Daemon (NSFW)

It is on rare occasion that the analysis of a sick man may be broadly known, but in the case of Martin Talley, all shall see the derangement of his actions.

Talley lived far from the lights of life in a decrepit building about a mile from the highway. The weeds about the morbid estate constantly scratched at the itchy rotting wood from wall to wall. They climbed inside through windows and holes, as vines, inviting disease-ridden critters and varmint to make home in the squalid filth as well. They liked the darkness, as did Talley. There was never daylight around that building, yet the weeds still grew. Talley let his senses feast on the crippling darkness and malodorous stench that gave him company there. It was on a mattress in the middle of this tiny one-floored building that Talley could be found. He would lie on a mattress stained by the unforgiving nature of his semen and excrement, tempted by ideas conjured within his infected conscience.

Talley was quite a rotten and disordered man. He didn’t move much, for he was much more comfortable on his mattress in the dark. But when he did, he liked to roll around on his shoulder in a sort of manic insanity, or a euphoric dementia, rather. High pitched, wavering, swirling frequencies swam about in one ear and out the other. Those tunes alone were enough to drive any man insane. They carried doubt where they moved. These were the whispers of the dead, not so much in a literal sense, but they were what Talley heard nonetheless. He often envisioned – in his hallucinations – a pianist in that room, playing these sorts of melodies for Transylvanian funerals and satanic rites.

Talley had a wild smile, a yellow, wet grin from ear to ear. He had wide hazel eyes, too. But, you see, Talley did not have any eyebrows or hair, for he had cut them from his body with a shaving razor. They were sure to grow back, unevenly though, for Talley did not have a mirror. He had quite a large mirror for a good few days that he found in the abandoned building, but after noticing bodies in his peripheral vision, appearing and disappearing whilst looking up and down, he smashed the mirror with the blunt end of his shaving razor and cut his palm. What a shame that was.

He was quite a slender man with a long neck, much thinner than most, as a consequence of starving himself. Talley usually did not wear a shirt, because he did not like them. As a result, his exposed ribcage was constantly battered, and turned a sort of spotted blue color, which gave way to contrast with his pale sickly skin. Pants were a must-have however, as he could often find ecstasy in rubbing denim against his genitals. Talley liked to bite and pick at his skin as well, and his forearms took the brunt of the damage. He especially liked to bite his inner wrists and arms, for that is where he felt the most pain and drew the most blood. The fingernails that once grew on his lanky fingers then sat in a neat pile beside his mattress. The sting of such exposed flesh was a delicacy. How sad it was that there was not a soul to hear him screaming. He screamed in pain, he screamed in madness, he screamed for liberation, and for God, who left his calls unanswered.

How Talley survived in those conditions is a question never to be answered. But aside from the man himself were his actions. Talley was a murderer and sexual deviant. And how could he not be? Unfortunately, Martin Talley’s father was not a particularly kind man, and his mother spent the majority of her life inebriated. Nevertheless, Ol’ Daniel Talley was quite a demon, and he most certainly did not care for Martin. When baby Martin was about ten or eleven, after his mother died, his father took it upon himself to make the boy’s life a living hell. They moved to a very small and unpleasant neighborhood to live in a cramped and dilapidated house, and inside of that house, Martin could find no solace. Ol’ Talley came to burning Martin with a cigarette one evening, and decided that it was quite funny. After all, they were equally responsible for mother’s death. To make matters worse, Ol’ Talley was a sort of chain-smoker. He often pulled down Martin’s pants to burn him on his buttocks or legs so that no caring passerby could help:

“This boy! Somebody help this young man! Police! Police! Little boy! Who has done this to you? My God, what are these dots? Have you a disease? You are safe now, boy.”

This, however, did not happen.

Oh, but all the while there was quite a heavy psychological type of torture that often went along with these things. Father’s incessant screaming and beating slowly began to drive Martin to the brink of insanity. As he stood on the edge of madness, his father stood behind him, quite eager to give him a good old push. Ol’ Talley continued to burn Martin well into his late teens, at which point he began to cut the boy with knives and razors as well. It was made certain that the man very well hated his son.

It was in the dead of night on one October evening that – a now twenty-something and mentally deranged – Martin took it upon himself to cease the physical pain, for he knew that the mental pain was inescapable. Martin made haste to the bathroom and found his trusty shaving razor! He licked the edge of the blade, and drew quick pressurized blood from his tongue. After fumbling around for none more than a minute longer, he came across some sort of pills, which he placed in his pocket. Making his way into the living room, he found his father passed out in a cushioned chair; Martin proceeded to wake his father, and placed the razor against his throat.

That was when Martin found his vengeance!

He told father to take all the pills in the bottle, and not to move. There were probably thirty pills in the bottle; Ol’ Dan would die for sure. Martin sat before his father then, and waited for him to die. He took his father’s cigarettes and began chain-smoking himself, occasionally standing up and burning his father in the face or neck. After about forty-five minutes, father began to seize and gargle and stare off into an abyss quite near where Martin sat. He tried to breathe, but air only made its way in in very short gasps that sucked more saliva into his lungs. He coughed and coughed and slammed his head against the edges of the chair. Five minutes of that went by before Martin decided he was no longer amused, and cut the man’s wrists. That was the fate of Ol’ Talley. What a painful death! And it must be mentioned that the boy carefully carved ‘faggot’ into his father’s chest like an artist, with his work of brilliance. It took him years to complete, but it was finished… a red painted portrait of an abusive man: not for sale. Talley could not help but set the curtains in the house aflame, and before long the entire building was enveloped in flame. He choked on the fire’s black billowing smoke until he lost too much air, and passed out. Miraculously, he awoke outside of the building shortly after the fire had ceased. Talley ran immediately to avoid the law’s intervention, though that was one quiet night and there was not a soul to be seen.

Talley did some wandering and some thinking, but his mental state deteriorated just as he imagined his father’s charred and lifeless body. It was after his endeavors as America’s lunatic vagabond that he decided he would settle down in his gray building in the middle of nowhere.

Though it did take him a while, Talley eventually realized in his everlasting madness that he may like a toy to play with. He managed to find a few while following himself inside the wood near the building. His first was a very short and fat woman, quite hideous, actually. Talley crept his way into her home, then raped and beat her to death. My, how she was afraid! She did love to say “Please! Please! Please! Don’t kill me! Please!” She loved that word, please. Talley found it very humorous, for there was no earthly way he would let her live. After he raped the woman, he beat her to death with a small brass clock very near where he found the woman. Talley dragged her back, which was quite arduous, and placed her in the bathtub in a back room. She remained there to be fondled and raped further. Talley found necrophilia to be quite glorious, as he felt he connected with the dead in a way he thought impossible. And it was truly nice to have her there as a toy. After quite a while, he wondered how the woman might taste, so he gave it a go. By then, the body was infected with maggots and other small bugs, but this was of no concern. He loved the taste, sort of like the canned food that his mother would feed him before her passing, and he thought of her in his feasts.

Soon enough, there was not enough flesh to even pleasure himself with, and Talley set out for more victims. He took his second and third and fourth all within about a month. What fun it was for the poor man! He ate and fucked his fill, and he was quite well, as well as he could be before they found him. They took Talley from his home and placed him in places he had never seen the likes of, where he was surely uncomfortable. He found, inside these places, that God was ignoring him. Mother Talley’s childhood prayers that were so reassuring would go unanswered once more. Poor Talley never found the building again, or the critters, or the bodies, or his mattress. But perhaps what Martin Talley missed most was his father, for he knew that if the man had lived another day, he would not find himself in the company of demons. Nor would he find himself in the Seventh Circle.


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