the wide welcoming arms of alice dee

A swell of voices, rising gradually, anticipation lurking, licking its lips, profoundly distasteful—climaxed in a brief, rapid exultation, then died down again, the anticipation cycling in the air like noxious fumes, mustard gas and roses.

From a few hundred meters away, crossing the dirty pavement, she heard the strangled cries of the house, eyeing her friends with curiosity.

“I can’t…wait,” she spluttered out.

The sound of her little heels went click, clack, against the smooth concrete, played with the ruffling of her dress, crisp in the wind, white and black and bowed little ruffles on a maid’s costume, ripped into a plunge at the neck. A bright red brassiere peaked out from beneath, yet it was all hidden, enmeshed in the protection of her black hoodie, its cloth arms wrapped around her.

A huddle of people came into vision before her; the entrance, presumably.

“So, how long do you need to set up for…?

Probably not more than an hour or so, he thought.

“Well we should try to stick together, at least, for a bit.”
The face on the wall was leering at her. He looked hungry—

A bright, red painted, grinning face, eyes twisted into complex geometrical shapes, leering at ten feet tall, stared down at her with the plainest of polite faces and that mouth, that mouth grinning so broadly she could feel his teeth opening up. She turned away.

The house was swollen with bodies, bodies enough for days, for cities, bodies for spare; hundreds of dancers in every room, the bodies swaying with gentle alarm to the music, sonorous, changing from room to room—in the daisy room where the music sounded like car alarm horns being set on fire, she waltzed through, glassy eyed.

the limp words being pushed out with her tongue into the condensed air fell away into nothingness

Each room was a different entirety in itself, a different world. One room came into vision: a giant boar’s head mounted on a wall, the rage plastered onto the creature’s dying face; hundreds of rodents mounted on placards, intricately built model ships at five feet high, hundreds of them swimming into view—

walking, walking


~little crabs scuttling across a broken sea: ~

Underneath her breath, before her starry eyes, a group of three crunched together, huddled into their instrument. Tall and pale with facial hair creeping alongside their faces, they played together, the notes resounding in harmony—sweet songs, earthly, broken, defiant happiness in the face of abject, abstract misery—a little accordion running alone. It caught her most sharply; she clutched for the notes in the air as they faded away, as she walked into the next room.

The year was 1860.

Or so it seemed to her…She sat at the bar, ruffled her dress, leaned back to smell the sweat of the room.

The walls, tall and proud, stood there, black and red vertical stripes running along playfully as the bar twisted in its ornate design, the granite edged with microscopic figures of wooden circus animals, lions and tigers and bears, figures that seemed to stare up at her quizzically as the thousands of bee bodies swarmed around the room, the hive, dancing, talking, laughing, swaying, pupils erased…

And as she sat there on the bar stool, at the old-fashioned parlor bar, a man and two women appeared from thin air, across her, their backs leaned flat against the wooden paneling. They were all laughing, grinning broadly, the man with his arms wrapped around, the women with sticky lip gloss smiles, and as they emerged the old man with his sunglasses and white tux, winked at her, turning his head to the right, ever so slightly.

She sat calmly until he walked out of the room, walked delicately under the line of butterflies suspended from the ceiling, past the giant wooden panel humans with the cut out faces, and stood examining the dark wooden paneling. Looking at the corner of the wall where the space was the most narrow, she saw the crevice grow deeper—a prominent dividing line—she followed it on the ground with her eyes some twenty feet, until, until,

a man untroubled smiled at her from below—from twenty feet below her through a panel of clear plastic in the floor, his expression muddied, waving.

She got up off the floor with some difficulty and waltzed, jacket enmeshed around her yet, to a large step-ladder in the sky.

A giant emerged from the ladder, giggling childishly. He repeated her broken hello back at her.

He was, she thought, at least six feet, no, seven tall, draped in a heavy grey cloak, wearing a white collared shirt with frills, the bows and lapels emblazoned onto a dapper navy blue jacket, a beige waistcoat peeking out from beneath, golden watch dangling from a heavy chain, the pinstriped pants, dandy leather shoes.

She stared at him with a mixture of awe and fear, not sure how to interpret him, the one first body she had distinguished from the swimming hoarde. She ascended the ladder, went up a story or two.

The house had shrunk.

The roof was now lowered by a foot or two, so that she could walk but not without some difficulty. She saw the lobsters scuttling along across the sea, bodies hunched over, meat puppets, dancing along the floor, making their way from room to room with astounding agility. She slipped away and looked up, up high, above her—

painted gold balconies with girls in heavy dresses and men with hats and smoke curdling out of their lips,

giggling and more gypsies and swill and drink, drunk,

vipers with piercings across their eyes, brows, bones, cheeks, sunk into their marrow, in their backs as little diamonds, pixies with short dresses and frills and tweeny grins, pink, purple, orange, hair: pink, purple, orange…

thousands of lights winking into her, gently touching her hair, curious little yellow and blue lights that wanted to play; she saw them fall over the dozens of balconies above her as she lay stooped in the tiny hallway, and so, she fluttered down the hallway, further and further, until she was on her knees, crawling…

The ceiling had, quietly, without a word, folded in half. The entrance to the room, which was one large flat floor, which was the entire world, was through one human-sized square, onto a platform that opened up into two rooms, both of them giant floors covered in beds, silken lining, pillows, bodies prostate and crumpled. She slithered onto the floor, laid on the giant bed, and stared into a face.

