I enjoy pain.
That's not entirely accurate - I enjoy inflicting pain.
Torture and mutilation uplift my dark soul only so far.
Psychological pain is far sweeter for my tastes.
As a famous rock singer once said: Once you have tasted excess, everything else tastes bland.I think the same thing about pain.
The sight of pure fear is addictive. It drives me. It compels me to reach beyond myself, to play the game so far outside the comfortable circle that these mere humans exist within, to force them to make decisions based on their own selfish needs. Fear is the key which unlocks the door to my appetites. I envision this fear before the act of barbarity. I fantasise about it after.
For me, a scream in terror is like a child's laugh to a parent. I actively encourage it. Seek it as a lion seeks for prey on the prairie. I will not rest until my desire for the lamentations of the barely-living reach my ears and fill my heart with exhilaration. Screaming, crying, sobbing, pleading, and whimpering. They are all part of the Dance.
Her eyes are devoid of emotion, as if in defeat, or supplication. I raise her own hand in mine. She caresses the handle of the dagger in an almost phallic manner. I guide her to that small cavity between her still perky breasts. I whisper in her ear and my darkness touches her soul. I gently stroke her hair as the blade penetrates into her chest and yet she still sits there, unmoved, unfeeling...as if already dead, which, is more truth than lie.
Droplets of blood on a razor's edge. Pale thin lips kiss the still-warm blade that has pierced and ravaged sinew and muscle. My lips brush against the jagged wound in her chest, lingering on the heady, metallic taste of her lifeblood. I run my bloodied fingers across her own lips; perhaps in an attempt to give her hope, to give her belief, before I crush them into dust. I wonder if she can still taste the sorrow in her tears. It is a bittersweet goodbye kiss.
The smell of victory.
The smell of death.