Club Love
Not a word spoken, I was boiling the clean water; two spoons of sugar into one glass; a sharp mechanic whistle; a soft thud and I was slightly uncomfortable on the brown couch, face to face with hot tempered feelings.
Stare became focused; I said I’d love him.
“When?” he asked.
Anytime. Anytime. Anytime.
“And where?” he asked.
Anywhere. Anywhere. Anywhere.
“And here? Now?” he challenged me.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
He raised his eyebrows and stared away to the ceiling.
Hot water flowing with gravity down to the dark cup, changing, shifting, mirroring, its color was now also dark. The odor of Chinese teabags; the slightest smell of white powder, ex-solid; a soft thud and I was slightly uncomfortable on the brown couch, face to face with steaming emotions.
He had been drinking. Eyes to the ceiling, he asked if I did everything because I loved him.
No, sir. You are like my great god, I said.
He smiled and said I was his best friend, his friendly love, his champ, his king. The past tense in these words did not slip away from my ears. It chewed my ear drums and gave me a headache. It chewed my brain, my nerves, my veins; it flooded my blood and chewed my heart.
Was, my voice echoed stronger than I meant.
You are my best friend, my friendly love, my champ, my king. His smile was wider.
But you are no longer my shoulders, no longer my encouragement.
He had been drinking.
I was pouring the powder into the other glass; the smell of Chinese teabags still there; I mixed, I smiled, and I was little afraid; a soft thud and I was completely uncomfortable on the brown couch, face to face with my burning desires.
Yes sir, I am mad, I whispered. Soft foot-taps on the carpet, two empty cups still blooming hot air, face close to face.
His light brown eyes were closed, but other parts of his face still remained the same. It was strange.
Yes sir, I am definitely mad, I whispered again. This was pointless, since his eyes were closed and he was in deep sleep, Valley of the Dogs style. My lips breath-distant from his ear, I said yes sir, I admire and love, I am different. I am angry, I am desperate, I am alone. I am real, you are real, but we are not.
A tear was dripping down his cheek. My tear. It kept dripping swiftly, as if running away. It wet his bristles, and he was breathing calmly. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. His eyes opened narrowly.
“Is this real?” he stuttered.
No sir, no love, this is not real. This is a dream. Your nightmare is my fantasy; my fantasy is your nightmare.
“Am I crying?” he hardened. My lips breath-distant, kiss-distant from his lips, I said, I wish.
The shiny glimpse of a silver kitchen knife flashed for a moment in the well lit room. My hands were shaking as I slowly removed them from the knife; its dark handle stood straight, and its silver edge was halfway deep inside the man’s insides.
I was not sorry.
Strong vibrations swiftly shook each and every single of my nerves, as I was kissing him. I did so until the cups on the table spread their last remains of hot air up towards the sky.
I stood up slowly and looked at his eyes. They were open wide, and the surprise they held so lively a moment ago slowly faded away, leaving only emptiness, as if they were the eyes of a doll. I stood up and forced myself not to look back as I walked towards the door.
Reaching the exit, my body felt weak, but the monster inside me has finally stopped its roars for vengeance and found some quiet.
I thought I heard something behind me; a fragmented voice of a dying man asking me why. I looked up at the stars and whispered, repeating the words he himself said to me, after what he had done.
Love hurts. Credit To: Veritas_Animus
Author’s Note: You will probably notice a lack of quotation marks across the story. Please notice these lacks are on purpose, and should help you develop your own understanding of the story. I would love to hear your thoughts about this type of writing, which is inspired from the great Chuck Palahniuk, the author of “Fight Club” (as some of you may notice a clear reference by the end of the story). Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.