Purple Rain

I had always thought that Heaven wasn’t real.

But I was wrong, my dick’s a pogo stick for some middle-aged guy wearing what’s left of a suit, and the clit in my mouth is a chilled drink at the end of a Saharan trek. The woman attached is trying not to rip out my hair while she pushes my face harder onto her bud. One hand is outstretched, searching for breasts, my favorite body part. As hedonistic as it sounds, I never want this to stop.

But then we’re standing and putting on our clothes. We leave the shed; moonlight’s a bitch on the eyes. She turns to the suit.

‘You were pretty good.’

She turns to me.

‘You, not so much.’

I didn’t give a toss, I just got a threesome that I didn’t have to pay for. But, in front of another man, I need to defend myself.

‘Well I think I started to regret my choice when you took your clothes off.’

I see a slap coming and duck backwards; it hits the tip of my nose.

‘Fuck you.’

She walks off.

‘I don’t think you should’ve said that, but to be honest, I thought she was the bad one. I liked what you did.’

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

‘Thanks.'

‘Smoke?’

‘Only when I’m drunk.'

He laughs.

'Post-shag cigs are too good.'

The smoke wisps around his face. I'm getting cold.

'Anyway, I'm heading off.'

He stops me, fondling a button on my blue shirt.

'We doing this again?'

He actually looks sincere, how god damn adorable.

'Probably not.'

*

About halfway home the skies open and it starts raining, bad, my umbrella sticks and won't open. Doesn't take long for the water to ruin my coat.

Trudging is boring so I'm playing back the sex in my head, I would agree with um... Sharon, I think? It was really not my best work. I'm not going to even pretend I know the name of the guy but fuck he knew what he was doing. Last time I saw fingerwork like that was at a Van Halen tribute gig.

Home. Lights on. Instant coffee tastes like licking the inside of a used cafetiere.

Fuck it all.

Got to be at work in a few hours, these 4AM fuckscapades are going to kill me. I can hear my neighbours having another argument, sounds like he's beating her senseless but the police don't do shit when I call. They'll listen when she's dead. I burn yesterday's pasta in the microwave and try to ignore them.

But then I'm at their door, I failed trying to drown them out with shit early morning TV shows. Knock. Knock. Knock. Open the door fucker. God please open the fucking door so I can rip your balls off and feed them to your dog. His door has a creaky hinge.

'You will stop beating your girlfriend, or I will stick my fist down your throat and tear you to pieces from the inside.' I manage to act surprisingly calm, my voice level and robotic. I'd like to give him the impression that I'm some serial killer, that I had shits like him tied up in a basement for fun.

'I wasn't beating her, we're just having a laugh, she likes it rough, turns her on like a light bulb.'

'You're a monster. I don't like monsters. I don't like abusers, I don't like scum.'

'Look, piss off and mind your own business, fucking weirdo.'

He tries to slam the door. My foot's in the frame. Fuck that hurt.

'Get your foot out of my house.'

'Get your fat fucking face out of my building.'

The door slams into my foot again. If anything's broken down there it'll have to wait. I push in and duck under a swing.

'Don't fight, please, I'm fine.'

The woman is standing there shivering in a thin, baggy t-shirt and panties. So thin I can see the dot-to-dot of dark fuchsia and it sparks something feral. Some all consuming void starts tearing me up from within and every muscle, every nerve is screaming out to tear this waste of skin into steak fillets.

'Listen to the woman, she's fine. Told you she just likes it rough, and it mostly isn't even me, clumsy bitch-'

I punch him. To me it feels like an earthquake, an atom bomb, a sonic boom and he stumbles back, dropping to the floor. I'm staring at my hand in shock but I'm not in control for long.

I'm above him, and I let that void work my muscles, punch after punch, crack after crack and the blood staining a halo for him in the carpet. He's stronger, yeah, but i'm an animal, i'm in for the kill.

'NO! Please! Oh god. Leave him alone!'

His girlfriend pushes into me, punching blindly. I see what I've done and stare at the pulped mess that used to be a face. He's breathing, crawling away from me to hide behind the sofa. He coughs a shower of blood onto his own face, choking on lungs filling with fluid.

'Stupid... bitch, you should... have let him kill me...'

She's just standing there, horrified, her gaze flitting between me and her husband.

He drags himself halfway behind the sofa and collapses, wheezing, i'm staring at my own hands. All the blood.

'What's the matter... scared to finish... the job? Scared you'll change? ...Don't you worry, it gets... easier after the first, just ask... girlfriend... number six over there.'

