METANOIA

FRENZY

Barry had never been with an unshaven woman before. Despite the coarse hair, her skin was unexpectedly soft. When he looked carefully, he could see all the black hair follicles on her chocolate colored legs dancing about to the pulse of the acid in his system. This observation was made easier by the fact her legs were tossed over his shoulders.

The bedroom was a mess at best. There was a sweet aroma of caramel that had combined with the fumes of sweat emanating from the oily mess of their bodies colliding. There was an oversized bloat fly at the window, hammering its head at the glass as if it too was trying to get away from the pandemonium in the bedroom.

Thud, thud, thud; its head bounced on the glass to the beat of Barry's incoherent thrusting.

The hammering of its tiny head echoed in Barry's skull, intensifying the ringing in his ears.

The acid was really frying his perception, and that had been followed by a line of coke, and a pill with a smiling face on it Barry had never seen before. He had been fed a Viagra at some stage, mostly out of necessity. It had all happened so fast. Despite being drug-free his entire life, he was surprised how quickly he had accepted all of them. Each drug was tearing a piece from him. He could taste his heart beating, or maybe see it. He wasn't sure as his fractured mind was wallowing in synesthesia. Sweat rolled from his pasty cranium and disappeared into the forest of her hairy belly button.

A random cat whizzed past them, and Barry could tell there were more cats scattered around the house. They weren't hallucinations.

As their bodies moved, they left echoes behind. There were thousands of flabby, hairy limbs thrashing about. They tickled him all over. He wasn't sure he liked the feeling. Hairs stood up on his back as another droplet of sweat rolled down into his asshole. To him, it felt like an ethereal fingertip running down his back.

The thudding of the fly had slowed down, as its tiny head had taken one too many beatings. But it still hurt Barry's ears. For a second, Barry wanted it to smash the glass into pieces and be done with it.

"Barry?" he heard an unearthly whisper.

Instinctively, he looked behind him to find the grimmest pair of eyes staring back at him. A red face, with embers for eyes, stared back at him with a satisfied expression. It had a disembodied smoky form that increasingly morphed as it solidified. Thorns danced and twisted as he moved. The face of death smiled at him. In truth, it was only a voodoo mask, but through his narrowed window of perception, it was the devil himself, his fiery eyes penetrating into the back of his skull. He gasped in terror at the face of death that stared back at him intently.

"Come now, don't be so surprised."

As the grotesque face opened its mouth, Barry saw embers in the back of its throat. Smoke trailed from every orifice on its face, and a fire burned in the depths of its eyes. In his mind, there was no doubt it was the devil speaking to him.

"Good boy," the devil whispered in a raspy, deep voice. "Harder."

Barry froze for only an instant.

He then obediently started bunny hopping at the mound of flesh before him. The frenzied pelvis clapping looked more like a brawl than an act of love, each thrust echoing in his tiny skull. Guilt is an unbearable feeling. Barry wasn't a devout Christian, but he believed in God. He believed in sin. Now, in his mind, he was sinning almost on purpose, following the devil's ruse. With each thrust of his massive hips, he was performing sacrilege against everything he held dear. Each push was a punch in Melinda's ghostly face. He wanted her to hurt as much as he did.

In his ruin, he felt strength. He felt in charge. He turned back toward Taylor. The bolt between her eyes was dancing to his beat. In destruction lay his emancipation.

Barry didn't have the courage to look behind him. But he could tell the devil was there. He felt its ghostly hands giving him strength with each thrust. His eyes darted around the heap before him as he didn't dare look back.

Above the bed, there was a large poster of "Buddy Christ" from the movie "Dogma." It was a satirical rendition of Jesus Christ - a cartoonish face with fat sausage fingers. His hands, two guns, pointed at his chest. As he was thrusting, the poster pointed to him and winked.

"Right on, Brother," said Buddy Christ. He sounded oddly effeminate.

Barry was shaking with fear. He didn't want to look around. He shut his eyes. With his new found strength, he spun Taylor's fat form around effortlessly. He crawled over the mountain that was her body and buried his head between her hairy legs. As he placed his mouth on her toothless lips, the tip of his nose grazed the anise flower between her cheeks. The cheesy smell of perhaps a yeast infection made his eyes water. It was still a better option than looking around the room. He shoved his crusty little prick in her mouth. He felt her padded lips wrap around his pickle; they were performing the lousiest sixty-nine in history, Taylor's dark body beneath his pale mound of flesh. Together, they were a sad Ying-Yang candle melting away with flames of passion, lost somewhere between God and the devil.

The audience and the fear excited him.

He came harder than he ever had in his entire life.

When he was done, he rolled over. At his bedpost were Buddy and Satan, like two proud parents eyeing their firstborn. Shy, he covered his needle of a dick. He looked to the windowsill with shame.

The bloat fly had split its head open from one too many blows. Maggots crawled out of her abdomen as she gave her dying breath. Death had given life. The cycle was once again complete. Barry wanted to live in a world where all the flies could shatter glass.

Ruin had become his essence. As a single tear rolled down his cheek, he was ready to unleash hell. He eyed the figments of his imaginations that waddled aimlessly around the room. He no longer felt any fear. He could tell vaguely they were hallucinations: his minions. He looked back at the maggots trying to eat their way through the paint on the windowsill.

Barry could see the maggots, but what he failed to see was a pair of ice blue eyes staring back at him from behind the glass. The only monster tonight that wasn't a figment of his imagination captured his every movement.

Barry was unaware he was being evaluated.