Part 1: The Meeting
My hands are shaking.
My devil is a beautiful man.
The mirror image of myself: a few inches taller, but with the same eyes—green, bright green, with a circle of orange in the center. Thin, wide chest, built powerfully, somehow all into one body. The most perfect lips ever created by God—thin, soft pale, pink top lip, a pout to the bottom one; hallowed eye sockets, sharp, protruding cheeks. When he would smirk and laugh, opening wide, his little fangs showed through the elated smile and God, my God, how I ached to feel those teeth against my skin.
This is the story of my devil, though it may appear otherwise, at times. But the possession he had taken of me was complete. I had done…I had…surrendered…to him…my soul. Willingly.
There was no return for me. There is no happy ending to my story.
To escape him I fled. I ran away, thousands of miles away, with the idea that the distance would somehow heal me. And yet, upon arrival, I quickly came to discover that there was no respite from him; that the land had been bewitched by him; to smell of him, his memory engrained into every sight—my eyes drunk—my feet bleeding—I roamed powerlessly through the streets, wondering to God how I had been so thoroughly ravaged; missing my body, the warm feeling of soul that I had so eagerly abandoned; the contentment that came with feeling yourself to be a vital part of your surroundings. The sense that your existence, somehow, contributed to the rest of the world.
I was no longer of this world. I could not, despite my best attempts, begin to fathom it any longer; I could not comprehend anything that happened to me. My memory escaped completely and so my story is one based on sense—on blood and pain—
You will quickly grow to find all this out, in due time, how I pieced these things together. But the picture is an incomplete one.
I do my best with what I can but still I sense the emptiness, the unearthliness, of myself. Children alone seem to understand; they stare at me, open mouthed in horror, saying nothing, walking along hurriedly and clutching the hands of their parents. My tragedy is lost on everyone else, though the more mischievous of the little ones seem to delight in my fall; I see them snicker at me.
I fear their smiles, somehow.
I began to grow helpless, wild with panic at the thought that he would never escape me. And so, I decided that, rather than heal the open, gaping wounds, I would rip them open. I would destroy myself at all costs, and in doing so, leave nothing to him; there would be nothing left for him to feed on any longer;
I would not be his food source,
his coy plaything
the filthy girl that bled for him
I would cease to be
The deed was done.
Part 2: An Introduction
As I mentioned, the picture is an incomplete one. I mostly rely off snippets of memory, faint, wistful longings, heightened sensations of pain or ecstasy to guide my thoughts, such as they are.
My name is Lolita.
My business is pleasure.
No more, no less.
Part 3: The Seduction
At a club by the sea. My friends are dancing under the neon lights and I am hungry, desperately in need of a feeding.
A boy sits alone at a table by the bar, idly stirring his drink. I saunter up to him;
trite words are said,
and the conversation slowly turns to:
he nods, his face expressing total awe and shock, and so I ram against him, throwing his barstool into the wall, sinking my teeth into his neck, taking a morbid, comedic pleasure in his incredulity
The next day I turn to look at him and feel nothing but disgust, severe aversion. I try to hide it on my face. He is stupid, and does not understand.
The English are very keen on being polite, cordial; are infinitely aware of the laws of propriety and a certain sense of decorum to be maintained at all times. This categorizes their peculiar ways. In finding a way to incorporate manners into my lasciviousness, I stumble across a pursuit infinitely amusing to me, and so, I invite him to breakfast.
I try not to seethe with rage and disgust and turn away from him, staring avidly at my surroundings. Being depleted, however, he notices nothing. He gives me his number.
“Call me if you ever get lonely,” he says.
And though his eyes are blue like the California skyline and his smile hints at a world of sweetness and sorrow, I laugh to myself and forget him instantly.
Part 4: Rampage
Another club. This time I am not unaccompanied. My friend is an angel: Holly. Infinitely capable of empathy, loving, intelligent, unassuming. In her own way, her sweet disposition is nearly as unnerving as my soullessness.
We stand outside smoking cigarettes.
A man approaches. A haze of people. I can not make him out.
His name is Johnathan. He mutters something to us. My mind is elsewhere, lost on the crowd.
Another approaches. My attention takes a sharp turn, is diverted immediately to the foreground.
Tall, tall, full lips, shimmering green eyes, glasses, thin, so thin.
I feel myself beginning to get worked up.
I feel the blood heating.
“hello, William,” I say
in my sweetest,
most honeyed voice.
…my lips grinning unbearably
Inside under the lights lost in the sweat the heat of the mindless people
William and I dance
I am aching,
itching to restrain myself
Outside again. More men. One of them makes me laugh, infinitely. Jack.
Jack is uproariously drunk, has the kind of face that looks capable of humor. I find myself modestly serene, looking at him, the corners of my mouth upturned into a faint smile. He is beside himself. Jack is inappropriate and very nearly obscene, but I like him all the more for it.
“Will you just…please…stick your hand…down my pants and just, just give it a touch…”
Holly, William, Johnathan and I laugh uncontrollably while Jack continues on and on, his perfect blue, sapphire eyes and deep red lips swinging away at hopeless dreams,
dreams of lust and tan skin,
“Or at least…let me show you, what I’ve…hic…got…you won’t be! disappointed! ! ! (HIC) I can measure up…teach you a lesson…”
I find sweet Jack hilarious, which is a difficult thing to do when you are utterly incapable of remorse.
