Chapter #7Dismantle yourself by: Unknown Pain.
Desire.
Anger.
You hobble across the living room, slowly, agony gripping your form. Once you enter the kitchen, you drag your way around, opening drawers randomly until you find the one you wanted, the knife drawer.
You pick out a large steak knife and hold it, point downwards, as you ascend the stairs into Aelita's bedroom. You saunter through the door, into your bedroom, in front of the full-length mirror.
A sudden stabbing pain emerges into your nervous system from your chest - a delayed reaction from the stabbing? You ignore it. You concentrate.
Suddenly, you collapse, thunk, onto your knees, dropping the knife behind you. In order to get it, you roll back, sitting your large rear-end onto your weak ankles, stretching Aelita's muscles under the pressure of her backside.
You hold the knife towards the mirror, for the irrational purpose of threatening your reflection.
You needed to do this so that you'd understand.
You drive the knife into the wound, the bloody spot where you had been so violently impaled. You continue to pull the knife upwards, aggressively, tracing over your solar plexus, tugging and tearing the cotton and lace at the middle of your bra, and to your throat. You consider this option, but conclude that a great mess would spurt of from those arteries.
You urge the two hanging flaps of fat apart, exposing Aelita's ribcage to her reflection, which did the same.
The reflection moved closer, on account of your commands, to inspect your, it's, Aelita's, silent, unbeating, motionless heart and the buzzing, irregular patterns of the inflating, deflating lungs.
Surgically, the body in the mirror places the knife on it's lap.
Meanwhile, your chest on fire with pain, you cease panting, what would be the point of oxygen intake without bloodflow.
The exact, precise behaviour makes way for a thought from Samuel - whoever he was.
You respond to this and pull off the bra, opening it up at the middle, exposing Aelita's torso and sliding the garment down your shoulders and onto the floor. He had never seen her this pure, this naked. He had felt them before, with permission of course, but Samuel had obviously never seen them.
He couldn't stop like this. He stretched upwards, her stomach flattening in full view of his, her, someone's eyes.
Who was he anymore, who were you, who was she.
The pain erased who you were.
Salty tears coat your face, perhaps sweat, or a cake mix of both.
Stress.
Power.
You plunge a hand down Aelita's underwear, feeling her warm, dry slit.
That's not your responsibility.
It should be.
She would be empty without you.
No.
You take the knife to your inner thighs and, scraping against the bone, cut out two large sections of fat. You throw the knife away. It had done enough.
A lob of fat and muscle in each hand, you pat these down into the incision above your ribcage. You pull each half, each boob, together over the additions.
The results are visible. Ridiculously large breasts, enlarged in this way. The round, brown nipples protrude even further. The ends, perky, like the ends of baby bottles.
You admire your handiwork, the extreme thigh gap could be covered with leggings, hiding the unnatural exposure of red gore and white bone.A strong bra could hold together the new assets, perhaps.
Now.
Then, with one hand in your pink underwear and one clamped over your mouth as a gag, a girl appears.
A small girl with ginger hair, a blurred image.
A short skirt and crop top showing off her flat chest and small backside, half the size of Aelita's rear end.
A blurred watercolour painting on your eyes.
She dissappears.
Your panties moisten but...
"If only you could go back and make different choices" She tells you. You black out completely You have the following choice: 1. let go |
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