The wall

A long winter night; I'm almost there. One more kilometer of street lights on the side of the road. Before leaving, I took care to destroy everything. I placed my empathy on the table of my apartment and smashed it with a hammer. I threw my conscience in the bottom of the toilet, and I covered it by vomiting wormwood of the day before in the basin.

In anticipation of the cold weather that sweeps the streets of my city these days, I took my biggest coat. Last porno movie, last drink, my instinct calls me. My duty as a dominant and domineering animal waits for me. The vulnerable being is at my mercy, available, offered. I know that its eyes drowned in tears viciously beg me to come. The need to do harm to cancel the innocence that lurks inside both eyes is obssessing.

It must be said that Pablo always finds me the most beautiful pearls. These girls, despite being whores, give off a certain candor, almost childish. Looks like sixteen-year-olds hitchhiking on the edge of the road, waiting for someone to take them to their parents' home, completely unconscious that hungry carnivores like me are roaming around.

I think he's like me. Pablo is my double. Like me, he spots the faces of misery, those for whom the pleasure of annihilating them is the greatest, the most satisfying. Oh, how intoxicating! I can already see the abandoned hotel, the lair of the triumphant, immense Pablo, making his customers kings and covering them, in exchange for a few modest crowns, with mountains of inestimable pleasure. Tonight again, I will be the only master, the monarch, the tyrant, the dictator, the despot.

Here we are. The two huge ebony giants recognize me immediately. I am a regular, a figure of this milieu. Here I am considered a knight, a veteran. We even exchange a slight smile. I must surely be the only customer to have this privilege; which is normal after so many years of fidelity and friendship with the good Pablo. I finally enter.

A cigarette smell caresses my nostrils. A few gentlemen must be in the waiting room now, after an extremely exhausting session. The old neons are beginning to tire, as evidenced by their incessant blinking, which alternatively shows and hides the path to follow until tonight's redemption.

"Eric! This way, dude!
- I can't see a thing in this goddamn corridor!
- Yeah, tell me about that! But I'm not going to bring an electrician here, imagine his face!
- Well, Pablo, you can imagine that I didn't come to talk about your power network...
- Of course! I have something very good for you."

I even missed the stairs through which Pablo leads me to my victim. Once on the second floor, we walk to the eastern wing of the building. Pablo tells me not to worry about the bugle sound in one of the adjoining rooms. It seems that a musician has joined the clientele.

"This guy is very weird. Every time he finishes, he plays the bugle.
- Why ?
- A kind of requiem, I guess."

Screams, crying but also yells of joy can be heard through the doors despite the remarkable work of sound insulation done by the house master. In the middle of the roar I can hear someone screaming, "Victory, my General! Victory!"

We finally arrive at our destination. Opening the door of my room, a big surprise is offered to us. The girl fell asleep! "She must have been tired of screaming," says Pablo. He takes the opportunity to show me the walls, fully covered with a new white monochrome wallpaper. Then comes the time of the presentations, while the beautiful one still sleeps peacefully.

At just eighteen, the girl is surprisingly aware of the fashion among customers of sexual misery. She's dressed like a Japanese schoolgirl in uniform, with a white shirt molding her nascent breasts, and a red plaid skirt, as well as black pantyhose.

If the dress is reminiscent of East Asia, "Katia", since this is her supposed name, is perfectly French. Her skin, smooth, firm, glabrous, is as white as the heart of the sun that can be admired before an ultimate irreversible burn, which makes you blind. Head down, body attached to a chair, her position makes it impossible to see her face, hidden by beautiful hair hanging down in the void, deep black and pure. 

Feeling that desire takes over me, I take out some bills from my pocket before giving them to Pablo and asking him to leave. We are finally alone. My cock is already hard as a rock. I put my hand in her hair. Even when I stoop, I still can't determine the color of the eyes of this hooker who had the misfortune to meet the most formidable pimp there is, because they are covered by her eyelids.

