I know this is going to sound creepy but I really don't give a fuck.
I love writing intimate moments. Not really sex scenes because that's different but moments where someone bares their soul and mind and shows everything that's on the inside. I love taking a scene that could be about as emotionally involved as pouring milk and make it a scene where it feels as if you've just stuck your hands in someone's warm and slick insides and they're not quite dead yet...
I could feel their eyes looking up at me-- large and round and full of an inconceivable question ("Why?"). I smile brighter, cheerier, and hum to myself as I kneel on the wet floor. The blood hasn't stopped but that's ok, that makes sense. They haven't died yet. In fact, they won't die. They will just lay there, looking up, unable to defend themselves as I slowly, softly, slip my hands inside the rent open hole in their torso. Oh, how I love the warmth in here. Inside humanity it is so very very warm.
"People always forget, you know, what temperature we run at," I say quietly, cheerily, to them. "We have an average temperature of ninety-eight degrees. That's oh so very hot. You can't touch an object that hot." Their small intestine feels a bit like a wide hose in my hand. I giggle briefly, reminded of summers spent running up to the garden hose for a drink. I remember fumbling with the hosing because it was wet and slicked with mud because I had left it in the yard just a little bit on so it leaked warm water onto the grass.
"This is why I love writing moments like these," I say and raise the intestine up to my face. "People are so soft and vulnerable and people always seem to forget that. I like to take their vulnerabilities and raise them to my face... So close I could pucker out my lips and..." I cup the length of intestine carefully in my hand because it is wet and it could slip right out and I press my lips delicately to them. "Kiss them. I like showing people how they tick. I like the act behind it."
I set the intestine down and finger the dip between sternum and rib. "I like how they pretend that it's the character, splayed out before them, helpless and unable to protect themself," I say and slide my finger like a curious young girl in bed at night on the underneath of their ribcage. "I really do enjoy taking the things that people wince from and presenting it to them, as if it were a treasure I had found."
I smirk and lightly run my palm over their lungs. I can almost feel the burning, suffocating feel that the pressure of my hand must create for them. "I love putting something before them that they will not forget," I whisper this with my face as close to their open wound as I can get and not leave my kneeling position. "I love knowing that I have invaded them and knowing that no, I will not leave and yes, you will be thinking of this later. Maybe when you're alone or maybe when you're walking under a streetlamp at night by yourself on a nice warm evening."
I dig my nails into their lung and hear their scream catch in their chest and turn into a gurgled moan. I can feel their soft tissue under my nails. So warm and tender and alive. "You'll feel the warm air against the back of your neck and know that I am there. I am with you. Because I'm in your mind now and I will never leave." I smile a slow, lazy smile and push my other hand underneath their ribcage. I can feel their intestines shift under my elbows.
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