Disdain In The Veins of The Insane

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Kuroma is undoubtedly in love with his mother. Snagging his heart is an aching obsession. He dedicates his time to collecting images of her and copying every small habit she may have. His father
abuses his mother, and thus he detests the man. Muddled in his head are grotesque and vivid fantasies of killing and becoming both her and the man of her dreams. Kuroma wants to replace his father,
in other words. His mother is the reason he becomes a male with few positive traits. He is easily addicted to everything, and does not have the ability to assert his thoughts or emotions.

Submitted: December 29, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 29, 2017



Warning: Contains sexual mentions, but not graphic sexual scenes.


Tantalizing was the back I sought, the silhouette of her, a belonging that was not mine, but his. I cherished her, truly. Auburn was the color streaked behind, straight down, draped over her shoulders and reaching her hips. Mother’s hair was one of her best features, amongst the many I could accentuate. Often when she cried, she, too, pulled on her hair. Rather, what she did, I mimicked. This time was much like the others. I pretended to sleep, for her sake. My room was her only safe spot in the house. As the days wore on, I became increasingly aware of the actions inflicted on her, the scars decorating her sultry body.

Where she went, he followed. Father did not dare enter my room. Albeit a deranged man, burrowed in his heart were remnants of the empathy he had parted with years prior to my birth. He possessed some concern for me, admitting or not. For that reason, Mother would hide in my room at night and read stories to me. When silence befell the room, I took it as my queue to say farewell and sleep. Mother and I would gaze at each other for a moment, and when she was wrongfully certain I was indeed delving into dreams, she sat at the end of my bed and sobbed.

Seductive, she was. Not only did she manage to cry, for she bore the ability to pique my interest wholeheartedly. Despite the notion that privacy was to be instilled, Father disregarded it and crept into the shower with her every day. Mother was not allowed to pity herself in peace, therefore when the time came to be alone, she took advantage by stripping. Her body was beautiful, whether tainted by marks or rid of them. They served to be the source of my burning desire. I yearned to kiss each bruise, cut, and burn. Oh, how I lusted.

She was merely a few feet before me, and yet the throes handled my soul. I was beckoned by the curves of her figure, the stifled cries emitted. To touch--I want, I want. I was full of the burdensome phrase.

It’s scary. It’s scary,” she would chant in the poorly lit room. Paranoia encased her until she drowned in her sorrows, and my fear would heighten when her form thus far proceeded to whiten, brighten. Her sobs would rake the room, and my heart would pummel to the floor and fill with doom.

Mother was an angel.

In order to become an angel, one must first die. I came to the steady conclusion that Mother was undeniably nonexistent. No one could ever compare.

Curiosity had killed the cat, and I had performed the task of conducting extensive research in order to gain knowledge on her kind. Angels took on human characteristics, yet it was not a difficult task to discern a regular human and an angelic personality. Mother was the prime example of an angel person. Not only did she have the soothing voice and lingering smell of strawberries, for she happened to be drawn to murder scenes on television. While one could claim those things are juxtaposing, the term “angel” is intended not to be derogatory.

Angel people kill. However, Mother was not to be belittled for that reason. She annihilated criminals who were prosecuted for unjust murdering. Father had no perception of the situation, nor her antics.

Father is the one Mother was sent to kill.

It was unfortunate, but she fell in love with him, and could not seem to deny his advances. She clung to the hope that some day, he would change. Father abused Mother and forced her into having sex with him. Father was hypocritical, and therefore could not stand gruesome shows and movies about killers. Mother did not confront him. There was no mention of what he had done. Without evidence, there was no conviction.

I fancied Mother, and no other. Yes, I swelled with excitement and arousal at the very sight of her. Every time my name passed through her lips, my body was shrouded with heat. It had been that way for years, since she started telling stories to me.

“You can indulge yourself tomorrow, Kuroma. He will not be there to break dishes and throw food. I love you, I do. I wish I could get out and find a job to occupy myself with, but he won’t let me leave the house without him. He says not to get a job, because he’s the man of the house… but sometimes he hugs me, and tells me it isn’t him. I’m sure he’s a demon. Demons and angels are not supposed to converse….”

