Date with a Deathmatch

November 8, 2015 § Leave a comment

Author’s Note: this story is in its fetal stage.

And I ride in this bus, constantly dreaming about my death, or my seatmate’s while My Iron Lung blasts on my ears. I always wonder if there might be any chance that I could kill while I am killed. The biggest dream I have in my life is to try killing some – mutilate and pierce their flesh with something blunt.

And I now walk – down. This desolated street. Feet marching to Shrek’s All Star. I look for danger. I don’t want to come home alive. I want my friend to regret telling me, “Don’t ever come back!” as her farewell. It was a joke, I know. However, its humor will be stolen by my death. I won’t hear her cry, which is unfortunate. But to think that it will be the last thought I have before I die comforts me.

I make a turn in this small back-alley. A shortcut I never took. It seems that the rats are perfect company for my current state. And I heard crashing of garbage bins. Cats?
“Are you ready?”
“I am.”

Voices. And the slushing sounds meet the floor with a thud from collapsing bodies. The cobbled path shines darker, flowing towards my fatigued feet. And I am motionless, taking in the night’s crimson pill.

One step. And another. I stomp lightly, avoiding the shiny river permeating the crevices of my cautiousness. And another step. I walk quiet. Ears breathing in the night’s air as earphones fell dead.

The bodies fell across each other. Feet barely touching the other. I ravish the view with confused eyes – I fall in this sacred alley of death. And I witnessed the end for these two indistinct beings. An end very insignificant in the whole scale of existence; but this was a grand event. I stoop down, hoping to see their faces. Are the last thoughts written on your dead face?

A smile. They were both smiling – contented. Did they want this death? Mutual death, consensual killing? Similar to the peak a human experiences upon orgasming, a short death. Only that they never came back. Once and done. And I am curious. Did they set this up together? How did two people consented to give the other the honor of ending their life?

“Step aside,” a voice deep as a toads croak demands. He is behind me, standing against the morgue light. Tall – a towering tallness, with its glaring shadow, envelops every corner where light shed. I move a bit to the side, trying not to step on the human treacle.

The man brings out a huge bag and props it down the cobbles. He walks towards me and carries the spilling bodies. Dump. He dumped them into the bag.

“What are you doing?” I ask. I stare in awe. Clean up? He’s the cleaner? Or is he the heartless sinister that manipulate the two into killing. And dying.

From the shadows seeped silence. And then, a croak.
“Cleaning up these sick people.”

“Sick? Are you from the morgue?”

“No.” He turns around and tries to carry the two bags.

I look at him; his broad back, quiet as a settling red caramel.

“Are you not gonna clean up the blood?” I ask.

“No. They requested some of their blood be left.”

“So you do know what happened here.”

He turns to me. This man of shadows sees me and says, “Do you want to know?”

And I nod. He drops the bag and slowly treads on the ground, tarnishing it with his shadows. He reaches into his coat. And a small, rectangular paper connected his hand and mine. Soft. Eerily warm. Can darkness be warm?

“That paper will tell you,” and he lifts the bag up his shoulders, the dripping red staining it downwards. I still cannot see him even as he left, returning home to the shadows.

And I slam the door, shut my windows and turned off the television. It was asking me to feed it. Some sort of cat. Cat food. The paper talked, “

I am showered with my laptop’s spitting light. And letters of the keyboard dig into the abyss as my fingers pressed each one down – each screaming to breathe again. I enter, finally, into a black, dark screen, with a red undertone. A text slowly emerges from apparently a dark red liquid. And it says,

                Match make your death!

                About the site: If love can be matched, why not death? Experience one of the most beautiful mysteries of human nature as you plan it with a desired match. Start chatting to your death! Long live.

The words sink back into the liquid screen and a chat box appears like a beaconing lamp to a moth.

The chat asks, “What are your interests?” And I drown the keys to their abysses to spell out, “Feeding cats to televisions. Mutilation. Death. Misanthrope.” I am intent on getting a good match.

The website asks me to wait. Blood trickles down a bone floating on the screen. The bone was long, stretches almost at the whole of the screen. As the blood fully coated the bone red, I am still waiting. Does death really wait?

No. I just got a match.

User Profile: 545563667
Interests: Misanthrope. Body rearrangement. Dogs.

I am User 45458365455. The website seems to think I and this dog loving misanthropic is a match.

“Hi?” the match asks. I disconnect. I do not want politeness.
“Which part of yourself would you like me to remove first?” asks a different match. They don’t feel perfect for my untimely death.
“Are you available tonight?” No.
“Please kill me.” Boring.

All the people here appear to be too weak or too strong. Too eager. And I refuse to give my death in the hands of these extremes. I am signing off.

But a beep stops me. Another match. It says,
“Let’s kill each other at the same time.”

Stop. This match seems to share my philosophy. Do I bite?

“That’s my idea, you thief,” I type in.

And the name made known to me was “Mort”; the suicidal accountant who lives just two blocks away from the church.

Mort is an advocate for violence – truly a fucked up thing. Wants to kill, but also wants to die – truly a familiar thing to me.

The meet –up is behind a diner called “De Admo” which is famous for their cat burgers. Those burgers with cat ears and whiskers on the buns. And probably cat meat if I remember well.
One last meal. A burger and soda. My television would like it. We decide we brawl for a few then mutilate each other to death. After that, the shadow cleaner, our one and only contact after our deaths, will arrive and clean our broken bones. The contract is formidable.

And my jaw moves to the left, almost divorcing my face. The wall magnetic, attracting Mort’s head being pushed by my own palm. And like the two falling bodies of my memory, we cry red liquid from orifices we opened from impacts. The ground becomes harder than our own heads. The skies darker than lust. We both wince in pain, and laugh in amusement. I cry harder, painfully than I ever did my whole life – glad to know I feel.

Our blood intertwine with each other with every punch, kick, slice. I drip blood on Mort. Mort drips blood on me. My tears are tarnished red, taste like rust. Mort’s is sweet. I revel on it.

Our face blush – tired, satisfied, wounded. And Mort laughs loud. The crown on the head shone like the sunset’s vermillion rays.

“If this is the way I die, I would die a thousand times,” Mort says.

“A Million times,” I say.

“Really? With everything the same?”

“I won’t change shit. My first, my last and my best –“

“Death match.”

And we both gazed at each other. We lean on painted red brick walls, catching our breaths. Our eyes dilate, blinking as the first drop of rain falls. And the next. Until the clouds cried blood and sorrow washed our bodies.

With my unbroken arms, I touched Mort’s face and I felt a hand touch mine. Both touches were gentle. Devoid of the heaviness it held when it used to be a weapon. We got our knives. Knives that opens skins. And now it opened our hearts.


Tagged: ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Date with a Deathmatch at Ink-onstipated.


%d bloggers like this: