The Cannibal Within (6 page)

The Stigmata Of The Beast
Dragging me some forty yards from the cage, the monster stopped and reached into a satchel of some sort. He extracted an edged device—some kind of technologically advanced branding iron—and he pressed it successively against my cheek, my shoulder, and my thigh.

Each time, the object—which seemed to leak energy—grew white-hot for about three seconds and burned the living skin. Later, when the scabs fell off, I was left with permanent scars.

Then I heard a strange sound in my head, and the monster forced me to the cold dirt. Wallowing in the mud, I felt degraded, humiliated, passive....
I briefly thought again about suicide—whenever I am raped, I think about eating dirt until I die—but the self-destruction fantasy soon passed.

Instinctively, I opened for him. As I had done hundreds— perhaps thousands—of times before, I opened my legs to accommodate the lecherous monster.

This time, however, was different. This time, he no longer seemed interested in traditional vaginal intercourse.

Anxiety overwhelmed me—I feared my blighted womb, ravaged by pregnancy and dried out by time—had lost all value, and I prepared for the worst.

I imagined a red death—a violent death—and I imagined his belly full of my tortured flesh.

A Dream About The Pit And The Worms Again I blacked out, and I had another vivid dream. It was a revolting nightmare.

In the dream, I was in a rectangular pit—some sort of sinkhole. Covered with filth, I was standing in the black water up to my knees.

‘Error is like sin,’ hissed a voice in the dream. ‘The deeper it is, the less the victim suspects its existence.’

Suddenly, I noticed the earth beneath me was moving. It was not earth at all, but a menacing organic mass—something that was pulsating and alive.
Festering and vile, the slimy mass was made up of thousands of little worms squirming noiselessly in the darkness.

The worms—hideous to behold—resembled small hooded snakes. Ice-cold, flaccid horrors—squirting some sort of poisonous venom—their soft flesh was as white as leprosy.

The albino worms were flesh-eaters—hungry carnivores— and I could feel the gnashing of their sharp, little teeth, as they stripped the tissue from my bones.

I could see dozens of worms twisting and crawling under my skin—the nude skin of my throat and chest—and I was certain I would die.

The victim of silent, swarming invertebrates, in my dream I was certain I would die.

The Taste Of Clammy Flesh
When I awoke from my nightmare—my vivid nightmare— I was on my knees in front of the sexually aroused monster. With lowered eyes, I was forced to perform a lewd act with my mouth.

His phallic aggression was revolting. I choked on his enormous fascist rod—swollen with sin, it seemed longer, thicker, and more terrifying than before—but the brute ignored my emotions.

I wanted to vomit—the thought of his vile penis, only inches from my brain, utterly disgusted me—but I could not.

Gasping for air—gagging on his clammy flesh—I looked up at the beast. I could see his eyes glowing with lust—I could see his thin lips speckled with foam—and I felt rage. Intense pathological rage.

Convulsing with fury, violent fantasies—castration fantasies—raced through my mind. In my imagination, I dreamed of holding his severed penis in my hands.

The monster was now moaning—grunting with animal pleasure—and he seemed too preoccupied to read my thoughts. Instead, his thrusting quickened, and he forced his huge erection—his icy nakedness—deeper and deeper down my throat.

More castration fantasies—more lethal perversions—flooded my mind. Visions of his mutilation—his dismemberment— his vivisection—obsessed me.

The monster began ejaculating—I could taste his grotesque discharge—it was thick, viscous, disgusting—and feelings— ghastly emotions—raced through my heart.

In a few moments, I relived every injury and humiliation that vile thing had ever caused me.

What happened next may sound excessive—even insane— but I will not apologize. Years of torment had incubated my hatred and made it pure.

With manic savagery—like a wild leopard ravenous for meat—I seized his still rigid organ with both hands, and I bit down with the jagged black stubs that used to be my teeth.