Mother flashed a shaken grin, the side of her bare breast coming into view as my head was patted. Clothes were then put on, and she stood, speed walking from my area. Mother walks quickly. I should, as well.

I wanted to be like her. Whenever I was hurt by an object, I started humming, just like she did. I tried to act as polite as I could, though I was bullied for it at school. Mother told me to be myself and embrace who I was, but it was instinctive to clone her behavior and manipulate it.

When the sound of Mother screaming and moaning rustled through, I started to masturbate to it. Though it was inhumane, I liked to imagine I was the one fucking her.

In my familiar bed of semen stains and tears, I slipped into darkness, impetuous fantasies stranded. Though my consciousness was torn from me, magnetic, I dreamed of her breathy gasps, her coquettish rasps.



School was always a blur, no matter the circumstances. When I entered the building, eyes burned with fury, and stress was vented. I was slammed around, knocked unconscious. Sometimes I would be taken home early, and other times I spent the day unfocused and irritated. The dull ache in my head never ceased. I assumed I must have some concussion. However, the pain began two years ago, and I never asked for help, never complained.

When I arrived at the house, Mother left the food cooking and rushed to my side. I never once cried, because it was not a manly feat. I lived to impress, I confess.

She clutched my hand and asked if I ate. I never presented her with a different answer. A shake of the head was sufficient.

“You need to eat, Kuroma. Skipping isn’t healthy.”

I wanted to squeeze her when she wore that despicable expression, as if I caused her pain. It was contorted in sadness. I also wanted to remind her that I only ate her food. When Father and Mother went out to eat, I never joined.

There was no reason for her to fret, for I had somewhat of a chubby body. So very many times, I did remind her. Mother could never be honest with me--or maybe she was honest at all times, and I was disbelieving. She assured me I was fine.

You haven’t been speaking lately. Why won’t you let me tell the school what’s happening to you?”

Often I would receive scorn, and for protesting, an occasional slap on the cheek. Mother’s tone was gentle, and I accepted her hand. I tried to peel back the sleeve covering her wounds, and she panicked.

“Kuroma, no.”

I stared into her dark green orbs, complying, not denying. “I won’t depend on you. One day, I will tell them off.”

Mother could not begin to understand why I was attacked by the students at school. It started when I drew her in class. It was not subtly crafted, portraying the very woman I saw during my puberty exploration. She was drawn with wide hips, straight lips, and curves all too prominent to be ignored. Mother only bursted with adoration when staring at me.

It was pornographic. As well as that, it was not an intention of mine to have others view it. Needless to say, the school’s notorious bullies did, and ever since, I have been jammed into drama, clutching my composure.

I had no one I could refer to as a friend. Never had I known such a person. Online, too, I was humiliated, judged. Mother requested for the guidance counselor to speak with me and ensure my safety be prioritized above the smoldering emotions of the aggressive males, yet that woman was incapable. She liked those boys, therefore her bias was unavoidable. To her, I was not a mere student. I was conjuring up lies about those kids, in order to make her dislike them. Ludicrous.

Mother and I had been gazing at each other for minutes. I intended to pointedly refuse her offer of bandaging my arms up, but perhaps what perplexed me the most were the tears dribbling from her moldy eyes. I was painted incredulous.

Pity me no longer, I plead.

Erratic was the thwarting heart beating in her sacred chest, first thumping the chirp of a still bird, and then pounding the drum of the jungle. Scarcely, I lifted her frame with my numb and weakened fingers, versatile wiles strumming in my head. I was cut short of my original intentions, as she stood and strutted away, astray.

Mother turned off the burner on the stove, taking down the bowls and pouring the soup into each.

Sometimes I was blessed by the grace of a strand. When auburn hair fell into my bowl, I did not feel disgust. I would take it and add it to my collection. My own acts jerked me around. First I was sound, an orchid unfound, and then confounded by my dilapidated attempts to respond to her demeanor. Twisted, I was, stalkerish and unmatched.

I want, I want… more.

