Moans written down

I was just walking down a busy street minding my own business when I saw an old black man. He sat on a small chair, guitar in hand. Even though it was really hot outside and I was sweating in a light shirt, this man wore a suit. It was an old suit, patched up hundreds of times. If suits could talk this one would have much to tell. On his head was a matching, ragged hat. I could tell he was hot by the way grains of sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes. But nothing could stop this old men. The moment he started singing I recognized his voice. I knew I heard it somewhere, I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

So I got closer to this man that played the blues, instantly I recognized the song. He sang “Going Down Slow”, one of my favorites. After a few minutes of watching him perform I finally recognized him. He was “Big” Bill Burnett. I had his record from the 80’s, back then on the cover he looked old; I couldn’t even imagine how old he is now. I couldn’t recognize him because he wasn’t the same man I remembered from the record. He wasn’t big anymore, he was small and fragile, he lost a lot of pounds. Just like his suit, his face shown years of wear and tear. I couldn’t believe it was the same rock of man he used to be. This man looked like he could drop dead any second, or he could live on for ten more years. I was mesmerized by him.

When he finished his song I dropped ten dollars in his guitar case. He tipped his hat.

“Are you “Big” Bill Burnett?” I asked him.

“Guilty as charged,” Bill said while fiddling with his strings.

“I don’t want to sound insulting, but… What happened? You don’t look like you used to, at all.”

“I get asked that a lot kid. And I always tell ‘em: the blues happened kiddo, the blues caught up with me,” Bill told me without looking away from his guitar.

I wanted to ask him another question, but he didn’t allow me. He started playing another song cutting me off. And when he started to play, and I saw that spark in his eye, I understood what he wanted to say.

barefoot she danced
so graciously in our room
her feet tapped light
keeping me awake for long
oh how I loved that sound

she’s gone now
but the sounds echo at night
haunting me forever
not letting me shut my eyes
just like she used to do

days feel like quicksand

with each day I sink deeper

nothing to grab near

as the sand rises higher

until it swallows me whole

when the rain falls down

I don’t use umbrellas

or cover myself

I hope rain washes away

everything that burdens me

A warm and wet lick woke me up from my drunken haze. Gradually I opened my eyes and saw my dog licking my face. I propped myself up in the bed; a bottle rolled over the edge and fell to the floor. A look at the clock told it was 2 AM in the morning. I was pretty much out of it for some time, somewhere after my 2nd bottle I went to sleep. My dog, a cross of german sheppard and something else looked at me. Then she barked at me and signaled to the hallway; she obviously wanted to go out. I remembered I haven’t actually taken her out this evening.

Without any choice I dragged myself out of bed; I turned over some empty bottles on the floor. Then I noticed my computer still running, not surprisingly the page I was writing before I passed out was blank. I sighed and started to get ready.

Once we were outside I walked with my dog alongside my building, around the corner and over the road was a small park I usually take my dog to. The night was pretty cloudy, cold and rainy. I didn’t have an umbrella, but I didn’t mind, my hair tends to look better wet. As I was going around the corner my dog heard something and pulled me with him. Suddenly another dog on a leash jumped out from around the corner; their leashes instantaneously got tangled up. I looked around the corner to see whose dog was that, and in front of me was this beautiful woman. She had fiery red hair that was currently wet from the rain and sticking to her face. And her face was breathtaking: greenish eyes, cute nose, dimples. Just as I looked at her she bit her lip, I thought I could die now and not regret a single thing, that’s how pretty this woman was.

“Sorry they got tangled up so badly,” She told me and leaned over trying to untie the two dogs that were wrestling around.

I muffled something that couldn’t even be considered a word. “You said something?” she asked me.

“Oh, nothing just let me help,” I responded and kneeled trying to help her untie our dogs.

When we managed to do it she looked at me, she stared straight at me for a couple of seconds not saying anything. Then she awkwardly waved and continued on her way, which was the opposite of mine. I glanced at her over the shoulder trying to make myself say something. Come up with something witty and clever, come up with enough confidence to start a chat.

“You always walk your dog at 2 AM? Don’t you know it’s dangerous out here at the time.”