It was fine and hot.
* * *

The beast made an inhuman shriek—a demon-like howl— and fell to the mud like a slaughtered calf.

Bleeding and emasculated, he strangely reminded me of a menstruating female. A female with ‘the misery and the sickness!’

I pounced on the monster—slashing, gashing, and mauling with my teeth and nails—cursing and blaspheming with my tongue—I instinctively knew what to do.

I wanted to eat him—to make his body disappear into mine— so I gouged out his eyes with my fingers, scooped out part of his brain through the bloody sockets, and thrust the gore into my mouth.

Tasting his brain tissue, which was warm and fresh and wet with slime, filled me with the unashamed will to power. ‘The proverb must be true,’ I whispered. ‘Domination is sweeter than fornication.’

Curiously, the monster’s flesh, which tasted like raw fish, vaguely resembled vaginal secretions in odor. Eating the beast—especially the fat behind his eyeballs—therefore had a cunnilingual character.

I tried to eat everything—I wanted to feast until there was nothing left but hard, clean, incorruptible skeleton—but at length I was sated. After devouring the soft flesh of his face and hands—after consuming his spine and testicles—I could eat no more.
I did, however, drink some more of his blood to stiffen my resolve, and I washed my face with the same blood. The crimson fluid—a kind of war paint—glistened in the darkness.

In the life history of any woman, I thought, her holiest moment is when she awakens from her powerlessness.

What I Did With The Castrated Corpse
I wanted to bury the monster face down in a shallow grave— with his mouth filled with dirt and his lips sewn shut—but there was no time.

So I seized the remains of the brute—his dismembered body was still twitching with life—and I dragged him with great effort. As we moved, we left a trail of his blood and fat on the ground.

Eventually—after traveling about 30 yards—I found a womblike ditch—about twenty-five feet deep. Filled with evil-smelling chemicals, the ditch produced great naked flames—over three feet high—and a large pillar of smoke— red like blood. Fortuitously, the bottom of the ditch was studded with sharpened metallic stakes.

Recognizing opportunity—this was my chance to stab him with a metallic penis-substitute—I acted quickly. Spitting into the monster’s mouth, I pushed him into the deep, fiery abyss.

My aim was true—the trajectory was immaculate—and I impaled the beast on one of the stakes that protruded up from the flames. With supreme justice, the stake perforated his body through the anus.

Suspended in midair like a butchered animal or a skewered wild pig, the monster died slowly and beautifully.

As I watched his final moments, I compulsively touched myself. I reached down—where it is hard and pink and soft and white—and it was wet with female secretions.

The weight of the monster’s corpse, meanwhile, caused it to slide slowly down the stake. Eventually a sharpened metallic tip—glistening with blood and feces—emerged gloriously from his face.

Then—even as I watched—my victim slowly descended into the liquid inferno at the bottom of the ditch.
Dissolving like soft wax—producing a smoky eruption—the body disappeared into a lake of fire.
Fire purifies everything, I thought.

As the red smoke, perfumed with the stench of cremated flesh, drifted up and encircled me, I felt strangely renewed. My youth and beauty were gone, but I had tasted the intoxicating sweetness of vengeance.

Killing the beast, I thought, has restored my virginity and my dignity.

My Flight From The Underworld Of The Monsters
Greased with grime—slippery with blood and sperm—I started my journey for freedom.

I could not move quickly—my right foot, infested with parasites, had long ago rotted before my eyes—but I could move deliberately.

I knew my escape would not be easy—hunted like an animal, I had to flee down nightmare corridors—but I was resolved not to fail.

I had no idea where I was—like the hapless victims in Plato’s allegory of the cave, I had no certain knowledge of the reality beyond my immediate surroundings—and the mystery was terrifying.

Was I a prisoner on an alien world? Was I trapped at the Earth’s core? Was I buried alive in an unfathomed void of time and space? I did not know, but I did not give up hope.

Somehow, I thought, my courage will take me home.

