Bloodlust
Bloodlust
My arm shaking slightly, I jerk the razorblade sharply across my wrist. I watch and wait the few seconds it takes for the little droplets of crimson to form, merging together along the raised channels of tissue. My eyelids fluttering slightly, I allow a gust of breath to pass my lips, because I feel alive.
I finally feel alive again.
I want this. No, I need this. It’s an addiction, really, and I know that. The blood. The sharp, tingling pain that almost fills that void that’s consumed me ever since... And the longing for it – the endless longing – every day, every night, just counting down the seconds until I can actually feel again. Yes, it’s sick, I know.
Every time I see your face at the window, I know I can only ever be dreaming, so I draw the curtains, and ram the pillows resolutely over my ears. Blocking out the sounds of my imagination, because they replicate your voice, and my memories, my desires, so fucking flawlessly. And as I most selfishly stain dear mother’s bed sheets with my pretty little streaks of violent red, I hum to myself a tune of which I don’t know the name, in yet another futile attempt to just forget... You. Me. Everything. Deaf, blind, mute, numb. I am senseless without you.
Until I feel you, your hands, your calloused fingertips: oh so softly weaving my hair like silk beneath them, calming me infinitely. Like you always did, like nothing else could ever do for me. And yet, I won’t open my eyes. I won’t give in to you. Liar.
“No Gee. You’re dead,” I utter, sullenly into the silence. “You’re not real. You’re not here. I’m here, and I’m alone, and it hurts.”
“Oh Mikester...”
I open my eyes then, to the sound of that childhood nickname, that only we shared, and smile at the bitter irony of innocence lost, the nostalgia of memory. And then, my lips are quivering, and I’m weak, and I’m crying, as I stare up into those eyes I know so well. Those eyes like labyrinths, where I would so happily wonder for years. The colour of which my descriptions could never do justice, no matter how long I gazed into their watery depths. Searching, searching desperately for my brother. And as you open your arms, I find him once more.
“Mikey,” you murmur softly, and I feel a icy teardrop slide down your cheek as you softly press our lips together, and I feel my heart splintering beneath my ribs. “Oh Mikey...”
“Please Gee,” I whisper, breathing tearfully as I pull so slowly away, to gaze at your stark white form, tinged almost blue in the moonlight cascading through the now open window. “I missed you, Gee. So much...”
I hold out my arms, letting your heartbroken gaze settle on the numerous scars, dashed across my skin like the checkmarks of some form of countdown. Tragically almost beautiful. I watch you hurting as you stand there, at the foot of my bed. And I almost enjoy your pain, because this is what I have become. This is what you have reduced me to, Gee.
“Kiss it better for me, Gee?”
You visibly stiffen, forehead creasing, little crinkles forming at the sides of your eyes.
“Mikey, I ca-”
“But you always make me feel better, Gee,” I smile sadly, staring straight into your (slightly effeminate) features, as I lick my lips, and press myself tenderly to your body, lightly groping your crotch. “Always...”
I can hear your breath catch in your throat, and I smile.
“M-Mikey, you don’t understand...”
I chuckle darkly, watching your eyes as they dart across the crimson patterns decorating my wrists. Almost beautifully.
“Oh, but I do. Most perfectly. So kiss me, Gerard,” I demand, and watch those pointed little teeth sparkling like daggers, as you gasp, on the very brink of self control. “Take me with you...”
You stumble backwards into the bookshelf, and Irvine Welsh strikes you hard across the skull. Yet somehow, you don’t even flinch.
“Mikey, please. I love you. Don’t do this to me; don’t make me do this to you... I never wanted this, never, okay?”
“Then why did you leave me Gerard?” I half-sing, stroking your ashen face, watching it contort beneath my fingertips, ethereal. So beautiful... “And why did you ever come back to me?”
I watch your Adam’s apple bob slightly in your throat as you part your lips – and yet you seem momentarily lost for words, big brother. Then, “Frankie didn’t want me to come. He-he said you’d do this. He said it would be better if you just thought I was dead, at peace. Frankie said –”
I snarl furiously at the incessant mentioning of that name.
