My life in Wellington was a million years ago. It wasn’t the best town for an industrial chemist. I moved there for a girl, but she was a cunt. She broke my heart. We keep in touch.
I first saw Isabella in the street. It was winter. Gentle rain fell like TV static. Sea breeze and road grime sealed my pores. I picked up her trail as she passed. Her current intoxicated me. I was hooked. A floral hook. Citrus. Human flesh. God damn. Kill me now. It lingered in the dense atmosphere. A rush of endorphin. Calcified connections in my mind rejuvenated. Everything ran clear. The idea of her freed me. Silent prey in the city. Shadows leaping out of doorways – everything electric. Fake leather and cheap jewellery. Bad makeup and smashed glasses. Slaves on the butcher’s block. Chopped into shanks by the eagre and incorrigible.
How hard it was to get down to business in those days, and no wonder. What a time to be alive – a time where mum and dad paid for everything and we were expected to be useless. We, the reflection of their own ignorant deeds – our children… ours.
How quickly it all soured when I got Isabella pregnant. That’s when she broke my heart. I humanised her. Impregnation murdered illusion. I wasn’t ready to let go. I couldn’t look at her the same. I blamed her for humanising me. That’s who I was at that time. In that life.
I drowned them in the harbour – she and our unborn child. Pushed her over the sea wall onto the rocks below. The fall knocked her unconscious. As I clambered down to finish it I slipped on the slimy rocks and broke my arm. The pain was at once sharp and dull. It cleared my head, just as her scent had cleared my head when first I saw her. This was the beginning of my affair with pain. I’ve perpetuated that sensation every day since. Now my soul has vacated and all I feel is it’s exit wound. The pleasure is exquisite. A black, bleeding orgasm of loss.
It’s hard to find a boat willing to take a desperate man. Approach the wrong sailor and he may raise the alarm. In situations like these you’ve got to visit the lowest dive in town. Black Hole. It had a real name, but I only ever knew it as Black Hole. A trap for misfits rife with thriving scum. Peddlers, pimps and dealers in all manner of corrosive vice.
Vas had the tattoos of a criminal. Dmitry had murder in his eyes – a lust gone deep to where it no longer mattered who died, just so long as somebody got it. I approached their table and introduced myself. I’d have looked like a complete nut to anybody else, but they could see me. That’s the thing about wavelengths. When you’re on one, that’s where your circuit glows, and that’s the lantern by which the moths congregate. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in this entire process, it’s that the truest nobles are those whom seek to comprehend. Lust is the great promotor. Sailor fags in tin sheds are never a ticket for a hot date. Good suiters for a cold grave though. I got neither, but I did find my wavelength to be entirely distorted. It’s funny how we come to meet ourselves. As the mirrors glean the white shadow is scorched. Just passing through… just passing through.