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this story's sort of short. I wouldn't read if you have a slightly weak stomach. i wrote this a long time ago and have posted it on three other sites. it doesn't make too much sense to everyone else, but it's worth a read. comments are appreciated. thanks **the v




The blood spilt out of me like a waterfall. Neverending until my drought, but still I breathed. Just like in my state. The blood had poured for days, streaming at first, then trickling, then to plain drops, until it was all absorbed back into the ground. Back where it belonged. I could actually almost see my blood raining through the ground in hell, clearing the smoke, making it damp and hot and oh so red. And then...hell was there. It was there in me, with me, as it had always been. But I was too blind to see.

I got up with two thoughts in my mind...die like like no one.

And I lived like no one.

Soon, my slices had healed, but body parts cleaned, renewed. Alive. But not alive. I had seen into Hell. Was that death enough? Was it truth to what is to come?

Was it an answer? That I had lived my life righteously, to be murdered, to gaze into Hell on Earth and in the spiritual existence, and to be brought back to life? What does it all mean.

Absolutely nothing. This is making no sense to myself, nor is it to you. I couldn't do anything about it. Even if you doubt me, think. What could I have done? Write a book about my experience? Have the critics call me mad?

I was mad, alright. Mad deep into my skin, through my arteries, veins, muscles, and bones. Mad. It wasn't in my gene pool, it wasn't in my blood, it wasn't something that just popped from nowhere. It was from my mind. And one's mind can't be stopped.

I soon found that out, digging into the depths of my mind, into the depths of other minds, into the depths of God's mind and found that he didn't love me. Not like I had thought all my life. My life was a lie. Everything was lying to me. People, Life, Sight, and now God? What do I have left now? Please tell me. I want to know oh-so bad.

I want to know.


And so, maybe there is nothing left for me. Nothing. I have to find solace in something. I can't live alone all my life, but people annoy me so. I hate it. I hate people. I hate them, their arrogance, their faith...their blindness. I know the truth. Things they don't know and will never know until it's too late.

I hate their ignorance.

I hate everything about them. Except for the way they taste. The way I can see the small slivers of red peek from underneath the silver to say hello to me. To greet me with open pleas. Soon enough, my instinct will take over, I will lick the red from their skin, lick the red from the silver blade stained.

I'd remember sitting to let the body rot. It'd stink. Stink like hell did. The flesh gaining a blue-ish color. I gazed over the slices I had made on the corpse. The slivers, which were once flowing with beautiful red juices, had now turned purple around the edges. Not the way normal scars do. They didn't heal. Didn't clot. And all the red I saw was the maroon colour of the liquid clinging to the edges of the slivers I made.

Red was red the same.

I leaned in, absorbing some of the dried red onto my tongue, tasting its decay. I had a fondness for red, but I prefered it fresh. Coming straight from the sliver which once was new.

I backed from the corpse. The more I stared, the more I noticed its colour was really more of a blue-green. Like the time I had disposed one of my bodies for the 2nd time in a river. I came back 3 hours later to see if it was gone from the had floated out a bit, but it was now bloating and had gained that exact same colour. I had to push it out farther because the bloating had caused it to stick into the bank.

No one caught me then. 3 hours and no one seemed to notice anything suspicious. Shows how ignorant they are. Shows how they deserve to die. So that doesn't make me a bad person.

But now, I stare at this corpse in front of me, 29 hours dead. It stank. I have dealt with corpses longer, but its urine and feces had mixed in with the smell of death, almost making it nauseating.

But I'm not one to get sick easily.

And for once...I wondered what the organs looked like. I stuck my finger into the corpses gash across its stomach and crossed over its chest. The perfect cut. One you would see in an autopsy. Right in the middle. It was hard to fit my hand in, but once I worked at peeling the flesh and muscles away to find an organ, it loosened.

I never knew how tough these muscles were. Even though the nerves were long gone.

My hands moved open. Close. Open. Close. Reinacting the beating of the heart. I touched an organ, possible the lung. It was dry in some spots, wet in others. It was swelled. I could feel it pressing hard against the ribs, one broken...jabbing into the lung.

I had caused that. I had cause this. I had caused this pain, this fury, this gore. This beauty. And now their ignorance was relieved, and I was enjoying exploring this corpse. Piece by piece. Sinew by sinew. It was mine now.

I looked up at where the face should have been. Where the head should have been. Expecting to see two eyes staring up at my, maybe hazed over by now. Shriveling, but not sunken back into the head...staring at me. But all I saw was half the stump of a neck, the flesh rotted and dried, circling around a fragile broken piece of a spinal cord sticking a half and inch from the neck.

I removed my hand from the cut, my fingers and palm stained with maroon and brown dead blood, and reached to touch the bone. With one snap, that bone could kill your system, your life.

It would be over.


And then they wouldn't be so ignorant.


The following comments are for "Ignorant"
by Veruca Salt

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