Project Mythicus

O how he dreamt of exorcism!

Oh how he dreamt of exorcism's.

He often wondered if he liked to relive the horror of the moment that came with his job; if it made him feel alive, like some sort of absurd adrenalin rush. He wondered then if it's the triumph that appeals to him, the thrill of the chase and the battle that comes with it. He wonders if this is what job satisfaction is suppose to feel like.

He has the same dream each time he goes to bed, but instead of familiarity bringing detachment, it makes him feel sick with suspense.

It's always the same dark corridor shot through with feeble light from flickering lamps and headlights, windows to the outside world grimy and bleak. The same blurred faces, dim pale shapes broadcasting anxiety and fear.

Why could he never feel that way. Why did this always excite him beyond words. It shouldn't have. It was wrong when it did but......

The room was never the same. It was the only thing that changed. He dreams of the room. Sometimes it's a medical Room. Dim and grimy with various medical equipment and the victim would be strapped to the medical table propped up like some hunters prized trophy.

Sometimes it would be a bedroom. The walls would be white, with faded posters in the track of light from the window. The plaster beginning to crack just above the bed. There would sweat-smudge of a handprint on the wall, and a grasped smear from a sticky palm on the shiny gold-coloured ball decoration of the headboard. The bedspread pink candlewick, its ends trailing over a bare concrete floor. There are three pillows, yellow with age and sweat; He can see and sometimes feel the sharp prickle of feathers poking from them.

He dreams of the victim. They're never crawling around on the ceiling or spitting hellfire like in the movies – he always seems to arrive just a little too late to witness such horrors. Instead they're tied down and silent, bruised from struggle. Quiescent until they see him. The rope wrapped around their wrists and ankles is always cheap hardware-store twine, lashed again and again around innocent flesh until it bound them tight enough to chafe and bleed.

He can never see the victim's face. It is blurred, like the faces of the people in the corridor, so that he only gets an impression of features. He cannot see the split-second snap in the eyes from terror to hatred as victim and demon wrestle for possession of the poor souls body. The mouth is always soft, though: soft with an emotion he cannot name for fear of recognizing it too easily.

He knows what he has to do. He's done it too many times to count on his fingers and toes. The body is always androgynous. It is only when he mounts the bed and sits astride the victim, a position of dominance both physical and sexual, that he can feel beneath him the contours of flesh that determine gender. Sometimes the victim is a woman, at other times, a man. But ultimately, gender does not matter to him.

Results do.

This is when it happens, with the laying-on of hands against either side of the victims face. He knows what his job is now. He would lean forward ready to do what he was meant to do and rid the victim of the creature within. Use his own body as a vessel to release them from their torment.

But the moment he does, things change. When he pulls back, it's not him looking down at a faceless victim anymore. He can see the victim's face now. It's like looking in a mirror. His own eyes gaze back at him; his own lips shape words of anger. Even his breath is the same, a poisonous cloud of tar and toxin and sleeping pills and death.

And then he begins to lose his sense of identity. Which one of these is he – the exorcist, or the possessed? The more he questions it, the less certain he is of himself. Slowly, he becomes the possessed. And he watches as the person on top turns less him and more faceless creature. A dark misty shadow which sits upon him and stares down at him like a predator eyeing it's prey.

He can feel the rope tight around his wrists, and the muscles in his thighs sprung taut with aching as he struggles for freedom. He can feel the weight of the exorcist on top of him, and he fights against the restriction in his breathing. Beneath his cheek he can feel the waxen shine of the yellowed pillow. The feathers jab at his neck, their quills like needles.

When he looks up, he can no longer see the face of the exorcist. It is not just blurred, but wiped clean like a child's slate. At this point in the dream he panics, tries to wake himself up.

He knows what's coming, and he hates it.

The now faceless exorcist leans forward and puts a hand over his forehead. Nothing happens, because he is not possessed – there is no demon to call forth. Not this time. Instead he feels the warmth of the palm on his skin, feels the hiss of flesh burning – and then he smells sulphur.

He starts to fight again, twisting away from the faceless-creatures touch. The ropes digging into his flesh. He doesn't know when his clothes come off, but he knows they are off when the demon strokes his naked skin. He can only react to it: horrible, shameful reactions that make his face burn with shame, and that makes him give voice to denials rather than prayers or pleads.

The demon doesn't pay no heed to his pleas, simply digs it's knees into his ribs and holds on until he is gasping, coughing, weak. It leans close again, its face suddenly a dull glow of eyes gleaming red.

Then comes the act that terrifies him the most.

It always did jolt him, the kiss.

Demons were vile creatures. Disgusting things. But he would be denying more then himself if he didn't not say that He enjoyed the feel of the kiss, the taste of embrace. That he liked the sharp demon-fangs that nip at his lips and tongue, and the hot, choking stench of Sulphur that rolled into his own mouth as well as the taste of his own blood when the demon found need to bite harder then needed. The exquisite sharp pain as it teared his lower lip and the warm gush of wet dripped down his chin and in his mouth. Metallic and copper and Sulphur all in one.

He didn't know exactly when it started, when he had found out that pain had excited him. He guessed it must have been when he and his girlfriend had started getting busy and he found out that he loved the way she would take her nails and dig and scrape them down his back and arms in a effort to reward him with bloody trophies for making her feel so good.

Moments like that were alright. Moments like that he didn't mind. Its times like this, however, he had wished pain didn't excite him. Cause it gave the creature on top more reasons to hurt him, to give him its own set of bloody trophies.

And hurt him it would. They would struggle together, prolonging the agony. Claws, so unlike his girlfriends nails, would leave bloody marks across his naked flesh, rend his skin torn and sore and messy with smeared red. Teeth would leave oozing wounds against his neck and shoulders and arms, and then there would be an all too familiar ache. An ache Philip knew all too well. An ache that sliced into the heat of his groin, demanding recognition and attention. Recognition and attention the demon above was all to willing to give.

The demon was very good, very careful and Philip despised it for it. It beckoned out Philips own demon, stroking his thighs, his cock, letting the pressure build that will expel the hated demon from his body. And as the pressure built, the demon inside himself made its presence known more and more and soon Philip would feel his body descend into heat and fire and ferocity as his own demon released in a moment of startling epiphany; released into the demons hands, a demon cradling a demon.

Oh, how ironic.

And once the final act was over, He would awaken from his dream in an instant. The demon in his dreams would be gone and He would wake with the warm, wet feeling of release between his legs. It takes a few minutes of senseless breathing for the scratch of damp boxer fabric on sensitive skin to become unpleasant. And he would soon drag himself up on his arms and look down at himself in shame for having dreamt such a dream and a bead of sweat would drop off his nose. He would glance next too himself, on the opposite side of the bed. Watch the sleeping figure of his girlfriend beside him, and then he would glance at himself.

And it would be with that glance of himself, where he would see three long red gashes against his chest, oozing with blood.

Fresh and open.