiece, promising him to accomplish his dream. But seriously he just betrayed him. This giant eye was blind. "I've been there till sunset. I watched you sewing and sawing. Pressed against the silo's roof I waited till you left the scene. The sun has given me headache. My heart ached as well. Aware of a sudden dizziness I carefully climbed down and finally stepped into the half-light of the granary, looking at all these shimmering bodies. They appeared like dummies. The scene was completely unreal: the dreamscape of a surrealistic painter. Paul Delvaux. With a touch of Ruedi Giger. Each corpse a brushstroke...
To my surprise it was cold down there. I got naked and stretched next to the artist, wrapping one arm around his waist. I inhaled his scent, sensing that he was still breathing. I longed to say something, some words of solace and admiration, but... I just avoided staring at his leg stump. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. The stench of blood was overwhelming.
Night sneaked up. My skin covered with goose bumps. I moved my head and looked up at the sky, a perfect round in the middle of the roof. A single star blinked down on me. I wanted to know how it feels, but all I felt was the artist's body finally growing colder. I wasn't part of his vision: my skin tone didn't fit his dream. It was good this way. Next to all this death I was grateful to be alive. So I got up and dressed again, leaving this country mortuary. I had a slight sunstroke. And I urgently needed a bath." With a deep sigh he took a sip from his drink and ignited a cigarette, expecting an instant warning, for smoking was strictly forbidden inside Hannibal's house, yet, to his astonishment, the Doctor just moved by to open the windows.
"Now, to sum it all up, Francis: what did you feel?" The older man's voice was emotionless, distant, as if he were talking to a patient. Cool night air filled the surgery.
Stretching on the couch Francis exhaled a long stream of smoke. "If you would take the paintbrush from my hand to finish my painting I would bite off your fingers."
"Why so aggressive, my dearest Dragon?" Leaned against the window sill Hannibal offered an undefined glance from dark maroon eyes.
While his blue eyes narrowed, Francis' lips curled to a smile: "Because I don't think the artist wished to become a part of his work. He was a weak little man. Too weak to withstand the charms of a snake. You hypnotized him. You whispered to his ear. You spoke of God as if you were his best friend. Fvck you, Hannibal: you have no idea how much I loathed you this very moment." He took a last drag from his cigarette and emptied his drink, provokingly dropping the stub into the glass. (Another dangerous faux pas!)
The Doctor just slowly shook his head. "I'm sure not God's best friend. But maybe I'm yours."
"Maybe", Francis snarled and got up from the couch, smoothly stretching his muscular form. "You could prove it to me."
Pushing himself off the window sill Hannibal stepped up and touched Francis' shoulder. "So how shall I prove my friendship to the relentless Great Red Dragon?"
"Feed me", the younger man frankly replied, his smile widening to a big grin. "All this talk of God and corn dust made me hungry."  (The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.
Sanity will always lie in the eye of the beholder.)
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09/07/2019 07:13 PM
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The Sunday of Summer
August is called the Sunday of Summer. It is the end of the season, its climax and afterglow, celebrated with thunder and lightning, storms and heavy rain. It's the month he was born: on top of the world, in the center of a hurricane. Electricity running through his veins, hot mercury mingling with his blood. His eyes the golden sun, his skin the moon's liquid silver. His fingertips sparkling, his body full of lethal energy. I'm alive, he said, his whispered words louder than thunder. I'm the morning on the threshold of Fall.  Two nights after his 43rd birthday Francis felt restless, not the best mood for a serious hunt. La Luna didn't ease his mind, and even the reptile refused to becalm. There was a certain premonition tickling his hackles, vague but present, and it gushed up the moment he silently entered the yard: an undefined warning, putting his senses on high alert. With narrowed eyes he scanned the surroundings, trying to ignore this cold breath of fear.
The garden was beautiful, a lush oasis of cultivated grass, trees and flowers, a peaceful ocean in a thousand shades of bluish green, bathed in the tender light of the Sturgeon Full Moon. The roses were still in bloom, stuccowork ornaments of radiant white, emitting a bewitching sweetness, but decay was already attendant, the fragrance of rotten fruit, mingling with the scent of rain and the stench of chlorine, ghosting up from the nearby pool. Except the soft humming of the water pump the silence was nearly tangible. Far ahead in the distance the muted growl of thunder was heard, more a gentle vibration of the soil than really a noise. He could feel a holistic tension in the air, but finally his concerns bowed to experienced excitement. Francis rubbed the back of his neck and allowed his lips to smile. He looked up the house, its windows dark, mirroring the clouded night sky.