“Oh yes, ‘Frankie said’. Well, why don’t you just go back to your precious Frankie-kins and let me fucking kill myself already?”
I feel the words penetrating your skin, perforating you beneath the surface like the needles you loathe; and I almost enjoy it. (God, I’m more of a monster than you are!) But I need this: I can’t fucking live without you, and you goddamn know it. And I need to know – if-if you really love me, if you ever did. Can I twist you around my little finger like a secret wedding ring, manipulate you without even breaking a fingernail? Yes. Do you love me, Gee?
I smile sadly and sear right through the vessels of my wrist with the blade still clutched in my right hand. I gasp, feeling the little channels breaking like a dam, blood gushing relentlessly over the white barriers.
I giggle feebly as you desperately clutch my wrist, swearing raucously.
“Make your choice, Gee-gee. But I don’t think you have very long...”
“Mikey, why, why...?”
“Are you going to listen to little Frankie-kins next time, Gee? Tell me baby, do you love him as much as me? Or more?”
I drag the blade across yet again with those words; more, faster, urgent. And how I love your ever-escalating sense of despair, as you are forced to watch as I destroy myself.
And suddenly, it’s not funny any more. At all. I just want you to love me, to need me as much as I need you. And yet I’m so scared that you don’t. And I’m crying, and my tears taste salty, so I must still be alive, but I don’t want to be. I feel so... Weak. Tired. Scared. I hate myself, for doing this to you, please, god, I just want this to end.
“Gee? Gee, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry; please, please forgive me...”
You don’t say anything at all. You simply close your eyes, and press your lips, feather-light, to the unceasing blood flow. You suck and drink, even moaning a little at the sensation of your brother’s blood, trickling down your throat; the concoction of your fountain of youth. You pull away breathlessly, brusquely slashing a fingernail across the side of your own throat, and pulling me tenderly to your chest. You tilt my head so my parched lips meet the incision, and I nip most gratefully at your soft, sweet skin. Hungrily, I devour you, until you haul me away, hands roughly grasping my shoulders, and our eyes and lips meet once more; a desperate infusion of passion and need.
And we are one, forevermore.
I finally feel alive again.
I want this. No, I need this. It’s an addiction, really, and I know that. The blood. The sharp, tingling pain that almost fills that void that’s consumed me ever since... And the longing for it – the endless longing – every day, every night, just counting down the seconds until I can actually feel again. Yes, it’s sick, I know.
Every time I see your face at the window, I know I can only ever be dreaming, so I draw the curtains, and ram the pillows resolutely over my ears. Blocking out the sounds of my imagination, because they replicate your voice, and my memories, my desires, so fucking flawlessly. And as I most selfishly stain dear mother’s bed sheets with my pretty little streaks of violent red, I hum to myself a tune of which I don’t know the name, in yet another futile attempt to just forget... You. Me. Everything. Deaf, blind, mute, numb. I am senseless without you.
Until I feel you, your hands, your calloused fingertips: oh so softly weaving my hair like silk beneath them, calming me infinitely. Like you always did, like nothing else could ever do for me. And yet, I won’t open my eyes. I won’t give in to you. Liar.
“No Gee. You’re dead,” I utter, sullenly into the silence. “You’re not real. You’re not here. I’m here, and I’m alone, and it hurts.”
“Oh Mikester...”
I open my eyes then, to the sound of that childhood nickname, that only we shared, and smile at the bitter irony of innocence lost, the nostalgia of memory. And then, my lips are quivering, and I’m weak, and I’m crying, as I stare up into those eyes I know so well. Those eyes like labyrinths, where I would so happily wonder for years. The colour of which my descriptions could never do justice, no matter how long I gazed into their watery depths. Searching, searching desperately for my brother. And as you open your arms, I find him once more.
“Mikey,” you murmur softly, and I feel a icy teardrop slide down your cheek as you softly press our lips together, and I feel my heart splintering beneath my ribs. “Oh Mikey...”
