This illustration is merely representative of the mood and themes of the story. Sources: asayuki101 (https://www.pixiv.net/en/users/69374642) (https://x.com/asayuki101?lang=en)
There would be no sunshine that day. He knew it.
He didn’t feel like working. He didn’t feel like
waking up at all. «Hell.» Was his first thought of the morning. «Kill me.» Was
his second, and from then on it wouldn’t get any sunnier in his mind.
The sun itself felt detestable, and he scrambled to
shut the curtains while trying to not really wake up at all. He laid still on
the bed, like dead wood, hoping for sleep to carry him back into the void, and
in the void keep him.
«But I need to work.» Said one half of his mind.
«But I fucking hate working.» Replied the other half.
Twisting and turning on the mattress, he “slept” for
thirty minutes longer until… *Woosh!* He sprang from the sheets,
startled by nothing, and jumped straight into his desk.
«Stupid piece of shit. You stupid little sack of
fucking s-!»
…
…
Silence. He got a moment of it.
…
…
That’s it, one moment. Now, back to life. He couldn’t
waste a precious second of his day. «I’ve gotta…!!» His head was close to
exploding. «I’ve gotta… work.»
Make money. Survive. If he ever dared to stop…
… if he ever dared to take a day off…
… to stop for just a second and contemplate any other
life but work, work, work…
…he would die. He would starve. That was just a fact
of life. Of his life. The life of a poor, worthless gutterscum: one second of
laxness and everything he’d ever achieved would just… rotten… rot away as
quickly as the burn of the hope he once had for a better life. A kinder fate.
You spend an entire life hustling your way into
decency, into the barebones basics of subsisting, and then… one slip… one pull
of the rug beneath your feet… Poof! All is lost. And there ain’t ever
coming back.
One shot at decent living. Not luxurious. Not
comfortable. Decent. One step above the streets, and that’s it. That’s all you
got. That is the way of life. That is your way of living.
So he labored. The illustrations were especially spicy
that day. Bad news. He always had this terrible boiling in his sack every time
he was forced to stare at those beautiful vixens and their tall, chiseled
stallions, their angelic faces barely concealing their hellish intent towards
their potent partners.
One would understand the pain, the thirst that came
with the job: working with sexual abundance, yet being unable to sip from a
single drop of it. Retouching without touching. A starving beggar seeing a
playboy splurge. Even eunuchs would have a better time in their masters’ harem.
At least the eunuchs didn’t have a cock left to make them suffer.
Such exposure made him masturbate once or twice or
nineteen times before the evening was set. He did the deed so many times that
not only his dick, but his arm felt numb. «Piece of… shit.» By the
seventh or eighth or perhaps ninth session he went through, blood came out. *Squirt…
squirt…!* His member was a stillborn worm in his hollowed-out hands. A
couple of jerks more and it’d fall off. «I…» He had to spend the rest of the
day walking around like a cowboy, his crotch burning like it’d been ground
against glass fresh out of the smelter. «I hate my life.»
Yeah, yeah. How many times had he complained about it?
What did he expect to accomplish by complaining even more? Was he hoping for
pity? From whom? It’s not as if he had anyone but himself to pity.
Whomever it’d be, he was getting none of it. And he
knew it.
«I fucking hate my life.»
And he deserved it.
Then, there were the voices. Only his voice at first,
and a nasty one at that, until it copied itself and gave birth to other voices,
several clones of him talking, screaming, screeching, yelling at the clouds,
banging their fists on imaginary walls, turning his brain into a ball pit of
tantrum, a clatter of hatred so intense he felt the house itself shaking around
him, his body and his insides throbbing like rails as the train slowly
approaches.
«I… I can’t stop… I can’t do shit! No. I… I wasn’t
born so fucked up! I had many opportunities in my life, yet still I can’t do
shit with any of them! My fucking… job, it’s… so fucking worthless!! There are
people half my age making billions, and they… no! They had it better!
They had mommy and daddy! They had love and a good country, a good… fucking… society!!»
He gritted his teeth, screaming into a pillow as his
country, his motherland, it became yet again the target of his wrath. “Fucking…
pile piece of shit place I had to be born into!! Fucking shite filled with
nothing but pigs and monkeys!” He began to tear the pillow off. The feathers
glided softly onto the ground. «That fucking land of useless mediocre
mongrels!! I could have been so much greater if I were born elsewhere!!» He bit
the pillow. Tore it piece by piece. Soon, he was eating the cloth and the
feathers. “I could have been king of the world by now!!”
Other voices joined in—different voices this time, and
much less merciful than the others. These newcomers, real voices, not just
invented ones; the voices of his past, stored deep in his mind, programmed to
play on repeat for as long as he lived, and only on the worst moments of his
life, to make them somehow even worse, like salt on the gaping wound:
Parasite! Have some common sense, you fucking crazy!
Who do you think you are? Some lucky sperm? Some golden boy from trust fund
heaven?!
These were the responses every time he’d been foolish,
stupid, asinine enough to tell someone, anyone of his dreams: «But I wanna…!»
Tears raining down his piggly face. «I wanna be an artist!»
…
…
Hah, hah!
…
Hah, hah!
…
…
HAH, HAH, HAH, HAH, HAH, HAH…!!!
Oh, the laughter. The laughter and the hatred.
Never once did he want to design pornographic
portraits for a living. Never once did that career, or anything remotely
resembling it, ever cross his mind. Of course it never did. Who, in all
earnestness, would ever want to do this for a living? If he had gotten to that
point, it was only because… he needed it to survive.
To make money. To get by day after day until hopefully
he had saved up enough money to not do this anymore and finally focus on
what he truly desired in life.
So he labored. Day after day. And the day after that.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
And the day…
…
«Fuck me, gods.»
Those cheap, knock-off illustrations were the only
thing in his whole damned life that had ever made him any money. His art, his
genuine effort, it was worse than worthless. It was negative: he lost money, he
lost time, he lost friendships, he lost every damn thing a human being would
consider basic. «What a joke.» He clicked his tongue. «What a great, fucking
joke.»
His dreams had cost him everything, yet his shit made
him money. Not that any of this elicited any pity from the voices. Useless.
Useless! In both failure and “success,” they all agreed on the same thing,
and screamed it, at the top of their lungs, into his brain, directly on the
ears of his soul:
Sad. Disgusting. Pathetic. Ridiculous. Repulsive…
Useless! Useless! You’re so fucking useless!