Relying on their Facebook stream crammed with snapshots and funny little video clips the Larkins didn't own any dogs. They were a perfect middle class family, two adults and two girls, enjoying a perfect middle class life, their house and garden a well-deserved result of patience and hard work. Possibly they had debts up to the brim, but soon all financial problems would fade to oblivion. Like anything else would drown in puddles of crimson unimportance. (The last shirt got no pockets. The Reaper is fair: he equals us all.) To his surprise the patio door stood open, creamy blue curtains slowly swinging with the upcoming breeze, the room behind them exhaling warm solemnity. Welcome, they whispered. Francis stopped and drew his breath. The Dragon swam up to stare through his eyes. It's a small town, he thought, the people know each other... they feel safe here. Heat lightening flickered across the sky. An icy shiver ran down his spine. Yet he entered the silent house, its walls painted by moonlight and shimmery reflections of the pool: the perfect illusion of walking under water. He left his bag at the staircase and drew his gun, the silencer already adjusted. Without hesitation he sneaked up the stairs. His faithful old Glock felt good in his hand. "Merciful Death", the Dragon cooed. It was the reptile's charming way to call him a coward. Francis was used to it. In the end it didn't matter how he sacrificed them. Ignoring the master bedroom at the end of the stairs he walked up the hall to a room with the picture of a unicorn and a grinning red sun pinned on its door. "Princess Lisa & Princess Beth" was written underneath the crayon drawing. He knew the girls shared a chamber, a cuddly bower in pink and white. Somewhere close a single drop fell... His gloved hand on the doorknob Francis furrowed his brows. The room was as empty as a room could be. The scent of the kids still lingered in the air, but no toys speckled the fluffy carpet, no books and comics stuffed the shelves, no plushies occupied the nightstands. The wardrobes stood open, but no clothes were in there. Francis stared at two lonely beds, bare of mattresses and bedding, blank wooden skeletons from a furniture shop. Another bolt ripped the sky. Thunder vibrated through the veins of the house. Light squares on the walls spoke of pictures taken down. Francis recalled the girls' smiling faces. The last post on Facebook mentioned preparations for their grandmother's 70th birthday on coming Sunday. This was three days ago... Another drop fell. Francis left the room and closed the door. Somehow he reckoned the master bedroom empty as well. Stepping back to the corridor he closed his eyes. He could feel the electricity of the approaching thunderstorm, he could hear the rustle of the billowing curtains downstairs, he could smell the echoes of a family that seemed to be gone: tuberose, jasmine, sandal wood. Sweat, sex and dirty laundry. Popcorn, chewing gum and... blood! Goddamnit! The next falling drop made his skin crawl. All off a sudden he felt the heat and humidity, whilst the stench of gore became overwhelming. The Dragon snarled. Francis snarled, too. He turned around and opened the door in front of him, his senses alarmed again, his gun at the ready. "Who are you?" a tired voice was heard. It flickered with dozens of candles, standing in jars and holders all over the place.
"I'm Francis", he frankly replied and lowered the pistol. Though the room was filled with steam he recognized the woman in the bath tub as Sonja Larkin, creator and admin of their Facebook account. Her visage was pale, her eyes marbles of incredible green. He took a deep breath and moved closer, leaving his Glock on the washing stand. Another drop fell. In contrast to her alabaster skin the water was dark red and foamy, two shimmering razor blades drifting along between her thighs. She looked at him and raised one arm, the wound on her wrist a pulsating gap. She has done it the right way: along with her vein. "Will you stay?"
Crouching down next to the tub the Dragon took her hand, his free hand gently stroking her hair. "What happened?" he whispered. There was no use in calling an ambulance. Her fingers were cold already. Her breath was cold as well. She was a ghost clinging to life, demanding some more important minutes.
"Bruce and the girls... my girls..." Words trickled from her blanching lips. "I tried... To be strong... cleaned all the rooms." Sobbing echoed the room, shaking her body and moving the water. "I sent them over to Granny's house. It's a simple two hours drive. I told them to call when they arrive. They... never got there. Police called: told me it was... a... pile-up. With them... in the middle. The car burned out. I... wasn't... wasn't even allowed to see them."