I glance at her. She's gone inhumanly pale, making the purple even more pronounced, and looks like she's going to faint or vomit, or both. She opts for the faint, crashing into the table on the way down.

'Told you... she was clumsy as fuck.'

The sofa, it's not too heavy but it has a solid back, and what feels like a metal frame. I lift one side and turn it, hovering over his head. He's realized what I'm about to do and his eyes widen. I don't give him time to move.

The sofa drops onto his head, the sounds a disgusting mix of stifled cries, squishes and cracks. His hands are flailing, doesn't take long before they stop.

But I know he's not dead.

Yanking him out from under the sofa brings only a visceral crunch and tearing sound as the skull fragments that used to be a face shift.

His nose, cheekbones and forehead had caved in under the sofa's weight. How the fuck was he alive. There's got to be something around, something I can use.

A screwdriver sticking out of a small tool-box is nominated to be murderer. I straddle him and sit on his fat stomach, my knees in his armpits.

One forceful downward swing is all it would take. Fuck. I'm killing someone. The fighting could have been self-defense, the sofa could have been an accident, but I'm sitting atop this fat fuck about to murder him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Come on... I can do it. He deserves less than this stupid pity, he deserves to have a doctor come in and revive him so he feels the pain in his face and the sensation of a screwdriver piercing memories of his childhood.

In the end I decide to 'fall', because I couldn't use my hands. I hold the screwdriver up against my shoulder and line up with the indent in his forehead, then I hug him.

So close to my ear I can hear every horrific rip as the screwdriver pierces skin, shifts bone and punctures brain.

Then he dies.

He bursts into a cascade of blood beneath me, splattering my face with crimson silk and dyeing my shirt amethyst.

I had always thought that Heaven wasn’t real.

I'm sat on my heels, a puddle of blood between my legs and I feel like a god. I'm the blood god. Looking down I'm wearing more of this man than I am clothes and I don't care. There's a buzzing in my head and a throbbing in my trousers and I don't care.

Gods find it hard to care.

I stand and go to the wife, she's still unconscious. She's not wearing a bra. I remember that breasts used to drive me wild, they were my drugs, my addiction. But gods aren't tempted by such things.

I stroke her forehead and her eyes flicker open. I try to talk but she's punching and pushing me away. She's noticed her lawfully wedded wet patch. Amazing, the face, those contortions are unique, the way I can see her brain processing in the muscle twitches in her cheeks and eyebrows.

A screwdriver and a sofa did the deed, not me.

I guess I killed her too. She's trying to hug the stained carpet, kiss the puddle, sobbing and screaming and gasping for air.

'You're safe now.'

God had been merciful.

'You bastard. You bastard. I was never in danger... He hit me, but I can take it, I could, I can. We... We were fine!'

She's wailing and sobbing so strongly her whole body convulses with each breath.

'And now he's dead! And you killed him... Why do men think killing is the answer..'

She can barely speak, her body trembling, she tries again to hug the carpet, covering herself in blood. She gasps for air.

'HE'S DEAD! Like cavemen you fuck and kill and sometimes eat in between. Why!WHY! Tell me that! Please!? YOU KILLED MY HUSBAND!.... Why!?

'I'm the god of blood.'

There's a pause and she looks at me with terror. I quite like that look, today i've seen it twice.

'Oh my god, you- you're insane... Are you going to kill me too?!'

'I'm the god of blood. I'm merciful.'

'Well god of blood, you're gonna fucking bleed.'

She grasps the screwdriver and lunges but I blink, and when my eyes open i'm on the opposite side of the room, if I were less than a god I would have died.

'I do not accept betrayal lightly.'

There's an implosion of air when I speak. Pictures fly from the walls, clothes are flung around the room, plates smash, a mini hurricane sweeps through the room ripping everything to pieces. I'm not even shocked by my own powers any more. I've accepted that I am a god. The woman is visibly shaking, she can't comprehend what she is seeing, I step towards her.

'Fuck you. No man will kill me, nor any 'god'.'

She steps back and jams the screwdriver through her own heart. Standing, unsteady, she's going to die, but she notices my shirt and smiles.

'He made us both purple.'

She disappears in a fantastic torrent of blood, like a burst balloon full of thick red ink.

God of blood accepts your sacrifice.

I open the front door to return home, and a lake of crimson stretches further than I can see. I step into it, and take my place as god of this realm.

Oh, great, they have a shed here.