Thoughts of a Dying Atheist

Sympathy is a mask behind which the frail and ignorant grovel. I am NOT one of those people. I don’t hide from myself. I am not deterred by my reflection. Nor do I entertain a belief in God or in good or evil. Then, what is evil? Is it fear? Is it the cold sense, the eerie breeze on your neck in the dark. Or is it a part of us. Is it the potent combination of both power and desire? Is it love? My favoured emotion is our most primitive. Our instinct. Hate.

Friday

11:15am-12:15pm

Mrs Rachel Diaz-Decker. A ‘Mrs’ thanks to her husband, Michael Decker of Decker/Dean & Associates. Much to my dismay, she has been a regular at my door for almost two years now. She is a tall, sickly looking woman. Her ego only outweighed by the sheer volume of make-up she applies to her crackling skin. A brunette, or at least today she is. With every moment she continues to talk, her suburban accent ringing in my ear, i want more and more to segment her body into precise and equal pieces. Her conceited personality makes my skin crawl. She is a simple, self centred megalomaniac. It is clear that she needs a companionship her husband cannot provide, she’d happily let me fuck her as she has fucked most within her many ostentatious social clubs.

I wish i could just asphyxiate her now. That way i’d be freeing not only myself, but her husband from her consistent unfaithfulness. I could just snap her neck. She’s not going to be strong enough to over power me. I fear this may go on for some time. I curb my desires. Soon will come her time. I’ll have fun killing her.

12:30pm-2:00pm

I take a break from my clientele. This brief interlude between patients allows for my regular work out. I begin with one hundred stomach crunches. Then fifty jump rope pounces. Then I break my routine. I choose a lunch of balanced protein, in chicken, and vitamins A and C, within lettuce and tomatoes. I drink a glass of still water, shipped from Norway; I ensure that I only consume the best quality. Before I invite my afternoon appointment into my office, I change from my sweats into a fresh and pristine suit, following a shower. I exfoliate my skin and sit behind my desk, ready.

2:30pm-3:30pm

Then she enters. Lilly Wordsworth. Long blond hair, rouged lips, coated in red against her lifeless complexion. She was beautiful. However, I could never pay attention to her. I am sure her problems were plentiful, but I couldn’t tell you a single one of them. I spent the duration of our sessions mentally undressing her and picturing what she’d be like in bed. A sensuous beast no doubt. I felt the urge to fuck her, but my appetite remained caged by our situation. She was always so quiet. Her voice so delicate I felt that my interruptions may fracture it. I think it was her eyes, they were deep and blue. They drew you in, even if my mind was wondering away to a bedroom. I am sure it wasn’t love, more addiction.

This was the day.

9:15pm

I ride the tube from Oxford Circus to Piccadilly. After exactly seven stops, I’d arrive home. This night I detoured. Lilly sat at the far end of the last carriage. I averted my gaze from the foul man that sat opposite me. She was ever radiant and vulnerable. She looked at me. Compelled, I took my place next to her and listened.

Together we exited the train, two stops before my usual. She followed me into the night club, I the Shepard with my sheep. I didn’t queue. Money buy’s power and power is everything in my world. The insatiable need to fuck her rose. She drank vodka and I water. She was intoxicated. My eyes became fixated on her lips as she smiled. I began to sweat. She danced. Her body the altar and her innocence the sacrifice. An alluring body, pulsing in front of me. Inviting me in.

I grasped her arms as she lifted them above her head. Staring directly into her eyes i saw my reflection. ‘Carpe diem’. I threw her back and kissed her. The taste of her twenty two year old, fragile flesh was captivating. She looked up at me, a hero on a pedestal. Her face a submissive facade. Keeping a firm hook on her hand I dragged her down a dark corridor into the men's toilet. A foul odour hung in the air. I pushed her into the graffiti ridden cubicle. She fell onto the besmirched and grey toilet seat. Her eyes fixed upon my lips. Screaming out for me. I pushed her head back and un-zipped her scarlet red dress. Blood coursed through my veins as i lifted her onto my lap. She kissed my neck, her skin soft to the touch.

The deed was done.

Now for the closing act. Lilly panted as i placed my leather belt through the final loop. I gathered a pair of black shooting gloves from my pocket and placed them on each hand with my back turned away from her. “Doctor?” she spoke. Her voice was once so sweet. So unspoiled. She looked up at me once more. Innocence lost. I breathed deeply. The real fun begins. I turned to look at her. For a moment her face smacked of desperation as i savoured the last urge. The final drive. I grabbed her neck, the thumping music of the club cloaking my anger. I squeezed harder, and harder, as she struggled, throwing her arms out at me. Her mascara ran along side tears. She scrambled for a breath that no longer existed. In those eyes I saw her delicate form slip away. I was God.

Finally all life drained. I loosened my grip and took a few steps back. I glanced down at her half naked corpse. A defiled memory strewn across the toilet in the filthy, sullied cubicle. I had her innocence, her life. I have control. Seeing her their, still, i have one last pity fuck. However, living women fuck better, but even in death i crave my own kind.