"what happened to the way she used to come as soon as I entered her and the nights I watched her face as she slept?"
-bret easton ellis

i just wanna say thanks to everyone for their kind words. i am working on a new book, "the return of saturn," and its helping me feel so much better. just things that need to come out pouring from everywhere. i'm bleeding so good. so tomorrow is monday. 9/12. a new week. a new start. there's been a lot of death these passed couple weeks.
i won't complain tomorrow. i will only call people to let them know i love them. i will embrace for once and not be defensive.
((((((puncture wound bleed freely))))))))))

here's more "Demonic"

***Marhollow***

“So, can you stand up?” I asked. He looked at me and shook his head.
“My ankle…I think they broke it. One of them jumped on it a lot.”
“I hate this place,” I declared as if I were the one on the floor. Jesse reached back in an attempt to pull his shorts up then he stopped.
“SHIT!” he screamed. “I fuck…I fucking need you to…” he couldn’t force himself to say it. I looked over at the wall and saw some beer bottles and a can opener. I looked at Jesse’s flat bottom and saw some blood drizzling down his inner right thigh. “I think there’s…they put some things in me,” he sobbed in humiliation, hiding his face.
I was on my knees with my hands resting on my legs. I looked him over, not really knowing what I should do. He told me it hurt really bad and he wasn’t sure if he could walk. I finally said, “Okay,” trying to relieve the tension and awkwardness. I pressed my hand on his back and consoled him a little, giving him a half-ass massage. I felt like an idiot. I was nowhere near intimate when it came to guys. The last time I touched someone was this girl a few farms down from me. She smelled like dead turkey and I couldn’t wait to get away from her. Most of my sexual experiences turned out to be horrible. I knew this was different, though, and I tried to just focus on what I needed to do. Jesse seemed to appreciate the attempt I made at comforting him. He closed his eyes and stopped sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Then I positioned myself between his legs. I looked out at the hollow gymnasium and took in a few needed deep breaths. Then I stuck two fingers in my mouth to get them wet. I didn’t want to be so surgical as to just jam them inside, so I placed my hands on his ass, letting him know what was about to take place. I saw scratches from where the guys must have hurt him. Blood crusted up and the cuts disappeared between his ass cheeks. I started slipping my fingers inside of him, as slow and gently as possible. I’d never done this before, with no one, not even myself. The warmth and tightness was pretty foreign to me. Jesse twitched and sobbed. I closed my eyes for some reason, thinking that would help me find whatever was shoved up inside of him. I wiggled my fingers around and pressed my lips together. I’m not sure who felt weirder, me or Jesse. I watched his fingers move, his hand flattened and pressed hard against the gymnasium floor. He made strange noises, jadedly swerving between moans and sobs. I felt something; the ruffled metal edge of a bottle cap.
“Jesus…” I whispered. I moved my other finger so they pressed together and tried to maneuver the cap out. Jesse cried out in pain, then he grinded his teeth and pressed his lips against his arm. Spit spurted out between his teeth. The outburst reminded me of a choked up water hose twisted in knots. “I’m sorry…,” I said, pulling the cap out and throwing it on the floor. I looked down at my fingers covered in blood. I wiped it off on my jeans and sat back. Jesse rolled on his side again. He seemed drained. His eyes were still, and focusing on the blue painted wall on the south end of the gym. He wasn’t blinking. He looked like he could be dead.
“They tried to get me before,” he said. “I always managed to get away. I can run pretty fast,” he spoke with little self assurance. I nodded. His hand touched the back of his head. I noticed his black hair was matted with blood. “They knocked me out with one of their fucking bottles.” He managed to sit up. His face bent in a frustrated pout.
“I have a joint in my car…I can…you need a ride?” I didn’t know what else to say. It sounded dumb; me offering to get him stoned.
“The thing is…” he pressed his quivering lips together and frustratingly rubbed his jeans with his hands. He was so uncomfortable in his own skin. His chin was bruised up. His dick wobbled limply as he wiggled into his boxers. I picked a crumpled pair of jeans up where the bottles were and handed them to him. “My mom’s been waiting for me…she probably left already. I can’t face her…”
“What kind of car does she drive?”
“Fuckin’ Pontiac,” Jesse answered, running a hand under his nose. I nodded. “Silver…she has really pretty red hair, kind of bushy, she’ll be wearing seventies-looking sunglasses.”
“I’ll go see if she’s out there.” I slipped my hands down into the pockets of my jeans. “I’ll walk you to my car first, then I’ll go see if she’s parked out front and if so I’ll say I’m a friend of yours and you left early, how’s that?” He just nodded. When Jesse attempted to stand up his body completely failed him. He slipped beneath himself and cried out in tremendous pain when his chin slammed against the gymnasium floor, gripping his right ankle.
“FUCK!!!” He screamed. I was sure someone would find us now; they had to have heard Jesse screaming. “FUCKERS!!” Then his rage crumbled into sobs again.
“Okay,” I stayed calm, trying to think. “I’ll just have to carry you.”
“No…” Jesse rejected my offer. I heard the hollow footsteps of someone in expensive loafers marching towards the gym.
“Shit.” I knew that walk. It was the walk of Mr. Breeves, the high school Principal. His son was on the basketball team. His eleven year old daughter suffered from cerebral palsy. On his desk were framed pictures of both his children. His son, a freckled face teenager in a jersey purposely too big for him, flashed an overenthusiastic smile for the camera with the basketball tucked under his arm. His daughter posed in a wheelchair, her head in a weird tight spasm the camera unfortunately caught. A film student from Michigan State recently did a documentary on Mr. Breeves family’s goals and inspirations. It was called Dreams Higher Than Lost Balloons. The whole thing made me want to vomit. Mr. Breeves zippy march stopped dead in the middle of the gymnasium when he saw me and Jesse. I knew right then he how he filed us away in his head – some trashy shop kid and a nobody art student.
“Um…everything okay, boys?” He rushed to his next question, fidgeting with nothing but his own hands. “Everyone’s already left the gym, there’s really not supposed to be anyone in here, don’t you think its time to leave?”
“Yer, he just overexerted himself,” I said. I hoped that was okay. Right now I just wanted to get the fuck out of here. I knew it was late. I knew I’d be better off calling into work at this point. Maybe I’d just drive out to the beach instead. At this point I might just swim to New York.
“Oh, well,” Mr. Breeves said. He still had his right hand wrapped up in his left. He stood there poised half Fred Astaire, with his right foot elegantly picked up behind his left, and the other half seemed more cracked out referee. We made him nervous. “That’s why…it’s best to just keep things simple…some kids are meant for sports and others are meant for…well, other stuff.”
“Right, and we’re about to get to that other stuff,” I said. My voice was dark and murky. I stared him down, waiting for him to leave. His body moved like a cold wind passed through his veins. Yeah, that’s right, asshole, I thought.