The Dirge of Hate
Written for as an art trade.
Curved lines, a smooth finish and streamlined sides; you'd think one would be talking about some sporty little car ready to be taken out and cruised up and down the strip. This, however, was a woman, a woman with deep red lips like the sweetest, freshest strawberries, tanned skin and long legs with beautiful calves. Her rich brown hair looked as if Mother Nature herself had spun it.
In fact, that was the best way to describe how this woman looked, natural. She was beautiful and seductive of course, she wouldn't have caught my eye if she wasn't those, but most of all she was natural. You didn't feel shame gazing at her, as it was natural to wish to gaze upon such beauty. It was natural for a smile in your direction to run a shiver up your spine. She was... natural.
The man she was dancing with thought he was a god to be with this woman in her naturally little red dress. Well I am a god, and I know exactly where she belongs.
Oh, forgive me for not introducing myself. Whether I'd like to admit it or not, my origins make me forgetful as to the niceties that humanity believes is so essential. My name is... You know, I had a name years ago. I liked this name very much, so I guess I'll tell you that name instead of the name I go by these days. My name is Odium.
Why are names so important anyway? The only reason I can think of naming something is so that it knows when I'm talking to it. But then why do rivers have name? Humans are fond of numbering things, so why not just say "the third river over" when you want someone to know what river you're talking about? Why do I have a name anyway? There are few who are high enough on the chain of life to talk to me, and those who are make it quite obvious to me that it is me who they are speaking to without using my name.
I am Odium... and I am a god, as I said before. I am a god of pain, of violence, of hunger, but most of all of hate. Hate. How I love that word, especially in English. It has such a specific sound to it, and such a specific effect on anyone who hears it. Unlike other words that lose their power or lose their potency over time, hate never loses its touch.
Right now I hate this man who thinks he can dance with that woman, and I hate that woman for dancing with him. But then, I suppose it's fair. They're going to hate me very much later. Want to hear what happens later? Of course you do. People like you are always the same, you don't like hearing how things come out in the end, but you watch anyway. You're one of those that watches those suspense movies. You set there on the edge of your seat, watching death come closer and closer, and yet you can't, you won't, look away. You see the girl, happily skipping to school, a look of total joy on her face. You watch as she makes her way on the same path she always takes. She even smiles as she does, and you smile to. Then she makes her way across the train tracks and you know what's coming... The Train. You love that look in her eye just as she realizes it's coming. You love seeing her mouth drop open in a scream of terror. You love when she desperately throws herself to the side to try and dodge the train...
You're the kind that feels cheated when she makes it. She lies on the ground, gasping for breath, watching the train clit-clat bye. She probably gave the conductor a heart attack. Hell, she nearly had one herself. But you don't feel happy for her, you feel cheated. In your mind, she was supposed to get hit. She was supposed to be crushed. She was supposed to die for your own amusement. And now... you feel cheated.
Yes, I know your kind well. You set there, feeling cheated somewhere deep in your heart, even while you breathe the sigh of relief that she made it. Then your eyes open wide just as hers did when she saw the train, only she doesn't see it coming this time, lying on the ground as she is. The lady driving the SUV was talking on her cell phone and missed the whole thing. And now that the train has gone bye, she shifts it over into first gear, and guns the engine. The little girl has a moment of stunned terror, just a second to turn her head, not even enough time to truly realize what's about to happen, and the woman with her cell phone and gas guzzling SUV has run her over. The little girl is squashed, her head smashed like a pumpkin on the road.
You're the kind that lives for that moment.
Oh don't set there and feel all ashamed, rejoice! I know you secretly love all of that. I know what you like, what you want to see. You see I am your God. I make those moments happen. I am Odium; worship me, as you should.
But back to this natural woman and her man, since I'm sure you were wondering where I was going with that. Now they've stepped out of this little single's bar. Now they're making their way to his car, probably to continue dancing at his house, beneath a ceiling of cotton. But something happens first. Now they hear footsteps behind them. Now they walk a little faster, and the footsteps match them in rhythm. Faster they walk, and faster the footsteps come. Faster and faster, and he is fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He drops them, and stops to pick them up. She doesn't stop, and I suppose that shows just how much better and worthy a person she is. He has a moment to glance up before the claws meet his throat. Instead of the girly scream I'm sure he would have given, all that comes out is a juicy gurgle, as his like gray polo shirt turns a nice shade of pink. He is left there, unworthy as he is, to simply drown in his own blood. Perhaps he will be lucky and someone will stumble across him and actually know how to save his life, but probably not. Most people are like you and wouldn't know what to do, and would only think "Why did it have to be me who found him?" when they see him.
No... No he will just die there. No one will come to his rescue. He is left there, and the footsteps begin to chase down her. She was smart enough to keep running, perhaps in some bizarre way sacrificing her date to save herself, a survival trait I'm sure most humans have. It doesn't matter however. While the chase goes on for blocks, it is only because the predator likes making the prey run. All too soon its over and It is upon her. She is torn apart, a piece at a time, the darkness of It consuming the fragile light of her life. Her arms, those lovely, long legs, her beautiful violinists' fingers, all of them are soon stripped of their flesh. Her chest is cracked open like a box, the contents distributed all around on the ground. Her skull, the contents of which once were of a mind that truly matched its body in loveliness, empty now. It has devoured the brains and the flesh, along with anything else remotely edible.
It sets there, perched on a pile of guts and sinew, holding her still shocked face in its hands. It... he... I smile down at her. I enjoyed every moment of it. I enjoyed every moment of her. But I'm not done enjoying her yet. Even dead she can give me some amusment.
She stands there, looking at me in shock. A moment ago I was a giant hulking monster, all claws and fur. Now I'm like any other man. Well dressed, trim and proper and with a fine expensive cut to my clothing. The only sign that I am the man who just killed her is the face still in my hands. I hold it out to her, as if offering flesh to the ghost. She takes a startled step back, towards the shadow. I hear a snicker in my ear, coming from you perhaps? Hands reach out from the shadows, grabbing her, tearing at her. She tries to get away and is no more successful escaping Death's reach than she was escaping mine. Soon bits of her ghost body lay strewn among the pieces of her flesh body.
I love being a god. How else could I watch someone die twice? Once by my hands, birthed from my own hunger, and once by the hands of shadow, birthed from... your own hunger.