“Please Gee,” I whisper, breathing tearfully as I pull so slowly away, to gaze at your stark white form, tinged almost blue in the moonlight cascading through the now open window. “I missed you, Gee. So much...”
I hold out my arms, letting your heartbroken gaze settle on the numerous scars, dashed across my skin like the checkmarks of some form of countdown. Tragically almost beautiful. I watch you hurting as you stand there, at the foot of my bed. And I almost enjoy your pain, because this is what I have become. This is what you have reduced me to, Gee.
“Kiss it better for me, Gee?”
You visibly stiffen, forehead creasing, little crinkles forming at the sides of your eyes.
“Mikey, I ca-”
“But you always make me feel better, Gee,” I smile sadly, staring straight into your (slightly effeminate) features, as I lick my lips, and press myself tenderly to your body, lightly groping your crotch. “Always...”
I can hear your breath catch in your throat, and I smile.
“M-Mikey, you don’t understand...”
I chuckle darkly, watching your eyes as they dart across the crimson patterns decorating my wrists. Almost beautifully.
“Oh, but I do. Most perfectly. So kiss me, Gerard,” I demand, and watch those pointed little teeth sparkling like daggers, as you gasp, on the very brink of self control. “Take me with you...”
You stumble backwards into the bookshelf, and Irvine Welsh strikes you hard across the skull. Yet somehow, you don’t even flinch.
“Mikey, please. I love you. Don’t do this to me; don’t make me do this to you... I never wanted this, never, okay?”
“Then why did you leave me Gerard?” I half-sing, stroking your ashen face, watching it contort beneath my fingertips, ethereal. So beautiful... “And why did you ever come back to me?”
I watch your Adam’s apple bob slightly in your throat as you part your lips – and yet you seem momentarily lost for words, big brother. Then, “Frankie didn’t want me to come. He-he said you’d do this. He said it would be better if you just thought I was dead, at peace. Frankie said –”
I snarl furiously at the incessant mentioning of that name.
“Oh yes, ‘Frankie said’. Well, why don’t you just go back to your precious Frankie-kins and let me fucking kill myself already?”
I feel the words penetrating your skin, perforating you beneath the surface like the needles you loathe; and I almost enjoy it. (God, I’m more of a monster than you are!) But I need this: I can’t fucking live without you, and you goddamn know it. And I need to know – if-if you really love me, if you ever did. Can I twist you around my little finger like a secret wedding ring, manipulate you without even breaking a fingernail? Yes. Do you love me, Gee?
I smile sadly and sear right through the vessels of my wrist with the blade still clutched in my right hand. I gasp, feeling the little channels breaking like a dam, blood gushing relentlessly over the white barriers.
I giggle feebly as you desperately clutch my wrist, swearing raucously.
“Make your choice, Gee-gee. But I don’t think you have very long...”
“Mikey, why, why...?”
“Are you going to listen to little Frankie-kins next time, Gee? Tell me baby, do you love him as much as me? Or more?”
I drag the blade across yet again with those words; more, faster, urgent. And how I love your ever-escalating sense of despair, as you are forced to watch as I destroy myself.
And suddenly, it’s not funny any more. At all. I just want you to love me, to need me as much as I need you. And yet I’m so scared that you don’t. And I’m crying, and my tears taste salty, so I must still be alive, but I don’t want to be. I feel so... Weak. Tired. Scared. I hate myself, for doing this to you, please, god, I just want this to end.
“Gee? Gee, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry; please, please forgive me...”
You don’t say anything at all. You simply close your eyes, and press your lips, feather-light, to the unceasing blood flow. You suck and drink, even moaning a little at the sensation of your brother’s blood, trickling down your throat; the concoction of your fountain of youth. You pull away breathlessly, brusquely slashing a fingernail across the side of your own throat, and pulling me tenderly to your chest. You tilt my head so my parched lips meet the incision, and I nip most gratefully at your soft, sweet skin. Hungrily, I devour you, until you haul me away, hands roughly grasping my shoulders, and our eyes and lips meet once more; a desperate infusion of passion and need.
And we are one, forevermore.