Their words weren’t the worst. It was the laughter. The
laughter, the jest, the ridicule, like hyenas and demons eyeballing as they
scoffed at him. In time, their static became only one long, uninterrupted chant
of mockery.
The whole world scoffing at him. Enough to make one
blow their brains out.
“Arrgh!” His brain felt at its limit. His eyes, nearly
popping. He could see the blood coming out. “Aargh, fuck!!” He screamed his
pain out, yet the longer he screamed, the greater the pain became, for the
voices all screamed with him, always one step ahead, always more powerful, ever
so unrelenting:
There are slaves toiling their bones out in the
Sahara! Their paltry little children being sold off for barley! What do you
know of pain and misery, you fucking imbecile?! Useless! Parasite! Fucking
waste of semen!
The look of disgust from his neighbors as they
sideglanced his mother, who too was deeply disgusted by him…
Twenty years of a child for this?!
And the laughter. Oh, the laughter! The endless jest,
the unrelenting tearing down of his hopes and dreams. You are a piece of
shit. If you were not a piece of shit, you’d be born in some good country, not
the dump you were born in. And you know why were you born in this dump? The
voices paused before the answer, grinning and crying out with so much laughter.
Because you’re garbage, and garbage belongs in the dump.
His dreams and ambitions, for the most part, never
warranted a proper response. Only laughter, yes, only jest, and ridicule.
Sometimes, though, there was silence. The worst of
silences; a silence so contemptuous that no word could better convey its
message: this is so stupid it’s not even worth addressing.
But sometimes it was addressed, and when it was
addressed…
«P-please… n-no!»
Yes. He preferred the laughter anytime.
MISERÁVEL IMBECIL!
*Bang!*
…
…
…
…
Hit. He was hit.
And he was hit and hit, and then hit some more, and
offered up to the neighbors so they could hit him too and laugh at his expense,
feel a little better about themselves by hitting and hitting him and cracking
him up good. This guy thinks he’s some special boy!! What a fucking nutcase!
What a cockless donkey!!
And laughter. Oh, the laughter.
And the hits. So. Many. Hits. *Blaam!*
…
Heavy blows on the back of his head. Strong enough to
make his eyes pop.
But they didn’t, they sadly didn’t, and he sadly never
died from these hits, remaining alive just to hear more of the laughter, more
of the sneer, and get more of the hits as they grew plentiful, heavier, and
merrier. *Blaam! Blaam! Blaam…!*
There is a method to torture, you see: the secret is
to cause just enough pain without damaging the body. Maximize the pain while
minimizing the harm. This way you get the best net suffering, the best return on
your blows.
Who do you think you are? Some kinda genius?! Sneer, laughter, and blows. Every. Fucking. Time. Hey, y’all! He
thinks he’s some fancy brain, some finer soul than us! Worthless slice of
flabby pecker, that’s what you are! Laughter. Just laugh and laugh and
laugh. And blows. So many blows to his head! Fucking stupid piece of shit!
Thinking you’re any better than the fate you’ve been assigned!!
But he was. He swore he was: he studied, he read, he
made art. He stayed silent when no word was needed and spoke the truth when he
was prompted, but the land, that accursed, piece-of-shit land he’d been shat on
needed no truth nor peace nor silence. It was a nation of babble, a land of
lies.
Lies. Lies and lies and damned, fucking lies! It was a
place so enamored with lies that the worst of liars became righteous, and the
only good, upstanding citizens in the public’s eyes were those who lied and
thieved the most. Truth and decency, humility and honesty… bah! Only losers
clung to them! Those who spouted them got themselves whooped! No mercy or love
for truthtellers.
In a land of lies, the truthsayer is first to die. In
the land of the blind, one of the many voices screamed, the one-eyed man
is king. It was a famous saying from somewhere ‘round his continent.
Another lie. «Yeah, right. What a load.» He banged his fists on his head
harder, if a bit more slowly this time. «In the land of the blind, anyone who’s
got an eye will be blinded too. As soon as folks find out the person still has
an eye, they will jump on them like animals and gauge that eye out.»
His land, after all, was so compelled to mediocrity,
so pulled toward indecency that the biggest crime, the only crime was to
try and rise above their station. It was a country where everyone—and he meant everyone—spent
all their days and their energies trying to bring everyone else down to their
level, to the mud and the shitter where pigs so love to linger. Where good,
compassionate leaders were unheard of, and where only the biggest scoundrels of
the earth could make themselves respectable.
Alas, he wasn’t such a scoundrel. He wanted to be, but
he had no talent for it, nor any skill for crookedness. *Sigh* Unable to
be evil, but with no talent to succeed in goodness either, he just became
hollow. A shell. A purposeless little spark of spurious flame fluttering by
until it faded, with no fire left behind for a legacy.
Just the dark. And the cold.
…
…
A long time ago, he swore it, he knew it, he could
remember it vividly, there had been a fire where his fleeting spark stood, but
the people of his land made sure to correct that, to dampen it until it was
moot. They could be very competent, his people, and quite skilled and
well-coordinated when it came to pulling someone down and bringing them back to
the shitter. If anything, it was the only thing that brought them meaning, hence
the laughter, the insults, and the blows.
So. Many. Blows.
*Bang!* «Worthless!!» He
hit his head. *Bang!* «You useless, worthless man.» And he hit
his head again. *Bang! Bang!*
The worst thing was… he didn’t disagree with the
voices. He fought them for the sake of fighting them, for the stress of it, but
never really denied them. *Bang! Bang!* To think was to be continuously
humiliated. In a way, the act of thinking was just another form of
self-immolation. *Bang! Bang!* To ram his head against a wall, see all
his hopes and dreams shattered as soon as the words left his tongue. *Bang!
Bang! Bang!*
A great humiliation, that of never being able to rise
above the words of your detractor. The greatest humiliation, then, when such
detractor lived inside your head, followed your every step, always and forever,
and never, ever, not for a single second stopped chasing you, not for the
briefest of moments took some rest. *Bang! Bang! Bang!*
When it wasn’t his family, it was his teachers.
When not his teachers, his bosses.
When not his bosses, the strangers.
When not the strangers, his acquaintances. And only
acquaintances, for he had never had anyone worth calling a friend. «God…
d-damn…!!»
*Bang!* Whoever it was,
whomever he knew or had ever known, they were all enemies, they were all foes,
and his foes and enemies needed no sleep, nor did they ever give him any sleep.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
“Useless. Useless. Worthless. Useless”
And his head yelled back at him:
*Bang! Bang!*
*Bang! Bang!*
*Bang-bang-bang-bang-b-*
…
…
*Crack!*
He felt a sharp pain above his eyes and heard
something splinter. “Aargh…!!” Perhaps his skull had finally cracked. Maybe,
just maybe… you finally die.
The window was right there. *Bang!* Death would
be more merciful through it. *Bang!* Still, despite all his pain… *Bang!*
He didn’t really want to die. *Bang! Bang!* He just wanted to sleep!
At one point, his body got stiff. *Bang!* Both
mental and physical exhaustion burned him. None of that stopped him, however,
from bashing his skull against the wall enough times for its surface to bend
and crack under the impact. *Bang! Bang!* He felt a wetness on his skin.
Blood, probably. Hopefully. *Bang! Bang!* Despite all this, he still hit
it. Heavens knew what could happen to him if he truly hurt himself. If he ended
up on a hospital bed, damaging his brain so bad that he’d have some freaky
issues for the rest of his life, unable to walk, to eat… to work.
*Bang! Bang!*
The act wasn’t all torture. He preferred the pain in his skull to the cruel
voices inside it. *Bang!* Whenever
he hit it… *bang!* The voices got a little quieter. *Bang!* A
little happier. *Bang!* Almost as if they were hurt. *Bang!* Or satiated.
*Bang! Bang!* Like he was doing exactly what they wanted him to do. *Bang… bang…*
…
…
*Bump!*
He stopped. With his brain drumming and throbbing
against the cracked bone of his skull, he turned his head to look at his
bedroom door, and then he just… stopped.
The silence was soothing with the chill wind from his
window. The curtains touched his naked arm as they fluttered, bringing his body
the only smooth touch of that night.
Something had happened. Something had made a noise
there, across the hallway. «W-what…?» He remained there, sitting still, head
burning and veins boiling, staring at the hallway and seeing colors in the
dark. “Ouch.” He braced his head with both hands. “Ooow!”
*Tundum-tundum-tundum!*
His brain throbbed with his heart. It was very close now. His head. Very close
to cracking up. Just a matter of time now. Just a matter of seconds for death
to snatch him.
“Ouch!” Tears rose. His nose, all clogged up. “Ooow…!”
Hush, hush now. It won’t be long. Not too long before
the silence. Not too long before the dark. Not too long before those voices
finally shut up. Just flow with the wind now. Close your eyes and feel its
blows take you kindly into the night.
*Tundum-tundum!* His
heart… his heart… *Tundum-tundum!*
*Tundum-tundum.*
…
*Tundum… tundum…*
…
…
…
*Bump!*
He stood up. Something had made a sound, somewhere in
his hallway. “Oh.” The door of the storage room across the hallway stared back
at him silently. It had been many days since he had left it closed. Almost
enough to forget the pain, the shame, the love he had rejected and abandoned.
Trapped. Locked up.
He had heard a noise coming from there. A bump against
the door. A call for his heart. «Enough.» His head hurt. It hurt. «E-… enough.»
It hurt so bloody much!
With the gait of a living man, and feet so white and
numb they’d belong to a corpse, bumping and thumping against every wall while
his broken brain bumped and thumped against his shattered skull, the boy got
himself out of his bed, into the dark, and…
… and…
«Enough. Enough. Enough.»
He walked to the living room. *Woooosh!* His
home turned cold as he slid the balcony door open. *Woooosh…* The wind,
through whispers, invited him to sleep.
He stared into the night, approving of its uniformity,
the few stars dimmed by the even dimmer lights of the lifeless city beneath,
and stepped forth, feeling the cold wind on his body.
He looked down. It was a nice, merciful fall from
there. The rails were low enough for one to fall over with only a slight push.
A simple, careless lean, and then…
…
…
*Whoosh!* That’s
all there was. That’s all there would ever be.
For the standards of that country, it was a very
sloppily-built place. «They forbid these kinds of hazards.» His hand touched
the rail. «They try to protect their people at all costs.» He raised his head,
sniffed out the chilly air. The northern winds had such dry bitterness to them.
«They care that their people don’t hurt themselves.» He choked on his own
saliva. «They won’t care for me.»
He stepped on the lower rail. Looked down again. If he
ignored the few white dots on the streets, he would be staring into a perfect
dark. The full moon shone much brighter on those latitudes, yet at the feet of
his building lay only shadows, like the mouth of a leviathan ready to swallow
him and give him peace.
«One step. Just… one step.»
Yes. All he would need was one step, just a single
step, and a tiny jolt into the dark. The silence and the dark he knew so well.
The silence and the dark he somehow… for some unknown and inscrutable reason…
took so long embrace.
His head, his heart.
*Tundum-tundum.*
*Tundum-tundum…*
«No more pain. No more past.» No more surprises in the
dark.
No more past. No more future. No more voices to make
him cry.
Provided that the religious folks were wrong, there
would be nothing beyond the veil, and this nothing was so much better than the
everything he’d ever known, than all the things he’d ever experienced in the
light. «Zero is better than negative.» He looked up, staring at the different,
hideous darkness of the sky. His mathematical mind was giving him some peace.
Or the illusion of it.
He put his other foot on the lower rail, and his body
rose higher against the night, into which he looked again, neck bent, head low,
eyes down, down, down. «But the pain…» It gave his mind a split second of
thought and his heart a splinter of doubt.
The pain. Yes, the pain. The pain was his only enemy. He’d
seen pictures of people who’d fallen from those heights, yet somehow survived.
Only a demon or a very nasty brand of god would curse a person to such an end:
to deny them the release of death, but also invalidate them through the rest of
life.
In that country, sure, these unlucky souls tended to
be put to sleep. This was some solace, but not enough, oh, not nearly
enough for him to ignore the pain that such survival, no matter how brief,
would bring. «Oh, gods, take pity!» He shivered, looking down, thinking not
only about the pain, but also the agony of the fall.
