Posted by Blue_Dreams on August 20, 2000 at 16:10:53:
Disclaimer: I don't care about your age, and I can't tell what's bad for you to read, I can't chose for you . . I'm not sure if this is bad, but I'm sure that this is true, and this is me . .it's your choice.
" SOUTIA "
By Blue_Dreams
" HE COULD NOT FIND THE WORDS TO SAY
TO SUCH A WORK OF DREAMS
AND SO HE WATCHED HER WALK AWAY
AND ALWAYS STAYED UNSEEN "
Savatage --- " . .And turns to me"
Have you ever heard them?
The chances are thin, so damn thin that even if it happened, even if you DID hear them, you wont have the guts to keep listening !
Sanity is a precious thing, and like all precious things, we like to keep it safe, we treat it as if it's so damn fragile and we just never let the child in us - that natural and unspoiled part of us - ever come near it.
But it's the child in us that wonders about things and fathoms the different possibilities in them, its the child who keeps his eyes wide open with curiosity and eagerness to know more about the world, the big fascinating unknown, until the sparkle of wonder is dimmed by all those bulks of rules we learn from family and school and the struggle of life, until we finally give ourselves up to the grown-up form : the "bread-Eater", who cares about nothing but keeping himself fed, paying the mortgage for the house, saving enough money for college and a marriage and millions of other needs which keeps him busy enough to never listen to the wondering child again until the day his heart gets too damn tired or too damn fade up from that needless race and just gives it all up.
So have you ever heard them? No . . most probably not . . for its only the child in you who can hear.
In some of us, the child is awake , never stifled by the social rules and musts, in most , it’s dimmed by our so called "rationality" , where we sell our true diamonds to get enough steel for our armors in the battle our life.
But in all of us, the child is there somewhere, and he can listen , and he can wonder and become mystified by what he hears, he WANTS to hear, and all he needs to awaken is some triggering factor.
And who knows what the triggering factor can be? It might be an article in a newspaper, and whoops, you feel like you would trade your balls to be a good writer! It might be a visit to a relative in a hospital and all of a sudden you know it that you'll either be a good doctor or die trying! it might be a show in the opera, or a guitar given to you as a birthday present, or a girl you meet by chance somewhere, and suddenly some bell rings inside and you know exactly what you want, and you stop listening to the rules and should and start listening to that deep hidden broadcast inside you head, telling you exactly who you are, and who you want to be.
In my case, it was a painting.
No sir, don`t get me wrong, it wasn't the "Monaliza", or the "Girls of Avinion" or any thing of that sort, it was just a painting on a newspaper ad, concerning an art gallery of a foreign artist . .and the subject of the painting - as it was revealed later-was the same for every painting that artist have ever made: strangled women !
I wasn`t into drawing or painting at that time, and I have to admit that visiting a gallery have never been one of my interests then, and I wasn't even reading the news paper which contained the ad, I was just placing it on the kitchen table and makin some sandwiches over it when that picture caught my eye: a modern style painting of a young woman, with something that looked like a blend between a snake and a telephone wire tied several times around her unnaturally long neck. Her chin was swollen and dark, her cheeks where puffed and the look of agony on her face was captured in the painting forever as a frozen silent scream.
I skipped the sandwiches and brought the newspaper closer to me eye and kept staring at the picture for god knows how long . . all the while listening to a distant hum from deep inside my brain, some mystique prayer was goin on there, saying repeatedly :that's it, that's it . .
I didn`t know exactly what caught my eye so strongly in that picture, for I was never the violent type, and there`s hardly anything I would hate in this world more than violence, especially towards a lady..but ..there was something in that painting which absolutely transfixed me!
Anyhow, that gallery was right there in Washington D.C where I`ve lived. Actually it was on K street, just a 10 minutes walkin distance from my home, and damned be me if I didn`t go check it out.
Well, I sure did, first thing on thing on the next morning . . and ..well.. I just didn`t believe my eyes!
There were dozens of painting, maybe a hundred of them, all done in the modern style, all painted using lively and attractive colors, and all had the same subject: women strangled in every imaginable method!
