The Human Inks Read 1053 times


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The Human Inks
« on: October 04, 2015, 02:39:24 pm »
"So, you want to eat my flesh?" he asked, brown eyes alive, turning red with the high of the confusion breaking through his indifference.

"You were going to waste all of it on pills or domestic blades, anyway. Why can't I have it?" But she really just meant for him to be quiet and give in.

He had the kind of slope on his nose that made him look direct, symmetric. Deep cheeks and concave orbs underneath his eyes to adhere his features onto beauty. And all these details, all the hollows and peaks, were smudged and sometimes erased compeltely by the soft glow of his complexion, a would-be white that became an acctuall gray in countenance if not in shade. He used this blessing like an infant with an arsenal. The contrast between the fair mask and the dark brows cut holes in women's hearts, and bled infatuation to cool into pools of bitterness in their stomachs. His neck connecting to his balled shoulders by prominent collarbones made some men uncertain, and others sure. He was a ballistic thing, wreaking his little havoc with everyone by throwing his picturesque misery around. What could be more beautiful than a beautiful thing being unaware and sad?

Or so she'd say. And no one else. And not really she either, because no one asked her.

"I don't think I want to offer you physical parts of myself. A chunk here, a chunk there. Fuck. Sounds like that would hurt. I like my comfort." he said. It was the first semblance of a joke he'd made in ages. It was funny because he meant it. Him putting meaning into anything was a good punchline, at this point.

She laughed at him and it made her mouth, the only particularly good looking thing about her, become less of of an oversized, lush thing and more of a gyre. He, who had opened himself up and taken medicine for resons contrary to medicine's purpose, was not frightened.

"I doesn't have to be meat. It just has to be your flesh." she said with some coy sweetness. The tone rung like insanity in the woods that made him look more like a being and her more like a beast. That blade of a brow raised, the right one, over his assortment of beautiful details. She'd not seen him intressted in anything in months. She'd not talked to him in ever.

"What is meat if its not flesh?" he asked. His gait relaxed reluctantly, as though fighting his interesst in the conversation.

She produced a reciet from her jacket pocket. It was for the pen she also handed him. She kept her distance, as far as her arm and her guess on the length of his would let her. He took the trinket and note and looked at them. "Blood soaked parts of yourself. I want to eat it. I don't care if you cut it loose or make it." she said.

"And how do I make it?" he asked, head tilted, fingers wrinkling the reciet around the pen.

"Write yourself down. And the blood, well, there's a blade on the back of that pen if you pull the cork. Genious." And more expensive than she could afford. The clerk had been worried when she bought it. She didn't know if it was for her echonomy or her intentions.


"Yeah. You wrote a letter to the world, didn't you, last time you tried to leave. Some of that self, some other self, as long as its real." she said greedilly.

"And in return?" he asked, but was already writing on the back of that reciet, so passionate he looked angry. Would he even hear her now, if she replied?

"My life, my virginity, balls of my hair. It would all be worldly things, and you were about to leave, anyway. I can only take. This is a mercy thing, from your side, not a trade." she said with a sigh. She wished she had something that would assure this treasure for her.

"Here." he said and waved the long paper at her. Her eyes were as moist as her tongue. "Would you like to read first or would you like the blo..."

"The blood!" she called, comming closer thorugh the rustling floor. "It wouldn't be worth anything if its just ink. I'll read it stained." she said, both hands out. He bit the cork off the pen, and then bit harder into it when he cut the palm that held the paper between two fingers. He curled a fist and put red to the white. When he gave it to her its dry places were warm with his hold while the soaked places were hot with his fuel.

She pulled it open eagerly, her little parcel.

When I was a child, and mother wouldn't marry me, I drew her picture and ate it. She had to take care of me after that.

She smiled at the words.

"Fitting. Awumh." The paper was dry, but it wasn't sharp for long enough to cut the inside of her cheeks. It wouldn't tear, not really, just shrink into a harder mass. Eventually it hurt to chew. He tasted like everything a person is made of. She swallowed so hard her ears cracked. It made its way down slowly, painful. She would masturbate on this pain later.

"I'll keep this if you want this trade, this mercy, more." he said, waving the pen with its cork back. She nodded and was about to answer something direct and obessed, as she had so far, but started coughing on the bit that had not fully descended yet. Eventually she was on her knees, swallowing against the air flickering upward thorugh her. She wouldn't let it up, and she was winning.

He was gone when she had the sense to look. There was no stray drops of his blood when she dug where the marks of his shoes distrubed the old leaves.


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Re: The Human Inks
« Reply #1 on: October 07, 2015, 09:20:26 pm »
She watched. Large eyes. Open mouth. Fingers pushing against the dusty edge of wall that curled along the building. Her nails were dark green, painted meticulously, stripped clean as soon as the first crack was discovered and replaced. Her fingers looked long and pale, straining the harder she pushed at the unmoving wall.

She stopped breathing when he cut into his hand for the eater's glee. Her bag felt heavy, pulling at her chest the way the strap did with her hip grinding into the side of the building. She hadn't followed them. She was late to an art history lecture. She hadn't planned to see. But the moment she did she knew it was something more than two people in an empty courtyard between classes. Those saucer large green eyes drank in the sight of him wetting whatever he had written with his red. What were the words? Were they words? She wanted to know.

She wanted.

She swallowed hard, hating with leashed violence the strands of her pale hair that fell from behind her ear to shade one eye and nearly obscure her vision just as the eater devoured the bloody page. Her nails scratched the wall, two chipped paint. She wanted that paper. Not because she craved to consume like the eater or because she had ever thought much of this man turned feeder. She wanted it because the eater did, because she could barely stand to watch the way the other woman crumbled in delight over that page, struggling against reflexes just to keep it. Surely it was amazing. Surely it was something to be had.

She didn't stay to watch the eater's divine misery in the wake of rapture. She followed him. He was something to be had and she was someone that wanted. Suddenly, she had to know who he was and how to take what the eater wanted for herself.