1. A Scarred Wonderland


    Date: 8/22/2015, Categories: Hardcore, Author: MadMartigan, Rating: 18, Source: LushStories

    applies. For reasons I cannot comprehend, those eyes frighten me. They spark a niggling burst of déjà vu, familiarity you can hold in your hand a split second before it slips through your fingers like oil, gone, yet trace amounts left behind. The smile widens into a silent laugh, reading the confusion and fear pulling over my face. Then I’m falling again. The heat burns hotter, faster. A hole opens up. I’m swallowed like a psychedelic drug. There are flashes of white, colorful top hats, and the faces of naked playing cards given frightening life. The tattoo on my back is molten fire, a white-hot brand pressed to skin. The ink pulses and moves, bubbling as the jaws open, the pointed teeth leaking neon blood. The laugh unhinges, echoes all around me like an exploding bomb. Then it breaks and becomes a snarl of demonic passion. It singsongs a broken, disjointed rhyme that cuts me to pieces. Warm fingers lace with mine, stopping my descent. The Cheshire grin floats back, a puppet without strings; blackberry lips start to part. It chants the tattooed phrase on my back. It’s the perfect line for perfectly broken imagery. I lean forward, entranced… press my mouth against those blackberry lips. They taste like candied fruit. Sharp teeth bite down on my tongue. Fire erupts from every pore in my body. The tattoo grows and envelops me. I scream. “Do you see now?” “No. No. NO!” I don’t want to see. But it’s already too late. I plunge deeper into miasmic abyss. V. Like Plato’s hellish ...
    cave, fragments of dim light warp twisted shapes off the slippery black surface of the chrysalis. At least, I think it’s a chrysalis. I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of anything anymore. I can’t move. I can’t feel. And I can barely see. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Five thousand, three hundred and forty-nine beats. When you realize you can’t hear your heart anymore, can’t feel it hammering against your ribs, sanity starts to slip. “ Slip, slip, slip ,” tiny voices tease, “ just like the rest of us .” Five thousand, three hundred and forty-nine lies. “Do you see now? Do you, do you, do you?” Yes. I can. I’m sorry. I try to mean it. I really do. But this nightmare is pulling me apart. “ No. No you aren’t, you trashy harpy!” they singsong. As if any of you would be sorry. Silence. Are there winners and losers when all you’re doing is fighting a thousand twisted versions yourself? The only thing I’m sorry about is seeing them and… not so much remembering them, but feeling them. They push and push, forcing sensations and emotions on me. Sins. Pains. Guilty pleasures. Raging hate. A nickel-plated pistol. Rain slick streets. Five bodies. A river of crimson. Each version of me has its own jagged scar, its own story to tell. Dimly lit clubs. Drugs I can’t even pronounce. Sex so depraved, so powerful, it breaks you. Park benches near a placid lake. They all flow by in harsh, imperfect clarity, less visceral than before, but no less painful, no less maddening. “ Mad, mad, mad ...
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