Francis bit his lower lip: "You will see them again." Leaning in he kissed her cheek. "Soon. So soon... "
Sonja smiled: "Are... you... an... angel?" The amazing green of her eyes faded with her lids falling close. Her head sank back against his arm. Her flagging hand nearly slipped from his grip. For a single moment a bright light filled the room.
"Sometimes I am", the Dragon said. Ever so slowly he licked her wrist. Outside the moon and the world got veiled by heavy rain.
The thunder roared. Summer was over. 
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08/11/2019 07:24 PM
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Hotel Cortez, Room 64
 Hotel Cortez was a living creature. A breathing organism, made from wood and stone, chrome and marble, pain and blood. Luxurious and nostalgic, with a foyer large enough to get lost between soft red couches and tiny tables, it attracted people of all flamboyant kind, bewitching them with its Art Deco flair. Flickering candles and exclusive perfume: it called him. A sweet siren song, a whisper in the dark. A sensual shiver, running down the inked vertebrae of his spine.
The Cortez knew how to charm its victims, though Francis was no victim at all, he was a guest, a friend, a lover. He knew he was welcome, and without any particular reason the hotel opened its doors and opened its secrets. To him, the tall slender man who focused on the last door at the end of the corridor, the tag of its key swinging slowly, a pendulum of uncertain damnation, shimmering in twilight. Room 64. It felt weird to come back. It felt good as well. He has been there already, nearly dying on the blood soaked bed, but exactly this room demanded him back, caressing his senses with promises and delusions. 'The first time was just a dummy run. This time, Francis... this time the Dragon will dance! Wrapped in crimson veils and purple haze your ecstatic roars will shake the foundations.' His scarred lips curled to a smile. Lovely enchantment! Inclined to believe it he turned the key. The door swung open, breathing blurred memories and the fragrance of roses. Cautiously he stepped in, inhaling the atmosphere, shivering yet again. The furniture has changed, wall paper and carpet were different. He has ruined the entire room last time. Though there wasn't much he remembered, he kinda knew what he has done. He has slain a hooker. He has slaughtered her, shredded her, partially devoured her. And vomited her on the floor again, her foaming remains hidden behind the shower curtain.
He must have been in a frenzy, but he didn't know why. Torture and mutilation wasn't his style. He was no sadist. He wasn't cruel. Not even the Dragon needed to rage such way. Francis dropped his traveling bag and rubbed his temples. His blue eyes widened, peering at the bed. The cream-white linens were smooth and clean. A Hershey bar adorned his pillow. Her hair has been blond. Her eyes like amber. The big round eyes of a wounded deer, finally veiling and breaking from pain. Francis blinked. (Was it really me who has cut her lids off to preserve this stare to the very end? Was it me who ate her lips in a final greedy kiss?) The scent of roses became overwhelming. Dried roses, withered roses. Rotten fruit. Clotted blood. He gasped for air and blinked again. He has kept her alive for as long as possible... A sudden rustle alarmed him, made his head turn to the open bathroom, the flickering ceiling lamps drawing shadows against the tiles. He saw his face in the mirror. He knew he has smashed it. He knew he has used a bigger shard to cut her open. He knew he has licked her wounds, cooing sweet nonsense about her beauty. Hypnotized he stepped closer, watching the silver glass shatter and break. Shimmering pools re-appeared, footprints, fingerprints, drag marks, body parts. Half-digested meat-chunks. Most impressive action painting, the scenery from a splatter movie. His stomach rebelled. Again. A low growl resounded in his head. His eyes turned golden. "Stop it", he snarled. Walking up through a frozen nightmare, he finally touched the untouched glass. He noticed this whiff of fear on his face, but his lips curled to a smile again. In the mirror he could see the bed, a satin raft in all shades of crimson, his own naked form curled in its middle, shivering, whimpering, nearly dying. Drifting on a silent ocean of blood. "Stop that bullsh*t!" he snarled anew. The lights responded with another flicker. The door opened. And there she was... untouched like the mirror and sweeter than the omnipresent fragrance. A rose from the gutter. "You?" he gasped and stumbled back, his eyes now big and round and blue like the Summer sky. His smile dulled. Her smile broke his heart. "Hi", she said, "My name's Lara, but you can give me any name you like."