It's time to wake her up. Taken by a sudden impulse, I get up and inflict her a powerful slap, of which the strength is amplified by the momentum I gave to my arm beforehand. Immediately, the gesture makes all its effect since my princess finally gives a sign of life. I see the terror in her eyes. It arouses me even more. I feel like I'm in the middle of the hottest video ever shot by an adult film studio.

After half a second of fearful observation of the room, realizing that it was not a bad nightmare, she screams, and the tears begin to flow again on her sweet face. Neither one nor two, I grab her by the neck to keep her head still and run my tongue on her bulging cheeks. The salty taste of her tears makes me groan. My breathing is accelerating, hers too. Anxiety has seized her.

I take a few steps back to admire the dish I'm about to enjoy. The fear-induced sweating made her white shirt almost transparent. She doesn't wear a bra. This vision gives me an idea that needs to be accomplished right now. After calmly unbuttoning the soaked shirt, I tie a knot around her neck with it. Small test: let's choke her for a few seconds to see if the textile is strong enough. Stop jiggling, you just attract me even more. That's it. Try to scream, let my ears revel in the sound of your muffled cries. The tension of the knot around her neck makes the sweat that impregnated the shirt drip on her chest. The scene is of a divine eroticism. I feel that I am gradually losing control of myself.

Breathe. I'm sure you're happy. I guess it must feel good when I stop strangling you. You must feel grateful. You might even love me right now. You must tell yourself that I am not so cruel after all, since I didn't strangle you. I want to kiss you. Only, I know how these stories end. Frustration battled me against this kind of attitude. I will not kiss you. I will content myself with appreciating the gratitude you certainly feel. Maybe you find me beautiful. Maybe if it was me that you had encountered, and not Pablo, you would have offered me the fuck. 

Besides, you stopped screaming. You're crying, sure, but is it necessarily negative? Maybe you are crying with joy. Yes that's it. You are happy because you realize that you've just found the man of your life. However, it is useless to be so passionate for me. I don't intend to make you my wife. My intention is rather to make you suffer the right fate that all the sluts of your kind deserve. And since we're talking about it, the clock is ticking. It might be time for me to stop talking to myself and continue the work before you start screaming again.

It's time to let off steam. A few punches in her face will help me relax, and I'll be able to think clearly. It's amazing. The first hematomas appear already. I feel like I'm painting a red and blue fresco on her face. A tooth falls. Her smile loses a bit of magnificence, but it's a necessary sacrifice. I feel better now, soothed. Fullness conquers me.

Before I get down to the task I've come here to do, I make sure that everything is in place. Next to Katia is a small table, on which all the instruments I had requested were carefully prepared. Beforehand, Pablo had confirmed to me that the walls of my room had been equipped with the new white wallpaper. The palette, the razor blade, the cloth, the brush, everything is ready.

I explain at length to my sweet bride what will happen to her in the next few hours. I feel at once the tension, the disgust and the despair rising in her with every sentence, every word, every intonation. That's exactly what I'm searching for. The result will be better. I ask her if she has her period now. Unfortunately for her, the answer is negative. It was predictable, who would prostitute herself under such circumstances?

I put the razor blade under her panties, deep into her vaginal cavity. Hardly do I have time to position my palette that blood is already coming, giving me material to work with. I also take this opportunity to gather some tears, because their flow is as abundant as it is incessant. With my brush in hand, I begin the work. What I didn't tell you until now is that Pablo has commissioned me to actually decorate the rooms. The monochrome white wallpaper bought and put by him is only a support. 

My work is coming alive, minute after minute. However, time is running out. It's not like painting a beautiful naked young man posing on a couch. Here I don't have time to dwell on details. My pretty supplier of gouache empties dangerously, and I already hear her complaints become more discreet. The energy evaporates. There is a disappointment that I can't hide: I would have liked also a little amount of urine so that the final result is more colorful. Obviously, she had already pissed before being put on this chair. As for me, I cannot collaborate. No one can afford to interfere with the beauty that a woman's body can create.

As I feel her weaken and move inexorably closer to the other side, I sit near her, petting her soft hair. As if to accompany her to the new world, I tell her tenderly: "Congratulations, my love, you died as an artist."

(2017)