The fall. Yes, the fall. One could never forget the
long, dreadful fall itself. Some folks in more savage places had it easy, for
their lands abounded with guns, and every discussion, every torment, every
slight was resolved with a bullet to the eye. Easy, quick, simple, efficient. In
most places of the world, though, most people weren’t so lucky. They only had
tall buildings at their disposal. To leap from such heights, though efficient,
still left them with one too many seconds of horror and despair, even regret as
they met their fates and the dark’s embrace.
There was no kind dying for those who jumped. Their
last seconds on earth, the longest of their lives, would be filled with horror
and second thoughts.
Oh, the second thoughts! The windows of opportunity
when no opportunity remained. The plans of salvation that only came when
salvation became impossible, all hope lost, a little too hard, a little too
late. But that was the point of it, wasn’t it? To torment the tormented one
last time. To give them a little taste of hell before they went to freeze in it
forever?
It was his stupid body trying to survive. «I want to
die. I do, but my body doesn’t.» In a last-ditch effort of self-preservation,
the mind went berserk, filling the person with all sorts of foolishnesses and
stupidities. «Hope.» He realized. «It gives us hope when there’s none. It’s
always like this, ain’t it?» He smiled, barely realizing he was still leaning
into the void, staring into the dark. «We only feel hope when we shouldn’t. We
persist when it’s wise to give up. Endure when it’s best to surrender. Better
for everyone.»
He knew what it was: survival instinct. He knew it,
but preferred to always think of it as «torture. Sadism.» Life wanting to keep
him struggling to no avail. A hangman enjoying the struggle before the
inevitable end.
Everyone would die. Why not, then, make it quicker? Why
not skip all the bullshit and hurry to the common fate of all? «Enough.» He
bobbed his head, tears of blood sipping from his eyes. «No more pain. No more
lies.» He looked up one last time, cursing all the gods and spirits that
watched him from the moon. «No more doing the bidding of an uncaring life.» He
closed his eyes and stepped blindly into the air, climbing one final set of
stairs that wasn’t really there.
One hop. One tiny leap. It was… so easy… to just… «Lean
forth and fly!» He wouldn’t even notice when his feet had left the rail. It’d
just be flying, and he’d just be gone.
*Tundum-tundum.* His
heart. Oh, his heart… *Tundum-tundum.*
*Tundum… tundum…*
…
…
*BUMP!*
A loud noise startled him. “Fuck!”
*Blaam!* His buttocks came
hard on the ground. “Ooow!!”
He squirmed for a while, not on the asphalt below, but
on the balcony floor behind him, having fallen back thanks to the startle from
that weird, mysterious sound. “Motherf-!!” He felt he’d broken something. Not
his head, but his hips. It was certainly less broken, sure, than if he’d fallen
in the opposite direction, but still… “Hurts like a fucking bitch!!” He grabbed
his butt and squirmed on the floor a little longer. “Ooow!!”
The wind receded very slowly into a soothing silence,
but the pain in his butt and the burn in his head prevented him from enjoying
it. He was left squirming and whining on the ground. If anyone had cared to
hear him, they would have thought a puppy had been struck and left for dead in
that chilly air. Pain. Intense, bone-splitting pain! Yet now… he no longer even
had the strength to get up, climb over the balcony, and end it. «Curses…!»
*Bump!*
He froze. The sound had come again. «What the hell?» This
time, it was undeniable: that mysterious sound had come from deep beyond the
living room, somewhere hidden in the hallway. «My… my room?»
The intense burning, though… “Aaargh!!” He held on to
his head. The sharp, searing pain struck him often, and it struck him hard. “Aaah!”
Like the waters of a dam collapsing after years of neglect, the pain burst from
him like lava. “Merda… merda!!” Deep inhales. Hurtful gasps. “Fuuuck!!” His
quick breaths formed misty clouds rising to the darkened dome. There were very
few people left in his town, yet still very few stars shimmered in the sky. The
night was dark and dead, much more than it needed to be. “Fuck… heaven’s…
fuck!!” Everyone was gone. Everything was dead. Except for him. «This pain!
This fucking pain!!» Skull slowly splintering into eight, ten different pieces.
«Okay, you win! I live!» He prayed to the gods on the moon. «I will live! I
won’t die! Just please… please…!!» His shattering eyes, shedding crystal tears,
begged forgiveness. «Make this fucking pain go away!»
*Bump.*
…
*Bump!*
…
…
Alone in the dark, squirming in pain, he heard the
strange noises again. «Fuck! What the… what the fuck!»
*Bump! Bump!* Something…
someone… knocking on a door.
It certainly wasn’t his living room door, he knew it.
As hurt as he felt, he was enough too well to hear it clearly: those bumps came
from somewhere near his room, deep, deep in the dreary, dark hallway. *Bump…
bump…*
«Fuck!» With the pain slowly receding, he tried
staying as still as possible on the floor, letting the cold breeze freeze him,
hoping that his quietness would bring that blistering ache to an end. «Please…
please…»
…
…
…
It did. It actually did. It took while, but… in the
end, it really did go away.
Dark and cold embraced him in the open. The floor was
so chill he could no longer feel his back or his limbs.
Didn’t matter. The fact that the painful freeze, not
the burning pain, was all he could feel, oh, it was like his soul was dancing in
the stars. Not happy. Not glad. But relieved. An appropriate feeling for a
dance on a night devoid of light. «What the fuck has gone on with me?»
In the back of his skull, the throbs of a hurt,
bleeding brain. *Boom! Boom!*
In the back of his home, the knocks of a covert, mystic
being. *Bump! Bump!*
«Screw this.»
By the time the moon herself became sleepy, he tossed
aside whatever pride he still felt and, with great difficulty, feeling his
skull threatening to explode and his brain drop from it like a piece of meat
hanging over a fiery pit, he got up and…
… stumbled his way through the living room… into the
hallway, and…
*Bump! Bump!*
*Bump! Bump!*
… seeing shapes and colors flickering, sources of
light all around him, he toppled and tumbled his way to the very end of the
corridor, paying no mind to whatever demons or ghosts inhabited it, waiting for
him and plotting his demise.
«At this point… at this point…»
His head. Oh, his head.
*Boom! Boom!*
*Boom! Boom!!*
«I kind of wish for a ghost. A monster to just… jump
on me and… let me fucking die!»