And what I felt was a feeling of being at home unparalleled by what a child would feel in his mothers womb.
I felt.. well ..okay, I felt at home, I felt .. fine, and this , which I can see on every wall in every direction I would turn my eyes too, was the contents of deepest part my soul rephrased in every possible way and exhibited in front of me.
Women, all young, all with long slender throats , and pretty and remarkable faces, screaming a silent plea for mercy while their throats are being squeezed by a highly diversified variation of things: hands, ropes, scarves, strange animal limbs, snakes, and indescribable imaginary creatures . . all clamping too tightly around the elegantly tall throats, making furrows in them, biting deep in them and causing this expression of pain which I found ..well…interesting.
But what really added to my interest was him, "Tamer Korayem" , the artist..
He was originally from Haidarabad, India .. and he draws about "the primitive nature inside us" , or so he explained to the visitors of the gallery . .
He was busy explaining one of his paintings to some people when our eyes met . . the eyes of the young schoolboy I was by then, more than twenty years ago, and the wide black eyes of that strange artist.
And I swear , I swear . . I heard him!
It wasn`t words, and he didn't speak to me, neither it was an echoing voice of telepathy or something ringing in my head, no .. it was, well some sort wordless message which yet was far more clearer than any audible words .
It was a welcoming message, transmitted in that short jiffy when our eyes met, a kind of "welcome . . you belong "
Then he went back to explaining stuff to his guests, and I followed, kept listening .. and while he from time to time our eyes might meet, and then I can hear them saying softly "do you know what`s that all about Tom? Do you know what`s that all about? You sure know you WILL know"
Well, it might've all ended after I've left the gallery, Twenty three years ago, and it might`ve been a long forgotten incident now if I`ve allowed my mind to stop the child from awaking, and wondering in a half scared/half infatuated manner.
I might've just considered it a strange childish notion to go to a strange place and see some sick violent art by a foreign madman , a silly act done by a silly 15 year old boy..and it would've ended there.. and whatever sensation I`v felt I would've discarded them as irrational, and whatever messages I `ve received from that man`s eyes, I would've considered`em as a silly effect caused in the mind of a dreamy young boy by the wired atmosphere of the place he entered.
But That, apparently, didn't happen.
I returned home that day as if I`m back from the sauna, I was sweating, my heart was pounding with the strangest of feelings, and my mind was replaying a slide show of the pictures I`ve seen..
I never felt so damn excited in my whole life, and the visions kept coming again and again to my mind every time I close my eyes or even blink, and that message I saw in Mr. Korayem`s eyes : "welcome . . you belong.. you know what's all this about.. you WILL know."
I had a fever that night, the worst in my whole life so far.
It`s hard to imagine the impact of that event on my life afterwards, but.. well.. something have changed for sure, some new factor have landed in for good and started changing things.
I don`t recall I've spent a night without dreaming of those painting, I don`t recall I`ve ever seen a woman without imagining how would she look like in one of those pictures..
I was so fond of those visions, hell, I was "touched" by these visions, and it ain`t violence , no, I`m no sadist and I`m no sick guy and I don`t hate women . .but I saw beauty in them, beauty which I couldn't forget . .and more than that..there was some meaning in them, some message which I couldn`t grab and which I`ve spent the rest of my life trying to.
It grow more and more with me. This fondness . . I even tried to sketch some drawings of that type myself, and make retouches of pictures, cutting and pasting normal pictures of models and try to modify them into pictures of strangled women.
I liked the results, but some how I felt that this was not what I`m supposed to do, this was not exactly what that "Tamer Koryaem" Have welcomed me for.. it was something .. something a bit deeper than this.
I tried to know more about that man and his art , but it seemed he wasn`t that famous outside his land, and it seemed that his galleries in the states didn`t leave much of an impact, for I couldn`t find any written material about him . . yet desperate as I was, I tried to seek anything which would unlock his philosophy to me and decipher his message . . you may not believe it, but I've even tried Indian philosophy and religion and was sometimes totally willing to skip some summer camps in order to finish my readings in the"Upanishades" ,and the "Rig" and "Yajur Vidae" , trying to find out what that artist meant through them . . and the more I read, the more those few words I`ve heard him saying while explaining his paintings to his guests took new meanings and cleared up in my head.
