Blinding Insanity

Slashed open in a fit of uncontrolled rage, my gouged and bleeding thigh is nothing but ravaged flesh; it is the thrill of his attention upon me that is beyond compare. As my blood races, he hears it pulse; as my body quivers, he feels it vibrate; as my mind screams, he hears it echo through his own damaged being. He is ever present – this beast, this creature, this untamed demon that stalks me.  Believing me to be no match for the power his darkness wields, he has been gentle with me till now, wishing not to frighten me with what he truly believes himself to be.

Clawed arm raised to strike again, his breathing is heavy, as labored as my own – his from restraint, mine from fear and desperate longing. He pauses, his hard stare boring into that of my own, gauging if I go willingly or as that of a cowering fool who knows nothing of what she asks of this dark madness. In his eyes I see a confusion of longing coupled with the enamored glee of wanting and the unsure knowledge that he has finally found what he has been seeking – acceptance.

This shatters the final piece of me.

My choice made, I bare my soul with complete submission in the hope of receiving his mark and my eternal salvation; the death of one dim existence, the birth of yet another. I sense still the indecision with which he watches me, unsure if this is to be allowed, or yet another cruel joke in a life fraught with pain, agony, and harsh deception. Do I genuinely offer what I promise? His eyes beg to know. This most gentle of beasts that shall rend me to pieces in a glory of blinding insanity.

His choice yet to be made, my only option to nurture it. I see what lurks behind his mask, I shall not shy away from it. I will forever choose to embrace it, though the beast believes it still hides itself behind his reflection.

For now, I shade the glistening pools that reflect all I see at the expense of my own damnation, for I wish only to belong to this coupling; though my wish is of little consequence, he’ll take what he will and leave the rest to rot in its own undignified remains.

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About Nina D'Arcangela

Nina D’Arcangela is a quirky horror writer who likes to spin soul rending snippets of despair. She reads anything from splatter matter to dark matter. She's an UrbEx adventurer who suffers from unquenchable wanderlust. She loves to photograph abandoned places, bits of decay and old graveyards. Nina is co-owner of Sirens Call Publications, co-founder of the horror writer's group 'Pen of the Damned', and if that isn't enough, put a check mark in the box next to owner and resident nut-job of Dark Angel Photography. View all posts by Nina D'Arcangela

8 responses to “Blinding Insanity

  • Joseph Pinto

    I truly admire your prose, Nina. You always manage to paint darkness & grief with such eloquence, it’s hauntingly painful within itself to read.

    Like

    • Nina D'Arcangela

      Thank you Joe, you are always so gracious with your praise. I’m not sure I get to take all the credit though – there are times I feel the words use me as an empty vessel to escape rather than my using them to craft something worthy. They wrestle me for control, and they often win.

      Like

  • Daemonwulf

    Dear Nina, whenever I read your prose, I want to crawl inside your head with you to see what more is there. I can only imagine. And I have to admit the imagining is more than half the fun. Your words drip darkness and a level of pain that never fails to reach into the deepest part of the soul. You, dear, are glorious sorrow.

    Like

    • Nina D'Arcangela

      Daemonwulf, I am humbled by your compliments and grateful for your kind words, truly – thank you. I don’t know that my head is a safe place for anyone to traverse, not even me at times; though a welcome sign hangs above the entrance and an open invitation is extended to those who would choose to share the same passion for expressing their inner demons as I do.

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      • Daemonwulf

        Well, your head sounds like a gloriously wonderful place to call home. *sly smile*

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      • Nina D'Arcangela

        Some days it as dark as what comes from my punctured and bleeding soul, others, the echo is so loud it would be deafening if there was anything left in there to process with! Better to know oneself than to stick the proverbial melon in the most unpleasant of orifices. Seeing is what those like us do; suffering is what we earn for it; writing about it allows us to survive somewhat intact. ;}

        Like

  • sjp

    A wonderful pendulum of thoughts, truly enjoyed the language and depth of characters.

    Like

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