Last remnants of soul in Halifax, hiding my psychopathic nature. A victim of sobriety’s nether world, unleashing my insanity. Remembering Mama’s dark slate of peril.
In the dimly lit room, as I weaved pot holders. The air was thick with the scent of old books and insomniacs. With the faint hum of a ticking clock. The only other sound was the soft, rhythmic drip, drip, drip of something unknown. I sat in the worn leather chair, my heart pounding in my chest as I awaited the arrival of my lover, the one who held the power to both exhilarate and terrify me. My senses were heightened, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation. With a clockwork urge.
With a fucked-up fetish for Boris and Natasha reading the cryptid messages on TV in closed caption hyperventilating, waiting. Skinny-dipping cocaine and watching phonographic movies backward, listening to Rachmaninoff.
The door creaked open, and in walked her. Her eyes, as cold and calculating as ever, locked onto mine. She wore a red dress that clung to her curves, like a good after shave.
I was her Rumpelstiltskin, her monkey was on crack, with drilled holes in her labia. My love, “she cooed, her voice as smooth as silk, I bring you a gift, a reminder of our past, our toxic psychopathic memories.”
She approached me, her hips swaying seductively, with an eerie, hypnotic rhythm. Slow walking, and I couldn’t help but lean forward in my chair, sniffing her snifter as she removed her garter. She was all grunge to me in her fashionable shit as I was about to cum in her in-box.
Learning, after Daddy died. That Mama and I didn’t fit into the stagnant preached society. But our mind’s coagulated with razor burns.
A dark underbelly of a story. Your style is unique and enjoyable.
Good one.
Thank you.