No monsters. No ghosts. Only…
*Bump. Bump.*
*Bump. Bump!*
… ghostly knocks.
“Who’s there?” He asked, making his way through the
final feet of his hallway, walking between his bedroom door and the storage
room. “Are you there… ghost?”
*Bak! Bak! Bak!*
He knocked on the door to his right. The storeroom. *Bak! Bak! Bak!* He
knocked on it three times, then three times again, waiting for something, yet
getting nothing but the pain in his mind. “Fuck! Oow… fuck.” There was silence.
Just silence. The knocks and bumps had gone away. «You fucking cowardly
ghosts!»
He waited long enough until he could only hear his own
breath and feel his own organs moving, churning, doing whatever organs do. «I
swear… pain or not…» The sweat burned on his cheeks. «I heard something.» Slowly,
he moved one fist to the door. «Something… here.»
There was still hope. Not the hope he desired, but the
hope he could afford. «The doll…?»
*Creak…* He slid the door
open, peeking inside. “Hello?” As his eyes wandered in the dark… “Oh.” He
noticed a bottle of bleach rolling on the floor and stopping by his feet. “What
the…?”
The bottle, it seemed, had fallen from the shelf. A
broom too, apparently, had been knocked across the space, almost hitting… «You.»
Her. The doll. Still sitting there, ever so patient,
so humble, calmly accepting the dust that slowly piled on her beautiful skin. “Oh.”
He muttered, putting the things back into place. His eyes met hers. Her eyes
cried loneliness. “Fuck…”
She looked mad at him. Of course she did. After so
long locked up in that place, that woman, that queen probably felt
exhausted with him. It wasn’t even the imprisonment that enraged her, but the
imprisonment at the hands of… what? A boy!
“I… I, uh…” He knew he would regret the silliness and
the foolishness of it all. And still… “I’m sorry.” He knelt before her. “You’re
dusty.”
He touched her thighs. He was trying to wipe the dust
off her jeans (or at least this was his excuse), and as soon as his fingers met
the incredible sturdiness of her legs… «Fuck!»
The power! The strength! That wave of greatness
rippling through his body! It didn’t matter that the storage was cold. Much
colder, in fact, than the rest of the home. She was warm. Hot. Like real skin
underneath her clothes.
Her face appeared slightly changed. Angry. Irate for
his abandonment.
“I don’t… I can’t…”
The words, the damned words. He knew them, but didn’t
want to say them.
The shame. The mighty shame of admitting it!
His eyes, nearly exploding. He rubbed them, then
rubbed his whole face with both hands, covering himself, hiding from her gaze
as he uttered those words that cost him his soul: “P-p-please. Help me!”
He bowed before her. Her lap was a soft pillow. Her
muscles, gentle and kind. Something one would never assume by just looking at
them, seeing how sturdy and mighty they looked. First impressions. Deceiving. “Oooh…!”
Once he made contact with her heavenly thighs, he was at peace. Even his
battered head hurt much less when in contact with that strong, loving body.
He felt a hand on his nape, cuddling his hair. It
prompted him to raise his head and look up, only to see nothing, just the same
doll standing in that same position, looking down upon him with her gorgeous
green eyes. “Can you… can…?” Took him fifty lifetimes to ask that question, but
there it was, finally asked: “Could you please… please… could you sleep
with me?”
Part of his soul panicked. «Caralho!
Mas… mas o quê que eu acabei de dizer??» Just like his decision of buying her, he had crossed an uncrossable
threshold. «Fuck.» Now, he was less than a boy. Less than a virgin. He felt
like basically just a verm…
Stop this.
…
…?
He’d heard a voice. In his head. A different voice,
though. A new one. A kind one. Definitely not a voice he had heard before. Just
like… that touch… of the invisible hand on his neck. «What…?»
That sudden voice startled him. It made him move his
gaze all over the place and wonder: had that voice really come from his head,
and his head alone? «Seemed…» He touched his skull, counting every throb of his
damaged, aching brain inside. «Seemed too real.» Then his eyes, back again… they
returned to the doll. “You didn’t happen to talk just now, did you?”
His lips found it hard not to smile. «Oh.» A smile. So
rare, and so lovely. It felt so good on his face. «Why do I… why do I feel
so…?»
…
…
Happy?
…
…
Was that really…?
…
Happiness?
“You.”
That doll. Only with her he felt a reason to smile.
Only in her presence…
“Oh… you!”
… he felt compelled to happiness.
He kept his eyes firmly on her, enamored by the
perfection of every inch of her face. “Could I… please…” He scratched the back
of a hand, so timidly. “Take you to bed?” He left the gentle pause hanging in
the air. It glided down, slowly and smoothly, following with his hands onto her
lap, and only then he felt like he could speak again, now with a puppy whine
and a beggar’s gleam in his eyes: “Please?”
Her face… it seemed to get closer. His own eyes
invited her embrace.
In his head, he heard her answer:
Yes.
How peculiar. He heard it in the same tone, the exact
same voice as before. “Thank you.” He kissed her godly thighs, and with great
effort led her to his chamber.
* * *
Sweat. There was so much of it! «By the gods, woman!»
He heaved and wailed as he pulled his giantess another inch across his bedroom,
painful inch after hurtful foot bringing her ever closer to the bedsheets.
«You. Are. Heavy!»
Not nearly, though, as she should have been. As they
walked together, he marveled at how he could carry her despite his injuries,
the burning in his skull reduced to nothing but an annoying, if pervasive
headache. «It’s so wonderful how… smooth this feels!» She felt as if she’d lost
half her weight from when he first carried her through the hallway. «It’s like…
you’re walking with me!»
Whenever he looked at their feet, he could swear hers
were moving in tandem with his, a very close and uncanny mimicry of his steps. “You…
you did lose some weight, eh?” He cracked a smile. The levity of his voice deflated
a bit of the effort of carrying her around. “Being locked up in there was, uh…
a real harsh diet, wasn’t it?”
There would have been dead silence in the room if not
for his panting and gasping, as well as the deep, thick noises of such a heavy
object being moved across the wooden floor. “Don’t worry. I… I will feed you.”
He smiled. “I will feed you well now.” He began to giggle. “You’re… uh, you’re
strong. Buff. Like a type who, uh… really likes to exercise. Aren’t you? Well,
I… I heard you, uh… I heard that strong people like you enjoy chicken. Good for
building muscles, you know.”
