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Oct 20, 2019 2:53 PM
jean, z, even more horror than usual
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Yeah, this is all he's going to get, isn't it.

He logs off.

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There’s an itch.

It’s just the barest hint of one, in the back of his mind, like a mosquito bite that hasn’t yet blossomed into a welt, like the absence of your wallet in your back pocket, a faint nudging of his thoughts in the right direction.

Right now, it’s easy to miss.

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It's been a long day.

He closes the computer. Goes to check on his bees.

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When it's not occupied, his mind will keep wandering to that first video, where "Z" was clutching his face and screaming, clearly somehow in ecstasy.

It's been a long time since he's been stung by any kind of insect. Does he even remember how it feels?

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...yeah.

Yeah, he remembers that pretty clearly. His sister used to slip up more often than she does now. He has a pretty good tolerance, by now, but it hurt. That's the point. That's why they sting.

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Memories of sensation are slippery. They're not quite accurate. You can't ever perfectly recall a taste, or a smell. You slide off it, never touch the heart of it until you feel it again.

It's hard not to think about what he saw in those videos. It's natural, somehow, to slip back to remembering it.

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Without quite meaning to, he finds himself back on the page, late that night, refreshing to see if there are any new videos.

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There's nothing new on the list, yet. But the front page seems to load something new every time it refreshes.

He could always come back in the morning.

Or he could stay and watch. Maybe just one.

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...just one.

He wasn't tired yet, anyway.

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It’s another cutting video.

This one seems more intimate, somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s not trying to monologue.

He carves long, deep vertical slashes down his torso and legs, digging the blade of the folding knife so deep it’s surprising he never hits a major artery or opens his body cavity. He whimpers and moans through the whole video, with the occasional “fuck” when the blade scratches bone or catches on something.

He’s drenched in his own blood, painted bright red and shaking hard, when the page refreshes automatically and the next video starts to load.

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no wait he wasn't done

What was that.

What was that.

He closes the computer, shaking.

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There’s a sense of loss, when he shuts his computer, of unfulfilled hunger, something necessary being taken away.

Not all of it goes away. His blood is still hot under his skin, full in his veins. His pulse feels like it shivers his whole body.

The images of Z’s open body linger, an afterimage on his mind’s eye.

 

(This is a new type of beautiful. It's a kind Jean didn't understand before. But he must be starting to understand, now.)

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He doesn't --

-- doesn't like it -- doesn't understand -- doesn't...

 

There's a moth beating its wings against his cheek like a kiss.

 

He curls up and tries to sleep.

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in his dreams he slits his own wrists and it feels like a song

his blood spills out over his lap and soaks his clothes and pools glowing with color on the floor

he kneels in front of him and drinks from one wound, cheeks and lips and chin stained and dripping, and then bares his own wounds and invites him in

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He wakes up, chilled to the bone in his sweat and crawling with ants.

He gropes for his computer, squints painfully against the brilliance of the light.

What was that email again...?

from: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

to: body@zlovesyou.red

subject: who are you

do you actually answer emails

He knows better than to ask what are you.

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from: body@zlovesyou.red

to: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

subject: re: w-ho are you&

sometimes

guess it must be your lucky day

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from: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

to: body@zlovesyou.red

subject: re: who are you

you didn't hurt the tarantula hawk

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from: body@zlovesyou.red

to: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

subject: re: who) are you

nah

bugs don't have that ?frequency?

it just would have been mean

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from: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

to: body@zlovesyou.red

subject: re: who are you

what's your cult for

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from: body@zlovesyou.red

to: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

subject: re: who a*re you

rude

i wouldn't call your house infested

they're fans. they know what's up

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from: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

to: body@zlovesyou.red

subject: re: who are you

cultus deorum

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from: body@zlovesyou.red

to: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

subject: re: w  ho are you

 

'rude' retracted

what are cults usually for?

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from: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

to: body@zlovesyou.red

subject: re: who are you

burnt offerings?

I don't know, it's just me here

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from: body@zlovesyou.red

to: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

subject: re: who are you-

 i like you

lot of people learn best by doing

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from: clover.anytime@shininghour.com

to: body@zlovesyou.red

subject: re: who are you

I belong to somebody

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