She stopped and turned with a radiant smile on her face, “I only walk the dog at this time when I don’t have anything more interesting to do at 2 AM. Plus if someone came looking for trouble, I’m pretty sure Carrie could protect me,” she said pointing at the rather small dog standing at her feet.

I chuckled, “You are quite funny, I like you,” I just blurted out. I expected her to bolt because I was so blunt, I expected her to just leave. But she didn’t. She actually came closer to me, she got pretty close, so close I could count the freckles on her face.

“You know, I kind of like you, and I usually don’t invite pretty drunk looking strangers to my place; however, I may just make an exception.”

That was unbelievable, a woman like that invited me back to her place after a few exchanged sentences. If I didn’t know any better I’d think she I was dreaming. So I accepted her offer and completely forgot I didn’t walk my dog after all this. We got up to her building not far away, we got into the elevator and looked straight into each others eyes. She bit her lip again, if that wasn’t a sign I didn’t know what is. So I leaned and kissed her, her lips tasted really good, kind of fruity. We stood there, lip-locked in the elevator, our dogs at our sides. For a change this was an elevator ride that I wished would never end.

“If you keep staring at my ass you’ll burn a hole in it,” Someone said. She said. The scene where we kiss in the elevator dispersed into thin air.

She was still walking away from me; I was still staring at her ass, and nothing actually happened between us. It was all my imagination, all my damned imagination. I continued to stare as she walked down the street disappearing into the dark night. I actually continued to stare some time after she was gone, hoping she’ll turn around and emerge under the light of the street lamp. But she didn’t. And there was no point in staring at nothing in a middle of the night, under the drizzling rain.

So I took my dog and headed off to the park. Alone.

Lonesome in my home

Suicide flashes through my mind.

I just need a rope

But, funerals cost a lot

And that I can’t afford.

In hindsight, I should of always known a woman was going to be the death of me. One brought me into this world; I guess it would just be fair if I died because of one. This one starts in the middle of a busy street; I was just walking down, trying to not think about the summer heat. When I reached a stop-light I looked over my shoulder and saw her. This redheaded woman, she was a ginger cliche: freckles, heavenly face, devilish smile, a body to die for. She had this summer green dress that swayed when she walked. And I couldn’t stop myself from staring; she was without a doubt one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. In a crowd of a hundred, she could stand out instantly. She walked graciously and carefree, it was as if she was flirting with the whole world. As she passed me by I turned around to take a look at her ass, and it was absolutely amazing. I could already see myself spending a life with a woman like that.

That is when I saw I missed the light, the light already turned red, but no cars were to be seen. I was in a kind of a hurry so I decided to run across. But something made me look back at this gorgeous creature. I turned my look back at her, as she walked away. I hoped she’d turn around and notice me. I wished I could muster up the courage to approach her. When I looked back I saw a bus. That was the last thing I saw.

I always figured a woman was going to be the death of me.

this is inspiring. can I put turn this into a song?

Sure, no problem. The first two lines are actually from a cool band Hillstomp song “Darker the Night”. I just slightly changed the first two lines and added the rest.

Sleep will not come soon

But I do not despair, no

The night is too dark

I do know: darker the night

The darker are my nightmares.

If I had money for a bullet and a working gun

I’d do to myself what someone else, long ago, should have done

Put the unforgivable barrel to my head, stop the fucking pain

Paint the boring wall behind me with a mural of my brain

But I’ve spent the last cent on wine and rum

Can’t even remember the time, the time when I wasn’t a bum

Nor does my gun work; it’s covered in a thick layer of rust

But I still remember the last time it fired, driven by my carnal lust

I’ll just have to go on, watching as life passes me by

Because today isn’t the day, today isn’t the day I die.

This morning she told me everything. All the stuff she hid from the world for so much time. She told me all about it. How he used to kiss her; how he used to touch her; how he used to tell her he loved her.  She told me all about the thrusts and the moans. All about the cries and the pain. She bared her soul to me. Told me things she didn’t tell anyone else, secrets she held inside her all her life, secrets that drove her insane. I was horrified.

I knock on his door and wait. It seems like an eternity that I think about what I’ll do when he opens the door, but is only about 30 seconds before his smug fucking face greets me with a smug fucking smile.

