Air. Thick with sweat. Sweat on a warm day. That of horses and men. Thick with testosterone. Thick with bravery. Fear. Death. It comes to the nose.

It comes to the taste buds.

Someone screams.

More scream.

Laughter. Sadistic laughter.

Joyful, sadistic laughter.

More screaming. Moaning. Begging.

Death rattles.

A mouth opens. Tongue flicks out, tasting the air.

Tastes of blood. Blood spilled, cooling and turning darker, darker. Blood yet to be spilled. Rich. Bright. Pulsing just beneath flesh. Veins standing out from struggle and quickening heart.

Not enough. Covered in it, yet it cools, becomes a lifeless gel too fast. More, find more, laced with terror.

They see a walking nightmare when they see the eyes. Bow or die.

Or just die. This was preferred, wanted, lusted after.

Slowly, die slowly and the blood remains a living thing. Dying slowly, baking in a hot sun. Blood running in tiny rivers over sweaty, hot flesh.

Scent of flesh. Flesh in the sun.

Hundreds. Thousands. What the eyes see is never enough.  Bathing in crimson tides, never enough of the feeling. Flooding the land, turning the very sky as red as the vision.

Dying slowly. Pigs rotting in the sun. Rivers of red flow again and again and nothing is felt but this orgiastic pleasure. No faces, no names. Nothing but the craving.

God curses. He is cursed in return. This sacrifice belongs not to Him, yet he shares it.

All retreats to the darkness of stone. The darkness of stone and blood. Blood and pain more intimate.


Not His.

The need.

The need.









Viktor’s wild, blind gaze flitted about the bedroom whilst his hands clutched at his chest in an effort to contain the slithering beast that he felt was trying to escape. A beast fashioned by an iron hand in the fires of rage.

And lust.

As focus attempted to return to him in increments, and the small walnut dresser attempted to anchor him to the here and now, he managed to sit up. Or, he found himself sitting up, after taking a few deep breaths that only managed to stop strangling him on the seventh try.

He must have slept longer than he intended. It must have been another dream. Nightmare. He was never certain. He could never remember them. He only remembered how he felt upon waking. Those feelings were too stark to forget.

But it must be nightmares. He’d woken up in these horrible states for years, now. Long enough that he’d surmised there must be at least four different scenarios that he moved through in his sleep. He’d figured it must be so, because there were at least four different waking scenarios. Four distinct reactions, emotions, happenings, one of which he knew the details of from previous bed partners. Yet, he still didn’t know the half of it and he wouldn’t be asking anyone anytime soon, because he’d stopped sleeping with people a long time ago.

Viktor rarely even had sex. In fact, he’d been celibate nearly a year, now. Well, except for that one time. That one time a few months ago, and the sex was dark, intense. Thankfully, it wasn’t as intense as before he’d gone celibate. Just before.

He certainly hadn’t slept over the last time. He hadn’t wanted to push his luck.

Viktor barely slept as it was. Catnaps at the most. He’d set alarms to make certain it was never more than forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes seemed to be the longest he could go before whatever happened to him in his sleep, happened.

Occasionally he didn’t hear the alarms, however. Occasionally —more than occasionally— he wondered if he was sleepwalking in broad daylight. He’d black out. Go away. That’s what one of his current band mates had called it.

You just…go away, sometimes.

Viktor roused himself from the lingering feelings of anger, the feeling that he had somehow been wronged, the feeling that he wanted more, more, and left the bed, noting with some relief that his room wasn’t in shambles. Standing before the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom’s door, he stared into his piercing grey eyes. Eyes that attracted people for the way the irises were surrounded in charcoal, the irises themselves clear and icy, though the right one bore a small, reddish-brown spot.

Those eyes could be disconcerting in their intensity. In the way it seemed that they viewed a world others couldn’t. In the way they burned so cold, at times.

Those eyes made a slow study of his reflected body. Not the lean arms, torso and legs. Not the broad shoulders or the dark patch at his groin that matched the shoulder-length hair on his head. No, not so much the body itself did those eyes take in.

It was the network of scars on his chest and sides that his gaze absorbed. These were his memories. His sexual liaisons. His armor…and some things he couldn’t remember.

The fragile network of lines to the insides of his sinuous thighs, these he knew very well, however.

Dark, intense sex. Blood play. Viktor was fascinated with blood and the drawing of it. In the right hands a thin bit of steel was an exquisite thing.

Then there were the marks on his back that he couldn’t currently see, but he knew very well where each one was.

He turned from the mirror and made for the small walk-in closet. He had a gig tonight. Mitch, their guitar player, was probably already on his way. Viktor chose black leather pants that fit him like a second-skin and knee high, rubber-soled boots. He thought of their drummer Damona while he deliberated between the wine-colored leather vest and the long sleeved, black mesh pull over.

Damona liked it when he mixed colors, but she also liked it when he imitated a shadow in black on black.

He chose the mesh shirt. His scars would show, some of them, but Viktor didn’t care about that. He didn’t hide his scars. They served as a warning, a signal.

You might want to stay away from me.

You might not care to hear the back story on some of these scars.

His thoughts turned once more to the red-head he’d been making music with for two years, now. He’d love to make several other kinds of music with her, but he dared not, had never dared to, even though he was certain that she wanted him, too.

He didn’t dare, because he didn’t want a one-night-stand with Damona. He really liked her. More than liked her, and a one-night-stand was all it could ever be, which wasn’t enough by far.

Besides. Even one-night-stands were dangerous.

After dressing, he slipped a long bladed, serrated edged knife into his left boot. He probably shouldn’t carry the knife— he knew that he shouldn’t carry the knife, given his…condition, whatever it was, but he wasn’t able to resist, unlike with the sex. It was difficult enough resisting the sex, but both? He didn’t have the will to resist both, as strong-willed as he was.

The long cold steel seduced him. The honed edges made him hard. The sound of it whisper-snicking into his boot was orgasmic.

He didn’t know why. Like many things about Viktor, it was what it was. Something he had to accept about himself, or drive himself insane wondering about.

Viktor chose to keep whatever sanity he might actually possess, and stopped questioning a couple of years ago. It was what it was and it was always good to have protection. He’d learned very well, the value of protection.

Yes, he’d learned, but more than this, in his heart of hearts, in the dark squishy folds of his gut, he knew that Death was stalking him. Old age wouldn’t be his killer. His death was going to be bloody. A bloody, horrible death.

Viktor had made peace with that, for the most part. He’d known for a long time, because even his mother had told him this when he was a child. He could no longer look to her for guidance, however— for support.

Death had already claimed his mother.

He surveyed himself in the mirror once more. Satisfied, he grabbed his bass and made his way out of the tiny, rented loft, to go sit outside on the front steps and wait for Mitch.




Make a free website with Yola