"I remember...", was all he could say, his mind submerged by recollection. Suddenly she stood before him and slapped his face. His head moved to the side, feeling the heat and the pinprick sensation. "This is for causing me so much pain."
Instantly her hand moved up again and Francis seriously startled, yet her cold fingers were gentle, caressing his reddened cheek, soothing the aching skin and confusion.
"And this...", leaning in she whispered to his lips, kissing him softly, her breath as cold as her touch, her tongue slipping between his lips, inspiring his arms to move around her waist. The lights flickered again, but she did not disappear, she was as real as the room, Room 64, Hotel Cortez, and this kiss was deep and endless, or at least so it seemed. "This is for killing me, for saving me from a pitiful life on the streets."
Her body nestled into him. His body reacted. Slowly reality slipped from his grip. ---*--- Two hours later they danced in the giant ball room, their bodies still wrapped around each other, kissing now and then as if they were invisible to the rest of the world, and the rest of the world didn't care, they swirled around them, men and women in pompous attire enjoying the party, celebrating luxurious Halloween. "How does it feel to shag a ghost?" she finally breathed to his ear, downing champagne like mineral water. What ya think, his eyes replied while his lips curled to a grin. The reptile in his veins rolled around and purred. His entire form vibrated in a distant pulsation, covered by scratches that were absolutely real. "Your slang don't fit your gown", he teased. Her appearance took his breath away. "You look like a lady." "But I'll always stay a whore. A very special one now. Special for you. And maybe for some selected others, too." Grasping a new glass she looked around, her amber eyes sparkling with fever. "I think you have to excuse me..."  Taking a seat at the bar he watched her dive into the crowd, her red silk robe a seductive second skin, exposing a perfect leg now and then. 'You've made a predator', the Dragon cooed, 'A child of your hunger.'
An undefined pride touched Francis' heart. He stroked back his hair and tugged his bow tie. Some strands of his pony tail were loose already. It wasn't me, he thought, it was this fvcking room upstairs. Womb 64. You know how they call it?
'I know, I know', the Dragon growled, 'Will you follow March's invitation?' Possibly... A drink in hand Francis scanned the scene with narrowed eyes. The ballroom was disguised as a Gothic graveyard: tomb stones, cobwebs, rotten bones. Even parts of old trees. Pumpkin lanterns on every table. A booth in the background caught his attention. In contrast to most of the guests Francis didn't wear a mask. It's Devil's Night. The doors are open.
He ignited a cigarette and sipped his drink.
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08/08/2019 07:52 PM
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Blood and broken mirrors
--~INTRO SHAHAR~--  Some evenings don't ask for much: stretched on the couch, indulging in weed and Whiskey, watching self-made videos. The stress of the day slowly drowns in recollection. The mind gets calm with the lights getting darker.
Blurred by aromatic smoke bittersweet images flickered across the screen, reflected in drowsy, half-closed eyes. Francis knew these filmlets by heart. He knew every movement of the "actors", every non-spoken word, every muted scream. He knew the enticing rattle of fading breath, the splatter of blood, the echoes of whispered lies. He knew the muffled shots of his Glock and the thud of a bullet hitting a bone. He knew the unstable drumming of dying heartbeats and the sweet low chime of a fleeing soul. He knew shadows and ghosts and all these eloquent nuances of silence. He always filmed without sound. It wasn't necessary to hear what's going on: he listened between the lines. With all his senses. And it repeated in his head. A thousand times: the darkest of mantra. The broken radio played oldies on such evenings. Santana. Cohen. The Doors. Melancholic lyrics and bewitching tunes, perfectly fitting the entire atmosphere: perhaps it conked out around this time. 1968... When Jim was still alive and the desert was full of brand-new perceptions. When artists stunk of Absinthe, and all poems were filled to the brim with wolves. (Except one, the most beautiful of all. This poem I've written for you.)
Francis' lips curled to a smile. The pot kicked in and his thoughts spread their wings, circling the dimmed ceiling lamp, throwing obscure patterns along the walls. On the screen Lydia Sanderson died another time. A pan of the camera, a zoom: a close-up of the tattooed orchid on her left shoulder. He watched himself licking the outlines, recalling her last words while he slowed the pace of his thrusts: "Please be gentle." Hush, my darling, I'm always gentle. His thumb caressed her wet cheek while his gloved hand covered her mouth and nose. Well... nearly always; but always in moments like this one. The last moment. This precious shortage of time he led them to the final doorstep.
