Little Death

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LONG / stories / words

Benjamin was a gentle soul. He was the type that nursed small birds back to health or gave them an elaborate funeral when he failed to so, shedding a few tears while digging the small grave for his feathered friend he never really got to know. Aggression was something quite foreign to him. He had seen some of his classmates flocking together in small groups, stalking the streets like animals of prey. Their hormones raging through their not quite developed bodies with an intensity that can only be found in pubescent boys. The kind that says Scarface is their favorite movie. By themselves they were nothing, but as a group, quite lethal.
Picture the street around them, so many things to break, so many innocent bystanders to intimidate. Each action fuel for the next until they work themselves into a tornado, destroying everything that is unlucky enough to cross their path. You can almost feel the electricity in the air as they pass, it is scary yet unbelievably beautiful. You want to be part of their collective, of their energy, belong to them, as they are winners, dominant and meant to rule. They have a bright future ahead of them. It was clear that their fathers would have no influence over them. It would take a natural force to stop them, a tsunami or a pack of wolves and even then it would be difficult to place the winning bet. The energy was almost sexual, don’t they say an orgy of violence? The boys edging each other on, applauding their audacity, pushing forward, until it all became inevitable. You could smell it in the air: a whiff of aftershave not strong enough to mask the scents penetrating our nostrils. Musky and pungent, like a cage in a zoo. It was an accident waiting to happen and it did. The screams, the dry snap of bones, the howling of dogs, fangs and teeth uncovered, the street covered in blood. Their faces were painted like tribal warlords.
I was safe from where I was. Who knows what they would have done, had they a known a female was present while they feasted on their own strength, each body the mirror image of its twin. The tight muscles moving in unison as they beat the shit out of their blameless victim. It’s pure elation, reaching for something divine by the exact opposite of creation. Total deconstruction, reducing everything to its original form, nothing more than elementary building blocks, but ruined forever. No one will be able to put this Humpty Dumpty back together again. I felt a final charge going through the air, electrifying like the last shivers after an orgasm, la petite mort.

The Author

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.”  Miss Piggy

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