Metamorphosis

[TubbyJ]

 

Metamorphosis

 

 

 

The first time I bawled like a baby and threw up everywhere. The second time, no puking, but I was shaking like I had palsy. Supposedly, the third time’s when you get the knack for it, kind of a get a feel for what you’re doing and you can just relax and enjoy it for what it is. That third one’s the threshold, when this stops becoming just a hobby and starts to be an addiction. And the rush…the rush is supposed to be a hundred times better than that first, already I can feel it.

 

If I get some of her blood on me I might just blow my load right then.

 

But after the last wet gurgle is done echoing in your mind and the high wears off, you’re sober. Sober as f*ck. ‘I’m sick. I’m sick. I’m sick. I’m sick. I’m sick.’. That’s your only thought, and not just for a few hours either, I’m talking weeks and months. What you thought was edgy before, like masturbating outside the neighbor’s window, is child’s play now, and you don’t like it. Or at least I didn’t.

 

Then life goes back to normal after a while, and you start going back to the usual. After that though, BDSM on the internet just doesn’t cut it. Through the phone service you’re about flaccid. Even Pandora at the House of Pain is checking her watch every ten minutes because you’re just not there today. No, you’re outside that bar, waiting for the bartender to close. You’re lightly treading up her driveway. She doesn’t even lock the doors. She’s a tease, she’s getting off on throwing glances in the bar and never going any further, leaving you there, writhing in rejection. That f*cking bitch, teasing c*nt. You don’t f*cking reject me.

 

“You’re time’s up maggot, my next appointment’s in ten minutes.”

 

Fast forward a week later, and you’re standing over that same f*cking bitch, teasing c*nt huffing and puffing with your pale, cold hands still grasping her bruised throat. Her hazel eyes are still open, gazing lifeless into your own.

 

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, then what’s she looking at?

 

 

 

 

He shifts a little in his aged leather seat, the orange padding on the inside visible from the many rips that line the stitching. The headphones are blasting “Hey Jude” by The Beatles as he reads a bloated college textbook titled “Metamorphoses in the Order Lepidoptera”.

 

He flips the page.

 

A dead black and yellow butterfly lies between the pages, it’s wings spread out across the pages. Right below it is a dried up and broken cocoon.

 

Hey Jude, don’t make it bad…

 

He picks up the cocoon and examines it as if this isn’t the first time, like he’s checking for something that he may of missed. Just to be sure.

 

Take a sad song and make it better…

 

He gingerly places it back into it’s place, and strokes the wings of the butterfly, then he runs his index finger down it’s back.

 

Remember to let her into your heart…

 

His eyes check the street for movement. A young woman exit’s the drug store. His eyes dart straight to her with a gleam. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead and onto a page of the book.

 

Then you can start, to make it better…

 

He hurriedly (but oh so delicately) places the butterfly back into it’s place of honor, and resumes his vigil sans music.

 

It’s now silent, and he puts on sunglasses and fixes the Washington Nationals hat on his head. As she turns down the road past the streetlight, her huge shadow passes over the rusty van’s hood and darkens the rest of the driver’s seat. He slings a backpack on and shuts the door with a dull and rusty clank.

 

 

 

 

Crimson softly flows down his hands and wrists. It’s everywhere, staining the cheap hotel bed sheets and pillows like a piece of abstract art. It’s dampening the shag carpet, congealing macabre with the coarse fibers. He lightly treads over to the couch. He sinks down onto the plastic that’s dividing him and the soft cotton of the seat. Gripping the arms, the crimson covering him smudges the covering, making it slippery and wet.

 

A deep breath. And exhale.

 

His eyes meet where hers used to be.

 

Inhale, and release.

 

She lies on the floor, covered in her crimson.

 

Sweet oxygen in, carbon dioxide out.

 

She lies on the floor, but even without her eyes, the ghost of her pupils are transfixed on his own.

 

In and out.

 

Crimson over her entire body, sheets wrapped around her like a cheap cotton cocoon. He picks the red damp utility knife from the floor, without standing.

 

Time to do it. Now or never. Are you in or out?

 

I’m in.

 

He stands like a phantom rises from hell. He savors his steps, toward the cocoon drenched in her crimson. Each step is just muffled thunder on the shag carpet, his heart pounds against his rib cage like he’s a character in a Chuck Jones cartoon.

 

He’s now standing over it, that cocoon. Hesitation for a second, the relishing, but still scared sh*tless kind. He readies his utility knife, like a dagger in a pagan ritual. He plunges the blade into the cocoon, slashing from the top to bottom with one samurai motion.

 

He stands back up, his sweat mingling with the crimson, dripping off him and onto the shag. He’s shaking, but underneath the neutral grimace is jumping and joy. A rite of passage.

 

Around her shredded red body, shreds of crimson blanket and sheet unfold like wings.

Edited February 7, 2009 by TubbyJ

[.AshRemains]

It was rather confusing, but I still thoroghly enjoyed it. So the woman at the end turns into a butterfly, right?

 

Please use spoilers, thanks - MK

Edited February 8, 2009 by Masterkraft

[TubbyJ]

I know it sucks, but maybe you guys could tell me how I could've done it better.

[Rhoda]

Ah, where are my manners? Just dropping by to edit a post, that's not how I usually do things.

 

I enjoyed this quite a bit; while the spacing was inconsistent through-out (in terms of paragraph formatting) it's a question of personal style and I didn't let it get to me so much. Besides, it made it so much more easier to read, and each paragraph really felt they could stand alone. The only real quibble I have is formatting, but I can say very little as it's down to preference. The part I really enjoyed was this:

 

 

A dead black and yellow butterfly lies between the pages, it’s wings spread out across the pages. Right below it is a dried up and broken cocoon.

 

Hey Jude, don’t make it bad…

 

He picks up the cocoon and examines it as if this isn’t the first time, like he’s checking for something that he may of missed. Just to be sure.

 

Take a sad song and make it better…

 

I've shortened it for the sake of space, but you catch my drift hopefully. The progress of the italic sentences really helped build the story up and break it down. It's something not often seen here so well done for that. It's made better that you've used song lyrics that parallel the narrative, which is also something relatively new here.

 

The only real quibble I have with your piece is the spacing, which really put me off at times, particularly towards the end. It felt that while the spacing helps break things down, the piece seems to lose it's flow because of exactly that. I like your notion regarding spacing and I understand why it's used, but next time I'd re-consider using so many for pieces similar to this. Overall, well done friend.