Mother’s dress defined her voluptuous body, decorated red with black spots. She was a ladybug for the day, I noted. The dress dropped down to her ankles. There was a lack of skin exposure, and therefore no bruises visible. Her skin was pale, her arms frail. Mother’s legs were ever so womanly, plump and desirable. Her hips were wide, all else aside. I had grown accustomed to the pear body shape. Her breasts were firm and, as I did learn, size C. She was merely 5’6”, and adorning her wrists were bracelets. Mother’s sources of affection in her affliction were jewelry, makeup, and me. I was her only child. Rosetta was her name. She had given birth to me at the age of twenty.

When I foolishly stood and admired, she motioned for me to come closer, setting the food on the table. I was in a daze, stuck in a haze, mind a bloody maze.

As per usual, she leaned against the object, sent a precarious smile. Mother made me swoon, croon. I approached tentatively, eyeing her. She was akin to a lotus flower, in my mind. She was drifting along the ocean of emotions, shimmering beauty amongst an endless sea of deep black and blue, fused into one.

When I sat, she caressed my face, outlined the bruises and scars embellishing my skin. I basked in her touch, enlightened. Mother hummed timidly, lips open slightly while I consumed my vegetable soup with chicken included.

He’ll be home late tonight, because they need more staff. What would you like to do?” she pressed.

When Mother and I were alone together, we talked through board games. At times, she patted me on the head. We talked about Father, school, problems, and more. I confided in her, for Mother never told a soul. If I was degrading toward myself, she comforted me and I received compliments. I loved it. I was insulted by the others, but Mother fueled my egotistical tendencies from a young age.

Words were not necessary. Mother and I spoke through actions, movement. At one point, we were immensely close on the couch, close to kissing. Her phone interrupted, and I cursed my father for being a nosy vermin.

I see. We’ll go on a walk in the forest, then,” she simpered, filtering through my fleeting, unspoken words.

People liked to compare Mother to a captive, a bird. She was locked in the house, vulnerable under Father’s every whim and command. While he was high handed and hot headed, she was obdurate, intransigent. Mother tried calling the police, but Father always found out. It was as if he had the ability to smell betrayal.

The last time the both of us treaded through the forest, my rationality jilted, and from that day onward, it was reputed for the tension between us. In other words, I almost started making out with her; hence therein the forest had become an unspeakable place. I was desperate, so utterly horny. Mother had masturbated on my bed that night, as we were home together, and Father was late. She did not sob, eyes drawn only to me. It was depraved, this fucked up bond we harbored.

I continued to down my vegetables, fingers ghosting over her ever so tangible fingers in my head. I did not want to be a moronic ignoramus. I felt I was bothersome, an object of both her pity and affection.

“Why don’t you act like them? Call me disgusting because I’m a sickening otaku, a disgrace to societal norms. They supplicate me, beseech me, beg for mercy when my menacing form shines through,” I murmured.

You use some strange words, Kuroma. Where do you learn them? They’re just trying to get a reaction from you. If you stand up for yourself, they will stop with the torment. Young people like to act that way. I’m an adult, and I judge you based on how cogent you may be. You interest me more than anyone else.”

I’m the only one you talk to, aside from Father. That doesn’t please me. I find words in the dictionary. They’re there for someone’s usage,” I retorted bitterly, wiping my mouth on a napkin. I had substituted my sleeve recently. It was improper.

I learned words in order to impress her, as I did with everything else.

Kuroma… think about it like this. If I had the choice to keep everyone in the world or you, in the scenario of a catastrophe, I would choose you. You are my son.”

For her, I would only ever be a son, hellish and disheveled. It was no longer easily accepted. In fact, I would not partake in the meaningless repetition any longer.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Don’t be difficult, Kuroma. If you were a stranger, it would be the very same.”

If Mother and I were strangers, I would surely never have fallen for her. Her personality traits were the attributes that made her so very preferable for me. If I saw her from afar, I would be enamored by her beauty, and yet I would be unaware of her caring nature.

“Would you like to talk about Father?”

No. Today is about you, Kuroma.”

“There is nothing interesting to mention, in that case.”

What did the boys at school do today? Have you spoken with anyone?”

