skin

There’s a black door on the street.
No lock. No handle. No number.

You wouldn’t see the door, let alone open the door, if you weren’t sent an invitiation.
If you’re invited, it’s party you don’t miss.

Inside you go down a narrow staircase, lino covered.
Overhead the paintwork is cracked, smeared, and stained.
There isn’t much room.
Above you a strip of hospital green neon. The light flickers, weak, the tube is on its way out, the noise irritates and aches in your skull.
You can feel the thump of music coming from a pit of darkness.
The light weakens as you descend, unsteady on your feet.
You’ve already taken something, dropped a couple of tabs just to get you through it.
Are you ready for this? Your heart fills your throat as you step into the room.
Is your conscience ready for this?

A very private party.

The noise, the sound, fills you up. No chance to talk, not that you’d want to.
Soulless, empty faces wander by, eyes avoiding contact.
(don’t get chosen, don’t stand out.)
They fear you. Like I said - is your conscience ready for this?
You push through the crowded room, past sweating, nervous people.
False smiles, frightened eyes.
They avoid touching you. It's as if you’re contagious, a leper.
Well, you are. The lambs, little lambs to the slaughter.
Came to the city looking for some fun.
Enjoy the rock and roll lifestyle, didn’t know what they were getting into, who - no - what was waiting for them. Smoke, from a hundred fags, a hundred skins, threads its way through the air, sits heavy in the space between heads and ceiling.
The scent of herb is sweet, stupefying.
The party has been going on for hours.

Some embrace, keep the human contact - some need more.
At the edge of the room, in the shadows, a deeper intimacy is taking place.
The tension is building, hypnotic, sweat, and tears, drip through heavy mascara.
You get close to the epicentre; get to your allotted place.
He nods to acknowledge you as you go to stand next to his shoulder. Then returns his attention to the stage.
The bitch is curled up close to him.
Stroking his hair with her long golden nails.
(Fuck me, she looks good tonight, if only…no…she doesn’t even glance towards me.)
You remain behind him. Menace but it’s not needed.
They’re scared enough of him.
You’re a freak show to remind them of what happens if they misbehave.

Fail to satisfy.

Before you, lit by gentle spotlights, more little lambs writhe upon the stage.
They’re caught in the moment, not aware of the audience, only interested in each other.
Up there they squirm. But you see other things in their hands - with each caress, they pierce their flesh.
Thin wire hooks, evil barbs are threaded through skin with gentle sighs of contentment.
Razors cut red threads across flawless membrane.
You glance back to his bitch, the tip of her tongue flicks past those perfect white teeth,
tasting the air, the scent of his excitement.
You switch your eyes back to the stage, afraid to be caught watching her.

He knows that you dream about her.

The shit you took is really kicking in now; her fingers have travelled down from his hair to burrow its way under his shirt. You can see them moving, kneading the skin through the material. Her other hand flick the buttons undone on his shirt. Removing it, her head moves low to kiss his skin.
Her tongue follows the faded tattoos that trace their way across his body.
You keep your eyes fixed ahead; you’ve been there before, you know what’s coming.
(Should you shout out – scream a warning?)
No.
You’re as much a part of this as anybody here tonight.
He turns to smile at you and passes you one of his little crystal vials.
There, be a good dog.
He steps forward to move in with the performers.
Part of you - the hidden part, the buried part,
the last of you that is good, wails.
(don’t watch, don’twatchdon’twatch…turn your eyes away…)
But if you don’t watch, you’re dammed anyway.
You clutch the glass vial so hard that it fractures in your hand.
You drop the glass and lick the blood away, lick the venom.
Feel the warmth of it soften the scars the cover your body.
Let the bones relax so you can stand tall for a while.

The performers part to reveal a young man seated in a chair.
He is handcuffed, hands bound behind him.
But he shows no need for escape.
He smiles dreamily as Matthew straddles him, chest to chest, face to face, skin to skin.
The others encircle them, caressing them.
Matthews’s fingers touch the hooks embedded into the man’s chest,
gently pulling; his head dips to kiss each wound, one by one,
drawing the power that’s leaching from each lesion.
He wipes his hands across his face, smearing the man’s blood into a mask.
(don’t watch, don’twatchdon’twatch…turn your eyes away…)

You drop your eyes back to the bitch once more, she’s leaning forward, would love to join in.
Eager. Sweat beads her perfect skin.

Then Matthew raises his hand, the thumb and forefinger are encased in silver, etched in symbols.
He touches the man’s skin at the point just above his eyes and his thumb on the man’s cheek.
His victim’s eyes close and he smiles.
Matthew's head moves forward to kiss the man on the mouth, his tongue to probe into a mouth.
You know poison passes with the kiss.
You 've seen it before.

A thin, sharp blade emerges from the silver, Matthew begins to cut.

You think witches go to celebrate their feast of Samhain,
what you call Halloween, out on a hillside dancing round a fire?

No.

A couple of hours later, the place is empty.
It’s my job to clear up the mess.