The group of men and I escape onto the beach. I have always felt a powerful affinity towards the beach: something about the indescribable, raw power of the ocean waves crashing furiously into the rocks soothes me. I relish violence in all forms and the havoc that nature creates in this harmonious little tourist trap swells my heart.
There is no sand, only large, hard rocks. The ocean waves are docile but cold, a chill penetrating to the bone.
Somehow William and I take to making a bet about skinny dipping. I laugh and tell him I would be more than happy to join him, if he so chose, imagining no man would subject himself to such—
William’s pants are off
and I, oh, me—
now Jack’s pants are off
and mine follow
so the whole world can see my red lace panties
and my black lace garter belt
as the three of us plunge into the ocean
Jack retreats quickly while William wades in waist-deep, grins at me.
His laughter—the quiet mockery of his smile, his pale flesh—
cements my resolution
to have that little bit of flesh
Jack and I are dancing in the club.
William and I are dancing in the club.
I am being kissed furiously—
A group of men and I retreat from the club, Jack and William in tow. I drunkenly proclaim to them (proudly) my capacity for pain.
They are excited, infinitely curious. I twirl and jump and laugh in my skirt with the garter belt and thigh highs and watch their eyes open wide; I take turns viciously abusing their manhood, provoking, inciting their desire to inflict abuse on me, the creature or item of curiosity, being of course, an oddity in myself; I leer at them and grin, shining white teeth, bend over, laugh,
“have a go,
None of them need a second telling as they line up in turn to slap me viciously from behind, one after the other, delighted. I proclaim a two-second rule (for mercy, to keep up appearances, who knows). They whine and pout, take turns queuing, argue over who hasn’t got a turn yet.
My body is flushed with pleasure but it isn’t enough, isn’t nearly enough;
William is in my bed.
He is good, so good, oh, oh, how I relish having him, every minute of him, watching him from above, watching his mouth open wide, pressing mine furiously against it, biting, biting, rolling over, gasp, moan, splutter, the dark is not cover enough for what we do, shouting, oh oh oh mine at last
Part 5: The Resurrection
I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this fuck me kill me rape me anything but this anything I will take any abuse no matter how sordid painful humiliating public just please God spare me this spare me this one last abuse and my pitiful, pathetic soul will cry out in remorse and you can reclaim me as one of your own, human-bound and earthly, I will atone for every last sin, I will walk into hell fire with open arms sweet tears running down my cheeks grinning broadly just please spare me this one last bit of
can the damned hope to even dream?
I knock at the door, every inch of my body shaking violently. I feel a heart attack in my lungs my eyes my chest everything is shaking and whimpering nonstop it is pain too deep to bear my whole body is rocking shaking violently with spasms please can anyone just—
The door opens.
“Hello Mrs. ******, can I speak to *?”
Her face is utterly bewildered. And just then, round the corner, he emerges.
He walks up boldly to me, unhesitant, and hugs me gently (reclaiming his flesh)
“Can we…take a walk?” I manage to splutter.
The next bit…is…so painful that the memory of it, even in recalling it (attempting to recall it) nearly rips me in two
We walk along the river Thames.
He does the thing, the thing I had feared more than the vengeance of God Almighty or the wrath of Satan himself, he does the thing that damns me forever and leaves me not a shred of hope by which I could hope to cling onto life—
he rejects me, laughing, claims no love for me;
then pins me to the wall,
begins to feed
on his favourite bit of flesh
perfect and pure violence, a violence so unearthly, a violence unseen to me, the purest ecstasy I have ever known, he kisses me over and over again touches my skin works his hands presses pulls our lips are lost I have abandoned myself to the elements I know not what is happening only that my limp, prostrate figure is entirely in his command and I seem to watch from afar as my body becomes animated, restored to life; beautiful, dazzling, emitting a light so powerful that I am instantly blinded, abandoning myself entirely to the touch of my possessor, moaning, weeping, dazed, grinning, laughing, crying, the entire world, every feeling ever experienced by man is rushing through my veins and I open my eyes only to find eternity in his, my mirror image, my devil, my destroyer
Part 6: Vengeance
The shock flashes through me. I awake—restored to reality—to the sting of his pain, to his abandonment—and cry out—
and avow to resume that which has been my main pursuit, that of pain,
of destroying the body
Jack is in my bed.
William and I kiss—
Some idiot leers at me outside, raises his eyebrows uproariously at me—
I go home to him that night and curse him forever the next day,
tossing his number into the gutter
with the rest of the trash
I stand before the mirror utterly destroyed, every inch of my body covered in bruises—
William takes a cigarette, extinguishes it on my arm; Jack takes his finger and jams it into my mouth, covered in drugs—a different kind of “ecstasy”, he says, is in store for me—
Part 7: Inventory; A Destruction In Process
6: bruises on left arm. Half an inch to one inch in diameter. 3 bruises, right arm, half-inch diameter.
8: bruises on thighs, lower back. Largest measuring three inches in length, deep purple, nearly black, two inches wide, a black hole
12: hickeys to the chest
5: hickeys to the neck; largest measuring four by four inches wide, various others from two to three inches
one cigarette burn
variety of claw marks across my back
my ass—one handprint clear across, the other, black and blue, 6 inches in diameter of a bruise swelling—
…waiting, waiting for the next dose of pain to greet me