“Same as usual. I called them disgusting creatures who take their feelings out on others,” I sighed, spooning my soup before chugging some soda. Dr. Pepper was truly the finest.

Don’t mind them, they’re only rats with no better way to use their time. I’d like to tell the principal, but you refuse. I won’t do anything behind your back. It’s all about what you want. I want to make you happy.”

 If you want to make me happy, tell me precisely how I feel about you, beg me to never leave your sight, seduce and kiss me. Mother, can’t you sense the pestering anxiety I feel whenever you bedeck the room with your presence? My dear Rosetta, if only you were acquainted with such mannerisms, my burning Oedipus complex, the look of desire on my face when you tease me.

“You deserve it more than I do, when taking into consideration Father’s enforcements and actions,” I chirped, cajoling her. She blinked, disturbed.

When did you figure out about what he does?”

I did not want to tell her that I heard them having violent sex at night, nor did I want to mention her presence on my bed. I shrugged and gave a nonspecific response.

“Isn’t it suspicious how you aren’t allowed to leave the house unless he says so? Moreover, he seems like that kind of guy. He scares me. I knew it was serious when he started breaking dishes and harming you in front of me… Mother, why does he feel the need to do it?”

When he does those things, you want to hit him, as well, don’t you? When I do stupid things, he wants to hit me… his morals are loose.”

“Is it alright to ask you more personal questions?” As she nodded, I asked, “What is your opinion on incest?”

It is alright. I will not judge anyone for loving someone.”

If I were to confess to you, would you call me disgusting, or would you politely decline and never look at me the same way again? How far does your kindness go, may I know? Is it merely a show to emanate your glow?

A perfectly polished plethora of lies was implanted in my mind, until they were all evoked by the feeling of her undermining glare.

“I can promise you I will not sully you with such feelings.”

Mother’s fixation on my visage at that moment was rigid. I was hellbent on scouring through her many expressions and words. Due to the fact that I hardly spoke, Mother had learned to synchronize. She appreciated the sewage combusting and spewing from between my cut lips, and she ushered me to continue, mercurial. I never had any kind words to express, nor did I pay heed to my appearance and character. I was a foul mouthed, nonsensical daydreamer who fawned over his own ideologies. Soon there would be not a single shred of Ritemo Kuromaremaining, but this photocopy of Mother, of perfection.

There was an incessant twitching in my crotch, particularly when she blew on her soup to cool it down, cheeks bloated with air, pink lips pursed. Like a filthy savage, I groped myself underneath the table, invigorating desire stirring. I imagined the many scenarios between us, intoxicated by her scent, ravaging her madly in my impaired head. First she was atop, and then underneath, crowned Kuroma’s queen, the pinnacle of his being.

I worship Mother. She is above me, she is below me.

Mother smiled, fond of my red stained complexion. I hurriedly buried my face in my lunch, palming the tent in my jeans before my hand went slack by my side, unwilling to get caught. She peered into my behavior, ever the insightful female.

I am terrified of females and germs.

Troubling, it was, for when I scraped the inside of my bowl with my fingernail, I retracted my hand and stifled a squeak of displeasure. Mother, too, cleaned out the inside of her bowl, and upon looking at my mortified face, a chuckle was pulled from her. I was flustered, and unbeknownst to her, I was sporting an untimely erection, the bane of my existence.

Well, we should go before it gets too dark.”

I nodded meekly, tempted by the titillation. I tried to think about other things, but she was on my mind. She was always lingering.

After a few minutes of holding her hand and distracting her, the blossoming yearn vanished, and just as it was about to burst. Mother would suspect me if I handled her any longer, therefore I released her and walked to the back door, showing I, too, could be independent. She traipsed quickly to my side, hardwood floor groaning beneath her. When Mother walked, I drooled like a ferocious mutt in intense heat. When others stared at her or approached, I managed to get them alone and tell them off.

I marched out into the sweeping heat, encaged by the humidity, sunlight breaching flesh and exploring pores. I slipped into my sneakers that were left on the porch, laces already tied for my convenience. They were green, much like my hair, my eyes, my jacket, and the leaves scattered about the lawn.

