April 19, 2010

The Rose

I ran into an old friend last night that inspired the character portrayed in the following story. I thought I'd share it with all of you. This was originally written April 3rd, 2007.

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The Rose

   
    The tip of her thumb was bleeding. She pricked it on purpose with a small pin she kept hidden in her garter belt. She loved the sensation. She loved the taste of her blood. She pulled her black dress up her thigh and hid the pin as she walked through the lawn intent on returning to the party. She walked through the dark sucking her thumb as she so often did - partly an oral fixation and partly an obsession with pain.

    Despite what you may think about our delicate Rose she has never cut herself, nor has she ever attempted to commit suicide, been in an abusive relationship or any of the common stereotypes applied to women with masochistic tendencies. Pleasure intrigued her as much as pain. Beauty was her passion as much as the horrific. She loved the smell of flowers and trained herself to walk through pungent places. She devoured sweets and sucked on coffee beans and you were just as likely to hear her listening to Mozart as to find her listening to the jackhammers pounding the street. Exploration of the dichotomy of sensation is her modus operandi.

    Rose was a beautiful young woman of only 22 with long red hair halfway down her back. As she gracefully walked back into the party it was inevitable that she would draw the stares of lustful young men and jealous young women. It was also inevitable that she would be oblivious to all of it. Rose was a solitary soul. She lived within her own body and dwelled within her own mind. She found herself at the bar and was set to enjoy a glass of champagne when she felt a hand wrapping around her arm tightly. She turned and saw a terrifying man standing behind her. He was unshaven, shabbily dressed, reeked of cheap gin and didn't at all appear to fit in with this scene.

    He told her not to say a word and that he had a knife. He led her by the arm down a hall and into a dark room. Rose knew what was happening to her but she did not resist. She wasn't scared by this psychotic man but instead intrigued by his ugly, worn-out face. In the room the man wrapped his hand tightly around her neck and made it clear that if she made a noise he would not hesitate to end her life. He pushed her onto the bed and began fumbling at her dress. Our Rose was still not scared, yet she was somehow calmly resisting. She pushed away his face as he tried to lunge forward and kiss her. Yet, she enjoyed his disgusting odor and the way his hand worked up her thigh. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like she'd never felt before. She felt disgust and pleasure all at once.

    The rapist continued to have trouble getting her undressed. It was abundantly clear from his appearance that he didn't have much experience in this sort of situation. With a physics-defying, adrenaline-assisted lunge she pushed him back with a strength that her frail form should not have been able to muster. She looked into the darkness and said "I want you". With that she pulled down her undergarments and told him to take her hard.

    He eagerly jumped on top of her and when he did she stabbed him in the neck with the pin she retrieved from her garter. She felt power and rage as she twisted the needle deep into his blood-spurting neck. She laid there savoring the feeling for just a moment before she stood up, turned on the light, calmly fixed her dress and returned to the party.

6 comments:

  1. Very dark and twisted. There were parts I related to in a way that made my gut spin. You are a very good writer.

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  2. Serves him right, the sleaze-bag! Very nicely done, Christopher. And with just enough darkness and enough dazzle...

    Nevine

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  3. oy. sigh. ugh. oy. sigh. kickass. nice to see you online.

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  4. ~kisses~ thank you, Darlin.

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  5. Whoa. Totally twisted! Love the use of the pin at the beginning and the end--for such different sort of purposes, and yet, oddly the same. Well done. A very original sort of character--how ironic that you've based her off of someone.

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