A shiver ran throughout their bodies: the perfect climax, Eros and Thanatos combined. Fragile. Fugitive. Endless. One moment... This moment; before he withdraws and gets out of bed to bathe in the magic of the full moon. Naked, smeared with crimson, his widened eyes shimmering golden coins. The Dragon danced. To honor the hunt and to praise his priest for the sacrifice: a slick reptile, powerful, beautiful. In moments like these they were not Francis but Shahar. Eosphoros. Son of Dawn, bringer of morning light. Born before time, in the pastel colored break of the first new day. Francis moaned. Everything appeared so easy on screen. But it wasn't so easy. Sometimes the children refused to stop crying. Sometimes their souls shrieked like banshees, accusing him for his deception. Sometimes he could see their ghosts, helplessly staring at the mess he has made. Blood and broken mirrors... common people called it a crime scene. He called it art. Unique masterpieces he left for the FBI to decipher.
They know his signature, his DNA and the color of his hair. During the years they have given him a lot of fanciless names, some annoying, some amusing, but none of them grasping his truest self. Sometimes not even Francis was able to grasp his truest self completely. When his blue eyes turned gold. When his tongue forked to nervously lick the scar on his upper lip. When his shoulder blades grew bony fingers breaking through the dermal surface, when the skin of his back slowly stretched along with these fingers to finally unfold a pair of tattooed wings. When his spine elongated, vertebra by vertebra, to a strong thick tail. When horns unscrew from his cranial vault... This pain was maddening beyond words. Impossible to grasp. Reminding the Dragon that his vessel was (still) mortal. Then he needed hours to soothe the broken man he possessed. This trembling puppy he sometimes called a coward and sometimes admired for his reason and strength.
Shahar adored Francis: his body, his mind, his soul. His passionate poetry and his will to survive. He loved the wounded child in his deep blue eyes. His desire. His desperation. His shy curiosity. His brutal gentleness. He loved the fact that Francis wasn't cruel. He has chosen him wisely. Cooing sweet promises he coaxed him training the transformation. It wasn't easy. Francis was scared of this pain, and his fear was legit. Humans don't grow wings, horns and a tail. It simply doesn't happen. ---*--- Stretching his muscular form he turned his back to the screen. A sequence of pictures was shown, the face and figure of a naked young woman tied to a tree, her form embalmed with mud, her arms adorned with leaves and branches. The images were dark, too dark maybe, but like all other photographs and films Francis knew every detail by heart. This darkness was merciful, like the quick death he has bestowed on her. A shot in the nape of her neck, 22 gauge, hollow point bullet, extremely short distance. Her name was Sandra. She was 19, inspired member of the local drama group, on the way home from a club outside of town. Wrong place, wrong time... "You're heavens sent", he recalled her voice and her long slender legs. Francis moaned again. She was the only one with the allowance to haunt his dreams. (What a strange kind of love...) Exhaling a deep sigh he closed his eyes and listened to the radio. "Sister Morphine" by Marianne Faithful, the singer's smoky voice a perfect lullaby for his dizzy mind. He wasn't as stoned as he wished to be, but he was close to doze off.
"It's Friday night", a silent voice whispered to his ear. Francis shrugged and yawned. The entire day has been hot and stressful, so he savored the cool of the house, the breeze from the garden, the scent of roses that swung through the air. He was not inclined to go out. He did not seek company tonight, and though he missed his lover and the priest of Saint Michael's, who has finally become his lover, too, he indulged in the solemnity of loneliness, ready to surrender to Morpheus' arms, pictures of a new crime scene flickering across the screen. He tried to remember how many people he has killed already. The number differed. It wasn't important. Actually he has killed none of them. Actually they have been sacrificed to the Dragon. Francis has taken their lives in exchange to get a life himself. A real life: all pleasures included. Who would believe him? Who would even ask the moment they get a grip on him? They call him perverted. Deviant. Insane. He was extremely dangerous. Not many knew the truth. The reptile in his blood... The ancient old deity. The fallen angel, who wasn't even fallen but on a secret mission. (The one who still wore his halo most of the time.)  Born in the middle of the Bible Belt Francis didn't believe in God. The good Lord, his mother used to pray to, has left him when he came into this world. With just one look into his innocent disfigured face the warmth has died instantly. The love faded, all hope was gone. ("Where is my baby? This monster isn't mine!")
