So it's been quite a while since I've
posted another short written by one of my, ahem, esteemed colleagues. I will
place all of the blame on this particular author, just because I can. "Oh,
I had to spend time with my wife and baby. Gotta work and catch up on my
homework." Cry me a river. None of that is as important as my world-famous
blog. Priorities, priorities.
Seriously, though. Randall's a good dude and I think he's starting to
hit his stride as a writer so I wanted to give him some space here. We've
talked a lot about horror and I wanted to make sure he at least gave me a piece
that was on the darker edge, since that would fit well with the general vibe of
this blog. This one definitely deals with more of a "real life"
horror than anything involving monsters or the supernatural. Enjoy.
Numb
He
was laughing.
“I remember pain,” she absently said to
the motel ceiling.
“You don’t remember pain,” he said.
“Time has erased and numbed the sensation, the need, of pain.” She closed her
eyes and her skin swallowed the needle.
“I remember pain,” she whispered. “I
remember the hot skin around swollen scars. I remember your lips pressed
against wounds needing relief.”
“You don’t remember pain. Vials and
syringes made it unnecessary for aid providing kisses. Pain is a thing of the
past to be forgotten and abandoned. All we have left is sensation, pleasure.”
He pushed the plunger. Her back arched and he clawed at her thighs.
“I remember when it used to hurt, when
you used to hurt.” She exhaled and ran her fingers up her forearm. “When I used
to hurt you. I remember weakness and loss and aching muscles beneath bruised
skin.”
“You never hurt me and I’ve never hurt
you.” He pressed his body closer to her, flesh to sticky flesh, dragging the
tip of his nose up her arm.
“I remember feeling you hurt. I could
feel the hurt from our friends and family. I remember the pain of the entire
world imprisoning me in their sorrow.” She wrapped her arms around her ribs.
“All of it at once cocooned me, relentless and cold.”
“You don’t suffer the world’s pain. The
world hurts because it’s alone. The world only hurts for itself.” His hand
slipped between her thighs. “Not for you.”
She clasped her legs and turned to him. “If you let the world suffer
where does that leave us in the end?” She stroked his cheek with the back of
her fingers. He pulled her hand away and fingers disappeared into his mouth,
one by one.
“It leaves us here to worry about each
other. Let the world suffer their actions. Leave the world to face the
consequences of that pain you remember. Here, we have our own world.” He smiled
and kissed her fingertips; her identity moistened by his lust.
“Our world is numbed by invaded veins
and cloudy minds. We can’t see past each other and into the foggy reality
outside.” He laughed and clasped her hips. He rolled onto her, over her, and
pulled her on top of him.
“But here, you can be on top of the
world,” he rolled once more, “or beneath it. At your own will.” He laughed and
held her wrists to the mattress. “At your own demand you can dominate or submit
without fearing the pain you so longingly desire.” His smile filled his face.
All that was left of him was that smile.
She crawled off of him and faced away. He pierced another vial, tilted
the syringe, and filled himself. “Is it weird to say I want the pain back?” She
slapped her thigh, gripped her stomach and pulled. Skin tore beneath her
fingernails. “I can’t feel anything with this frozen body,” she shouted over
his laughter.
“Why is it so important to feel? Haven’t
we led ourselves down this path wading in chemicals and manmade pleasures?” He
stood and extended his arms out with his head tilted back. “We are all the
result of our own abandonment.” He walked in front of her and lifted her chin.
“We gave up everything while absorbing nothing. But we don’t strain or suffer.”
His voice was soft beside her face. “We don’t have to hurt.”
She continued to claw and pinch and slap. Bruises took color. Welts rose
and hardened. Pinstripes of blood decorated her legs. Tears puddled her eyes,
but never escaped to caress her cheeks. He, smile glaring, rubbed her shoulders
and leaned into her, behind her, and caressed her back. His hands, his lips,
his tongue touched her every bruise, cut, and scar.
He was laughing.
BIO: Randall Lahrman is a San Diego
native and is an MFA student at San Diego State University. He has some
publications strewn across in the internet and one or two in print.
http://www.facebook.com/Randoscribe -Facebook
https://twitter.com/Rando_Scribe -Twitter
http://litconic.com -Literature
Journal. Contributing Editor
http://leviathyn.com/author/rlahrman/ - Video
Game News/Reviews/Commentary. Contributing Writer
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