Posted by rache on April 23, 2002 at 21:02:17:
There is a story here, be patient and read it.
Untitled fiction
by Rachael
I am Tangerine and I am a ghost.
- In retrospect my introspect is circumspect at best
But my respect for my aspect is now the suspect that I wrest -
I write in cryptic messages - the thoughts that fill my pretty little head. The words make little sense and I do not attempt to decipher their meaning. I can only light my candles and sit in my cave like a hermit of old. Write them down on a piece of paper and pass them to someone who knows better.
- How then to alleviate the aggravate affiliate
And deviate from obdurate to compensate my present state? -
Oh yes, sometimes I am sought and even found. Someone will climb the barren hills and call into the darkness "Are you there?" I will answer, on occasion, or occasion to ignore. It matters not at all to me; my mood is like the moon - waxing and waning, reflecting the light from another source. And invariably that is the thing which is sought, not I.
- Must I always seek perfection in the mirror of dissection;
Find the cause of my affliction and therein my affection
For the things I leave behind? -
Oh, no no no! I say - Not this again! More metaphysics, more mumbo-jumbo? No thank you! Give us talking dogs, or tunnels of light as we lay upon the operating table. Stop our hearts a second and let us seek the truth in that awful eternal silent moment.
- Death will not negotiate nor with his kiss infatuate
But rather he'll inebriate - a toxin to exasperate
A little at a time -
"Rachael, are you finished?"
{Not yet, I am Tangerine. And I am a ghost.}
"Yes, I'm done." I slide the paper across the desk and God looks at it. I look at him because I've seen everything in the room a thousand times. The only thing that ever changes is him.
"Why are you staring at me, Rachael?" he asks.
I tell him.
"But don't you think that you are changing as well?"
"No, I am Tangerine. I do not change."
We talk about my writing, about the various meanings of words taken out of context. And another visit done. An hour spent in the confines of my mind trying to rationalize my continued existence
Now you wonder, what does any of this have to do with any of that? Well, I'll tell you - Nothing at all, Or maybe everything. You tell me. I just wanted to write that little bit before moving on to the mundane, predictable, and utterly boring story:
My Dead Hands
That's me, lying there in that green, rust streaked dumpster behind the Broadway Bar & Grill. If the guy that does my autopsy is any good he'll find I'm three weeks pregnant. That's not really important, but I like to remember the details. God is in the details, isn't that what Einstein said? Or was it God does not play at dice? Either way, they mean the same thing.
Why is it always raining on nights like this? That's Detective Fade, the one without the umbrella. How'd you like to spend your life with a name like Fade? No wonder he's so mad all the time. He beats his wife. Her name is Mrs. Fade and she's pregnant too.
It's so cool being dead, you get to know everything. Not like I thought it would be at all. We get to make our own rules, unless you go to hell. But nobody I've met here has ever been to hell, or even met anyone from hell. So I'm of the opinion hell doesn't really exist. But I haven't seen Adolf Hitler running here either, so.... Let's just say you don't really get to know everything, I lied...But you get to know a lot!
Where was I? Oh...My dead hands. They're missing. A pretty girl with no hands and a pair of nylons around her neck. God! I take it back; she's not so pretty anymore. Like her head got all swelled up, ugly thick tongue sticking out, eyes popped open. Really bad color too. And vomit, yuck!! They finally loosened the stockings and all that gross stuff started coming out! Oh well, I guess death is never as pretty as we imagine. Reality bites.
Yeah, yeah, I know....This is boring. We see it on TV every night and twice on Mondays. Nothing new here. You want to know how I died right? Well, not how exactly like the mechanics. You want to know if I was getting off on it. If my body was screaming in orgasmic pleasure while my mind was screaming with terror. Did I cum while my killer was raping me? Did I stare into his eyes while he choked me, twisting the silky soft nylon around my delicate neck? What was my body doing when he was jamming his erection as far as possible inside my body, banging my head down on the cold wet pavement in time with his animal thrusts? Did I claw his face? Did I grip his strong wrists and try to pull his hands away, loosening the knot around my throat? Or did I lie there, feeling his cock ripping into my cunt, tearing through my flesh, my life-giving womb bruised and battered and torn by his assault. Did I imagine a mother? Cradling me, singing to me, keeping me safe? Or my father whipping me, beating me and calling me a slut, a whore who asked for this, who deserved this.
Hmmm...No, I'm not going to talk about any of that.
Want to know what that guy is doing with my hands? He picked me because of my manicure. What a loser! I have so many other qualities. I'm intelligent, witty, fairly attractive, friendly, interesting, and...Oh yeah, dead. I'm not any of those things anymore. But I was! And this guy wants me because I have perfect nails? What a joke. Who says life doesn't have a sense of humor?