“Hi, how come you are here?” he asks me.

That’s the only thing he asks, my fist lands right on his nose, sending him flying down to his butt. My foot swings through the air and hits on the ribs, hard. I can hear the air forcefully exit his lungs. I enter the house and close the door. I’ve been her hundreds of times, so I know where the kitchen is and run there. I grab the first knife I see, it’s still stained from something he was cutting earlier. I walk back to the hallway with the knife in my hand and look straight at him. He’s in a fetal position on the floor holding his ribs and squealing like a pig he is.

“Please don’t, I loved her,” he pleads for his life.

That won’t help. I stab him in the neck, slicing his skin and flesh, it is harder than I thought. It won’t stop me from another stab, and another one, and another one. I stab at him until he doesn’t move anymore. I stab him until the walls are covered in red, until I am covered in his blood. Then I take another look at him; he’s lying there dead in the pool of his blood. That’s what he deserves. No. Nothing comes close to what he deserves, hell would have been a favor for him. I know what I done was right, this was rightful punishment, in my eyes at least.

Her eyes widened when she saw me later. The blood on my shirt, the blood on my pants, the blood in my eyes. She knew what I had done, she started sobbing and shaking. She didn’t sit down or faint, she just stood in the center of the room and cried. I hugged her tight. As tight as I could.

“He won’t hurt you again. I promise,” I whispered in her ear, “You don’t have to be afraid of your father anymore.”

Unwrapping them was his favorite part. Undressing their layers of clothing, one by one, until they were naked, completely and utterly naked. He would find them in bars and night clubs, put his normal face on. He’d charm ‘em using any tactic he could think of. They would all end up in the back of his minivan, and then they’d end up in his garage.

Once inside his garage he had to carry them up the narrow stairwell that led up to the living room. Every time he carried one of them he’d get bruises himself, or hit them against the walls. The stairs were just too narrow for the task he often used them for. Once in the dusty living room he’d carry them up another flight of stairs to the bedroom. Once there, the unwrapping began. He positioned them just like she used to lay, one hand under the pillow, legs entwined. He’d take a picture of them dressed first, a before picture.

Then he would undress them, one clothing item at a time. He would fold everything he took off them and carefully place it on the nearby chair, that’s what she used to do. Every piece of clothing uncovered something, a birthmark, a scar; it uncovered their uniqueness. The last thing were always the panties, the last obstacle before he could see them in full-frontal glory. So he got very mad when they didn’t wear any, it made the unwrapping rather anti-climactic.

Once unwrapped he’d take another picture, an after picture. He’d compare the two after that, scanning every inch of their bodies. He’d catalogue them all, carefully and methodically, by names and dates. He had dozens of photos, dozens of victims, dozens of bodies filled with stories, all of them unique in their own ways.

After he was all done, he would dress them again, take them down to the car, bumping their heads in the narrow hallway once again, putting them back into the minivan. He’d drive them out somewhere at least a bit secluded and drop them off before the sedation worn off. He would leave them in alleyways, parks and secluded places. They would wake up and remember a bar and drinks, figure they passed out, they wouldn’t remember anything. Mostly the girls would just write it off as a really bad binge, and they would forget about it soon, since waking up in a park without any recollection of previous events isn’t something you would brag about.

And they would continue their lives without knowing they became a part of someone’s collection. Just like endangered animals they were tagged and catalogued, then released back into their lives like nothing ever happened.

I’ll try writing some poetry, but expect it to be really shitty, since I haven’t written any poetry, ever.

The warm summer air seeps through my shirt and into my sticky, warm skin. The occasional breeze from the fan on the ceiling splashes me in the face. I lie here, a sweaty broken heap of flesh. There hasn’t been anything more to me for quite some time. The bed I’m lying on is squeaky and old. The room is shabby and small, a typical small motel room. That kind of place where they don’t ask questions. The place where you take your whores and the place for alcoholics and junkies. And I’m pretty sure I can be found in at least one of these groups.

“Damn it’s hot here.” I think to my self and reach over the bed for the dresser. I fumble around the drawer of the dresser blindly looking for a bottle opener. My hand comes over something metallic and long. I pull it out. It’s a black long hair pin, her hairpin. I hold it on my hands for some time and it causes for all the memories to come flooding back.