His giggles! Did he still have a four-year-old child
living somewhere up there, in his brain? “Do you, uh, like chicken? Chicken breast?
To help you grow, you know?” His heaving and panting, wheezing and gasping were
made more tolerable by his giggles. “Well, in that case… don’t worry. From now
on, I will feed you some good cock.”
He had to stop and cover his silly smile. Though the
chuckles made his head hurt, he was surprised by how negligible the pain felt,
any hurt all the more insignificant now that she was by his side. Maybe he
hadn’t hit himself so hard, after all. Maybe most of his pain had been only in
his mind. Like most of his problems, perhaps.
“There we have it.” He was a puddle of salt and water
by the time he’d managed to sit her on his bed. “Lar, uh, doce lar.” Yet
again, her flexibility astounded him. She seemed to have sat down by herself,
her movements so fluid as to feel lifelike. “Wow.” The skill that had gone into
making her, all the talented work that was poured into that craft, into the
mindboggling precision of her joints, her skeleton, her whole incredible being…
“caralho.” He couldn’t stop being amazed, even awed by all that liveliness.
“You are… uh… really real, huh?”
Not real enough to give him any answer, though.
She stayed there, silently sitting on the bed, bending
its mattress and its wooden frame with her titanic body, too big even for the
full length of that narrow bunk. «Cristo.» He gawked at her some more. «You
really are gigantic.»
He wiped the sweat off his head, wondering what to do
to her instead. Lay down, perhaps. Lay down next to her. By her side. Face by
face, if he were so brave.
Yes. That’s what he should do. «Oh, no.»
That’s what he knew he should have done from the very
beginning, but was just too much of a pussy, of a bloody coward to do. “I’m… I…
uh…” He fondled his arms and his hands so shyly. It was just too… scary.
That woman. That goddess. Too much woman for a virgin
boy like him, a facsimile of a man who had only barely kissed another girl in
his life—and not even a pretty one at that! «Fuck! Again: what can I…» Shivers
and tears. «What can I…??» The pain in his head, oh, slowly returning. «What
the fuck can I do to a woman like this??»
To just lay with that woman, just like that, out of
the blue, himself being who he was… oh, what a joke! It would be like a man who
had spent all his life bedridden, unable to walk or even to crawl, paraplegic
and wheelchair-bound, now suddenly expected to run several marathons
back-to-back… and win every single one of them! “I can’t. I just… oh.”
He was caught. Trapped in a moment between times. Her
hypnotic eyes, working their magic on him, stirred his soul like sweet stew on
the low fire.
And then he heard it. His heart. And something else
along with its kindred beating: Yes, you can.
That voice. Her voice.
«I…»
It had caught him off-guard, thrown him off his
balance, that tender voice within his mind. «I…!» It moved him in such a way as
if another body had taken possession of him, inhabited his skin, and shaken his
soul like an earthquake.
«I… I can’t!»
The doll kept on looking, her green eyes always
inviting him. Yes.
That voice…! Yes, you can.
He took a step back. “Whoa…”
Generally, he could rationalize anything that was
thrown his way. He had to, for he wasn’t the type who could afford any magic or
wonder in his life. Everything had to be exact, precise, rational, cold, and
banal. Everything needed to be empirical: no fantasy to one’s heart, no hope
for one’s future. And yet, tried as he might, he couldn’t put a finger on that…
peculiar, eerie kind of voice that was uttered in his head, to the ears of his
soul:
Yes, baby darling. Yes, you can.
The voices were all his. Always were. He knew it. But
that voice… that incongruous, incredible voice… «It is. It is my voice. I know
it is mine. And yet…»
…
…
Slowly, always doing his best to not bother her, to
not disturb his most beautiful woman, ever apologetic for his very existence,
he relented and laid down on the bed, pulling her gently to his side. «Wow!»
Quiet. Quiet. It was peace and quiet, only the calm
darkness to warm them up, to break the ice between them and join them together,
an embrace of cold turning warm, soft, and close.
Close. Their bodies coming closer, slowly closer
together. Slowly.
And slowly.
…
…
Still. He stood still. Eyes on her, getting used to
her beautiful face, her soft air, her bewitching green gaze. Her eyes glowing
so brightly under the full moon, casting emeralds upon his face, painting his
skin green, a cool contrast with the red smudge and purple bruises on his
forehead.
There was a noticeable nervousness on his breast. His
chest moved heavily with the weight of mountains, and his breath could be heard
coarsely from the other side of the moon. He cleared his throat, swallowing his
nasty spit, and avoided his woman’s gaze in shame, protecting his genitals with
both hands as if she were going to bite them off.
Her eyes demanded worship. His eyes wanted to flee.
He had a lot of worship to give. Yet still…
… still…
…
Nothing. He said nothing. Did nothing. And he wanted
it that way. «Just a moment between us two. Hmm.» The light of darkness
enveloped the couple tightly, protected them… him… from all the monsters that
preyed about. «I need to get used to you. To this face. To all… that you
represent. All that you mean.»
Sunlight began to pour into the room. The cockerel
would have sung, but there were no roosters in the ice. Upon seeing the golden
threads on her face, he was struck, as lovers do, by her morning beauty, and
then ashamed, irate by his waste of a day. «What did I do but hate? What am I
except for… waste?» He grabbed his own hair tightly, but refrained from pulling
it or injuring himself any further.
Because of her. Only because of her. He wouldn’t
behave like that in front of a woman, would he? «I need help.» He wanted to
say, beg, pray to her. After all, a woman deserving of worship is also a woman
capable of miracles. She who is worshiped is divine. “P- p… p-please.” A gush
of wind instilled coolness in his warming heart and swerved all the worst feelings
of his inner self. “I…”
His tongue was held still by his brain, as it often
was the case, yet the latter’s grip felt greatly hollowed, growing more
impotent the warmer he felt to the touch of a loving, beautiful woman.
«She isn’t alive.» He reminded himself. His eyes
wandered on and over her body. «She… is not… real.»
She is not real.
She is not.
She is.
She is real.
She is real and… she loves me.
His face probably looked very ugly, he would bet,
after all the beating and lack of sleep. He would have been tempted to say that
the previous day had been the worst of his life, but this title, alas, had too
many contenders. «Wouldn’t make into the top twenty.» He told himself, not
without cracking a small, self-pitying smile.
