Violence Fetish

I crave it, I hunger for it, I dream of it. Violence.

Nothing calms me more on a bad day than loud music. Nothing gives me more of a jolt, a recharge, than a good loud thunderstorm. Nothing thrills me more than a loud movie with lots of explosions, blood, violence... The more violent the better. Natural Born Killers, Boondock Saints, Sweeny Todd, House of 1000 Corpses. The more violent, the more horrifying, the more twisted... the better. Horror, violence, blood, rape... Anything. The more twisted the better. I need it. Monsters, vampires, demons...

The Darkness of the human mind and soul...

It is a sign of my madness, a symptom of the seething rage within me... and for the longest time I thought I was alone.

When I was 18, I met a man who called himself Loki. He was not Loki, neither god nor angel, just a man who called himself Loki. A man who craved of violence as I do, who savors chaos and darkness, danger. Who dreams of rivers of blood. We were drawn together, an intensity that could not be denied. A need that would not be refused. Stolen kisses, late night meetings. He had a girlfriend, I had a boyfriend, neither of us cared. We weren't very careful about getting caught, or about anything else. We both sort of hoped that I would get pregnant, so that we would have to stop lying and sneaking... but we enjoyed it.

There was a fog that year, every night for at least a week, we drove through the city looking for places to park. The fog protected us, shielded us. People we passed by looked like shambling zombies, like something out of a B-Movie.

Our favorite places to go were church parking lots, the blasphemy satisfied a need for perversity.

We carried out the affair in front of everyone, under their noses. We would all go out together, and he would grab me, drag me around the corner, kiss me, touch me. They would be feet away, if they turned the corner they would see us, but none of them ever knew.

We shared our dreams, our fantasies. In those dreams, and in our fantasy, we killed. Violence, so much blood. Together we would burst into homes, slaughter families, torture, dismember... We would make the husband watch as we removed the unborn child from his wife's womb and killed both. Would make him drink their blood. Would make him bury the bodies...

During sex, more often than not, we would talk of those we wanted to hurt. Of people we knew, who we would kill first. How we would kill it. It would begin slowly, stalk, capture, conquer...and as the fantasy became more involved, the tempo increased until we were so involved in our visions of gore that the violence of it didn't seem significant until afterward, until the bruises and the marks showed up against my skin. Bite marks, scratches, bruises from his hands being wrapped around my throat... and the orgasm was never better than that.

I was his succubus, he my incubus, and for the time that we spent together...nothing else mattered...

But in the end, it was too dark, too violent... We both began to wonder, worry, when the line would be crossed. How long before it wasn't enough to merely talk about killing and maiming, how long until we needed to actually do those things?

We exorcise our inner demons through thought or action, but give yourself to it and it is the demon who is in control, not you.

We stopped, except once in a while still... even if it is years in between... sometimes the hunger comes again, a craving so intense it cannot be denied, or ignored, or forgotten.

Yet, even with him, it has never been enough. I need it, the violence, the rough... but even he wasn't enough for me, I would beg for more, harder, rougher, but they can't do it. Can't give me what I need. Can't fill the void.

If I believe in my nightmares, only Moloch can do that... and if I don't believe in the dreams, then I am left with the fear that no one, nothing, will ever do it for me.

Hurt me. Break me. Bleed me. Fracture, fragment, release me. Destroy me.

Before I destroy you.