Peter Marra

from

A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll

 

 

(Giallo - an Italian-produced murder-mystery thriller which features scenes of excessive violence – often originally choreographed – which blur the lines between art and exploitation cinema. Films of the giallo genre usually include strong elements of horror and eroticism, the latter often in the form of voyeurism A high proportion of giallo plots involve a masked black-gloved psychopath brandishing a shiny blade).

 

“There is no truth here, you know that? I’m going to destroy their faces, their bodies, rip them apart.”

 

Criselda decided to fabricate a plot of fear. String it up by the old bridge that lead to wonderland; 1:30 am the screaming would start. The cloying sounds would fill the auditorium and saliva would stain the floor. Juice will drop down feminine legs, blood too, from a constant state of arousal. The climax never ended. Two figures writhed on the floor fighting for the fallen stilettos; high heels pierced the remains of the evening.

 

Please maintain a veneer of respectability. Fucked memories, a souvenir of killings done properly. Shimmering liquid under the moon. Lick it off the blades. Lick it all then pass the red into my mouth. I have bad ideas in my head. Surf music scorched rubber gasoline perfume mixed with female arousal odors behind the garage on West 3rd. That woman loved it in every hole, she liked to tell her girlfriends all about it. Then, when she was spent, she would reinvent and vivisect her lovers. So much garbage. Hopefully they would stay alive during the procedure. It made Criselda giggle.

 

At this moment she was in the confessional. Purple words flowed freely, as she fingered between her legs, rubbing the clitoris. A taste of holy water and the smell of frankincense and myrrh. She saw a string of flickering lights from the ninety-nine cents store. A string of lights that had been used to strangle previous customers that had entered the booth before her. They had never left. She moaned excitedly then left leaving behind a bad confession. Not knowing what else to do, she opened a vein in each arm. Penitents who passed by stepped over the red pool gathering outside the door.

 

In the park mutations of former trees bore mute testimony to her slowly gathering fear. Acid-nerves-twist in the pit of her stomach. Minutes ticked by.

 

“Only I identified Death. It’s easy,” Cenci said while while removing a cigarette from a beat-up pack. She and Criselda were sitting on a couch in Criselda’s apartment.

 

Cenci lit the cigarette and dragged the smoke it deep into her lungs as she was lighting it, a feat that always made Criselda gag. Didn’t matter, Criselda had quit smoking 5 years ago, enjoying a piece of nicotine gum now and then. She would chew it in private since she was self-conscious about her chewing.

 

“The dance of cadavers as they fucked on coffins,” she continued. “I saw them. Yes. Juice stained the oak lids.” She stamped out the butt after a few more drags. “didn’t want it anyway,” she said. She reached under Criselda’s skirt. Criselda wanted to push the hand away but relented and let Cenci proceed.

 

Sightless eyes watched them as they indulged, the air was permeated with the smell of sex and skin and cigarette smoke. The pitch black pubic hair was on display, matted into a sopping mop of fear and cravings. A scorpion twitched in the corner. Criselda reciprocated and parted the lips to catch a fleeting glimpse of the Oracle. Later Cenci posed for photographs in the bedroom while figurines were placed on discarded organs.

 

Bent over, Cenci’s heaving breasts swayed with the rhythm of Criselda’s hand plunging deep into her vagina.

 

“Please! Please! Go deep! Cenci begged. “It’s been so long. I killed the last one! Aaagh!”

 

Black fire radiated from Cenci’s pubic mound, turning into radiant crimson, enveloping Criselda’s fist. Screams started and stopped and continued for seven minutes. Criselda’s screams, then Cenci’s moans, then together, lips touching, they collapsed on the floor, having rolled off the bed.

 

“You ok?” they asked each other simultaneously. Neither answered and they lay on the floor nauseous and tingling, staring at the ceiling. Three hours had passed. They looked for the clocks, but the timepieces had been removed. Having entered a maze, they had become entrapped.

 

13th Hour.

 

Criselda noticed that the nude woman had a tattoo on her chest, right on top of the breasts. She couldn’t perceive it clearly since the woman was rather far away. As the woman got closer, as her mouth got closer, Criselda could see that the image was an animation of Christ on the cross, drawn in the style of Max Fleischer, with delicate colorings of red, gold and blue. Criselda could hear the last word uttered by our savior, synchronized with the beat of the ceiling fan. It was barely audible, the shadows increasing with each tick of the clock. Criselda had her left hand on the subject’s sex organ now, her right hand flicked open the switchblade again. Outside the window, under street lamps, lovers French-kissed before passing out bored. Lazy hookers fingered themselves and lightbulbs exploded. An illness was preset.

 

Her playthings were degradation and vice. Criselda had become the vampire of the Atomic Age. Criselda plunged the blade deep into her, just below the sternum. A quick puncture, a surprised look, the prey collapsed into Criselda’s arms. Christ continued to mouth unknown words.

 

“I’m scared now, there is something waiting to touch me, to warn me about my mistakes. At 4 a.m. the panel of accusers will convene to read through the list.”

 

Criselda listened to Cenci’s confession. In this manner she neutralized the problem. Sound-snaps were already in progress.

 

“…and then while he was sodomizing me, I retrieved the autopsy knife I had hidden beneath the mattress. I reached behind me and sliced off his cock on the upstroke on his pullout. He was stunned, maybe confused. Not sure how I should have read his expression. His mouth remained open in a voiceless scream that never ended.

 

“Not sure how long, everything was slo-mo, he keeled over. While he writhed, I pushed the blade underneath his chin and slowly pushed (a little sound of jawbone scraping and flesh separating, not much, though) and watched it come out his mouth. Fuck, I was sweating. Wondered if there was my juice mixed in with the blood dripping out of his mouth….”

 

“Always the sound of butterflies. Soft flutter on my clitoris. Am I absolved?”

 

Sometimes the women were overcome with the urge to remove themselves from the existing scenarios. They would check the current locations of the existing wounds that had ensnared them, trying to determine if a pattern existed. Forensic criminal roleplaying intrigued them. They were in love with the constellations of pain.

 

The ceremony of her pet’s submission affected Criselda in unique ways. Criselda noticed her own handwriting started to change in a myriad of variations: the slant of the letters, the dotting of the i’s. It was a vicious pleasure. These things added up until the obsession was overpowering.

 

The bell rang three times. How does someone know someone? The relationship with her perverts thrilled her. When she made them die slowly for their transactions, she felt whole. Taking their lives with her hands, as she saw the recognition of the death sentence in their eyes, their regrets at knowing that they had destroyed other lives, as well as their own, made her coherent. She knew they shared a sin, but Criselda knew her sins were composed of the purity of revenge. It was the essence of cleansing and it made her content.

 

 

From A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll, a surreal giallo. Coming in December 2018 from Hammer & Anvil Books.