So, here 'tis. I hope it posts properly.
Rating: Hard R, I guess
Summary: A psychotic boy has horrifying visions in an abandoned church, in the middle of the night--are they simply delusions, or are they glimpses of a reality we'd rather not see? 1st person POV, inspired by the Evanescence song of the same title, The Jesus Chainsaw Massacre, and my own imaginary world.
Warnings: Semi-consensual ghey secks with a minor, blood, gruesome imagery, blasphemy, nudity, brief mentions of sexual sadism and masochism
I lie naked in my sleeping bag, feeling drafty chills on my exposed flesh. It's the middle of the night, I think. The cracked stained glass windows towering above me glow faintly in the moonlight. The eyes of saints and a crucified Christ stare down at me through the dusty air. I feel them judging me. I don't like it. Dad says this is his hideaway, his place. It's not. It doesn't feel like him. My father is blood on warm flannel, smoke and tequila, sweat and gunmetal and dark. This church, this abandoned boarded-up place, is dusty white. It's plaster, marble and cold. The candles he lit have all been extinguished for the night, and not even their gray plumes are his.
My eyes are open, staring, twitching like flies on rotting meat. The plaster Christ's face contorts upward in sterile agony, but he looks at me and does not blink. I am not welcome here. None of us are. Those painted, glazed eyes see everything...my nakedness, my fear, my bite-marked skin, the sore ache between my legs...unforgiving and unyielding, he sees my lusts and does not like it. Look what I did for you, he says. I slaughtered myself because of you. He is disgusted by the squirming, wounded boy below him, and he would like nothing better than to wrench my pulsing heart until it ruptures, taking my distorted life. If there was a God, he's not here tonight.
Only a few minutes ago, I lost my virginity in this very chapel. I saw my father's...protege, a younger man of eighteen, looking at me when Dad fell asleep. I slipped into his sleeping bag, and offered myself to him in curiosity. Or was it jealousy? Dad thinks I'm a broken lunatic, and pays more attention to Elias than me. Elias is crazier than me, but he doesn't see things, no he doesn't. I wanted to know what sex was like. I wanted to know if being bitten felt good, like when I chewed on my hands and arms. I wanted to, but I was so nervous. Creepy Elias stole one of Dad's opium cigarettes and lit it for me. Fifteen is too young to smoke, but I do it. Oh god, I was like a rag doll in his arms after the smoke, not sure if I wanted it, helpless to stop it, and nauseously enjoying it. He said I take after my father. I'm not sure what he meant. Dad started waking up, and I wrapped myself in my sleeping bag to hide.
I didn't sleep for a second afterward, sore and dizzy, seeing shadows flit across my peripheral vision. I'm still awake. Dad and Elias are piled on each other, a tangle of groping, lecherous limbs in a sleeping bag. I turn my eyes away from the staring saints and look at them. The bag has unzipped itself, revealing parts of their tangled bodies where it doesn't drape over--Dad's hairy, scarred chest, the back of Elias' thigh up to the edge of his ass cheek, the top of Dad's groin, Elias' scrotum from a certain angle--all rising and falling with every snoring breath. It disturbs me, inexplicably. Dad's sleeping face has a predatory, lusty expression on it. Shadows fall across his eyes, so I can't tell whether he's asleep or not, and the way Elias slumps over him reminds me of a monster wallowing in the gore of its last meal. Like a predator which rutted with its last victim, I think. The way they entwine in sleep, in the dark, is skewed...their limbs rest in perverse, improbable angles, and their heads lie twisted in ways which would snap living men's necks. They're still breathing, in deep rasps echoing off the beams. As my blurry vision adjusts to the dark, I see more than I'd ever want. Their naked bodies are smeared in blood, and spots of their skin have greenish, moldy tinges to them. I rub my face, thinking it's a trick of the light. When I look up again, the blood and rot are still there. So are the stitches of steel wire holding together Elias' deeply gashed limbs and the bloodless lacerations on my father's body. An oily black tear rolls from under Dad's sunglasses, and he twists his neck the other way, letting his shades drop from his face. There are empty holes where his eyes used to be.
I lie paralytic, too frightened to look at him, too scared to turn my back. My own eyes roll upward, begging bleeding martyrs I don't believe in for mercy and finding none. A few blurred spots in my vision betray the places where blood vessels have popped, and my tremulous hands claw at my dirty blonde hair, fingers pockmarked from my own teeth. I feel something warm and sticky drip down my thigh. When I wipe it off, I see it's my own blood, running in little rivulets from my insides. A flash of memory crosses my mind, and I feel the corpse taking me again; the cold corpse who lies on top of my father, violating me with dead flesh.
They lie like naked bodies exhumed from their tomb, every inhale a death rattle, twisted and dislocated...I see them now. I see them for what they are.
The illusions shatter like fragile stained glass as my limbs go numb and my mouth contorts into a silent scream. My toes are like ice, then my feet, then my legs. I'm staring into the back of my head, convulsing, coughing up cold spit as the facade called reality fades. A gray fog rolls in, thick as a quilt, bringing the sound of primal birdcalls and cicadas with it. I'm shaking like a leaf, sweat is pouring down my face, and I think to myself, it's happening again. Oh shit, it's happening again.
When the shakes subside, I'm lying in the crumbling shell of the chapel. The walls are overgrown with climbing vines, strangling the gory crucifix and covering the pale, reaching hands of the statuary. Tall, thick kapok trees climb towards the night sky, forming the long-fallen roof, but not quite covering the stars. A carpet of moss is beneath me, and fireflies glow above me. Birds cackle and chirp to each other, fluttering through the branches.
Then, the night is silent as death. The birds make no sound, and the wind comes to a standstill. I feel my gut lurch as a scent like rotten meat and urine wafts past, from somewhere in the distance. Every muscle tenses, and every instinct tells me to run. I don't. I stay rooted in my spot, even as blood still beads on my thighs and the footsteps come closer.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Something tramples through the underbrush, and the stench gets stronger. I can't see it, but I know it's there. Watching. Waiting.
I close my eyes, and try to pretend it's not there. I beg and plead for the illusion to come back, but it doesn't. I don't want to see what waits.
I remind myself over and over again that I'm not on the other side, I'm only seeing through to it, but it does nothing to reassure me. There's still something horrible waiting in the trees, and though it doesn't know I'm there, I will glimpse its form no matter what I do. I see things. Sometimes I wish I didn't.
It steps into the church, dripping sewage that stinks of a carcass, and light is sucked out of the place like water down a drain. None of my senses work anymore, and as I sit in the absence of life, I wonder if I've ceased to exist.
My eyes fly open, meeting the marble gaze of Mary. I look around. I'm back where I was, awake and alive, in the middle of the night. Burying my face in my pillow, I voraciously suck air into my lungs, breathing in the scent of dust, candle smoke and dirty hair. I curl into fetal position and chew on my fingers, trying to stay awake instead of wishing for sleep. My teeth break skin, and the pain keeps me alert. I've seen too much tonight. I'm happy in the dark, with the scent of my pillow and the feel of my flannel sleeping bag.
I close my eyes, and put my incisors through the flesh of my thumb.