Note:My precious man. To live unabashed this life, it would my soul take and from there all the pain or pleasure that could amuse it for eternity.


He woke from a restless sleep, the gnawing-hungry sensation in the bowels of his being back once more. His hands lay bleeding from closed-wounds, knuckles scuffed and broken. September October December busted in the shallows of his despair. November however looked quite clean, devoid of day-old blood. He took his fingers and jammed them into his eyes, scattering thousands of stars into his vision. The nails too lay split and teeth-worn, gummed into place by sticky blood. And his feet, twisted gray like his hands, toes curling against the cold wood floor, battered their way into the bathroom.

The small mirror that hung over the sink, was never to be his friend, unlike the bathtub that opened into half-eaten body, too thick and full on the spilled juices to chew. The mass of blonde hair scattered to every tile, sticking in to his naked feet. "Shit," he muttered to himself, and sat at the edge of the tub, fingers trailing in bile. It would have been romantic in a sense, but the corpse let flow and release the bodies waste before he had a chance to sew shut the body. Their were plenty of other ways to fuck the bodies he brought home, most involving an eye, or other, new openings made from his perpetual starvation.

"Today," he stood up; running fingers through newly cut brown hair. "My name is Charles, and my occupation is necrophilia." And with that he slid down next to David (he named all of his lovelies David) and entered him through the gouge in his thigh. The sickness slapping cold on his body as he tongued the broken teeth and skinned lip. Death's grin always one of ecstasy when Charles was done.

Death's grin man-made. Charles, as he called himself today, had found the new boy skipping school outside the local New Age bookstore. The kid's black backpack opened to a notebook and throbbing cassette player. The boy, David as was the child's new name, looked up from paper to stare at Charles' with sweet adolescence. The smile now fixed in its lazy focus, head half tilted in a sweep of blonde hair, the boy waved to Charles, and bit his lower lip. Charles could see the boy's blood brought from the bite, skimming the surface, dancing under the myriad of beautiful cells.

Eaten without remorse, Charles lay back in the hollowed ribcage. Eyes roaming without effort at the white ceiling, perfect blanket of snow, an unwritten book, some uncut flesh. He attempted to blow bubbles in his bath, squirming in the rustic disease. His toes cut hold of the bath's plug, pulled the rusty chain. The shower's rain beat over their bodies as he let the water slowly wash the corpse clean. He closed his eyes and listened to the echoing, hollow in the empty eye socket, tongue-less mouth, and split arms.

He reveled in the idea of sinking back into the cold, wet flesh. But, against his wants, he puts forth the necessities; clothes, slow migration to work, kiss on the lips and "goodbye sweetheart, stay home in the tub until I get back from work." He sighed. He always left the same way, the bathroom's sickening nausea lingering pleasantly on his clothes until lost in the subway station.