Wrong/Right.
Necrophelia.
The rusty crimson caked under his once glowing hazel orbs makes my own hazel ones twitch repeatedly.
I stiffen.
I should be used to seeing dead bodies. I should stop going numb whenever I walk down those creaky basement stairs into the workshop. My stomach should stop bubbling with acidic waste when I have to drain the blood from their decomposing, gray corpses. Should is the keyword. Corpses are my only companions.
In my head world, I’m trying to picture what his death was like. Sadly, that’s how I get my kicks – picturing my projects final last minutes. From the clean bones jutting out of his gray skin and the pools of oxidized crimson decorating his body, I assume his final minutes consisted of a bloody battle. Rarely do I ever get a bloody corpse to work on. I am suddenly enthralled. My customers tend to die peacefully in a peaceful position. This guy is just gruesome. A smile creeps across my face.
Necrophelia. I’ve always gagged at the thought of the topic. My heart jumpstarts and my head spins and I feel like I’m on one of those teacup rides at the amusement park that spin around like crazy and make you nauseas. Suddenly, sex with dead people doesn’t seem as wrong as it may have seemed a week ago. I mean, what does it matter if he’s dead? I mean, I’d regret if I just drained his blood, injected the embalming fluid and fixed him up to look all spiffy and sent him on his merry old way to his funeral before a quick fuck.
I scan the old, drippy office room. It looks like something straight out of a cheesy horror film with the cobwebs and the unnatural darkness and the creaky staircase and the demons in the dark. I am the only demon here. No other soul is in the perimeter.
Wait, do dead people have souls?
Okay, so maybe I’m not the only soul in the nearest vicinity, but maybe I am. Scratch that, I'm the only soul with a beating heart, that is beating at a million miles an hour. It feels like any second my heart will burst and shatter my porcelein bones and I'll wind up as a pile of decomposing organs and broken bones. But most importantly, I'll be dead, just like him.
I carefully strip him of his dark blue jeans. I’m not doing anything wrong… not yet at least. It’s part of my job to take their clothes off… but then I’m supposed to dress them in their fancy clothes, and plus, I’m doing everything out of order anyway. I fumble around clumsily with my skull belt buckle. Good thing his eyes are clouded over and he cannot see that I am just a stuttering, clumsy dumbass. My identical blue jeans fall down around my ankles and I pray to God that I do not trip. I trip anyway. It is a sign. God hates me for my act of Necrophelia. I do not give a fuck.
I lean his inflexible body up against the metal countertop. How the hell am I going to do this? I begin to touch myself, patiently waiting until I am hard. I stroke the length of my cock and inhale deeply. I’m ready. He’s ready. I shove my cock into his asshole and at first, it feels awkward and disgusting, but I realize that because I am having buttsex with a corpse, he’s obviously going to be stiff. I moan, speeding up a little and intertwine my bony fingers into the greasy mop of hair sewn into his skull. Something hits me; this is probably the only time my sick fuck of a self will ever have sex. I better make it worthwhile. It upsets me slightly that he cannot echo my orgasms or tell me how I’m doing on my first time. So naïve, so stupid.
I finish it up and spin his corpse around to look him straight in the eyes. I bet they we’re brilliant and glimmered in the sunlight before he met his untimely demise. I size him up. Mid-twenties. So much to live for. I press my pale lips against his even paler, listless ones and hold his rigid body in my arms. I steady him back against the counter and read over his papers. Iero, Frank Anthony. A jersey boy, like myself. Frank Iero. Gerard Way and Frank Iero. It had a ring to it. I smile again, a devious smile.
Swiftly, I rip open the metal desk drawer of my partner, Nick, and all of the paperweights and pens clank against the sides. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. I need to hurry.
“Aha!” I yell, closing the drawer and walking over to Frank. I run my arms along his decomposing flesh a final time. The familiar metallic feel of the barrel of the gun against my burning flesh calms me down a little – but not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. I inhale deeply again, exhaling ever so slowly. My last breath; make it count.
