Full disclosure,this isn't going to be pretty.
I'm dangling perilously close to one of those black moods that have, by now, become so infamous. The long, silent weeks have taken their toll. I find loneliness always seems to hasten my descent down that road. It leaves me too much time to reflect, and I have never cared much for what I see in the mirror. I suppose my own actions are to blame here. It isn't as if everyone else dropped off the face of the earth. I've exiled myself and, having faced what I'm trapped here with, I've changed my mind. I want to go back. I don't like exploring this place. Nothing about it appeals to me. Everything here is malodorous and black, as if covered by a thick coat of tar like the inside of my lungs. Nothing is substantial, but everything roils and shifts, churning like the poisoned guts of a leper. It reeks of rage and death and cruelty. Part of my feels at home, the rest is all revulsion.
I have, however, discovered some truths, albeit not desirable ones.
The first, is that I will never be as attached to you as we'd both like to believe. Don't get me wrong, it isn't for lack of intention, nor desire. I want to paint portaits of your body with words. I want to sing your beauty until the words have died away, the notes themselves have unraveled, the tune fades into legend. I want to create a goddess of you, of all of you. I'd show you all my secret places, share all the things I love most about this sprawling world and all the worlds I've created. I want these things more than I can conjure, and I will lead you to believe it. I will, myself, believe it. And once you've exhausted me, once I have given you all there is for one person to give to another, I will move on. I will never cry for you, I will never pine for you. One day, you'll just be gone. And nothing will have changed in me.
I don't fear that, that false sense of attachment. I don't fear the damage it will do when you come to realize that, when all is said and done, one day you'll mean less than nothing to me, as so many others have. I don't even fear that you will only ever love me for the things I can give you, and not for what stands behind them, cowering from the light, covering the ugly things with good intentions. My fear, is that you'll lash out at me when you reach this epiphany. I'm afraid, because I know I would destroy you.
That was my second truth. I am significantly more dangerous than you have been led to believe. I will give you all, in some sense of the word. I will twist and bend, will leap and sing and write and laugh and drink. I will be everything you desire. You'll fall for me. Not because I want you to, necessarily, but because I need you to. I will come to love you, and I will need that love reciprocated. I can make that happen. Love is all a matter of wit and charm, the right conditions, the proper sweetness, seasoned to taste. Every love is different, every one is a challenge, and I have never failed. I will turn your thoughts to me, turn you feelings tender, and then I'll have you.
I'll never try to harm you. As I said, I am all of good intentions. I'll never lie, never strike harshly. I'll bring you smiles and laughter, I'll bring fire and lightning to your nerves, until your every physical urge is for my touch. I'll drive you mad with desire. You'll adore me the way I need to be adored. I will live and breathe to satisfy you, until the day you turn me loose.
Until the day you try to hurt me.
It isn't a matter of thought, but reflex. You'll land the first blow, and every one after that will shatter you further. The great, dormant beast of my wrath will rise up and crush your bones to glittering dust. I'll rend your flesh and spatter the sky with your intestines. I'll paint mountains red with your blood. I won't rest until there is nothing left of you but pain. Until your stripped and battered, raped again and again. I will wring the life from your throat and feed on it for the simple, treacherous hunger to watch something suffer. I won't allow you to harm me, and therefore you have to die.
The shadow of this rage will darken your world, and all who come before it will tremble in fear. Nothing grows, nothing flourishes. The inky black will settle over those fertile plains where you spent all your happiest moments until all is coated in tar and reeking of decay. I'll weep then, knowing what I've done to you. I'll cry because I never wanted to bring you anything but joy, but pleasure. I won't cry at the scars I leave behind, I'll hardly notice those you've left on me, save to pick the scabs on occasion. I never really heal, never really tire of watching blood pool from my broken skin and flow down into the earth. The wounds aren't deep, though. Not deep enough to cause me any discomfort.
I will move on, then. And nothing in me will have changed.
There's not enough left alive in there to change.
Fundamentally, Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.
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