She tried her “hello” once more, this time, with success.

There was a sweet smell to the room—the mustard rose gas, she thought—a heavy perfume laden cloud of particles wafting away to attract curious bystanders at hand. It brushed up gently against everyone’s faces, its long, slender fingers reaching at their eyes, wiped their irises away with a tiny picking motion opened up the pupil, enlarged it, and went away again, picking and pinching…

She smiled at him and collapsed onto pillows nearby him and eyed his face with the most curiosity and playfulness she could muster. Her smile was so wide, it felt strained, a thing on its own. Yet her face had been untouched by the opium den: bore no traces of its hand—

the boy saw this thing and smiled at her, handed her clear sheets of plastic dripping in pixel powder, white powders bagged cleanly and neatly, drug store array, the convenience of a superstore in the palm of one tiny tanned hand

Her fingers greedily clutched for two of them—a thick yellow tinted powder, a clear, fine one, nearly sugar. She licked her fingers and gobbled them up when she noticed her smile had ran away, floated off into the distance; was usurped by a strange, sickly hidden grin with hiccupping cough. She thanked the boy for his courtesy and lay beside him, her eyes, her face claimed—all hail the meat puppet—

she was now a slave to it, the body

lapped up more, the apothecary running like a factory, in and out, in an out, inhale, exhale giggles, swollen lips filled with blood and infamy,

she ran down the hallway crawling along laughing and laughing fit to burst,

ran into a tiny perfect circle then returned to collapse onto the golden throw pillows of the boy with the shadowy smile

he was so gentle looking, so distinctly out of place, that she felt a small affinity towards him; and as she talked and talked to him she became aware of the creeping purple feelers at the corner of her eyes. Perplexed, she followed their cues as they guided her to a tiny hole in the wall, a study, two foot tall wooden door that opened into a maze of darkness and plastered lights.

she fell through it into total darkness with all of the lights swearing blindly at her, there were so many lights, they overwhelmed her, they screamed at her hoarsely and she didn’t like it,

turning the corner

she came to find a human heart on the wall.

It was as tall as the dandy—six or seven feet—and pulsated with the lights, lub glub lub. It was scrapped together from so many broken pieces, from gentle pink fabrics and azure blues for the bloodthirsty veins, lascivious velvet and deep maroon cradling one another in the mystery that was this anatomical marvel; she looked at it with a crooked eye and was astonished to realize the thing was very real, built correctly, the only ghastly thing in proportion to the sickly, demented house, yes yes this must be where it lives

and skipped straight away from the grotesque heart in which she saw her own beating rapidly—

as the walls continued to grow more narrow she climbed upwards

she climbed and climbed and

ran off what body parts she had

that had remained


for now

The house seemed to pulsate no more. There was nothing but a gauzy darkness, darkness like a spider’s web: not quite totally filled in, darkness with gaps in which she could see yellow, sickly faces grinning broadly at her from the corners of each room, beckoning forth. She twirled in place and felt a deep hunger—it must be fulfilled—she walked until she saw gentle blue eyes twinkling out of a corner and planted her lips onto them, kissing the eyelids, holding the sweaty palms, wrapping the bodies together, her lips crackling on fuzzles of body hair, auburn, pressing closer—

until the next corner—a flash of teeth. She swam up to them clumsily, lapping them up, felt the cold touch of denim against her teeth, kneeled, prostrated before it—the least yellow of the faces, the jade eyes which were so clever and which pulled her irresistibly. She looked to her jacket—it had vanished—her blouse, what was left of it, embittered shreds clinging feebly to her chest; she felt the surrender of his hands running across her pale and cool and exhaled a sigh of pure gentle relief—

the body pushed into another, sapphire eyes with lips filled with blood—she grinned as she bit them, felt her face pressing up against the wood, her knees blistered with splinters; felt herself laughing and groaning deeply, pressed against her, she felt a hurt—a pain splitting her—she was thankful for it, savored it, far, far too deeply

She stood up, suddenly, tall, erect and aware, staring at three figures standing before her. For some reason she felt herself quivering with uncontrollable excitement, anticipation fulfilled. Her eyes though of the daisy room, of the fairies and dandies and elixirs; her lips parted ever so slightly as she found herself kneeling.

The three hooded figures seized her, their voices honeyed with pure admiration, reverence, love so deep it scared her as they clasped their pincers around her feeble wrist;

a bright source of comfort, was near, she could tell—

as the red-hot poker was pressed to her skin, to the back of her hand,

you’ve been chosen—

she felt something trickle down her thigh,

the poker continued to gobble away at her flesh greedily as the figures enshrouded her body, like warm hugs, like the feeling of being indoors, in front of the heater, inside the heater, inside the bucket of flesh and bag of bones; her eyes lifted to see another, to see the scaling ray of the iron slide onto her flesh again and again, branding her; eyes swimming upwards, faint with praise, tears running across her face, she exhaled and exhaled again, whispering,

thank you, thank you


the soliloquy of the damned

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:


can I

bite you,


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—

but wait

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.

“Sure, sure…”


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—

I am








…waiting, waiting for the next dose of pain to greet me