Crawling In A Tunnel
I found a makeshift weapon—it was the edged device dropped by the beast—and I entered a strange glass-lined tunnel adjacent to the ditch.

I felt like a commando—a guerilla fighter—for I was at war, I was alone, and I was behind enemy lines.

Feeling my way through the darkness, I could sense that the tunnel, which was dark, wet, and cut in a spiral, had a gradual upward slope. The further I advanced, the narrower it became.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I moved as quickly as possible. I tried to concentrate, but random information— thoughts, images, and sounds—all chaotic and horrifying— perforated my mind and filled my head.

When these intrusions are experienced by surface humans, we call it madness. But it is not madness—it is not a schizophrenic episode—it is real. The voices in our heads— the violations of the conscious and unconscious—these are the sounds of the monsters communicating.

‘The invaders will not master me,’ I muttered. ‘To crimes against my mind, I will never submit.’

Horrors In The Suffocating Gloom
After crawling several thousand feet, I felt a wooden door in front of me. I hesitated—I could feel the raw fear at the back of my brain—and I curled up like a fetus.

No, I thought. Purified by years of torment, I have become strong. No longer frail and timorous, I know I can brave the horror.

Focusing my courage, I slowly pushed against the door. Curiously, the old wood crumbled like parched clay—creating a jagged aperture about three feet across and four feet high.

My heart palpitating, I plunged into the blackness on the other side. The stench was overwhelming—the air was heavy with a graveyard stink—but I did not retreat.

‘I must continue,’ I muttered. ‘I must continue.’ As I crawled on my hands and knees, I could feel the products of fungal growth and decay. Putrefaction—the gradual bacterial dissolution of the body into gases and liquids—had always repulsed me, but I did not give up. Stifling the urge to vomit, I pressed forward.

I seemed to be inside a small shaft of some sort—a crudely chiseled passage or sub-tunnel—and I kept advancing. I encountered something softer than the soil—it was a decomposing body—a corpse swarming with centipedes— and the horror almost made me scream. Fortunately, however, I was able to muffle my shriek with my hands.

The corpse blocked my advance—and I attempted to move the mass of corruption. This was difficult—when I pulled on the arms, they detached from the torso—so I decided to climb over the cadaver instead.

As I crawled over the corpse’s head, I noticed that most of the facial features had disintegrated, but its eyes were strangely intact. Covered with blue film—the hideous blue film that covers the eyes of all decomposing humans—they burned themselves into my soul.

When I crawled over the body itself, the cadaver suddenly collapsed. White ribs—jutting from blackened flesh—exuded a peculiar odor. To this day, I am haunted by that sickening smell.

Finally, after some effort, I squeezed by the body and continued my journey. I was encouraged by a glint of light in the tunnel ahead of me.
Eventually, I could feel a second wooden door, and this one I had to pry open with my steel tool. When I at length succeeded, I could hear and feel the hiss of a cold wind.

I peered into the darkness beyond the door. To my utter dismay, the latter tunnel led to the dank cellar of a squalid farmhouse. I recognized the house—located in Parkersburg, West Virginia—it belonged to a fat, quarrelsome, and neurotic old woman who kept to herself and avoided all neighbors.

For years I had been only a few miles from home. The world of the monsters is adjacent to our own!

What I Found In The Old House
I expected trouble from the old woman—she was somehow connected to the monsters—but she was no where to be found.

Indeed, the house was devoid of life. I encountered one diseased cat—my presence in the cellar was a source of terror for him—but I saw nothing else that moved.

With great caution, I slowly walked up some irregular stairs, through the kitchen, and toward the parlor. The house, although filthy and unkept, and littered with excrements in every corner, did not appear extraordinary. I did not observe secret passageways, hidden staircases, fake walls, concealed shafts, or trap doors.

I did notice a cork-lined, shuttered bedroom, however. The writer named Marcel Proust lived in such a bedroom—he slept by day and composed by night—so perhaps he was a transhuman.