Why the fvck have you chosen me, he has yelled at his own shattered reflection. All these broken mirrors throughout the years, each silvery shard representing a piece of his broken soul. Because you are full of passion, despair and poetry. Because you're a technician and an artist. Because you're perfect. Because you are the one allowed to use my name as your own.
But I'm not you! I'm not Shahar, I'm Francis Dolarhyde.
Wait and see, Francis... "Why don't you shut up and let me sleep?" Francis snarled and turned round again. The screen was black, and he was grateful for that. Though he was all too well aware what the reptile could do to his body Francis took the risk and spoke to him this way. Usually they lived in symbiosis. Usually they respected each other's needs. Tonight was different. The Dragon appeared restless, and slowly but surely Francis could feel it, too. An uncertain presence: a tickle on the edge of his dazed perception. His hackles rose, his skin covered with goosebumps. "Who?" he whispered into the twilight of his living room. Rubbing his eyes he sat up and ignited a cigarette. Sleep trickled from his forehead.
"I have no idea", the Dragon frankly replied, "But it could be dangerous. Most of all for you." ---*--- One hour later he found himself in front of a club he would never enter, not for anything in the world. The bouncer looked at him and smiled. What are you waiting for, he seemed to ask. "Good evening, Sir", he actually said.
"Good evening", Francis nodded and ignited a cigarette. He seriously wondered why this guy was talking to him. He neither looked interested nor was he attired for such an establishment. Wearing a washed out gray boxer shirt, black cargo pants and likewise black combat boots even the doorman in his uniform appeared overdressed compared to him. "You will not ask me...", he grinned and took a drag from his cigarette, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the damp Baltimore air. There was not the slightest breath of wind here in the inner city, not even the usual breeze from the coast. Bathed in neon light and a cloud of perfume oozing from the club's door he missed the comforting cool silence of his home.
"We got air condition", the bouncer grinned as well.
"Air condition and dress code", Francis replied nonchalantly and dropped his cigarette. "And I don't even wear a tie. So..."
Suddenly he sniffed the air. An icy shiver ran down his spine. His glance darted from the man in dark blue to the polished wooden door and up two marbled columns framing this door as if it were the entrance to an ancient temple. Involuntarily he snarled. Then he stepped back. His eyes turned golden. The flirtation was over. "No thanks", was all he managed to say. Without a second glance he turned and walked down the street, leaning against the wall when he felt out of sight.
"Evil", he exhaled with a growl. His heart skipped a beat. "Powerful. Beautiful. Misguided evil." 
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08/05/2019 07:15 PM
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Fragments, just fragments
There will come a moment
you find yourself drift in an ocean of pain,
ebbs of agony and floods of fire,
submerging your senses, suffocating all hope. You will drown in shades of crimson... All of a sudden your blood is just blood,
and no one cares to embalm your wounds,
so if you still cling to the illusion that your life is a song,
then you will learn that this song is fading. Poetry might help you survive,
but it won't keep you from dying.... (-F.D., 2019)
(A status, somewhen in Spring 2019) HANNIBAL: We are all much closer to the brink of destruction than we have allowed ourselves to believe. Right beneath the skin is a hidden, carefully nurtured darkness, that waits for permission. FRANCIS: Needles stirred up my darkness, humming allowance to show up. HANNIBAL: All hail. FRANCIS: Are yours and mine the same? HANNIBAL: Let us open the skin and find out. FRANCIS: That's a very intimate gesture, you know. HANNIBAL: I am all too aware of what I'm suggesting. FRANCIS: Maybe you'll find more than my darkness. The shimmering scales of silvery secrets. My passion and fire. My true self. Many things are close to the surface, while others...
I do not doubt you, Hannibal. Neither your suggestions, nor your words. Nor your deeds. I'm just not sure if you really want ME under your skin. LETHE (Charles Baudelaire) Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés,
rien ne me vaut l'abîme de ta couche;
l'oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche,
et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers. *** To bury my stilled sobs in the abysses
of your anodyne bed, to feast upon
your lips that shed potent oblivion,
to drink the Lethe flowing in your kisses. *** Um still geword'nes Weinen zu ertränken
kann mir nur deines Bettes Abgrund taugen.