The most startling of his paintings, the one I remember each and every detail of, the one which have haunted me most of all, was "Soutia"
It was the only painting he made of a woman who was not strangled. It was just a face of a white woman with long black her, smiling a somewhat evil smile while a pair of hands approached her slowly from the front.
It was later when I realized that the face of the woman , "Soutia",in this painting was the same face in ALL of his other paintings, only in that painting her futures seemed clear and undistorted by the agony of strangulation.
Her snow white skin, her wide dark blue eyes, and her long black hair, her characteristic eyebrows which give6 an unmistakable tint of intelligence when added to the bright sparkle in her eyes. Her full lips and her slightly evil grin, all of these futures reigning on that long smooth neck which is proud of carrying them.
.
And to me "Soutia" have became the idol of feminine beauty
It was no wonder then, that I admired Karin Esser, A teacher who looked vaguely like the painting of "Soutia", only the hair was short instead of long and the eyes where a much lighter shade of blue. She was used to give me very bad grades and scold me a lot, but I liked her anyway, she used to remind me of that damn painting.
After that, at college.(by the time I graduated from high school,I had my mind fully set on studying fine arts) I was I used to admire one of the professors who also looked like "Soutia" , who also gave me a hell of a hard time, tore one of my end-of-the-year projects once and calling me an idiot . . Well, I flunked once because of her.
Well, needless to say that the "Soutia" model was the standard according to which I used to chose my girl friend during college . . and though I was usually scolded by my teachers and having my style severely criticized, my works where admired by those GFs, especially when it where classic portraits of their pretty faces : )
Well, one of them - the girl friends- have admired my works a bit too much, "Sally Otter" . . 3 month after I graduated from college, we got married : )
Though I was alawys getting bad grads during college I somehow made it in real life , at first I was wasn`t doin well, tryin to follow all the rules I`ve learned during college and I have to admit I have always been lousy at flollowin rules.. my works came out pretty tastless in the beginning . . untill I finally decided to follow my own heart, and let the child in me hold the brush.
I have to admit that Sally played a great part in encouraging me,not just this, but it was her who took care of the financial part of our life for two years.
That was untill I joined that contest in 1989. My painting "A childhood`s dream" , have made it all way way to number one!
Soon after that, my paintings started selling well, then the critics started carving some strange new expressions to describe my work, stuff like" New existantialistic ultra realism" , putting a "semi" or a "quazi" here and there just to be safe . . for me, my style could simply be called " naturaly childish" : )
In short, I quickly became rich and famous, and by the mindle of the 1990s decade, the name "Thomas Kuningham" became rather well known.
Well, part of the success is owed to Sally for sure
And the rest is to the child in me, the mad child who was still fascinated by the paintings he had once seen when he was 15, who saw the face of "Sutia" in his wide every time he looks at her . . the child who tries to express himself through his art and wins money and admiration for it . . but who still feels that this was not enough, and that what he was really supposed to do was still a bit deeper than all this.
Then came coccain . .
Well, My wife didn`t like me doin it, just another judgment by the rule : drugs suck big time.
Well, it should be for the normal "Bread eater" who wants to stay sober and stick to the rule and furnish enough resources to keep his family goin and to secure the bread .. but for an artist, for a childish soul which is desperatley trying to express itself, drugs were no mere joy or escape into fantazy, but rather a couple of wings that can take you into untouched virgin hights of imagination.
Well, I can`t deny it helped me far more creatuive, it gave new meaning to my readings , which were still mostly focused on indian philosophy and theology, and it gave birth to tons of new ideas to draw . . it was also slowly injecting a slow but lethal venom into my marriage.
They say drugs can drive you mad, make you see things which are not there . . make you "hallucinate" .. but I`m sorry you see it that way . . for they do make you see things, and what they make you see is not a hallucination, but simply a vision of truth, only on a bit deeper level than shallow reality.
Well, that`s how I knew that Sally was cheating on me.
