So Pretty You'd Puke

(Note; this is my first piece, and enjoy!)
He was a pretty boy, no doubt about that. Platinum hair so blonde it was nearly white, blue eyes so dark they were nearly violet. He was pale, and too skinny, with the softest skin you could imagine. He would wear dark designer sunglasses, and his hair would be a carefully arranged sexy mess of spikes. His smile was slightly crooked, and he had dimples.

“So pretty, you’d puke,” he would laugh, before he kissed you.

He would allow himself to be protected by you, to be guarded as a pretty trinket. He would snigger at your masculine urges to own him, and he would give in, his canine teeth glinting in the light as he bit, bit until you screamed with pleasure.

He smelled of strawberries and peach, of cream and sunshine and candy, of smiles and sunsets on the beach and of love. His hair felt like silk, so smooth. His skin tasted slightly salty, slightly sweet.

When he smiled at you, it would be like the sun rose and decided to shine only on you. When he smiled at you, it was like an angel came down from heaven. When he smiled, his whole being would glow, and you would glow too.

You could count his every rib, and you delighted in that. He had the oddest eating habits; he would starve himself, and then eat until he threw up. Or else he would eat junk food sporadically, constantly, gorging himself, and then eat nothing but salads. He would throw up, every now and then, and sometimes throw up blood. He would sometimes pass out and find himself in the hospital, being fed by a tube. He looked like a skeleton, too pale, with purple shadows under his purple eyes, but that was all okay, because his glow was magic, because his pretty silver hair looked beautiful in between your legs as it bobbed up and down.

He was in his early twenties, and looked sixteen. Expensive hair and skin products weren’t uncommon; he wanted to stay beautiful, and you would buy him anything he desired. Already, as he lay in your bed, smooth cheek laying on your chest, he would talk of the day he would die. Reaching thirty years old was a concept he wouldn’t tolerate. A gun, a shot, crimson blood spreading slowly on the floor was his plan, his dream. He would describe it all in detail to you, his voice bubbly and with a slight note of hysteria as you held him close, close, closer. His pretty mouth spewing words like machine gun fire, like blood splatters on a wedding dress. He was always like that. He could never stop talking, his eyes glazed, his soft pink lips in perpetual motion, trying desperately to hear the sound of his own voice at least until you stopped him with your own mouth.

He would talk and talk and talk just to make sure he was still alive, physically. That he hadn’t finally died. That his lips weren’t ice cold and blue, that he wasn’t buried and gone. That he could still breathe, still take in precious oxygen, that his lungs weren’t burning as he struggled for air. That he was still there. His last vestiges of sanity resided in his voice, and each word cut with the broken shards of his mind. And you loved it, you loved being hurt by his serrated words, again and again and again. Bubbles, blood and glass, that‘s what he sounded like.

He looked exquisite if he ever accompanied you on your outings. The blood splattering on his lips, in his eyelashes, in his hair. The way his dark dark dark eyes would light up with his purest, prettiest smile when the light left your victim’s eyes. You could see your victim’s face light up in desire and lust every time they saw him, and you reveled in claiming him in front of them, as they lay slowly fading away from the fragility of life.

You remember the time when he was in a bar, and another man decided to own him. You had broken all of the bastard’s fingers, and then later murdered the bastard in a dark alleyway, after the hospital. You had tied down your darling boy, and refused to let him go for weeks and weeks and weeks. And he had laughed all the time, and blushed, and kissed, and looked more angelic than ever. He wasn’t missed by anyone, he said. No one would miss him but you, and that’s why he loved you.

He said his soul was dead. He drank, took drugs, had sex with anything that moved, at least before he met you. He was the woe begotten child of too little attention and too much brainpower, and his mind had snapped long ago. His soul was heavy with moral decay, decomposing, a living doll of a human being. He was beautiful, with leathery wings of a devil, and with a cheap neon halo he would string up and parade to everyone. He was beautiful, and he was yours, before he blew his fucking brains out in order to remain beautiful for the rest of all time.

He was a broken shell of a human being, and that was his name. Shell, shell. A name befitting an angel.

He was a freak, a beautiful freak like you, and he would tell you he loved you again and again and again, and you loved him for it. He was beautiful.

So pretty you’d puke.