Aus deinem Mund kann ich Vergessen saugen,
in deiner Küsse Lethe stirbt das Denken. "The beast, which you saw, once was, now is not, and yet will come up out of the Abyss and go to its destruction. The inhabitants of the earth whose names have not been written in the book of life from the creation of the world will be astonished when they see the beast, because it once was, now is not, and yet will come." (Revelation 17:8) I am confused for I slip from my own grip, I dissolve and ooze through the veil, and I disappear into darkness without a sound. I will be the one who devours the sun, and the woman, bare of its warmth, will cry in pain, and her unborn son will bow to me in awe.
And I will reign for 30 days, and I will call my brothers from the sea to gather together at Harmagedon. And near Jerusalem we will fight God's army... But why? And why me? I'm only human and I need to be loved. (Please, call me insane! Please call me insane...)
Chained to a rock he waits for the thunder of giant wings, bringing back endless pain. He, a titan, stole the fire from the Gods to bring it to his mortal beloveds, so he, amongst others, should understand... that my human light is stolen, and sleepless I lay in darkness, listening to every possible sound. But all I hear is thunder... On the doorstep to Summer, in the waning of Buck Moon, a thunderstorm gushed up, waking me in the middle of night, so I get up to watch the bolts ripping the sky.
I should not think of your skin now, hot and glistening with sweat. I should not hear your moans in the drumming of the rain.
Thunder vibrates through the veins of the house. Storm rattles the shutters.
But that's nothing compared to the storm in my head. Life is not about fighting.
Life is not about killing.
Life is inhaling the beauty of existence
and finding words for the fragrance of moonlight. (~F.D., August 2019)
You ask who I am, as if I would know.
Me, the one shattered to a million of pieces,
broken and regained and broken again.
I think I'm me. Or maybe I'm you.
Angel to some, and demon to others. (Sept. 2019) 
Sometimes less is more.
Sometimes enough is already too much.
Harelip! Monster! Cunt face!
You bring nothing but bad luck.
Blame it on the filthy beast!
Shame on you, Francis!
I never counted how often I had to hear this, and I felt a lot of things between aggression and deepest sadness, but I never felt ashamed of my disfigurement.
I knew I wasn't to blame for being born with a genetic defect.
These painful stations of my youth. Shards of recollection joining together to a puzzle of incomprehension and despair. A shattered mirror, catching the moonlight, reflecting my eyes. They are bluer than the Summer sky. I'm young and old. And crippled.
But now I am to blame. At least on more than 40 dead people.
Men, women, children. Shame on me.
I'm still not ashamed.
You have to be calm, completely calm, not a single emotion dazing your mind: no rage, no fear, no excitement. Fully awake you walk through a dream, and you hear everything, the breath and heartbeat of the sleeping house. You know it by heart, you know where to find them. You know what to do. You go upstairs, your gun at the ready, the silencer adjusted.
Sometimes I heard music, deep inside.
Later, when I bathed in blood and moonlight.
(Nov. 2022)
I miss you.
Your hands, clawing, kneading, demanding my skin.
Your voice, gasping my name and calling me "bastard".
Your body, wrapped around me, conjoined to mine,
and an entire world not able to part us.
Your lips and your tongue and your deep humid kisses.
Your heat in the cold of the full-moon night.
Your intention to kill me by riding me to the very end.
I miss you, Will.
November 2022
~*Late night musing:
1. I never cared about Alphas, till Hannibal's teeth ripped the skin of my neck.
2. You have to take risks to get what you desire.
3. Being fvcked is always (a bit) painful, even if you want it.
December 2022
(Still December 2022)
It's not power I felt. No remorse, either.
I pulled the trigger and I switched off lives: all thoughts, all hopes, all dreams. Entire futures. I extinguished them in a single moment.
I left myself in empty houses, with silent echoes and the sweet perfume of escaping souls, re-arranging corpses like photographs from times lost past.
A kiss,
an embrace,
an alibi,
or a tender hand,
coating your wounds,
and holding your hair back
when you puke your guts out.
Love knows exactly what you need.
(Dec. 22)
~*~
[January 2023]
Day is loud and merciless,
while night is full of whispers.
Confessions and lies are done better at night.
