Crimson Pain By BlackForest

Black Angel… Whore of Satan… Rapist of the Innocent… I have been known as all of the above and more.

I wander through the streets of my latest "home". I use the term in its loosest definition because home is where the heart is, and seeing as how I have no heart, I guess I have no home. I don't really have a soul either but that is a topic for another day.

I'm here on business. I look for the pure and the innocent, the angels in our fucked up society. The women who still believe that they make a difference, or that they can save the homeless: all that crap. The pure of soul, pure of heart, pure of mind. And believe me, in this world it is difficult to find that. I look for these creatures of mercy and love to have the distinct pleasure of breaking them. To see their worlds crumble, and to watch them in agony. It makes me smile. It also arouses me. "Rapist of the Innocent", honestly that name does me little justice. I don't rape them, so much as pollute their minds into believing that my way: Evil, Destruction, Sexual Fulfillment, and above all else Self-gratification, is the ways to happiness. It isn't much of a stretch in our consumer driven world. If anything the rape is that of their sheltered, precious, minds. Not their beautifully developed bodies. They want what I can give them, that is, after I pervert them.

During the day I walk along the streets of a rather bad neighborhood, looking in homeless shelters and the Salvation Army, paying special attention to the blonde with the bright blue eyes behind the counter. She left for her lunch break and I followed her, she stopped to give a dollar to a homeless man on the corner. I saw my chance and rushed past her, throwing her off balance so she fell, on a convenient broken bottle. Turning around concerned, I helped her up, and offered her assistance. She thanked me, and accepted, poor, foolish, innocent girl. I helped her into my car, and we drove to my apartment. Once we entered the room, I took her to my couch and had her sit while I got some peroxide for her cuts. I glanced again at her luscious legs, with the blood dripping down them so gracefully. I sighed with pleasure, and grabbed my bottle of chloroform and soaked a gauze pad in it. I walked into the living room like I was going to clean her cuts, but lunged at her instead, covering her mouth and nose, and waiting for her struggling to stop. To be honest I would much rather have them alive and kicking shall we say, but I had a feeling she was a screamer, not to mention she was fairly strong. I hadn't anticipated her to kick quite so much, thank God I wasn't a guy, or I would be regretting this.

I moved methodically, I knew I only had a relatively short time to string her up on my wall, before she woke up. She was lovely, hanging there like the fallen angel she was. Her arms were attached to the wall, and her legs tied together, she looked almost Christ like hanging nude and gagged on my white wall. On the wall I had painted a set of angel wings, beautiful feathery ones. In my mind I could already see her begging me to stop, then begging me for more. When I finished my masterpiece I decided to begin the "body art". I knew she would wake up while I was doing this. Which just makes my adrenalin pump harder. I take out some rubbing alcohol and proceed to sanitize her body; infections are always bad, especially on one so precious as this. I will try my best to keep scarring to a minimum.

I take out a sanitary scalpel and commence my art. Her skin is so soft, so spongy; cutting it is like cutting a piece of fluffy cake. I make incisions at her waist, parallel to the floor so when the blood streams down her body it looks like a crimson skirt around her slim, pale waist. The incisions are small and very shallow; she will have little to no scarring. As I move up to her shoulders, I can tell she is coming around, so I kiss her eyelids. Next, to make sure she is aware of what is going on, I make two incisions, one on each cheek under the eyes. I see her eyes widen in fear, and small tears come to her eyes from the pain. Her tears fall onto the incision, stinging in the fresh cuts, and making the blood run down her face like scarlet tears. She makes small animal noises in her throat. Whimpers of fear and pain, I smile at her and kiss her forehead. I tell her that life is pain, and in order to endure life we must embrace pain. At this I make incisions on her shoulders, crescents tilting inward. The blood drips down her side, around her firm breasts.

I make one more incision in-between her collarbones. I blood drips down her cleavage. I step back and look at her. The look of terror in her eyes makes the vision complete. Two more incisions should be all; it will look as if she is wearing a beautiful red dress. Her pale body already in contrast to the stark white wall, her gown of blood will add that dash of Vibrant color this room needs, I laugh to myself when this comment presents it self. Again I move towards her, an almost feral growl comes from her throat, and a look of pure hatred appears in her eyes. I like this it gives her more personality. I make two incisions, just above the areolas of each breast, and as the blood flows across her nipples I notice them harden. It is then I notice the look of confusion in her eyes, and her head drops.

I smile to myself knowing I am almost there. I pull her head up, and look her in the eyes. I can see her soul, her world, once it was occupied with thoughts of peace and love. But in my world peace and love do not exist. Trust is impossible. Slowly I see this recognition of my ideals flash in her mind. I see her giving in to me, she has no will to fight back, and she couldn't if she tried. I have shown her what this world is really like. I have set her free. I revel in this feeling of conquest. Another angel fallen into my arms. I smile and turn back to my table where I have my equipment. Slowly I sip my Chianti, and glance over my beautiful crucified angel.