Your eyes, what’s wrong with your eyes? You don’t need to sleep much. But you feel that time has to be marked, contained and divided, or else your mind might be devoured by blurry eternity. So you rest. With your eyes shut. But this never lasts long. You thrive on stimulation, and the self imposed blankness is almost as unsettling as constant input. Empty. Utterly devoid of the intensity you generate and embody. So you give up after a couple of hours and open your eyes.
Nothing. Pitch black.
Really, have you actually slept, and for so long?
You should be looking at an original limited print Tillmans. A gritty black and white cock and hole duel from the early 90th, nicely illuminated by the soft afternoon sun.
But even if night has fallen, it’s never dark in the flat. The lights of the power station, where the former owner of this owner gloated many artists in his collection were exhibited, should shine through the glass wall. There should be boats, helicopters, drones. Maybe a star or two radiating dead light through urban pollution.
Pitch dark is a thing of distant lands. Or the past.
But you can feel the pure Egyptian cotton sheet (custom made) against your naked back. Your arm and head still rest on the Eiderdown pillow. By right you should have pins and needles. But you don’t get those any more.
So you are exactly where and when you should be. And your eyes are wide open, but you can’t see.
You extract your arm from under your head and find the switch. Click. Your heightened senses even allow you to detect the heat from that ridiculous Tiffany lamp. But that’s it. Noting but blackness.
Don’t panic. You didn’t go blind. This could be a transition period. Like the old blood dreams. A regeneration mechanism. Gaining more enhancements.
Don’t ask yourself what new cravings will come with more abilities. Or if vision is a price you pay for that other talent, the ability to penetrate others. Stimulate and overload nerves and receptors.
Maybe you no longer need your eyes in order to see.
This isn’t a comforting notion. You sit up, and with your bare feet firmly on the distressed oak flooring, you brush your eyes.
White, White blindness. A jet of invisible welding sparks radiating from your left hand. You try to pull it away but you can’t. It seems to be attached to your eyes by some magnetic power.
No. Not magnetic. This feels like touching a naked electric socket. And the juice is in your hand right between the thumb you chip hand, where your chip is embedded.
You can see!
You’re in the flat. It’s later then you thought, but you can see that Tillmans. And the helicopters’ search lights.
Your manic relief only lasts a few second. You can also see your self. Your face. You shouldn’t be able to see your own face. Are you dreaming?
But you know you aren’t. Everything is exactly like it was on that night. But you can see your face, an extreme close up. You can see your self smiling, and your perfect teeth closing around a clamped nipple.
You can hear him. You can hear him moaning with gagged pleasure. Watch and listen to his despair when you draw back, then the echoing ring of your slap, his insincere protest.
What’s happening? This is like watching a selfie video. Or a police body camera. The instant the thought crosses your mind, the frame changes. Now you can see him. What was him name? Something with T. Thomas? Taylor? Travis? Definitely not Tony. You get a good look at a heavy leather flogger striking his engorged cock with a whooshing thud. Not too hard. But the pampered brat still squeals like a stuck pig. Theodore, that was it. Theo. You know what happens next.
Your face and torso is back in the frame. You note how rakishly seductive you appear. No wonder there is never any shortage of victims. And yes, whatever has taken over your sight is cutting to the chase. This is the interesting part.
Here comes. A 19 inch mini machete. Black. Double sided
Back to Theo. His eyes widen, but you can see that he thinks you’re still playing.
You don’t need to see his cock again. You remember how hard it was. How hard it stayed.
The first cut is in slow motion. It’s beautiful. Your free hand goes to your swollen crotch. Blinded as you are, you wank. Watching the fine sharp edge breaching the expensively tanned skin. Watching your meaty lips lap up the slithery scarlet streams. Then your hands dipping in the wound, then your genitals.
You watch his blissful grin. Theo beaming and groaning lustfully at you as you curve him open.
Such is your power. You can make them want it, want you, till the heart goes.
But in Theo’s case, you wanted him to suffer. To suffer for the very young boys and girls. Those he raped then silenced. Those he mimed or sentenced to a slow death without ever meeting in person– through weapons and poisons sold by his companies.
You are not an avenger. You no longer desire to challenge the many ways in which non augmented humans oppress, misuse and murder each other.
But since your first fatality -an accidental death through a blow dealt in rage when a gang of young bloods attacked you on the heath, you wondered; what would it be like to do this intentionally?
How does it feel to take someone so completely? To experience their death through your neural transmitters and hyper receptors. You are not an avenger. But you remember who you were. So you chose someone dispensable.
Or maybe you picked him for this lovely river view pad. Who knows.
Either way, you wanted your subject to to ask for it. Which Theo did, with great gusto. But once you had that blade out, you also craved his agony. And this is what’s now taking over your vision. Slow motion and high definition.
It took about 20 minutes. In real time. Now you watch it all in seconds.
Seeing Theo through your eyes and yourself through his, savouring the never ending moments when you finally devoured his pain.
Savage bliss is clearly visible on your radiant face as you drive the knife in one last time and inhale his dying scream.
Your heart, your real, present speeding heart, nearly bursts as you orgasm.
Then your world is white and muted. Until a voice. A pleasant, almost friendly, contralto, invades the white night in your head.
‘We have everything on record. We know who and what you are. When you are summoned, you will come’.