Lust of Misanthropy

Epilogue IV. Filth.

Despite my fatigue, my longing to sleep, and my lack of movement, I was unable to fall into a slumber. The lacerations hadn't a change in their intense, unbareable pain. My skin grew dry and intolerably annoyed from the iron in the trails of our sordid blood, matting the hairs of my chest.

The light of day became slightly visible, the darkest shade behind black, but blue. Yuri lie there, on top of my chest, intertwined to my body with the frangible yet endearing cling of her arms to my body, reeking of her blood. She held the same euphoric smile, glued to her face for hours. I couldn't even move my legs, I was so uncomfortable.

Clouds shifted past each other, revealing the translucent downfall of the moon.

Every once in a while, Yuri teared up, and muttered things under her breath as she shook upon my rotting body.

The stench was putrescent. Blood, urine, and whatever else she managed to drench me in hung in the air with a foul odor that often left me to think that one of our carcasses had given up and released the putrid stench of death from the insides.

Whether I was withering away or not, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the girls, especially for Yuri. Knowing that Sayori figured I arrived home alone and went to sleep before the sun rose- it made me sick thinking about how she'd react to this.

I managed to free myself of her linking blood, the muddy sounds resonating similarities to ripping stickers off of construction paper. Yuri held herself up in a weak and now yielding manner, continuing to hold that gaping smile of ecstasy, adhered to her face. She only watched me leave the room, nothing more.

I couldn't make it down the stairs without sitting down on each step, my arms remaining, for the most part, completely inoperable. Fortunately, I managed to at least grab a bottled water from the kitchen table. I imbibed the beverage with my frail arms, gasping for air every once in a while. With the remainders of the bottle, I clenched my teeth, as I coated a nearby cloth with it, and drug it in circulaion around my wounds, seething at every brush I made over the nasty indents.

With, at least the riddance of the driblets and mattings, I managed to get most of the blood off of me. I was left with a pinkish tint along my chest, from when she smeared her blood-soaked breast against mine. I pursued in a state of crawling upon the steps yet again, making my way to the bathroom.

I dipped my head in the sink, and wet the mats and ruffles in my hair as well as my face, the sudden bitter-cold water shocking my skin of sultry. I hovered over the sink, making sickening attempts to reel my attention away from the uncanny transfixture of the scalpel she drove through my chest. For the most part, raising my right arm was difficult, due to this.

After mindless staring through the mirror, idle like stone, I went back to the bedroom on guard.

I hadn't a solution in my head in regards to how I wanted to feel about this. It was too sudden, too different, too exhilerating- Should I feel that I am amidst trepidation, the police would have already been here. Should I feel angry, I would've left Yuri on the curb.

I thought to myself, what my life would be like if I just isolated myself with Monika. She hadn't a trace of malign intent, though her execution was flawed, and her intimidations were rather weak (Well, for the most part).

I didn't even think to concern, the fact that her and I shared wounds, and our bloodstreams met. Just another nail to hammer into my head.

She sat on my floor, writhing in the uniform I wore to school, stained in fetid substances. The blood is likely stuck there, at least for a while; another nail.

I met the hanging air and it's atrocious aroma of both rotten intercourse and our bodily fluids. On my bed, lie a similar stack of crumpled papers, ones I recall seeing before I met with this new reality. Stained with urine, discoloured blood, fingerprints, and so forth.

Yeah, I remember these.

She wrote these for me when autumn arrived, though she never had the chance to give them to me. About twenty or so were left here, dispersed like a ritual. The hand-writing was unlike Yuri, seeming more Arabic than English. It drove me to sorrow, looking at all of these. For something so Neolithic, the effort appeared painful; nothing surprising.

"Pookie, pookie..."

And I allowed the embrace, although I hadn't the care to verify if she had anything on her. As I looked up from the documents, the tea-rose tint encasing the now visible sun grew brighter by the minute; a rare, beautiful sight through my window.

Yuri only held me, muffling 'Mmph's in comfort.

I have still yet to question why she had done this to me. I was aware it was without malign intents, though she'd have to be daft to be oblivious to my pain.

"Get a bath," I spoke to her, with a newly-discovered hoarse, dry attitude. "I can't get over the smell."

And, she did. I shuffled the crumpled papers and crammed them into the drawer of my nightstand. I lie there, the searing pain slowly making it's way back to my head as I remain static. The length of my hair plagued me, running softly over my scars, leaving a shocking bite from my accursed, soaked tendrils.

"Pookie..." Yuri whimpered, stroaking her busty, soft thighs between mine, closing into me. She pressed her cold body to mine, our naked selves (For the most part) aseptic to our wounds. "You mean so much to me..." Her voice trembled to an overbearing snivel, "I can't live without pookie..."

Compelling, she was. Her baby-face set to an adoring grimace, locking her eyes to mine as she squirmed and shook. Every passionate and rough shift warmed our legs, her soft skin toying with my heart.

I itched to grab her, as she got lost in her freakish intentions- and I could see it in her eyes. She gave me the once-over in complete awe, tenderly massaging my chest with her hands like a nervous kitten. Yuri seemed to lose contact with her brain whenever she acknowledged me, and her desire to do... Whatever she'd label 'partial slaughter' in her book of fetishes.

So, this was the filthy truth.

This is Yuri. She was never different, she never changed, she still pertained the same emotions, the same kinks, the same conniving methods. It terrified me, knowing that this was her. It put me into deep misery. There was no destine future with Yuri, outside of her longing to play the role of a murderer with doll house edicts.

The morning light crept into my room, a weak shade of milky blue bludgeoning each corner in riddance of every shadow by the minute. The aesthetic colouring it provided, tugging at my mind by a noose, informing me of the distant past, future, and possibilities.

"I'm sick," I muttered.

"Did I ruin you?" Yuri stammered, "I-I'm going to make you feel better," she wheezed out a huck of phlegm, and flicked it off onto the floor. Yuri gave me a sudden, hostile stare, "I... I'll do anything f-for you pookie!"

I held her arms, causing her to slightly quicken her breaths, and lower shortly after. "Just..." I started, "...Sleep with me."