Scene from a Nightmare

This is actually old writing, but I figured I'd cross-post it here because a. I haven't put out anything new and b. it's reasonably well written, if not a bit disturbing. It is very literally a scene from one of my nightmares; I had some really twisted dreams after my best friend was raped (by a friend of mine, no less), and this was one of them.

"This would be a lot easier," I say, "if you would just stop screaming."

Not really, not physically at least, but my ears wouldn't be ringing, and I'd be able to focus better. I mean, it's bad enough that his head is almost completely shaved, just this nasty coarse stubble that gets slick and impossible to grasp with all the blood, even with my hand spread wide and my fingers digging in. There's nothing to grab on to, no fistful of hair to twist into a handle. I have to use this belt instead, crammed into his mouth and fastened until his doughy creeks droop over the leather and the veins in his temples throb like an orgasm. With one hand controlling his head like he's some unruly stallion on the end of my reigns, I'd really only have one hand to work with if I wanted to keep slamming his face into the curb, and at my weight, one hand doesn't really cut it, especially with his slippery, grainy scalp.

But really, I didn't wear the right footwear for stomping, so the whole thing is taking much longer than it should.

I have these stupid, smooth-bottomed Walmart shoes that are coming apart at all of the seams and have faded into a grungy beige over time. The soles are a death trap in the rain or mud, so if I'm not careful, I'll be the one coughing up teeth on the curb by the time I finish. The balancing act is bad enough; one arm pulling up on the belt to keep it nice and tight and controlled, one foot forcing down hard on the back of this squirming, screeching head. I think the poise demanded of sociopaths is severely trivialized. Balancing all of my weight on this one grounded leg, and wagging my grimey rubicund free arm around like some really twisted tightrope walker, is all I can do to keep from falling flat on my ass.

The curb is starting to look like one of those precautionary snuff films they show you during defensive driving courses. Three hours of staring at big crimson stains and little wet erubescent chunks, wondering if you're the only one getting off. This guy, his face is starting to look like there's more of it on the curb than on the bone. The concrete is a thick, slick mess of blood and snot and tissue, a rainbow of just reds ranging in color from "clot" to "connective tissue."

The little bits of broken teeth are making horrible grinding noises every time another forceful kick drives them against the hard, uneven conglomorate. There's that walking-through-mud squelching of his raw face against the pulp of everything that made it raw spread out all over the sidewalk. Sometimes, there's a wet snap or pop when the cartilage in his broken, mashed up nose shifts or breaks.

I'm sure he thinks the pain is the worst part, but really, it's the sound.