Insane (Part 2)
I’m watching him again. I’m watching him recover from one of our play sessions, and all I can think is how incredibly helpless my angel looks right now. He lies on the mattress that I have so kindly provided for him, his breathing heavy, his body trembling, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to begin to play again.
I take a deep breath and saunter over to him. He lifts his head quickly while his eyes seek me out. Perhaps he heard the sound of my footsteps on the concrete floor. Perhaps he just senses me… We have such a strong bond now. We have shared sweat. We have shared tears. We have shared blood.
I shake my head as I realize that’s not completely true. We haven’t exactly shared these things. He has given them to me, but I have never given them back.
I reach his side and kneel down next to him. My hand reaches out and touches his hair, so damp that it sticks to his forehead. Sweat.
My fingers move down to gently caress his cheek and I feel a wetness on them that never ceases to fascinate me. I bring my fingers up to my lips and my tongue snakes out to taste them. Ah, yes. The wetness is salty, hot. Tears.
My eyes explore his body and I take pleasure in the little things I have done to make my angel even more beautiful. The bite marks are my personal favorite, they are the most intimate wounds on his body. The scratches, the bruises…they barely compare, although they are still pleasant to look at. Equally as pleasant is the scarlet that dots his body, that flows from the scratches and bites. Blood.
The marks on his body give him a flawed vulnerability that he never would have possessed otherwise. They transform him from flesh and blood being into the ethereal creature that I see before me now. I must remember to make him thank me. If not for me he would be almost ordinary, and no one wants to be ordinary.
He is looking at me, watching me while I watch him. I gaze into his eyes, heavy with pain, and I smile.
"What are you thinking, beautiful?" I ask. I hardly ever call him by his name. I wonder if he misses hearing it.
His eyes break their contact with mine. He looks down now and I can see fresh tears slide down his cheeks. He cries so much.
"Why?" he asks in a voice so full of anguish that it hurts my ears.
"Why what?" I ask as I struggle for patience. I must remember that the angel does not enjoy our playtime like I do. I must stay calm. After all, I did ask him for his thoughts.
"Why are you doing this to me? Why me?" His voice sounds almost muffled and I realize that his swollen lips are probably difficult to talk through. I feel a twinge of pity, but it disappears as quickly as it came.
I laugh as my hands roam over his still shaking body. "Because baby…because I can. Because you called to me from the pages of that magazine. You called me with those dark eyes of yours and those pouty little lips. Because you were meant for this…for me. Because you are mine and I! WANT! TO!"
Oh shit. When did I become angry? I hadn’t meant to get angry. I just wanted to answer his question honestly…but now…oh shit, I can barely breathe…I just want to HIT something…anything. Damn it! Why is everything so red?
"Please don’t. Not again, please…"
I look down and see that he is afraid…no…terrified of me now. He knows what I want to do. He must see the red in my eyes. I stand and walk quickly to the wall behind him. The side of my fist connects with it as I pound it, transferring the hot rage from my body to the cold concrete. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my angel flinching with each blow.
Just be thankful this isn’t your flesh angel. Be thankful.
I do this until the red clears and I can see again. Better now. My hand aches but the need to smash and hit has been satisfied for now. I run shaking fingers through my hair. That was so close. Too close. I almost hurt him again. And hurting him too closely after playtime might be dangerous for him. I may take great pleasure in wounding him, but I do not want him dead.
I begin to walk backwards, taking slow steps so that my legs do not fail me. Suddenly I feel an overwhelming need to leave this room, to go upstairs and take a hot shower and scrub away the last vestiges of the red haze. I am near the door, my hand on the knob, when I hear his sweet voice as if from a forever distance.
"Neil?"
His frightened, uncertain tone causes me to focus on him. "What?" I ask. Doesn’t he see that I must get away from here?
"You s-s-aid if I was good…you said that you’d feed me… It’s been two days," he says in a voice made quiet with shame.
Feed? But he’s an angel, why would an angel need to eat? I don’t understand…Angels don’t eat. Do they? My head is hurting again. I must get OUT of this room. I can’t worry about food right now.
I yank open the door and practically run through it, slamming it shut behind me with a force borne out of confusion and lingering rage. As I run upstairs I make myself a promise that I will consider the issue of feeding the angel later. Later.
Later angel.
I promise.