I twisted inside her. Being within another person was an experience some would call excruciating, unsettling, or terrifying, that some would be the angels above. My friends and I below would describe it as thrilling, empowering, or entertaining.
This particular body felt dirty by now. Her underwear and pants were soaked in her waste, her drool and vomit was a hard crust on her chin and neck, her arms, legs, face, and stomach was picked apart and feasted on by bugs. She still had a little control over her body. I couldn't deprive her of the sensation of tiny legs crawling over her sticky wounds, the stinging sensation of bugs nipping at her greasy meat. I wanted her to think about that one bug that crawled into a hole in her skin, suffocated, and died inside her. I wanted her to feel the churning of her stomach every time she thought of the skeleton of the bug that was now encased in her dried blood.
Over the last three weeks I forced her to sit through my thoughts. Out of everything I put her through I knew this was the worst. I knew this was the thing she would proclaim to be inhumane once she was burning with those I entertained myself with.
I had lived in a barbaric time in a barbaric place and among barbarians I was evil in a man's shoes. Killing for fun had become cheap thrills at age, maybe, fifteen. It was then I began chasing that high, wishing it would return to me. I had tortured, women, children, the old, I had set hospitals aflame and never felt that rush again. This torture session was torture for me, too.
She growled at that. I didn't blame her. She was thirty-two, her childhood was like every other childhood of women her age, her teens were filled with hormones, giggles, and a bitchy attitude toward any form of authority (that I related to). When she graduated from her preppy pink high school she got her degree and her, as she put it, Mr. Right. He knocked her up, she gave up a career, something my wife was deprived of because of that thing between her legs, and stayed at home to cook and clean and gawk at the neighbors who wore clothing that only costed a million dollars per square inch of fabric, or something. She had never known real pain. This was not real pain. The ending of everything inside you, watching the corruption of two people pure and near to you, knowing you were the reason angels became devils was pain. That was agony. This was a breeze.
She let out a roar that ended in her mouth spraying blood. The Latin incantations became louder as I twisted her body on the cotton bed. The room was dark, but I could see perfectly. I looked up at her wrists where the rope had slashed. Her pale wrists were as red as the rope that held her hands to the headboard.
There was one priest in front of us. He had the balls to bring no one and leave his phone at home. He had no knife, no gun, no flashlight, no muscle, nothing. His Latin was perfect. His was voice unwavering to the point that his shaking and sweating was shocking.
I pulled this woman's mouth to her wrist and tore away the rope just to show him how much I could do. I ripped away the second rope, tearing open her arm as I did. the priest worked harder to force me out of her. Just as a treat to his ego I stood my puppet up on the bed and I released her. She hit her head on the foot board. She was still conscious. For that I could have been impressed.
I was then an entity on my own. When I was alive I was a burly man and that was how I seen myself without a body but realistically one could say I was not human, let alone a man. But I became a man when I overpowered the priest. I felt him fight me as I sunk into him. He fought with every molecule that parted for me. Thousands of lesions tore into his flesh and split as lesions became gouges. His screams fed me as a slice of ham would feed the starving.
He fought better than she did, being a man of god, but that did not mean I wouldn't overpower him.
I watched the girl's eyes peel to glower into me. I gave her a sly grin through my new toy, and then I seen a face I had seen on many people. I slowly walked the priest toward her as she jumped toward her bedside table to retrieve a small handgun. I didn't give up on him. I threw my puppet strings to bring him closer to her. She pointed the gun at me. I could practically smell the gunpowder.
"I won't let you be trapped as I was," She said before she forced her gun to spit its bullet into this mans' brain.
I dropped him, and entered her again. This time she knew she wasn't going to make it out.
