On Loathing

He would take me, finger gouged into my thighs with a strength and passion that belied the reality between us, with every thrust, his despair would push me that little bit further towards the peak, he hated me, his spite and the detestation was a turn on, because I hated him too, with a passion that belied my calm reaction to his presence in company, he was everything that disgusted me, a pure arrogance marred his vaguely good looking features, every sinew and muscle reacted with an internal bile if he passed me closely, his voice grated along my spine as I would listen to him waxing lyrical about whichever subject he considered himself self considered master of at the time of conversation. I found myself learning more, if only to spite him, I would interrupt his musings, batting him down in a circle of verbal sparring that eventually would take us from the ranks of enemy to nemesis to adversary in the bedroom.

The bedroom, that small dank room that smelled persistently of sweat and decay, with all pretence of moral fibre cut away and all sense of decency escaping us, I would bite down to taste the copper flood down my throat, his violent expulsions and curses causing that dampness to grow, a hunger that could never be sated, not even by the consensual rape that would seem to take place within that tiny space, even as he repulsed me, I would accept his violent, uncontrolled advance, his hands gripped tightly in my hair, caught by the roots, his hands around my throat, squeezing to that point where the world shifted, tears pricking at my eyes as he pushed inside of me, whispering his hatred into my ear, I would return the abhorrence, hips thrusting to meet him, crunching against his pelvis. There was no end to the humiliations we would visit on each other, I would belittle him in public, knowing the consequences of doing so would take place in that bare room, to him, I was submissive, his strength would overpower me, his bruises sang a song and a tale thoroughly over my skin, I would bend to him and it made him hate me more, he thought I was submissive, the reality being much more simple, he would beat me physically to his shape, and I worked him over with manipulation and mental games, he never got wise. We had each other where we wanted ourselves, spiralling down the depths of depravity with each coded insult and past slight.

A small voice somewhere, almost silent now, admonishing me for this free way of hating, this zeal that was leaking from places I had not yet discovered, I silenced the voice, watching without feeling as he exited the room without a backward glance, my heart is cold I think as I wash him off of me and forget within a moment that he exists. He died on a Tuesday, shot in the face by a thirteen year old boy with a toothy smile, sparkling eyes and a Russian handgun, it seemed appropriate, that he have a closed casket funeral, it made sense to me, I hated looking at his face anyway. I smiled at his funeral, not once did I forget, in all the sentiment and decried hypocrisy that he was the worst person I had ever met, that his soul was as black as mine but twice as perverted, I chose not to forget that I hated him, and I hope that he is in hell, tortured and alone, burning in purgatory. I’m sure one day I will see him there.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.