Kill Your Family

They crept up from behind and hit the victim hard in the head. He went down like building 7. Inside of his head he wept.

“The foyer to the hotel was like something out of a country woman’s mind who lived in Miami, authentic in thought and instinct but false in execution. Dark wood panels, a country fireplace with stockings hung, but flanked by plants with palm fronds. It even had a menacing 12-point buck’s head hung carefully on one wall. The victim became fascinated with it. Its mouth was forever placed in a placid yet oxymoronic state of menace. His eyes, now of glass, gave the same stare seen, and often ignored, in the faces of experimenting teenagers and adult junkies alike. The look meant they were somewhere in reality and somewhere else at the same time. Those eyes meant they were alone in a world of pleasure and thinking no one else knew. His fur, though real, seemed as fake as the eyes. He could almost feel it with his tongue. The sensitivity of the victim’s gustatory organ remained fixated on the texture. It was rough and dead like straw but perfectly placed like a brand new haircut combed to the left.

Outside in the adjoining field of frosty green grass lay his guitar in four pieces. The bridge had been torn off in two parts in some egregious act of vandalism. The body, left with nothing to give it breath, was alone. The strings curled in a wild mess and were sharp from where the head had been ripped from the bridge. The victim collected the pieces and found a new Fender in a soft case in his hands instead. Things worked this way and made sense in his head full of tears.”

When the victim opened his eyes again he saw the man over him like some hulking, stupid, brute. His eyes looked glassed over and hungry for blood. The woman could barely control her infernal squealing. He thought he would not have to hear that sound again for at least 6 years. His training and time alone would have prepared him better for this, but he still would have allowed himself to be the victim. It could have been today, yesterday or next decade, the results would be the same. He was a martyr of ill consent. He consented to be the victim, but his aggressors thought they had the power although they were sick with it. They, drunk from the power he had bestowed on them, wanted to give themselves more. They were hungry, but the victim knew what he was doing. He just laid there and made it seem like he was too disoriented to express pain. He would give them power, but he WOULD NOT leave them sated. The couple ripped and clawed between his legs until they collected their chalice. They held his genitals in their greedy grasp and drank the blood from it. He hoped this would quench them, but he knew what was next. He didn’t make a sound as they cut off his head and gnawed on his spinal column. He knew the power given the usurpers was finite and he would always return. He existed outside of that body and would return from the dirt and walk from the trees to do this over and over again until they get it right. Maybe next time will be the last time.