Category : Stories

Sub Category : Horror

He was a reason to be mad. An argument broke out last night. An argument between my best friend and my father. I don't know how it ended because I went to bed early for my standards. It's now 1 p.m. and I haven't noticed Brian's presence.
I thought maybe he stepped out the front door to get some fresh air and relax, but I made a surreal find in the living room.
 "Damn it! If only I had stayed in my fuckin' room!" I curse as I kneel in front of him. His petrified face expresses hating emotions. Like a painting by an angry artist. It is now the cocoon of my father's rage, and the rage is the caterpillar in it. Brian was thrown a bare depth right through his forehead. And even that quirk didn't leave a shadow behind. Red, almost black ichor spread from his perforated roof to the visible end of his gurgle. Like a segmented halo over the head of the man who was believed to be innocent and got baptized with Crimson red, damp dust.
How stupid of me, I forgot that my father used to be a soldier, marched with the army and still has a rifle. He must have used it against Brian. Why his face, of all things? His precious face!
In theory, Father wanted to teach me not to fall in love with looks too much. Because especially the most beautiful faces wear snake scales under their perfect masks?
Did he really think that was the reason for my friendship with Brian? It was maybe part, yes, but not the whole puzzle. Another proof that my father hardly knows anything about me.
 "You stupid, big, damn idiot!" I inform his deaf ears, in vain, of course. Brian should never have been so sickly protective of me. It bordered on childish immaturity. I warned him many times. It was probably not enough. Or too weak. He was too selfless. For once he could have thought of himself for a change. I would have given him permission to have the courage to be a coward. Didn't he know that my father wouldn't flinch at any threat? Didn't he realize my father was a soldier and had a gun?
My gut feeling always whispered to my bright consciousness that one day karma would also put Brian in his place. But I didn't expect such a death. My father is truly unpredictable, as mother often told me and thus successfully confirmed.
 I should never have shared my dirty little secret with Brian. The real story that really happened. The moment when my own father more or less sexually abused me years ago. I must have only been 5. Fortunately, it wasn't the most forbidden or creative kind of obscene abuse. He seemed like a surprised adolescent boy in puberty who for the first time touched a girl down there, even remotely. These words horrified Brian to the core. He has had a cataclysmic tantrum. If I remember correctly, I caught the shadow of a pointed kitchen knife, embraced by the shadowy image of his hand on the wall.
What the hell was wrong with me that I didn't pay any further attention to these frenzied phantoms? ...
Now I feel self hatred.
However, this feeling is overwhelmed with understanding when I discovered a good reason for my suspected death of my father. He used my mom in narcissistic ways, hurt my brother when he was a baby, sexually abused me as a toddler, and to top it off, he killed Brian. If my father is still alive, he no longer deserves this life. I have every right to feel and think that way because he had already taken too much from me.
" You know, we were both fools."
The pupils of my eyes no longer jump to Brian's face. If I stare at him for too long, it feels like he's mad at me.
I admit, all the thinking about this abuse and the sight of Brian's corpse makes me want to have sex with him. I have to say goodbye to him sensibly. Even if part of me can't stand him because of his stupidity, recklessness, and inconsideration.
I'm in love with him, but he never realized that. I hope he felt the same or something similar for me when he fought for me until his death. An attempt to avenge me. I have no idea whether it succeeded or failed.
In all honesty, he was pretty shy when it came to sex. It was unacceptable for him to do dirty things with me. The only thing we did was make out. Not even petting. "I'm way too young for the sins that adults commit." was his opinion. What a bore. A wanna be-rebel. Nobody around me had tolerance for my needs. My alleged friends would think they knew I was sick, my parents are hypocritically uptight anyway and Brian didn't want to dwell in the weed minds of his acquaintances as a "pedophile''.
My mother is working and my brother is in school. Now it's the chance. The right time.
I drag Brian's petite corpse into the washroom and laboriously carry him into the still dry and empty bath tub. Carefully, slowly and hesitantly, I help this dead body out of the old, blood speckled clothes. I pray not to have to endure maggots or flies. Otherwise the "somewhat different" sexual intercourse would be canceled. I search him thoroughly. The corpse appears to be on my side. He also smells human. Perfect. I wonder how long he was there laying on the living room carpet. The only change that is noticeable is the particularly sallow and cool skin. Not really different from all the times he wore makeup on his face.

My plan is not as grotesque as those around me would like to make it clear to me. It's actually pretty tragic. An unconscious lack, a buried grief that is constantly gasping for air. I get in. The pleasant water is running. Only now do I realize in astonishment the post-mortem erection between his collapsed thighs. I get a comfortable feeling. As if he were still alive. And next, I should lie dead here for justice. I claim this body as my property, even though he has forbidden both of us to pervert one another. Truly I disrespect the dead and the wishes of the living. I shouldn't even think about how his probably downward looking ghost wishes to be able to kill and rape me any number of times. He would treat my corpse like a real-life toy. Maybe this will be my hell after death. Maybe his murder wasn't the stupidest or worst decision after all.
I nudge his member curiously. I'm stupid enough to hope I feel the tap of his soul swaying against my palm because I've got enough evidence that men think with their dicks. Maybe his brain would have sunk into this cavernous body as well.
I can finally do what I always dreamed of doing while masturbating. I insert his cock inside me and begin to move on it. It's a shame that he isn't moaning or breathing harder. It's a shame he's not alive. It's cold, but the water warms him and me. It is not enough to be able to spill over. I bury my face on the back of his neck and wrap my arms around his shoulders like I'm hugging him. I am getting faster. My legs wrap around his hips. I turn his head a little and stare into his fishy eyes while my hand fingers his crumbling mouth. Inside he is still so warm. This extraordinary slime spun around my fingers makes me fantasize about the inside of a woman. The other hand scratches his throat. I am experiencing an orgasm. Meanwhile, I squeeze the sperm out of his balls, which look like hollow balloons due to their enormous emptying. The next time I looked at him, I saw a riddled throat. If he were alive, I would now be forced to watch him die and hear his suffocation. I widen my gaze even more and have to accept that he is dismembered in the water like a handicraft template stuck together. In a few places the skin floats in tatters in the water from his flesh. It politely covers the water like a cloth covering the table. The shadow of himself is only a featherless bird.
I move away from him a little. His cock has become a fountain of cum. It looks different. Almost like gray. Stains have become anchored in the liquid.
Our children are dead. The sons and daughters that could have become are only drowned shadows of a decaying possibility. Now they are slaves of the past.
The poisoned ejaculate dissolves like foam.