I don`t need a detective to check it out, I don`t need so called "solid eveidence" and I don`t have to tape her phone calls . . these are the methods of an average helpless brainless bread eater whos senses have gone dull for too long.
All I need is to watch her eyes, read what`s in there, and let the child decipher it.
She was undoupfully cheating on me, I can sense his presence..that other man..there..in her eyes!
And on that day, when I layed on my bed, feverish as I was 15 years ago, feverish for the third day on a raw . . I knew for the first time that she was doin it..she was poisoning me.
It all linked together on that night like parts of a puzzle finaly landing in the right places and creating the integerated picture . . "Soutia", the mother of all evil, the soul that goes through endless incarnation and lands in an endless number for bodies, with one and only job in mind: To catch those who can see with the eyes of a child and break them down, cheat on them, make them flunk, drive them crazzy . . and finaly poison them.
But the child , the true child, the real self, "Ohm" the god of truth in us, will always come triumphant
And today, "Soutia" was in for a big surprise.
She entered the room while I layed there, in the dark , sweating in my bed . . on the dim light which entered the room as she opened the door I could see that she was chekin if I was asleep, not "see" but rather "sense", for there are more eyes than two in a man . . and that of the soul can realy see well.
"Tom, are awake" ? she asked softly.
I reached out for the shade lamp and prsed the button, and her face over my shown clear in the light..a look of facke concern was drawn over it like a grease mask.
"Oh Tom, you are killing your self with that stuff u put to you system, can`t u see what it`s doing to ur health? You never even had a cold since 1988" she said.
Oh "Soutia", playing your part till the end, and what are you doin now? Pouring me some of my medicine heh? My "very special medicine"inst` it ?
"Oh, I took the medicie already honey,and don`t worry, I feel okay" , I lied
She leaned on me and kissed my forhead, then again the mask of concern was on her face as she said " Oh darling, don`t you think you should quit that shit? Can`t yous ee how much distruction you are doin to ur self? " , she said as she nearly cried. . the bitch.
I looked at her face, so cleverly covered with sowrrow, and I saw her "Soutia", clear in the dim light of the shade lamp, hiding her eveil smile behind that concerned innocent face . . I started at her wide dark blue eyes, he lovely long black her splayed so wonderfully aabout her shoulders, her long white throat which was moving restlessly with what was supposed to be choked tears . . a throat which I kept refraining myself for years from touching so that I wont let the child be exposed . . stifiling him inside me while I had sex with her . . betraying my naturality and trying to stick to the norm . . afraid from the social horrors that would follow if I`ve touched it, the social roar of "Blesed be the norm . .watch thou for the mutant" !
I reached for her throat with my left hand, cuped it gently, she shivered slightly as I touched her, propably cause of my high temprature sensed through my palm..and gently, I careased her pretty neck.
"You are so beautifull . . " I murmered.
"Oh..don`t you ever fail to be romantic", she smiled with tears flowing from the corners of her eyes . . tears so damn clever but I was sure if I tasted them they wouldn`t be salty..but rather acidic.
"You`re so beautifull . .Soutia" I smiled, waiting to see her impression
"What, oh dear u r hallucinating, I`m ur sally" she said, but the troubled expression which showd on her face could never be mistaken . . oh god, her war, throat, her pretty chin, her sly cleverness ..oh how strong have I longed to end it all at that moment, squeezing her neck till my fingers are sore..ut for the last time I refrained my self.
I released her throat.
"It`s okay honey, I`ll be fine, and I`m realy considering quitting that shit.. "
" oh, finaly tom, oh please promise me you will, you realy don`t need that shity stuff, you`re a genius, and it`s realy an unjust thing to do to ur mind and body" she said among tears
"I promise you it will all be alright, don`t worry" I said
"Alright . . I`ll go make myself some coffe, wanna drink something? " she said as she dried her tears with the back of her hand.
"No thanks honey, I`d rather sleep", I said and turned of the shade lamp
She went down and soon later I`ve fllowed, silently..she was in the kitchen allright fixing her cofee.".poor Soutia didn`t know what kind of a coffee blend will she be drinking tonight ", I smiled to myself.
Well, it would take her about five minutes to fix the coffee, and another 15 minutes till the stuff I`ve mixed in her coffe jar earlier that day would take it`s effect . . exactly the time I need for a little fix of mine to start workin too.
I went to one of my drawers, unlocked it and pulled out the stamp, LSD was new to me, tried it just twice b4, but it does fit the occasion.
I placed the stamp below my tongue, and waited, my sheets of paper in one hand, my favourate pen in another.
Few moments latter I started I moved uop and went out of the room, the first effects of the stuff were starting to arouse long forgetten stores of imagination in my mind . . and as I glimpsed my image on the mirror at the ned of the stairs, I saw him!
The wide black eyes, the exhausted face, and the untidy beard..it was my image, it was his reflection : "Tamer korayem" the old painter who infatuated me with his works, coming out in slow , exhausted steps, coming out for me again, finaly.
"do you know what`s that all about Tom? Do you know what's that all about? You sure know you WILL know . . I promised you " he said as he pointed a long finger at me.
"Yes, yes you did . . and I know now, I DO know", I murmured , tears filling my eyes
The ghost infront of me smiled and kept waking to me, through me, inside me . . and finaly, the two versions of the same soul, the two parts: the one that called and the one that listened, have become one . .
I stood there for a moment, then a voice inside me, the voice of the young child "Thomas Kuningham", The voice of the my soul guide "Tamer Korayem" have both ordered in unison "Do it now, go do it now, go do it . ."
I wnet down the stairs slowly . . and as I reached the end of the stairs I saw her, my Soutia, my Sally, My last painting . she was there asleep on her favorite chair.
I advanced slowly, was I flying? Maybe I did, maybe I was just floating, maybe it was her who was being pulled towards me, her face slowly coming in focus.
Slowly, I undid the Satan belt of her nightgown.
Out there, the Washington sky which was pregnant with thick ominous clouds since the morning, where beginning to thunder.
I twisted the Satan belt in my hands, listening to the hammering thunder which felt like the drums of ancient indian priests . . and the rain was the cho of their feet, tap dancing on some old grave in which the body of a timeless evil laid, but it's soul kept roaming from generation to generation.
Violently, far more violently than I intended, I tied the Satan sash around her soft throat, up there right below the chin, tying it once and twice and thrice and knotting it in the front right above her round little white Adam's apple.
I sat on the chair beside her, and started sketching.
The Satan sash was moving slowly, crawling around her skin like a thin and wiry pink snake, tightening its smooth but strong body more and more and getting deeper embedded in soft white/pink folds of evil flesh.
I kept sketching quickly, sweating and feverish, thrilled to the extent that I felt my heart would stop as I watched her Adam's apple moving restlessly up and down below the knotted Satan snake. Her breasts rising in a slow heavy rhythm which matched that of the muffed sound of thunder of the mad priests outside .
My pen ran franticly over the sheets of paper, as if drawn by a force of its own, twisting and turning in my fingers, drawing sketch after sketch, capturing every detail from her tortured adam apple which seemed as if it was tring to jump out and escape the whole process of pain to the fluttering eyelids which seemed like stoned butterflies clumsily trying to leave the ground, to her puffed cheeks and chin, getting injected with bad bluing blood .
I rose up, the hammering thunder squzing my heart and forcing it to follow it`s beat, and I untied the sash.
Her body involuntarily heaved in a quest for air, her mouth with wide open and her nostrils narrowed to the extent that they were nearly shut on their attempt to suck ever possible bit of air inside.
Slowly, I removed the night gown , "Soutia"`s lithe body showed below, I body I`ve enjoyed for yers, but not the way I liked, not the way I`m doin now , the body of a cheating old evil soul which will soon be forced to return to her distant grave and be once more shut in eternal darkness.
I undid her black lace bra, her breast fell out like huge white tear drops, I tied the bra around her now red and marked throat, and I went down, sucking her nipples.
The nipples seemed as if they where aware of the whole thing, trying to escape my tongue and move away, and as her breasts heaved the nipes got twisted between the tip of my tongue and my teeth, I was never more aroused in my whole life . .but once again I refrained my self . . garbed back my sheets and kept drawing . .