Anyway, right now he's at home. His wife is in the kitchen, preparing dinner for him and his boys. Two sons, 8 and 11....They're cute. He's in the den, his little home office where he works for an insurance company. Life insurance, oh this is just too funny! He does a little day trading, plays fantasy baseball, surfs porn sites, and oh... Look at this, chats on irc. I wonder if we've talked, that would be neat to know.
But right now he's not doing any of those things. He locked the door, pulled the blinds. He's got his pants down, around his ankles and his cock is long and hard. I guess raping me during my lunch hour wasn't that good for him, or he has a monster sex drive - Look at that thing! But what is it with people when they're alone? I mean he looks ridiculous! Sprawled on that old sofa with his pants down. Grinning like a maniac while he pumps his fist up and down in little short strokes. He really should be locked up! I bet his wife never saw him like this.
My dead hands are on his chest. Palms down, my long stiffening fingers slightly curled so they look like big pale spiders with crimson boots. But they don't look like that to him. To him they are hands, beautiful to look at, marvelous to touch. Magical things which transport him back...back...To where? To Mommy? I wonder. I guess we'll never really know. But he's not thinking about me, I know that. He's thinking of someone else, who's touch...Or maybe denial of tenderness...brought him pleasure, or pain, or guilt, or joy. He's going to cum soon, the wetness is spilling out of his erection; my dead hands are bouncing, rocking, rolling on his heaving chest.
He takes one of my dead hands and moves it to his throat. He's trying to curl my fingers around so it looks like it's choking him. He molds the stiff joints so that it clasps his neck. He does the same with the other hand so that they are thumb to thumb, pressed loosely around his throat; just hanging there, not tight enough to really choke him of course. Not like he wants. I can feel his need filling the room. I can see it like a deep red mist, billowing clouds of guilty desire obscuring all reason. His hands are down, one on his swollen shaft, the other cupping his balls, squeezing them while he masturbates.
I look down at my ethereal form. I'm different somehow, changing back to what I was - the girl in the dumpster. I'm a ghost of his creation, did he summon me? I was so sure he had forgotten me, I was useless to him. I had something he wanted and he killed me so he could steal it. He killed me for my hands...My hands. I look at my arms, ending abruptly in painless stumps. The flesh is gone, but the image remains. I think I can feel again. Isn't that strange? I could almost swear I feel something warm, alive....The fire of existence. It's beneath my fingers, my palms I...
Oh, yes....I'm there. I understand, do you? I didn't know it would end this way, not when I started telling you this. When I was Tangerine. He's so close now, in every meaning of the word. His orgasm is compelling him to ignore his senses, let his imagination run free. Shutting out everything but the fevered images flashing through his mind as his hand moves. He doesn't notice me, my pale form cutting through the mist. Breathing his emotions, filling my soul with it. The energy fills me, it flows through me. I move my arms closer; reaching... reaching and then I have my hands. I straddle him, his hard cock pressing up, between my legs. His hand stroking into me, a sensation peculiar to us both as his movement brings flesh into contact with death. He's fucking a ghost, a specter that did not exist until he imagined it. Until he created it. Until he delivered himself into my dead hands.
I can feel my fingers moving, my body complete once again. I flex them slightly, the only material things I possess. Ghostly arms ending in dead cold flesh, but they are mine again. They obey my will. He's moaning now, gasping as he hunches his flying fingers. I squeeze, as hard as I can, pressing my thumbs against his windpipe. I watch his eyes fly open in shocked surprise, his ejaculate sprays out, flying through my dead insubstantial womb and landing on his stomach. I dig my fingers into his skin, feeding off his energy. He wants this. More than I, he desires this. It's why he made me, why he brought me. I feel his windpipe, his Adam's apple bobbing and his wet, slippery hands covered with semen grab at my wrists. They try to pry my fingers away. But I'm too strong. Everything is clear to me now. One thing left unfinished.
I feel his esophagus crack and then the cartilage snaps, his throat crushed by my dead hands. His cock is still stiff, his body heaving, his dying breath trapped inside forever. His eyes are wide open, staring and somehow focusing into mine. He sees me finally, at last. He looks frightened, surprised and his arms go limp, his hands falling to his sides, leaving my dead hands wrapped around his lifeless neck. I get off him, I'm being pulled away...I don't have much time, I'm sorry. He's gone already, gone to hell or gone to heaven and I...I don't know where I'm going now...someplace...else
the end
rache18us@yahoo.com