Though Mother was not allowed to leave the house, we went outside together frequently, in confidentiality. The mingling of wind wooing me and sunlight protecting me provided sensual assurance. Mother liked to bring out her delicate side in the forest. If the house was the spot for tingling as she roped me around a carousel of commiseration, the forest was rather the opposite, as I was the one acting on a whim.

Stentorian were the birds flittering through the sky. I could not help but emit a sigh as I sank my fingers within the thin strands and dampened them with sweat, roiling my muddy soul. I appeared to be victim to my thoughts and observations once more, for Mother prompted me to explore the lore, smiling and staring at the floor.

I chastised myself for my budding curiosity and perversion, time and time again. Before I became aware of it, I was entranced by the flurry of green, the mush of serene.

Forward I went, compelled to turn and drop to the wet and stagnant earth, peek up and see the bottom of the ladybug, raise the wings and mate.

When I become overly excited, angry, or cynical, I act on impulse.

I felt I was losing my identity, turning into a repulsive man, a lesser being than even my father. I decided once more it would be best to stray.

“What would you call a male ladybug? A manlybug?”

She chuckled, walking closely and slowly this time, and yet there it was, the bug against nature, a world of mysteries, a world of unexplored territory. In anguish, I yearned to explore my ladybug queen.

I love nature. In particular, squirrels. How I love squirrels.

Around me was an aroma of bliss, recompensing for the lack therein. I was forlorn, yet unabashed, for this Kuroma boy did not belong with nature, a dent among the settled smooth.

My feelings were mangled and shredded, embedded, beheaded that day, the day I endured the accepting fraud. The personified emotions told me yes, told me no, thoughts of their own melding with mine. My lips neared hers, and she was not resistant. At the time, I almost gave in, but among the din, my rationality and composure won again.

I will not let impulse rule my head.

Often Mother hinted toward her obsession with me. I figured it was a lie. I assumed she knew of my deepest fantasies, and thus she expressed her pity by being fake, the demolition of my stature following in suit.

I kicked some leaves as we ventured through the forest pathway, which led to our typical site. I was in somewhat of a limbo state, light headed and drowsy, mulling over the eroticism of my fantasies, the vicious school bullying, Mother’s curiosity.

From the corner of my vision, the creature darted, racing up a tree, beautifully switching sides and gripping its habitat. Mother and I both stared in wonder, mesmerized. We were certainly nearing our special spot.

What caught my attention most frequently were the small black eyes that stared back. They held in them depth, unattachment, beauty, pools of euphoria, evoking overwhelming responses. Though others thought them to be nuisances or did not see them in a holy light, Mother and I loved squirrels. We worshipped them. For us, they were everything.

“Even if you get lost… the squirrels will show you where to go,” I voiced, stepping on an acorn.

Mother had told me many stories about squirrels. When I told others that I liked them better than any other animal, they laughed. Unconventional, it was. My interests were often eccentric. However, Mother could never see the part of myself I detested so.

WIth a sense of despotism, I began to sprint, a trace of madness left behind as we escaped further and further from Father’s control.

“Why don’t we… run away? Some day.”

I’m terrified. He’ll find me.”

“Mother, do not despair. We can go somewhere he won’t find us. I’ll protect you, my-”


She disregarded it and did not remark, thankfully.

I’m the parent here. I should be the one doing the protecting. He’ll find me. He always has,” she continued, sullen and transfixed.

“Have you tried to run?”

That gained no response. Words were not necessary to get my message across. The cicadas cried in the forest, reflective of the thoughts whirling in my head, making me giddy with love and lust. Leaves scattered, and in the distance it was, an abandoned building, victim of kudzu, stagnant water, and squirrels. Best of all, the housing of the queen ladybug and king Kuroma.

I ought to get off my high horse for one day.

I deduced that we would not get very far with an attempt to escape, yet it would be senseless to shrug off the impending doom and gloom I predicted.

We took turns climbing on the trash compactor and lugging ourselves over the building’s roof. I took the time to examine for passersby in the enclosed area, though we were not ensnared this time, either.

