Suddenly you’re grabbed. Your ears stop to scream. The red in your eyes vanishes. You drop the tool, your anvil lies on the floor, in blood.
You don’t even struggle, you’re not even there, not even you. Sitting in a mercy chair, the force come to you, dark it is. You stand up polite, offer your unwashed messy hands. They bark you to turn, on your knees, bind you wrist in an impossible way behind your back, then throw you on the floor of their van and laugh.
Now you sit again, still constrained, now at the table. They yell. They spit. Pathetic they are. They don’t know, don’t feel, just heinous animals trained to impress, to oppress, nothing serious.
Polite you are. It disturbs them, they hate you more, scream even louder. In cold blood you say what they want, what they should already know, everything is so simple and close your eyes answering their silly queries.
You remember your first night together. It was around 4 in the morning when you licked her juice, when she was embarrassed, maybe disgusted, but she eventually screamed and put your head deeper inside her, choking you on her clit. You remember how she hold your ass the first time you made her bleed. She howled the same way but enjoyed so much more. She relaxed, sweating, moist, painting your dick with her bloody intimacy as she came beneath you. She loved it though it hurted her, but she loved you so much, well she said so. You believed her by the way she fingered your ass fiercely, and sucked both your little anal rose, gaging on your balls, your hard-on down her drooling throat.
They yell again, sweeten sometimes, playing the good and bad cop trick. You answer the same questions again, tell them you’re not the fool of their game. They threaten you. You open your eyes, stop lingering between the memories of her most welcoming butt and smile. Ask them to cut the crap, to get to the point. A lawyer, a bed, whatever, you’re tired and pissed of you say.
You see the grin in their face coming, we’re gonna take some blood sample. You weren’t then fond of needles and pain at all. But you stand, and ask politely for a bucket, you don’t wanna puke on the floor. They shout again, asking you if smashing a girl’s head with an hammer doesn’t make you vomit. You answer the pig that this is not the point, you’ve been messy enough tonight, let’s try to keep the rest clean. The doctor isn’t very tender, you suffer in silence and throw up on the absence of bucket.
Now you’re in your underwear, a thin piece of greasy blanket on your chest. The bed of concrete hurts, the smell of piss strangely arouses you. But you ain’t horny. There’s no window, rods of metal that’s it. Now you will have to cry dry in anger. The whistle of the cold breeze behind the bars ain’t comforting. It’s november and nine bars ain’t enough to make a blues, eleven either. You’re waiting for the morning glory. A true cell of your own, where you could lurk to be owned deep as you fear and desire in your lush. An unfulfilled fantasy, too simple, so cliché. Don’t worry, you’re still young, and you’ll have plenty of men who will drill your pretty pink asshole.
drusilla delusion 