Obsessions of a Shattered Psyche.
Chapter 2: Betrayal
His world was spinning out of control, like good hash creeping after one too many bongs. His mind twisting and turning with too much input and not enough output. Ready to explode, or worse, implode.
The Necropolis had not been a good choice this day for Nehemia’s meditations. Even when his thoughts did rise above the turbulence of his minds’ many voices, he could not make them audible above the chattering of his speed eroded teeth. The cacophonous beat of raindrops splashing foul mud from newly dug graves upon his dark velvet breeches composed an evil symphony, in perfect synchronicity with his heart’s manic beat. Nehemia’s hot breath rose in puffs of thick, misty vapour, enveloping and caressing the body of the Virgin Mary icon in whose cold marble groin his face gently nestled.
The pungent acid tang of many years’ encrustation from the billowing, acrid smoke of the nearby crematorium tantalised Nehemia’s tastebuds as saliva stained black with a thousand souls dribbled down his chin. His quivering left arm encircled the icy statues girth, with left hand clinging on for dear life to the virgin’s voluptuous buttocks. Slowly, cautiously, his right hand crept up, over the rippled marble robe. His heart beating ever faster, until gently cupping the divine one’s left breast. The statue swayed lightly under his weight, scraping against its’ pedestal, making a long deep groan.
“MIRCALA! MIRCALA!!! WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME?” cried Nehemia, straining to be heard above the banshee wail of the wind. Thunder crackled and boomed in the distance, bouncing off crumbling, dilapidated head stones in guttural daemonic laughter. Arising, dissipating and being lost forever. The rising crescendo of rain built louder and louder still, whilst bolts of blinding white lightening lit up the cemetery like a faulty night club strobe, as if to express unholy rage at his angst ridden soul’s expression of love upon this symbol of two millennium of extreme bodily tortures and oppression. The only oasis of warmth in this chilling, turbulent environment emanated from deep within Nehemia himself. The icon continued to sway as he pressed his shivering body against the glistening wet female form, now emitting ever shorter deep groans. His lungs filled with the tepid stale air each thrust released.
Condensation and rain moistened the virgin ‘til she dripped, as Nehemia rubbed his pulsating frame feverishly up and down its’ full length. Soft erectile tissue slowly engorged with hot blood, pumping until painfully over extended. Buttocks clenched, testes tightened, every inch of his body quivered and shook uncontrollably as Nehemia, drenched by storm and sweat, climbed the immaculate monolith.
The sickening soft thud as flesh clashed repeatedly with stone complimented the raging tempest like a well practiced lead break. Pre-ejaculatory emissions and blood mixed in a chaotic, crimson kaleidoscope, cascading down the statues contours, filling each aging crack and washing away the crematorial crust. Life’s blood and death’s dust mixed in gleaming pools at the icon’s feet, dripping further down in small rivulets through engraved marble, only to be washed away by the storm.
The heavens burst open, angrily spewing forth a bolt of blinding white lightening, in chorus with a ground breaking clap of thunder, as if to accompany the explosive onrush of ecstasy that coursed through and out of Nehemia’s being. Nehemia drew back his knife. With each pulsation he stabbed the semen splattered statue between the shoulder blades, agonisingly screaming out his soulmates sacred name. “MIRCALA! MIRCALA! MIRCALA! MIRCALA! MIRCALA! MIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRCAAAAAAALAAAAAA-AAAAAAHHHHH!”
At once the storm subsided. Nehemia slumped down in a crumpled, sweaty heap to the marble slab below. Deafening silence ensued. He paused, lit a cigarette and trudged away.
The cemetery sat still and silent as Nehemia took one last blurry look over his shoulder. Was it shadow caused by the sun breaking through the clouds? The statues angle from his new vantage point? Or was it merely his own imagination? For the statue now appeared to wear a small, satisfied smile.