She looked stunning in that dress, absolutely stunning. The skin-tight black dress made her look elegant and sexy; she looked angelic and devilish at the same time. I couldn’t help but notice the way her hips swayed as she walked towards me. I couldn’t help but notice her lean long legs, her perfectly shaped breasts in that tight dress. She looked like a supermodel and the street was her catwalk. As she walked towards every man turned, some women even, all of them wondering:

“Who’s fucking her?” And I was, this perfect little woman was all mine, and I loved her deeply.
“Hi honey,” she said and kissed me, “I really like you taking me here, I hear the pasta is great.”

She smiles the way only she could, slightly crooked on the right side, a bit of a smirk, yet really sexy, “Come one, let’s go, I’m starving.” She says and pulls me with her.

I’m looking at the pin, remembering, I just can’t believe it’s been that long. I shudder momentarily and throw the pin through the balcony window. I’m fucking thirsty. I really need a drink, so I muster all my resolve and lift myself up from the wore-down bed. Pain strikes my foot. I look down. Shards of glass decorate the carpet. Damn, my foot is bleeding. Shit! I carefully make my way through the glass minefield and into the tiny bathroom. My attention turns to a piece of paper on the ground, crumbled in the corner. Gruntingly I bend over and pick it up, It’s a picture of her. Just my luck.

She smiled so sweetly, drank the wine and ate graciously. Everything about her oozed confidence, sex-appeal and grace. A perfect mixture of elegancy of an older woman, youthfulness of teenager with a bit of sluttines that perked out of here every once in a while.

“The food is really good here, but the company even better,” She said and leaned over the table and gave me a slight kiss on the lips. I smiled and looked in her bright blue eyes. She looked happy and playful. She was happy and so was I.

I lifted up my glass and said, “Happy anniversary honey,” She smiled and took a sip of her wine. Looked me straight in the eye with that look and I knew tonight is only going to get better.

The blood is getting stronger and stronger, I’m trying to stop it with toilet paper. After a few minutes of pressure it stops. I should probably disinfect the wound, well I was about to get alcohol anyway. So I get out of the bathroom and across the room stepping on the broken glass again and cursing. Inside the cupboard I find what I need, a bottle of scotch. Perfect. I jump over the room and onto the bed. The bottle cap slides of easily and I drink a sip of whiskey, one sip for me, one I splash over my wound. It stings a little. I don’t care. After a good 20 minutes the bottle is empty, my bed is wet with whiskey, and I’m drunk. Fuck! Something comes over me and I fling the bottle against the wall. The glass shatters all over the room, that’s how I got cut in the first place. I lie back and look at the fan whirring. I’m hypnotized. My arm reaches under the pillow, I know what I’ll feel. And I do — cold metal. Under the pillow a gun emerges. I look at the fan again, I can’t take this shit anymore. The gun gets closer to my temple, guided by my hand. Now I can feel the cold against my skin. It’s so close, so terrifying, yet so peaceful.

I’m driving fast, probably around 80 miles, but the road is clear. She’s right beside me giggling like mad. The wine must have hit her, she shouldn’t have drank that much. The empty road stretches in front of me, so monotonous and boring. The headlights disappearing to the sides, revealing a cliff to my right. It appears quite of a fall. Then she says something, something sexy I can’t remember quite what. Her smile turns into a devilish grin. Her face looks so perfect, illuminated by the passing street lights. She’s so pretty. I can see what she has in mind as her hand reaches over to my crotch

“We can’t. I’m driving.”

“Oh, don’t be such a buzz killer. Pamela and Tommy did it in the car.”

I swat her hand away, “Wait until we get home, okay?”

She nods, and I look into her beautiful face, plump lips, dreamy eyes, but I look a second too long. Her face changes color and expression in a split-second. She gestures to the road. I look over and to my surprise the road takes a sharp turn. But I can’t make it. I just can’t.