“Be seeing you,” I mutter to his corpse before I ineptly pull the trigger.
Click. Click. Bang.
I stiffen.
I should be used to seeing dead bodies. I should stop going numb whenever I walk down those creaky basement stairs into the workshop. My stomach should stop bubbling with acidic waste when I have to drain the blood from their decomposing, gray corpses. Should is the keyword. Corpses are my only companions.
In my head world, I’m trying to picture what his death was like. Sadly, that’s how I get my kicks – picturing my projects final last minutes. From the clean bones jutting out of his gray skin and the pools of oxidized crimson decorating his body, I assume his final minutes consisted of a bloody battle. Rarely do I ever get a bloody corpse to work on. I am suddenly enthralled. My customers tend to die peacefully in a peaceful position. This guy is just gruesome. A smile creeps across my face.
Necrophelia. I’ve always gagged at the thought of the topic. My heart jumpstarts and my head spins and I feel like I’m on one of those teacup rides at the amusement park that spin around like crazy and make you nauseas. Suddenly, sex with dead people doesn’t seem as wrong as it may have seemed a week ago. I mean, what does it matter if he’s dead? I mean, I’d regret if I just drained his blood, injected the embalming fluid and fixed him up to look all spiffy and sent him on his merry old way to his funeral before a quick fuck.
I scan the old, drippy office room. It looks like something straight out of a cheesy horror film with the cobwebs and the unnatural darkness and the creaky staircase and the demons in the dark. I am the only demon here. No other soul is in the perimeter.
Wait, do dead people have souls?
Okay, so maybe I’m not the only soul in the nearest vicinity, but maybe I am. Scratch that, I'm the only soul with a beating heart, that is beating at a million miles an hour. It feels like any second my heart will burst and shatter my porcelein bones and I'll wind up as a pile of decomposing organs and broken bones. But most importantly, I'll be dead, just like him.
I carefully strip him of his dark blue jeans. I’m not doing anything wrong… not yet at least. It’s part of my job to take their clothes off… but then I’m supposed to dress them in their fancy clothes, and plus, I’m doing everything out of order anyway. I fumble around clumsily with my skull belt buckle. Good thing his eyes are clouded over and he cannot see that I am just a stuttering, clumsy dumbass. My identical blue jeans fall down around my ankles and I pray to God that I do not trip. I trip anyway. It is a sign. God hates me for my act of Necrophelia. I do not give a fuck.
I lean his inflexible body up against the metal countertop. How the hell am I going to do this? I begin to touch myself, patiently waiting until I am hard. I stroke the length of my cock and inhale deeply. I’m ready. He’s ready. I shove my cock into his asshole and at first, it feels awkward and disgusting, but I realize that because I am having buttsex with a corpse, he’s obviously going to be stiff. I moan, speeding up a little and intertwine my bony fingers into the greasy mop of hair sewn into his skull. Something hits me; this is probably the only time my sick fuck of a self will ever have sex. I better make it worthwhile. It upsets me slightly that he cannot echo my orgasms or tell me how I’m doing on my first time. So naïve, so stupid.
I finish it up and spin his corpse around to look him straight in the eyes. I bet they we’re brilliant and glimmered in the sunlight before he met his untimely demise. I size him up. Mid-twenties. So much to live for. I press my pale lips against his even paler, listless ones and hold his rigid body in my arms. I steady him back against the counter and read over his papers. Iero, Frank Anthony. A jersey boy, like myself. Frank Iero. Gerard Way and Frank Iero. It had a ring to it. I smile again, a devious smile.
Swiftly, I rip open the metal desk drawer of my partner, Nick, and all of the paperweights and pens clank against the sides. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. I need to hurry.
“Aha!” I yell, closing the drawer and walking over to Frank. I run my arms along his decomposing flesh a final time. The familiar metallic feel of the barrel of the gun against my burning flesh calms me down a little – but not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. I inhale deeply again, exhaling ever so slowly. My last breath; make it count.
“Be seeing you,” I mutter to his corpse before I ineptly pull the trigger.
Click. Click. Bang.