There was a hole in the roof, gaping, edges jagged. A delinquent must have beat it with a rock in the past. A heavy one, at that. Mother suggested that the squirrels came together as a family and ate through it. It only earned a laugh, as the squirrels in the area were not rabid.

A single body could fit in the space provided. The fall was treacherous. I feared the idea of dropping myself down. My body, weak and pudgy (by my standards), was not particularly suited for such an endeavor.


The cicadas screamed, pressured. I trembled, sickly sweaty, exhausted by heat and anxiety. On the latest occasion, the hand that sought mother out lost its grip, and I swung to the floor, collapsed on my shoulder. The only source of yellow was upward.

If yellow abandoned blue, said blue would die off.

There had been a golden sheen over my eyes. Upon blinking, water was released, itchy and hot. I was desperate for hope, reaching for it.

When Mother came down, we hugged and sat in the silence. The speeding hours lynched my labido, and helplessness devoured my desires. Desolation smeared me into the ground, the cream of the Oreo, the favorite of most. I wanted to be pinned down, humility rousing, screaming and begging for my queen to execute me.

I am her property. She is my prized possession.

I croaked, numbed by pity and trauma. She coaxed me to ease my way into the hole, assured me she would not release me, no matter how cynical my hand, no matter how many tears it cried, no matter how slippery.

I crawled forward and turned around, wearing a half hearted grin, loathing my inner fears. Mother was fearless. I wanted to be like her.

She lowered me down, down, and I stared around, heard the dripping ceiling, saw the shadow of a squirrel. Uneasiness did not yank at my heartstrings, but a swear was emitted, nonetheless. I thrashed slightly, readying myself to touch the damp floor.

I was dropped.

Agonized was the king, needy for an explanation, a response, an apology. The queen escaped, darted away, further and further from the addicted. I laid there in a puddle of old rainwater, hair sopping wet and filthy, much like my personality, my obsession.

There was no gasp, no concoction of despair and fantasies of sodomy. There was naught but incertitude, betrayal. Thoughts were wrenched from my mind, replaced by the familiar chant, and a disgruntled pant.

I want, I want… and you mustn’t run from me, Mother. Surrender yourself. The king will slay your throne.

Permeating the air was the scent of wet dog fur. I recognized it as being my squirrel “friend,” whom I called Fuwa.

Fuwa was a hostile squirrel, gigantic and monstrous, the size of a person. He liked to scrape at my sanity, claw at my skull, rake up my shirt and toss me against the wall. He reminded me of Father, amoral and abrasive. He only appeared when Mother drifted off to sleep in the building. He hid himself from her, while Father made his presence and blistering anger known.

I was merciful, equanimity breached, writhing as the hunk of dark brown fur huddled close, eyes gleaming, flashing black and white. He clipped at my dream state, deranged and grandiose, overwhelmingly flamboyant in presence. I was pressed into the floor, squandered like a worm baking in the sun on the sidewalk after the passing of a storm. The mass sat atop my chest, claws burrowed in my shoulders, teeming with heat.

I pondered, wondered if I would die this time, closed my eyes and allowed myself to get knocked into submission. The stench of blood drifted into my nose and choked me from the inside out, raw and human.

He was riled up, snarling and tearing at my face. I turned on my side instinctively, which did not serve to satiate his sadism, instead impacting the dwelling inflection of his voice, as he roared with more haughtiness. The heat of his rakes seared the skin on my neck, and the king wailed, trembling and shaking, stomach uneasy and aching.

I spewed vomit, tumultuous efforts in vain. The animal was wanting to scoop out my innards, dig into my body and turn me into a squirrel person, mangy and antagonistic. The serenade of the squirrel, it was.

Flickering was the light in my chest, thumping, pumping, red and sodden. Life depleted, yearn unquenched, the king had lost his power. Sound resonated, and the yellow from above materialized once more. Fuwa scrambled away, and two wide brown eyes glared down. A male.

Wordless, he slid down the hole and dropped on to the cold ground of the abandoned school building, piercing his life into my death. His appearance was thought provoking. He appeared to be my age, yet the clothing was simplistic, rather than over-the-top and the work of a tryhard.