Tires swerve and the railing looks closer and closer until we hit it. The car breaks right through and tumbles down the hill. Everything is turning. I’m getting violently thrown around even though I have my seat belt on. She doesn’t. The car finally stops after hitting a tree; it’s just a pile of metal now. My legs are squashed under the dashboard. I can’t move. I’m bleeding. My head is hurting. I look over searching for that familiar face, but it isn’t there anymore. All I can see is a bloody pulp of flesh, lacerations and punctures everywhere. Her lip is hanging by a piece of skin; I can see her cheekbone sticking out of her face. The only thing I remember about the face are her eyes, those dreamy blue eyes, now filled with shock and horror. They seem to be begging me; she is begging me to help her, but I can’t. I’m helpless. All I can do is to watch her bloody face, just a minute ago, the most beautiful face in the world, now an explosion of terror.

Her eyes suddenly stop moving. They’re dead.

She’s not breathing anymore.

The gun goes off, my brain splatters against the wall.

I’m not breathing anymore either.

Over the last couple of months I could feel hew grow distant and apart. I could feel her kisses becoming rarer and less passionate, I could feel he shudder every time I hugged from the back, like she didn’t want me to touch her. Sex became more of a formality, a strictly planned out and structured action that always followed a pattern. 5 minutes of foreplay, then boring and unpassionate sex. Always missionary, I would thrust and do my best, to no avail. She didn’t cum anymore, I’d ask her why, what could I do, I’d try to go down on her, but she would push me away. She’d say it’s not important. That went on for the last couple of months, it felt she only had sex with me to make our relationship valid, but I knew she didn’t love me no more.

One day my boss sent me home earlier, told me he can see I’ve been having troubles and I should go home. On the way home I stopped at the store, she gave me a list that morning. I bought everything she asked for and more, I bought everything for a romantic dinner. There was no way I would let our relationship fall into ruin without doing anything. I parked in front of the house and got out, I struggled with all the bags. As I entered the dimly lighted hallway I noticed the elevator was still broken, so I had to carry all the bags up the narrow stairway. A lot of huffing and puffing later I got to our floor, dropped the bags down to the floor and unlocked the door. Then I stopped cold, I could hear her moan.

Her moans were the sexiest sound a woman could produce. Her voice would turn  shaky, it sounded like she was on the verge of crying, they were cries more than moans actually. As she got closer to orgasm the cries would intensify, they would get broken off by her lack of breath, progressively they got louder and louder before the final one, which was always completely muffled. Those cries were one of the reasons I loved here, they could get me hard in a matter of seconds, paired with the sight of her blissful face when she came, she could make me cum instantly. But my ears haven’t have heard those cries quite some time now.

Suddenly a second moan echoed, but much deeper and rustier, a moan of a man. I couldn’t believe it. While I was at work she was fucking another guy in our bed. Something drove towards the cabinet in the corner of the living room. The cabinet was locked but I had the key. It opened with a clank, I stopped dead, listening if the moans have stopped, but they didn’t they kept intensifying. I reached inside the cabinet and pulled out a shiny piece of metal. The revolver she bought so we could feel safer. I was always against guns, but she insisted. I turned on my heel and walked towards the room carefully. I watched out not to topple anything form the table as I tip-toed my way to the door. The moans got louder and louder, they were close to the finish.

Just as I forcefully opened the door and barged in, she came. She lied in our bed, a guy on top of her. Her long legs were entangled around another man, her toes were curled. Her whole body was shuddering violently. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes closed as she reached the peak. It lasted for a couple of seconds, her body twitched and rocked before relaxing. She opened her eyes and saw me. Her post-orgasmic blissful face turned horrified, eyes widened and jaw dropped. The guy turned around, he looked like a total douche, though truthfully any man would categorize a guy fucking your woman as a douche. But if there was a definition of douche, he was one, he was slightly tanned, had a goat tee and a couple of douchey tattoos, and I swear I saw an Affliction shirt thrown in the corner.

So there I was, holding a gun, the douche still balls deep in my girlfriend. And she could just look at me, horrified, couldn’t even say a word. We looked at each other for a couple of seconds, a couple of seconds it took me to realize it really is over.

I wish I could tell you I calmed down, kicked the douche out, and had a conversation with her. I wish I could tell you we talked it out and went our separate ways.