Her face stood before him. Calm. Placid.
Waiting.
She didn’t look impatient, but she did look…
disappointed? «By the gods in heaven, I swear… your face changes every time I
look at it.»
He was amazed, always amazed. Though it was about one
three-fourths past the sunrise kiss, and the early birds were chirping, and the
late sleepers yawning, their arms, legs, bodies stretching, and the early
workers queuing for the trams and cutting the streets towards their faraway
offices, he wasn’t angry anymore. «I lost sleep. I lost a whole day. Missed a
whole night of dreams.» He repeated, trying to gauge his inner demons, and
noted how no more angry feelings were there to be found. He did not want to
explode anymore. The window remained open, but he no longer wanted to fly
through it toward the moon.
He was cool. He was at peace. “I’m sorry.” He mustered
the courage to touch his damsel’s hands, knowing it was her he should thank for
all that coolness, all his peace. “I’m just… just…”
…
…
…
…
No. No more.
…
…
No more. There needs… no more.
…
…
Words. None of them. No more words for many minutes.
Time went on. Still, no sleep to knock him down. No
anger, also.
The eyes of his doll now glittered with gold,
reflecting the sunlight that slowly illuminated his bedroom, the whole place
fresher with the gentle breeze of summer, the airy chants of the larks.
Let it out.
Her voice. That voice.
You need to let go. You need to let it out.
He squeezed her palm, and in his head he imagined her
squeezing it back. Her voice was… her voice… «This voice I am making for her.»
Was he? He didn’t… he… couldn’t…
The voice had just appeared in his mind. It spoke to
him in a tone he’d never heard, a tone he’d never thought he could even hope to
replicate. «A loving tone.» It weighed heavily on his breast. «A tone I never
heard before in my life.»
It was strong. It was feminine. A singer’s voice, full
of harmony and softness, even when not singing, even when just plainly
speaking, powerful and clear in the subtlest of whispers, yet sharp as a blade,
piercing as a spear, and all the sharper and more piercing when directed so
clearly at the listener, when directed so intently and so intensely… at him.
As he moved his hand to her hair, his palm hovering so
close to her heavenly threads, he anticipated eagerly the wonderful feel of
that lush, smooth mane on his touch. Predictably, though, and also so sadly, he
kept his hand a few inches away, not daring to venture any closer without her
consent, lest were she to chop his hand off for his vile transgression. «You
wouldn’t mind it. Would you?»
The fact that he could stare at her, at such
incredible beauty so up-close, to witness such a dreamy woman, a lady far
better and leagues hotter than those of his most delirious fantasies,
and do so without having his heart fail him or his mind rebel against him, oh…
this was far and away enough reason for pride and jubilation. “You… you are… so
fucking hot.” His eyes didn’t waver. “And you… you know it. Of course, you do.
You know you’re beautiful, as any woman who looks like you does.”
He allowed himself a couple of hours to crack open his
soul. To say, to confess, to tell her what he really wanted since the day he’d
laid eyes on her, across the ocean, through the virtual screen. “I don’t… talk…
to beautiful girls. I don’t… talk… to girls at all. Not saying you’re a ‘girl,’
of course.” He moved his gaze lower, lower on her body—her massive, muscular
body sinking on his bed as heavily as a boulder! “You’re a woman.” He blinked.
“You’re the most woman there is.”
He slid his hand along her arm, feeling the tightness,
ripeness of her muscles. Like all other parts of her stupendous physique, her
arms were amazingly well-defined. Her biceps, true testaments of peak human condition,
swollen and hard, bulging and solidly constructed, and it was a wonder to
anyone who beheld those guns how they could possibly be contained by such
tight, tensed sleeves, even if they were made of the strongest material known
to man.
Her body begged a palm to touch it, a tongue to
worship it, yet that tiny man didn’t feel worthy of being even beneath her
feet, let alone laying side-by-side with her, almost like—oh, the audacity!—a
husband. «I am, at best, an offering.»
A sacrificial lamb to be gutted on the altar of her
awesomeness.
As he went on thinking, the sun stretched itself out
in full. Her unflinching gaze kept his back against the wall, as if, in the
lack of action, she had to be the one to take the first step.
And the second too. And the third, and the fourth… She
was doing the whole walking. He knew it, and predictably felt very ashamed. “I’m
so s-”
«Shut up.»
Her voice. Her voice…
«Shut up and kiss me.»
His heart jolted, happy as a piglet in the mud, a
labrador pup next to its wholesome momma. She was a woman, and she desired his
lips!
«Heaven.» His heart now beat so full of joy. «Is this
how it feels… to be desired?» His eyes doubled in size. «Is this how it feels…
to be beautiful?» Though only the tiniest fraction of the thinnest sliver of
the real thing… «It fills me with… more energy… than all
the money I have ever made.»
He tried to move his head just a half-inch closer.
«No.» He moved it back, shaking it. “No.”
He looked down.
«It’s okay.»
She said. «On the cheek, then?»
He looked up. Her beauty was just… so aggressive. It
burned his eyes, made his head hurt. “N-no.” His lips trembled and his eyes
almost… popped? Melted? He couldn’t describe it, nor did he want to feel it for
much longer.
Before he could escape her grasp again, her gentle
voice melted like butter in his ears: «Then hug me. Just hug me. I need no
more than this.»
She was asking. Not begging, not demanding. Asking. Her
tone was such that it would make rejection feel like villainy. Like a snake
charmer, she could strike that perfect balance between kindness and authority,
both little sister and mighty mother, stealing all will and agency from her
subjects, no matter how angry, how destitute, or how rebellious they felt. «Pretty
please? Prettiest of pleases? Hmm?»
As far as he was concerned, he didn’t nod on his own,
and his lips didn’t move by his will, but… still…
He did all of it so surely, so quickly, as if any
other action was imp-… unthin-… indescrib-…
“Okay.” Said his lips, and his arms warmed her waist,
bringing him closer to her, pulling them both into a hug.
…
…
…!
…!!
…
On his chest, he felt something piercing. «Cristo!»
Breasts. Her breasts. Those
astonishingly big, heavy breasts pressed against his torso, like boulders of
milk.