“Loneliness will kill you, Ritemo.”

I recognized Kokari instantly, as he was one of the few people who called me Ritemo. Though people were commonly referred to as their surname, students liked to call me Kuroma. I only liked it when Mother did so.

Kokari was what one might consider to be brutish. He suppressed his thoughts and intentions, concealed them, designed a personality of his own to express. Kokari disliked things that were not mature. For that reason, he appreciated abstract art, chess, coffee, cats, and more. He was in a couple of my classes, ones I hardly went to, as I was often sent home early.

His joke had no response, and thus he yanked me off the ground and hauled me over his shoulder.

“Have you been here before?” I inquired. His reply was impetuous.

“But of course.”

I did not feel the need to pry further, acid bubbling in the stomach as the world around me seemed to tremor. I was guided by the repeated chant in my head, the hysteria that caused my existence to furrow its brows.

I want, I want, I want, I want, I want….

“What is it you want, Ritemo?” Kokari breathed.

I choked on my spit, convulsing against his shoulder. He patted me on the back, whispering words of flatulence.

He started to run.

I watched as the squirrels chased, for I was their leader, their king. Kokari was the one who visited, in order to kill them off. In that way, we were not alike. He was beyond the point of being half demon.

The sound of his fist ramming against a wall did echo, and my head pulsed fervently, seldom ceasing. Appear, the door did, an exit to the outdoors. I did not entirely appreciate his waggish behavior. Nevertheless, it was best not to question him any longer. I hadn’t expected him to save the fallen king.

“Crawl. Now I leave.”

I was somewhat flabbergasted by his decision to set me on the ground, rather than drop me. Just like that, he had vanished into the lair of the trees, hair blending in with the bark. I wanted to call out for my dear ladybug, but to no avail, mouth shriveled like a corpse.

Tell me, Kuroma. When in your life have you ever felt happiness?

It was as if they had conspired with my father, those sickened hounds. One could not be reliant on them and expressive of their issues, for even those sources would go behind their back and tell the same story with more fabrication involved. When I told Mother I wanted to consult a psychologist, she allowed me to see one weekly. He could not understand the mind of the king, for not even the king himself understood.

To receive self gratification from one’s fantasies, oh, yes, I was quite fond of it. In my state of desolation, I still longed for her embrace, repulsively defiling perfection.

It was surreal, this scenery surrounding someone insignificant. I stared about, losing conscious reasoning and wondering where the exit was, how I would return home.

I’m an anomaly.

I dwelled in my head, present at no other location. I satisfied myself by being subjected to susceptible delusions. A self proclaimed king, a rumored cockroach, crawling helplessly, hopelessly lusting.

I laid on my back, imagining Mother’s warped face as she left me to fend for myself and rot in the building of decay, melting, melting into the floor as decor. There was nothing remaining for such a fiend, nothing at all in this cluttered head. What is the point in having an obsession?

I fretted, panicking reclusively, overcome by a wave of despicable detestment. I wanted to burn her, set her aflame and cackle. She was deserving of my every thought meant for Father. How dare she betray the king? How dare she?

I whined like the cicadas, embracing the childhood invented for me, pursuing self understanding. Daunting was the assumption that Mother would arrive at the scene and cater to her king’s toxic floundering. The insanity flourished, and my being wilted.

I imagined two worms melding together, slobber and saliva, clobbering myself to refrain from acting out my disdain. I wanted to slam her against a tree, intoxicated as can be, and listen to her pleas.

I laid there, expectant, for hours, quite possibly, losing track of time as I withered away. Not even the squirrels were present. The air chilled my ego, and there I wept, minuscule against my queen’s territory. Perhaps even I was her territory.

Rosetta did not come back for me.

The humidity made me itchy, along with the gnats raiding my open mouth and touching my heated flesh. I saw in my head the corpse of Kuroma, maggots impregnating each other and lounging on his entire body, eating every trace of him left.

Drenched in sweat, I rolled my eyes upward as the heel of a boot pressed down on the reddened wrist I had created a scratching post of.


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