When I was a kid my mother would beat me stiff. Bruises, black and blue, like painful polka dots ran along my body. I’m not sure why she was angry all the time. Maybe it was  because my dad went away when he promised that he would stay. Maybe it was because we lived in the slums of Boston, and my mom could hardly pay the bills with her shitty cleaning job. Or maybe that the life she had envisioned, having 2 lovely kids and a respectable husband were crushed when “that lazy truck driving asshole” just didn’t come back one day.

She was a Latin girl, dark hair and brown skin, and a tongue that could rival the devils. With a smoke between her teeth and a bottle in her hand, she would smack me and curse at me until I was horrific mess. But in my own sick way I liked it. The only time she really noticed me when she was punching the living shit out of me.

In  high school I would have dreams that blood dripped from my torn body, face and lips. And I would lick it off. Yeah I know I’m a sick fuck but when I would wake up I’d feel my most fulfilled. Between classes I would go into the guy’s bathroom, peel off my scabs and watch the blood slide over my fingers. Oh the beautiful water of life. In class I melted into the background, just morphed into the cardboard filled walls and unused bookshelves. A body amongst bodies.
          
When I was 16 I left my moms place.  I crashed with my druggie friends sometimes, ignoring that they were slowly wasting away. It didn’t matter to me. More commonly I would bum it on a park bench, when I couldn’t handle there filth and senseless ramblings. Never regretted a moment of leaving that hell house though, even when it got colder then a dead man’s breathe. I ended up moving to New York, Ohio, Cali, Nevada. In 2 star hotels I would use cheap razors to cut my wrists to shreds. Blood would spill out and with a primal lust I would drink it up. Red streaks dripped down my elbows, onto the yellow sheets.
            
It was intoxicating. Richer then best wine, stronger then moonshine. It left with a bubbling high, screaming pain, and raging boner. When I was done, my face would be paler then the 3 dollar pillow cases with a tired grin would be plastered on it.  

Against the sleeping desert night Las Vegas was a star. It was a heathen disguised as heaven in the sand. When I took my first dip into the city, the moon shone out from the purple sea of sky. Fluorescent lights hit me on all sides. People walked the streets everywhere.  Walking past a casino, I saw a pregnant woman stepping out of a black car in a wedding dress. Around the corner, a girl no older then 12 was smoking a cigarette. Smoke licked around her chin and face, coming from her black lips. Our eyes met and she held up a questioning eyebrow. For a moment I almost stopped - but kept going, stuffing my hands into my pockets. There are some things that you just don’t do. The city was alive on all sides like an animal.
       
My first stroll of Vegas had left me shaking and wanting more. I stayed at a motel until I could get an apartment. In the shittier side of town I found it, between and opera singer and a water of some wanky restaurant. He played rave music whenever he was home. I sat in my shit-ass room with a cigarette in my hand. My feet tapped anxiously on the ground while I looked out at the dreary view of the street. Rain tapped on the window like fingers. The mountains were smoky peaks in the distance. Something inside me that was building up, wanting to be let out. Ash fell onto the dirty floor and I crushed the untouched cigarette into the windowsill.

The little money I got was working in a dump of a garage. The place smelled like spilt oil, grease, and something decaying. The temperature fluxed from the heat of hell to the cold ice of heaven.

Almost guilty I led woman from the streets to my room, cutting myself open, and sprinkling the blood over them, painting there lips red with my fingers. It was from one of these diseased woman that I found out what my love for blood was. A blood fetish. This name put me at as so much ease, I almost made the girl leave.

“Fetish” had a ring of normality to it.





After a frigid day at work, my shoes slapped the sidewalks of the Vegas. People spilled in and out of the hotels and casinos - endlessly. The most beautiful structures were molested and made into money making machines- just another whore.  I passed the downtown casinos, shining blindingly bright. I stayed away from these places mostly but tonight I decided to look in. Before long I was stationed at a roulette table, and watched the ball skidding over a black and red wheel. I set a bet on 23. The ball fell. 23.

A force pressed through me like an electric shock. I was never a betting guy, but as the push were pushed towards me, I thought I had found a new love. 3 hours later I left the damn place without a dollar on me. There’s no luck for a working man.

I went there a lot after that, where hours became minutes. When my land lord said I had to pay up the rent, I shrugged it off. When my boss said I was doing a shitty job, I shrugged it off. When I couldn’t get painted girls off the streets, I shrugged it off. They cost too much anyway.

I think it was when I found myself sitting on a curb kicked out of my flat, no job and no money, that I woke up and said “shit”.