Their faces were apart by many inches still. He could
feel his heartbeat making ripples on her sturdy tits, and those tits felt like
she too had a heart beating inside. He tried pulling her closer, hugging her
tighter, but no energy was left in his arms, in his whole body. Past the
smooth, initial softness of her skin, she was pure muscle. Pure concrete. No
in-betweens: a titanium core under a pin-thin layer of silky skin.
An amazon beauty carved out of the earth’s heart, pure
and unalloyed, untainted by the elements and indifferent to the universe, one
and only, absolute and indivisible, supreme and unquestionable, as only the
gods and goddesses could be.
In honor of such divinity, his dick grew hard. Her
body like granite, his member like chalk. He was cool. He was chill. A lot of
bliss beneath his blisters. “You’re so beautiful.” He finally said it, feeling
a little ashamed that he did, and feeling a whole lot better after he did it.
The words pushed some of his pains away, like pressure
out of the cooking pot, and her hair, so close to his eyes, with its scent so
intense, kept inviting his touch, every strand of her being begging for caress.
It was a vast, magnificent mane no woman could pull off even after exhaustive
care. Either you had it or you cried for it. A sumptuous, lush, dense crown
that could only be worn by a rightful ruler, a matter of birth instead of
merit—or rather, of birth that made the merit.
Only she, the most woman of all women, had in her
blood that superior royalty no commoner could ever aspire to emulate. “Hell.
You are… like… really, really beautiful.”
The doll smiled. Not really. But she did. Her face
changed according to his mood, her demeanor matching his desires. To him, at
that moment… «she’s smiling.» He tried moving closer, yet her tits blocked him.
Her chest was so endowed, her bosom so big and firm, even his tightest hug
couldn’t bring his face much closer to her. This caused him to smile, and then
to feel a breath of warmth on his loins.
And his neck.
…
He kept his eyes firmly on his doll, a twinge of
tenseness now coloring their adoration. «Feels like you just breathed on me.» Even
the scent of that breath was distinct and lifelike. For a moment, her eyes
seemed to have changed direction, twitched to-and-fro before stopping back,
irresistibly back on his own eyes.
He took a breath. In. Out. Deep inside, then deep
away. As he did, he paid attention to his every move, his eyes unwaveringly
open, drying out on the chilly air, and felt his breath hit her skin, then hit
back on his own neck. “Oh.” He smiled, both relieved and sorrowed as he
realized that… «Well, you ain’t real, are ya?» He moved his hand closer to her
hair. «I… I kind of wish you were.»
No. How could he? What a silly thing to…
«If you were real, I guess… you wouldn’t be with me.»
Her eyes enchanted him. They reassured him.
…
He lowered his head. Blushed a little. «Thanks. Thanks
for… being with me.»
…
…
There was silence. It tasted sweet.
Her eyes, like the skin of her cleavage, had a
softness to them, and power too. A gaze like her chest stretching out her
shirt, straining its cloth to the limit, but doing so to the boy’s mind and
soul, deconstructing him ether by ether.
He let his head roll onto that powerful bosom, his
skin making contact with those two mighty planets, gravity too strong for his
flimsy alien cheeks, those boobs like two giant, flexed muscles, but also soft
and tender, full of life, full of nature, greenery everywhere. Two planets a
lonely species would call home, away and safe from any threat, to thrive on
them… forever.
He moved his nose just a few inches above her bosom,
smelling the wild odor of that primordial creature. She was savage down there.
Had the smell of a virgin battle princess, one who killed a beast every day to
feed her tribe. The thought of her as a young, chainless warrior, an amazonian
archer and chariot rider, so fearless, so undaunted, oh… It aroused him
greatly, it made him harder than hard.
His member throbbed. Its bruised helmet, having grown
purple after another whole, fruitless day of countless masturbations, rubbed
hard and painfully against the rough terrain that had become his legs, crushed
under the tight, unpleasant fabric of his cheap garment. “Urgh…”
His palm landed on her sturdy side. Despite all their
gazing and revering, the two lovers were still fully clothed. «I… just…
wouldn’t dare… to undress you. To undress a god!»
Heavens knew he would’ve had a heart attack if he
tried. Just the feel of her muscles, the tease of her glutes so near his
fingertips, was enough to send perilous shivers to his heart… and also his
sorry, dilapidate d-
“Damn, woman!” He smiled. “You are built.”
Before he could realize it, his lips were puckering
forth, reaching forward, planting a kiss…
On…
… her…
… cleavage!
*Smack!*
All sound…
…
… all… the… sound…
…
…
… seemed to disappear… for a minute…
…
… an hour…
…
…
«By the gods!!»
His sex shook, his crotch firing up like a sun, and in
his mouth he felt, powerful as the gallop of a wild stallion up a hill, the
taste, the texture, and the firmness of…
… of…!
… her mighty, godly bosom!
«Caralhocaralhocaralhocaralhoespíritosdaterrameumeumeumeumeu…!!»
He could taste her muscle on his tongue, in the very
recesses of his mouth! It was… «hard. So hard! Pure fiber of flesh. Like… the
taste of power!» He laid his nose back again onto her breasts, smelling the
primal scent that could only be gestated, nurtured, and birthed from such a
boobful abundance. “Ahoy-ah-häevla!” Firestorms and thunderbolts reacted
on his arms, forcing him into a hug so tight as to almost tear the limbs from
his shoulders. “Sua… cavala!” His hips buckled forth, the tip of his
minuscule breeder squeezed bloody and purple against the rough fabric of his briefs,
like a thumb on a door frame hastily slammed shut.
…!!!
…!!!
…!!
…!
…
…
…
He almost did it. Almost.
As he laid his face on her cleavage one more time, her
breasts dwarfing his head, overwhelming his frame, a sudden, much swifter wave
of cooler sensations washed over him, like fire, yes, but made of water and
flowers, not the coarse and untamed flames of the teenage arousal he had felt
seconds earlier.
«What…? What is this?» He could not process the power
of those heavy walls that were closing on him, weighing on his body from every
direction, and nudging his eyelids shut. «Sleep…?»
After for so long desiring it, now he wrestled against
it, he resisted it, but then…
*Bump*
Swift as the fairy’s wing, he rested his head on his
woman’s breasts, his muscles cooling off, his soul surrendering, and felt his
mind fly away with the other senses into the night, the sleep hitting him like
a cotton train, a baby gladly drunk on his mother’s milk.
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