The Black bra around her throat was a hunch-backed giant pider, clinging with all the might in its limbs around Soutia`s throat, sucking out her air bit by bid as it sucks the blood of a helpless prey, her back seemed to bulge with the air it sucked, and Soutia`s fingers where trying, hoping, wishing they could shove it away, but all they did was taping gently on the arms of the chair in a falling attempt to rise.
I captured it all. I finally captured it all . . and only then I felt I was REALy drawing the stuff I wanted, I was sure that this would sell and gain more admiration like never b4, this was the true me, this was finally the embodiment of that passion wich ran on "a bit deeper level than shallow reality".
After nearly thirty minutes, as the first signs of soberness started to show on my "Sally Otter", my "Soutia, I went to her and undid the bra.
I wanted to carry her but I couldn't, so I dragged her to the sofa and went astride her, removed her panties quickly, and slowly, began pushing my organ inside.
Her eyelids fluttered several times, and her hands moved.
"no more lying now", I grunted as I stabbed her cunt with my erection" No more cheating now, no more spreading of your evil, I`m here, and the message is understood, and you`ll go back from where you came Soutia"
She opened her eyes, and that was the signal I was waiting for, her soul should be aware of her punishment
"Tom, wha. .? "She tried to murmur but couldn't, my hands stopped twisting her nipples and crept to her bare throat, and fitted themselves around it like a steel collar.
She stared at me, the eyes of the true Soutia now stared at me while I was pushing ,y thumbs back and forth from the hollow of her bruised throat to the soft skin below her chin, tasting the soft warm flesh of evil, feeling the quilted nature of her trachea which will soon be broken down under the unstoppable force of anger which will be applied on it, feeling the warmth of her blood stream as if every molecule of it was trying to avoid my thumbs and run quickly from below it . . hearing the rhythm of the thunder which encouraged my heart and strengthened my grip.
I squeezed.
Her throat seemed like a bulk of clay which I was trying to reshape, soft and yielding and unresisting, her Adam's apple gave up the attempt to escape and surrendered to my thumbs as they pushed it further inside the prettiest neck I`ve ever seen. Soutia, the eternal evil now was at the mercy of the innocent wondering child, who was controling her now the way an old Indian priest would control a prey by his black magic . . I own her breath now, I control her heart beat, her voice, her very life, it`s my will now that can allow her a gasp or a wheeze, a slight movement of the head or a violent shudder, another moment of life or more. . less,every breath is a right I can grant or deny her.
And she pleaded.
With every cell in her she did, with bulging staring eyes full of pain, with tears falling on reddened puffed cheeks and with silent wheezing pleas of mercy from full purpling lips.But in vain.
Her arms, trapped under my legs where trying to move, her belly, her pussy, tightning and squeezing my shaft in its nervous rhythm seemed about to burst . . her pretty chin now a ball full of dark blood, over which a blackened long tongue was quivering in a strange dance of its own.
I don`t know how long did it take her today, for to me, it felt that her shuddering and trembling and spasms have went on for years, her drool was wetting my hands and her tongue was far out of her mouth when I finally released her, after coming inside her time after time after time, and as I released her pretty pillar of white flesh, it`s skin seemed to cling to my fingers, as if it has melted into it while I strangled her.
Well . . The doctors here are trying to convince me that Sally is not Soutia and that Tamer Korayem never existed.
The`re telling me that they are illusionary fruits of a twisted mind . . but ..tell me please: Where does illusion starts and reality ends? What`s the difference? There`s no difference at all if you can see both , and you would never do as long as your mind keeps stuck in the endless loop of rules, caught in the middle of the pain of the daily quest for bread , never trying to see a anything a bit more deeper than the shalow level of reality.
If I am sick, and if you are sane, then why have all my sketeches sold like none of my paintings ever done? Though people know that they were the works of a mad man..or..is it BECAUSE they were the works of a madman??
I`ve finished my last painting now, called it Soutia, was it realy my painting? Was it me, "Thomas Kuningham" who painted it? Or was it good old "Tamer Korayem", who cares?? I always sign "T.K."