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08/05/2019 06:45 PM
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Heat Lightning
(A memory) Sacrificing entire families is not (always) glorious. This weird connection of the shy boy that's still part of me with the passionate reptile in my veins appears like torture now and then. Of course, we are of the same spirit, both artists, both poets in their special way, but earth and fire, and sometimes the Dragon scares the sh*t out of me. He uses to forget that I am human, that supernatural things simply frighten me. Fact, I'm more sensitive than most, but I'm still earthbound, still rational, still full of concern, doubt and mortality. I trust him, but I have to stay alive. I have to deal with emotions. I have to stay mentally sane. At least as far as possible. I remember this night in August last year... Sturgeon Moon, Barley Moon: a night full of humid electricity, heat lightning bathing the rooms in radiant flicker, the disk of la Luna cold and vibrating, a merciless round heart, speaking of all Summers end.
I heard them whimper. The children wept. Covered in sticky crimson I ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I stepped inside and hid in a corner, cramped to a ball on the creamy tiled floor, the water falling down on me, each droplet a tiny pinprick sensation. Blood swirled around me. Cheated of his dance the Dragon roared and called me a coward. I covered my ears with my hands, and I closed my eyes, yet I still saw the blood, and I still heard the thunder and the children weeping. As the water turned frigid I started to shiver. I wished to be a million miles away. Away from this house. I wished to be home. Storm gushed up. The neon lights flickered again. Drumming of heavy rain mingled with the splash of the shower.
"Stop it", I gasped. Down the hall three pairs of silver-shard-eyes stared at their parents draped on the bed. Two girls and a boy, the youngest about four, leaned against an abstract painting in all shades of red. They whimpered like puppies. Though I knew they were dead. I always shoot the children first...
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08/05/2019 06:40 PM
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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.
 ~*~
Feb 2020: And yet again he feels nostalgic at times, slipping out of bed in the middle of the night to visit his refuge upstairs in the attic, opening his giant Mustang safe to pick up a little trinket he keeps hidden there, the only trophy he has ever taken, and maybe the reason why she comes haunting him. She never demands it back, for she doesn't long to disappear into oblivion, she needs him now and then, when eternal darkness gets too cold and the memories of her mortal life are way too present to ignore. She remembers him. Of course she does! She remembers this fatal night in March two years ago: the fight with her father, the frustration that made her drink too much, and her long exhausting walk because she has missed the last bus home. She remembers how grateful she was to hear a car, to feel the light capturing her form. She called the driver "heaven's sent", for he looked like an angel in the smoky twilight of his van, and she liked the scent in there and the music from the radio, like she liked him instantly, and not only because he showed mercy to a lonely girl on the road at night. Francis... She has told him her entire story within ten minutes, while the black car slid along the woodline, and she wished he would stop somewhere and kiss her, cause somehow it would feel wicked and sexy making out with a man who could be her father. Sometimes she regrets that she hasn't touched his knee. But she remembers that she bowed down to catch a bottle from underneath her seat... Why did you leave me alone, cold and naked in the middle of the woods, tied to a tree like a fvcking dryad, she asks him for a hundred times, and each time he apologizes and smiles this shy little boy smile, showing her the tiny trinket he keeps hidden in his safe upstairs in a room underneath the roof he calls 'the shrine' sometimes, a tiny trinket set in silver, so he can wear it on a chain. You're such a sentimental pervert, Francis! Why don't you take it back, he uses to ask her, whilst she, far from innocent or ghostlike, ignores the trophy in his hand and wraps her arms around his neck to finally do what she has omitted doing two years ago. While his mouth tastes of cigarettes and Whiskey, her kiss is always sweet from rain and humid soil, yet both enjoy this kiss, his naughty tongue exploring the gap between her upper front teeth. She doesn't care that he has taken one of them. She doesn't want it back, for she would lose her senses then. She would forget how to feel. She would forget the way to his house. She would forgive him. And she would forget him. Keep it... her voice echoes inside his mind. Moonlight paints the room in shades of blue and silver. He stares at the tooth on his palm. The scent of her blood lingers in the air. Mingled with drying mud and rotting leaves. Perfume of a dead girl in the heart of a recreating forest. Sandra... Sugar on your soul. Sweet as a night in Spring, close to the Equinox.
 ~*~
--~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 2022Noiseless 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~--
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