I got into my car and gripped the wheel. It looked like I was going to live in 2 star hotels again. It’s not that that flat was any good. Sure, living in a dilapidated old apartment seems great in stories, but when you’re there freezing your ass off, it didn’t seem very glamorous. Every time I opened the door without turning on the lights, cockroaches would crunch under my heels. Lights flashed as I drove past casinos and hotels - hovels of sin. There was only about 100$ left with me, if I just won big at a game and then left…

My eyes drifted past the casinos and onto the milling crowd. A kid stood against a wall, smoke licking around her face, from dark purple lips. It was the same girl I had seen the first day here. She was a bit older now - I’d stayed here for a year and a half now - maybe 14? Slowly I drove up to her and rolled down the window. She quirked an eyebrow. The girl didn’t seem to remember me at all. With a few steps she hung from my open window.

“Want a ride?” I asked.




I drove back to my apartment, or should I say, my old apartment. The 3 rooms that I had were mostly empty. A few empty boxes lay in the corners. I couldn’t remember if they were mine or someone else‘s. The lights turned on with a crackling snap. The street lights were shining a orange glow from the street.

“Got a cig?”

The girl slumped against a wall and looked at me questioningly. I took one for myself then threw her the pack. She lit up and took a drag. From the windowsill I watched her. Smoke hissed from between her teeth, and she looked towards the gray wall opposite.

“Want something to drink?”  I asked her feet.

“Yeah sure,” she answered.

I put my cigarette in my lips and opened the fridge. A few bottle of beers stood, and I took one out. After packing myself up, I had hoped to finish them, but the landlord had come and kicked me out. Damn bastard. My eyes flicked up to look at her. She was looking out the window, to the street.

It was then I realised what I really wanted. I had felt fulfilled when my own blood went on someone else’s body. To see them lick it up was a dream, but what I really wanted, what I really wanted, was to let the blood flow from someone else. To press a knife against there skin and watch it spill. And in the city where every sinful desire can be given to you, I decided that mine was this. I lit up my cig and walked towards her.

“Hey, I never did get your-” she said. But too late. With a smoke between my teeth and a bottle in my hand, I bashed the back of her head in. Blood pooled around her black hair and my eyes danced. This was it.

I lifted her into the white tub, plugging up the bottom. Slowly I undressed her, looking carefully at every curve, a hip, the thigh, a neck. I arranged her so she look natural. One arm was hanging over the tub, her hair casually placed on her shoulder. Blood stained the wall where her head was. So perfect.

Carefully I took out my pocket knife, and decided where to cut. First I left 2 long marks from her collarbone to the top of her breasts. With each incision I let out a hiss, like I was the one getting cut. My knife swiped up and down, red wine bubbling up and making sweet lines. I painted her lips and eyes with crimson. I made blood tears come from the edges of her eyes. It was art.

I was evil. I was pure. I was an ancient shamans, giving sacrifice. I was a priest holding a chalice of blood. I was Jack the Ripper. I was the Vampire Lestat. Slashing and splurting, blood covered me. I dove down licking it up. My breathe sharpened and suddenly-

Drops fell from my nose and mouth onto the gray tiles as I breathed quietly. I got and looked down at my creation. The girl was cut everywhere. Her chest rose and fell minutely. But I didn’t want to kill her. I didn’t. I wasn’t a killer.

Reality hit. This isn’t what I wanted! This isn’t what-





Through a 2-way mirror, 3 cops stood looking at a lone man at the table. He had chocolaty brown skin and looked Spanish. Large bags were under his eyes. Listlessly he looked the table. His black hair was dirty and dishevelled. It seemed like any drug addict off the Vegas streets. All 3 of the men looked at each other and walked into the door.

“Hello Mr. Radrigez.” One said. The man didn’t respond. “You have any idea why you’re here?” His dry lips pressed together in a line. Sweat dripped.

“Well, if you haven’t heard, there’s been a man who took a girl from the street and cut her up. It wasn’t very neat either. She got taken to the hospital by someone, but.. She didn’t make it. Seems the guy let her lay there for a while. And it seems, that many people saw you taking this girl into your apartment and carry her out.” The 2 other on the sides said nothing. They had all the evidence they needed. Only a sick fuck would do something to a girl,” his voice suddenly hardened. “ She was only 15 you know.”

The man at the table shook. Sweat dripped down his matted hair. Stuttering a bit, he looked up at the wall, and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. Blood was encrusted under his nails. In a stuttering voice he spoke. Maybe not to them, but to himself. Retelling his life in a short story.

“When I was a kid my mother would beat me stiff. Bruises, black and blue, like painful polka dots ran along my body…”