Contributor: Marc Nocerino
- -
“Goddamnit Greta,I growled at the dark beauty sitting in front of me, "stick that fucking knife in my gut or so help me God I will chew your eyes out." For a second I might have actually meant it.
“You’re sooooo melodramatic, Rick. If it weren’t so cute, it would almost be pathetic.” Rather than gut me, Greta used the supremely sharp knife to finish chopping the cocaine into two tidy little lines; perfectly parallel, perfectly spaced, and of identical length. She tossed the knife in my general direction; playfully, not at me. It landed softly on one of the dozens of faux-Moroccan throw pillows that littered the floor.
“You’re such an evil bitch.” My hands were clammy. She drove me crazy and she knew it. She had been leading me on for months now. I wanted nothing more than to snort that rail and fuck her until we both exploded. I was so amped it felt like I’d already done a line. I could almost taste the postnasal drip.
“Charming.” She rolled her eyes, glass-blue all covered in thick black lashes and Egyptian mascara; then batted them and licked the corner of her lip. “But you know you love me.”
Greta smiled with just a quarter of her mouth and her eyes glittered like blood diamonds. I wondered, not for the first time, if her insides were as beautiful as her outsides. I doubted it.
“Now stop being a retard and do your line like a good little boy.” She held out a small mirror for me and I leaned in close. I thought of how pale her hand looked against the tattered black fishnet sleeves she wore, of how her skin was the same dull powdery white of the line she had just chopped for me. Her veins showed through the back of her hand, dark spider legs crawling toward me. I closed my eyes, tingling with the anticipation, and thought of Greta being the cocaine as I sucked it up into my nose, not even bothering with a straw.
Greta. Such an ugly name for such a pretty girl.
The drug slammed into my brain. I could feel my frontal lobe dance with sheer euphoria, happy little neurons firing dopamine back and forth like a hundred thousand cocks shooting their loads. I heard Greta inhale her own line and a small moan shuddered through her like orgasm.
This was not cocaine.
I opened my eyes and everything in the small room seemed to glow under its own luminescence. The dark tapestries draped along the walls shone an incandescent velvet black, the dozens of little candle flames were kaleidoscopes spinning and gyrating in the cool dry air. But Greta… she was a marble statue, an alabaster figurine. Her white skin shone like the moon. She was a goddess. I tossed my head back and howled. I was feral.
I tried to ask what is this stuff, but it came out all garbled; more of a long ululation than a sentence. Words weren’t allowed in this headspace.
I could see she was just as enraptured as I was. Her semi-permanent smirk became an actual smile, the first one I’d ever seen on her. Her mouth kept spreading wider and wider. It looked like it was going to split her face in half.
That’s when her eyes rolled back into her head like she was sneaking a peek at her brain. And she mustn’t have liked what she saw there, because blood started pouring out of her nose. It took a minute for me to realize that I should be concerned about it. All I could think about was how pretty those rivulets of dark looked against her paleness, how they accentuated the contour of her lips. She fell backwards, her fall gently broken by one of the gaudy cushions.
When my brain finally did connect the dots, Greta had toppled over and was flopping around like a marionette in the hands of an epileptic puppeteer. Somehow, one of her breasts had shunted its way out of her top in the commotion. Blood started coming out of her mouth, and I thought she might bite her tongue off.
I tried really hard to think of some way to help her but I just couldn’t stop staring at that tit wiggling around.
That is, until I spotted the knife she’d thrown to me earlier. Watching her distorted reflection writhe in the blade, I couldn’t help but wonder again if her insides were as pretty as the rest of her.
It was messy, but it didn't take long to find out. They weren’t. They never are.
- - -
Writer, musician, poet, armchair philosopher, libertine, mystic, and most recently; father. His work has previously been published at Penumbra Magazine, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, and The Horror 'Zine.
Read more »
- -
“Goddamnit Greta,I growled at the dark beauty sitting in front of me, "stick that fucking knife in my gut or so help me God I will chew your eyes out." For a second I might have actually meant it.
“You’re sooooo melodramatic, Rick. If it weren’t so cute, it would almost be pathetic.” Rather than gut me, Greta used the supremely sharp knife to finish chopping the cocaine into two tidy little lines; perfectly parallel, perfectly spaced, and of identical length. She tossed the knife in my general direction; playfully, not at me. It landed softly on one of the dozens of faux-Moroccan throw pillows that littered the floor.
“You’re such an evil bitch.” My hands were clammy. She drove me crazy and she knew it. She had been leading me on for months now. I wanted nothing more than to snort that rail and fuck her until we both exploded. I was so amped it felt like I’d already done a line. I could almost taste the postnasal drip.
“Charming.” She rolled her eyes, glass-blue all covered in thick black lashes and Egyptian mascara; then batted them and licked the corner of her lip. “But you know you love me.”
Greta smiled with just a quarter of her mouth and her eyes glittered like blood diamonds. I wondered, not for the first time, if her insides were as beautiful as her outsides. I doubted it.
“Now stop being a retard and do your line like a good little boy.” She held out a small mirror for me and I leaned in close. I thought of how pale her hand looked against the tattered black fishnet sleeves she wore, of how her skin was the same dull powdery white of the line she had just chopped for me. Her veins showed through the back of her hand, dark spider legs crawling toward me. I closed my eyes, tingling with the anticipation, and thought of Greta being the cocaine as I sucked it up into my nose, not even bothering with a straw.
Greta. Such an ugly name for such a pretty girl.
The drug slammed into my brain. I could feel my frontal lobe dance with sheer euphoria, happy little neurons firing dopamine back and forth like a hundred thousand cocks shooting their loads. I heard Greta inhale her own line and a small moan shuddered through her like orgasm.
This was not cocaine.
I opened my eyes and everything in the small room seemed to glow under its own luminescence. The dark tapestries draped along the walls shone an incandescent velvet black, the dozens of little candle flames were kaleidoscopes spinning and gyrating in the cool dry air. But Greta… she was a marble statue, an alabaster figurine. Her white skin shone like the moon. She was a goddess. I tossed my head back and howled. I was feral.
I tried to ask what is this stuff, but it came out all garbled; more of a long ululation than a sentence. Words weren’t allowed in this headspace.
I could see she was just as enraptured as I was. Her semi-permanent smirk became an actual smile, the first one I’d ever seen on her. Her mouth kept spreading wider and wider. It looked like it was going to split her face in half.
That’s when her eyes rolled back into her head like she was sneaking a peek at her brain. And she mustn’t have liked what she saw there, because blood started pouring out of her nose. It took a minute for me to realize that I should be concerned about it. All I could think about was how pretty those rivulets of dark looked against her paleness, how they accentuated the contour of her lips. She fell backwards, her fall gently broken by one of the gaudy cushions.
When my brain finally did connect the dots, Greta had toppled over and was flopping around like a marionette in the hands of an epileptic puppeteer. Somehow, one of her breasts had shunted its way out of her top in the commotion. Blood started coming out of her mouth, and I thought she might bite her tongue off.
I tried really hard to think of some way to help her but I just couldn’t stop staring at that tit wiggling around.
That is, until I spotted the knife she’d thrown to me earlier. Watching her distorted reflection writhe in the blade, I couldn’t help but wonder again if her insides were as pretty as the rest of her.
It was messy, but it didn't take long to find out. They weren’t. They never are.
- - -
Writer, musician, poet, armchair philosopher, libertine, mystic, and most recently; father. His work has previously been published at Penumbra Magazine, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, and The Horror 'Zine.
0 Comments
Author:
Marc Nocerino