But I’d be lying to you.

I can hear them behind me, I can hear their moans, I can smell them. But when I turn around I can’t see them. They are clothed behind the veil of darkness.

I have to keep going. I must.

I used to tell myself I would start working out next month, every month I would tell myself that. I would make up excuses about not having time. Stuff to do at work and all. I really wish I had started to work out before the outbreak happened. Because now I don’t find myself in a very good position. In the current state of the world, being out of shape gets you killed. And I’m afraid that’s exactly what is happening right now.

I have to keep running, but my legs hurt and I’m out of breath. I’m starting to sound like a fish out of water, I keep inhaling but it stings. Every piece of me hurts, every fiber of my body wants to stop and take a breather. But I can’t. So I look over my shoulder again. I can hear them; they are getting closer.

So I must keep running.

Only 30 minutes a day would save me a lot of trouble now; only 30 minutes a day would help me to run a 100 yards without sweating like a pig. If I could at least be fat. Fat people have excuses about poor shape. I’m skinny and out of shape; I have no excuses.

But I can’t go on. Every time I inhale my lungs hurt like someone stabbed me with an icepick. Not only my lungs, but about 3 other internal organs I can’t quite nail at this time, possibly my spleen. I keep running on fumes, and my heart is pounding incredibly fast . I slow down inevitably. Now I’m jogging down the dark street. I can’t run anymore. That’s when I turn around and see them, a whole fucking herd. They are after my flesh, they are after my brain.

So I must keep running, I must go on.

But I can’t.

I drop down on my knees, and I crawl away from them across the cold concrete. Soon they catch up. One of those filthy beings grabs my ankle and takes a bite. His half rotten smelly teeth plunge into my flesh and tear me open. In a matter of seconds they swarm me over, they eat, gnaw and tear away at my flesh separating it from my bones. They are devouring me alive.

And I can only say: “I wish I had worked out more.”

It was a warm sunny morning and Jack was sitting on a terrace of a cafe. He sat there soaking up the morning sun and slowly sipping his morning coffee. He had nowhere to go, no job to go to. Around him people rushed and scrammed trying to down their coffee while walking. Jack’s eyes were fixated on the road, they were fixated at the horizon. He looked like he was expecting something, or someone.

Roaring of an engine broke the morning monotony as a car approached rapidly. Jack’s eyes widened. This fast Audi was moving down street real fast and shown no signs of slowing, but he had to, since two streets formed and intersection just in front of the cafe. He had to slow down. He couldn’t just speed through the intersection, but the car didn’t really slow down; it continued to roar. It was soon close enough for Jack to see the terrified face of the driver. He seemed afraid; his eyes fell down and looked at the brakes, but something was wrong. The car just couldn’t break. And it sped like a bullet past the cafe, through the red light and into the intersection. A second car crashed right into his left side. The two cars joined into a huge mangled wreck for a split second, before each flying their own way. The sports car flew across the road tossed from the impact and it turned and tumbled before finally coming to a stop just a few feet away from the cafe. The second car stopped dead in the middle of the intersection. I’s front was bashed and unrecognizable. Smoke rose from the violated engine and seeped through the twisted metal.

Glass and metal decorated the street in a chaotic fashion, but the worst just caught Jack’s eye. The man behind the wheel of the sports car wasn’t there anymore. He was lying on the concrete, face down, at least what was left of it. When he was catapulted through the windshield. He flew through the air and landed on the concrete viciously, tearing his flesh and clothes.

Suddenly everyone ran to the street. They ran to help the people, to see what happened or even to record it, as a few people instantaneously whipped out their cellphones and started circling the grizzly scene like a swarm of vultures.

Only Jack remained reclined in his seat, still slowly drinking his coffee down. Jack didn’t care to find out who the man was, what happened, or why. Because Jack knew the slab of meat on the concrete was his former boss; he knew his boss doesn’t wear a seat belt; he knew his boss loves to test the limits of his Audi; he knew his boss lives just down the street, and this is the first stop light he has to go through and turn right. He knew his former boss’s routine and timing to the minute.

And he knew how to “fix” his brakes.

So he just had to find a nice place, order his coffee and wait.