A Descent

Alpha stubbed his cigarette out into the ashtray. He gazed upon the stoic dead woman on the floor. Her mouth open, her eyes half-mast. She was a beauty, and even moreso dead now. Her skin sunken tightly against her cold stone bones, discolored lightly, dappled like stage make up around primitive blood flow areas - under the eyes, around the lips. The apple of her cheek-bones turned purple, like make up. She was a gothic queen of remembrance on the floor. Probably stuck there by now. He just looked, wanting another cigarette. Wanting to touch her now more than ever that she was dead. A corpse has no demands, he thought. I could touch her. Do what I want. Its like masturbation, but sex. No demands from anyone but yourself. He peeled out and went to his knees to graze her dead cheeks. To kiss them. So cold against his lips. So dead. Her smell was arousing. Her feel was convicting, but he loved conviction. And he wanted her now, the sex between his legs as hard as her. He slipped off her loose, flower skirt, and----

I'll add more later. I wrote this months ago. I can't ruin it until I feel like I can start again