MY FRIEND INSIDE OF ME: By Michael Kane
Tuesday, February 2nd, 2010LYCANTHROPY CONTESTANT
I rip my pinkish hue flesh with subtle discrimination. The red bloodstain dripping onto my white cotton shirt looks like droplets of sweet love shedding itself onto me. As the bleeding skin of my hairy forearm slides off of my bruising sinew and cherry red bone, my raw penis grows hard from the luscious pleasure being born unto me.
The sweetening agony in my wrist swells like monsoon waters in a turbulent storm. It sends its sharp, distinct aftershock into my screaming brain telling me in all of its rage to stop doing this to myself. It’s ordering me to cease the blessed cutting. How can I do anything but continue in my honorable work? I will never stop as long as this wretched body denies my Lycanthrope friend its holy emergence.
The full moon in all its glory, like the sensual gray eye of a wolf looks down upon me through my glass pane window urging me to become this creature of holy darkness. I sear my pitiful flesh to find my stygian animal and I’ll never stop ripping, cutting, slicing, chewing until I find it, but where is it? Where in the fuck is the beast promised unto me by the queen witch in those ceremony rights? She swore to me that in the next full moon that I will have my way and that great beast of hair and muscle is a gift unto me.
My stainless steel hunting knife scrapes along the gleaming surface of the bones in my right, skinless arm. The blunt, unique sense of glorious agony rushes along the highway of nerves inside my bleeding body. My blue eyes begin to roll back, back into my screaming skull changing the bright colors of my brown walls and emerald green carpet into the dimming, dark hue of dusk, and then all to gray. I fall to my knees as I resist the tempting offers of pleasure and sleep but instead focus on the intensities of my bright pains glowing off my arm like a heavy heat.
Perhaps I’m digging in the wrong place. Maybe my promised Lycan friend isn’t going to surface until I slice open another part of me, like my large thighs or bulging guts. Where is my demon friend? Where has he gone too? I need to be that vengeful animal so that I can mutilate all those who’ve wronged me, those pitiful, fucking degenerate pigs. They’ve taken my job, my wife, and even stolen my dog.
They’re going to pay.
If I have to bathe in a deepened bath of my own blood to find this friend of mine, I’ll do it. I’ll grab a hold of my soft scrotum, feel its dimpled surface like pimples covered with strands of hair, squeeze it in a tight grip fist until the pain is a pure, undiluted strain of a hellish concept, and pull with the force of a titan until that sack of semen disconnects from my bleeding body like a wasting part. I’ll do it for my friend. Oh, what sweet pleasures I’ll accomplish this bright night when the decadent creature comes forth out of me.
This tourniquet wrapped around my biceps will slow the bleeding in my right arm. I need to do more though. I need to prove myself to this old beast. I need to show that I’m worthy. I hold this crimson soiled blade with my left arm, the one not trembling, and thrust its nipple tipped point into my left thigh.
I tear it all out, the muscle, pieces of bone, the repulsive white flesh, everything. I then begin to lick the gushing blood plopping, pouring out of me like a dog lapping up drink with its dry tongue. I roar and howl, like the monster I will soon be as my body loses its sweet, red wine.
I place another tourniquet made from bed linen on my upper thigh and that seems to have slowed things down enough. I’m dizzy though. The world spins around me as if I’m in orbit around a sun made of blood.
“COME TO ME MY CRAVEN BEAST! JOIN WITH MY FERVENT HUNGER AND BRASEN RAGE! BE MY LOVER AND CONQUER ME WITH YOUR ETERNAL, BLOOD KISS!” I scream this while the pain in my bruising body grows worse.
How much more digging do I have to do? Where is my sacred, unholy promise? It’s in that moment, my feelings of abandonment are reaching their towering peaks that a creature made of meat and teeth and hair leaps through my living room window as tiny shards of clear glass spray across the room like cutting bugs storming in. It’s clear that this is not my friend, the one that should be inside of me, but another Lycanthrope who’s smelled my blood from outside no doubt in its hungry search for wet meat and thick, silken crimson.
As the animal’s eager mouth tears out my gaping throat with a gnawing satisfaction, I can feel its hot breath flowing into my lungs, replacing my own as I lose my sense of self and die. Where is my friend inside of me? Where is my friend inside of me?
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© 2010 Michael Kane
Someone once said that to be an author of worth your work must be set apart from all others. Michael Kane has been immersing himself in the art of the gothic and the macabre for the better part of a decade and seeks with unbridled passion to truly capture what it means to weave this delicate craft onto paper. To Kane, going beyond the fashionable limits of horror is not only a desire, but an obsession. He has a short story entitled “The Island” available in the current issue of Sonar4ezine.com and “Black Rising” being released in April 2010 on the same ezine. There’s also a short story called “Elevator Culture” that was released on deathheadgrin.com in the Fall 2009 and “The Blaze” appeared on Oct. 13, 2009 in newfleshmagazine.blogspot.com.
