I See You
I See You
Copyright © 2015 Ker Dukey Copyright © D.H Sidebottom.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the Author.
This book is the work of fiction any resemblance to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental. The characters and story are created from the Author’s imagination. Any shared files without the author’s permission will be subject to prosecution.
Table of Contents
Coming Soon from D H Sidebottom
Warning: This title contains scenes of extreme depravity; this book is not for the sensitive reader.
Before reading please place a condom over your head because it’s about to be fucked.
For our Twisted Sisters
Evil is real. It’s an entity living under the surface, waiting for the moment when you’re weak, when you’re beaten down by life to a point that realism blurs and everything we think we know, think we are, differ from reality. That’s when you know the monster wears your face, lives your life, and sees through your eyes.
I SEE YOU
I
FOLLOWED THE CRIMSON RIVER
flowing down between her pert breasts through the lens; the deep rouge substance slowly travelling over the deep ridges of her breastbone, a pattern developing in the path of blood and leading her life force to pool on the floor around her tiny soft feet, her toes squelching in the puddle.
Click.
Capturing her death was the embodiment of power; watching her dreams leave her so unreservedly and so effortlessly. Witnessing her once strong will desert her and mock her bitterly was rather sad to watch, a void now occupying where fullness had once influenced. If we never had anything to rely on but our commitment to oneself then what had we actually ever had? This girl had been taunted by her mother’s condemnations her whole life, and outcast because she didn’t surpass her mother’s ideals for a daughter. As she swayed before me, her forced splendor now of no support or comfort, then all she had strived for was an irrelevance blown away by the breeze of her final breath.
Click.
Her faint murmured moan brought a smile to my lips, the sound as empowering as seeing the blood now trickle over the small swell of her stomach, her pale skin alive with the adornment of the deep color, her character escaping with each traitorous pump of her heart.
Click.
The heart was such a deceitful thing. She thought she had loved, and had been loved. This small, frail life before me never collected anything but false genuineness all her tragic life. But all she had witnessed was a deception of hope, her mind manipulating every emotion that had been given to her. There was nothing real in emotion. The only genuine thing she would feel was the slowing of her heart and the light fading in her mind. Was it all worth it?
Click.
Her chest stuttered for a moment, encouraging me to click quickly and rapidly, my need to take her final gasp prisoner in the lens a vital necessity. I owed her the idolization of life, her soul fossilized to allow her existence a memory.
Click, click, click.
She gasped, but it was too deep and strong to be the final one. This one was spirited, almost as if she refused to grant me my petition.
Click.
I was growing tired; such a long day. The bitter wind blew through every available cavity in my space, making me shudder angrily, the hairs under my shirt shivering at the chill coming through the window.
Click.
I was surprised, my head tilting and my own eyes widening as hers slowly opened and she managed to focus on me. She frowned faintly, unnerved but surprised by my presence. “W . . . why?” she rasped, her cracked lips splitting and giving my camera more opportunity to work. They never spoke to me. Never. But she was different from them. Personal. I tipped my head, both stunned and humbled by her fight.
Click.
“Why?” she repeated, her voice quiet as her breathing slowed. Lowering the camera, I stared at her. Of course, she wouldn’t understand. They never do. Not until the end.
“Because capturing the making of angels, light or dark, is sacred.” She didn’t scoff or stare at me. Instead, curiously, she nodded faintly.
“You . . . you should know . . .” Her mouth was unmoving as she pushed her vocal chords to do the work for her. “ . . . I’m no angel. I have sinned, and as such there is nothing for me after death.”
I smiled and stepped towards her. She didn’t move back. The chain she hung from still allowed her a little movement. She was simply quite beautiful if her insides were not so ugly. This end for her was a good choice. After all, to her, it was all about appearance. Maybe all this would fill the hole inside her that caused her corruption. I hoped so, for her sake.
“And in the righteousness shall a seraph ripen to become a beast of the heaven.” I mocked. There was no faith here, neither her nor my own. There was only life and death and I was here to enjoy hers.
She blinked at my words and as I lifted the lens to finally capture the death that encompassed her, she whispered back, “And in the beast shall an angel of virtuousness flourish. I forgive you.”
Who I am
“W
HY?”
Such a simple question, but the answer is unnecessary. For me there is no reason other than I like to watch, capture, and live for a moment in their emotions it’s what was normal for me, what was in my blood.
Sin, depravity and murder.
My role behind the lens became an addiction, a necessity. I became a part of their life and sometimes their death, capturing it all in frames.
Click.
Immortalizing them in the most vulnerable, most sacred and soul altering moments of their life. Me and my camera are one, and when I have to step out from behind the eye piece I’m not really sure who I am, or who I want to be. I’ve always been the photographer, which was my role in our family, albeit a truly dysfunctional one, but we’re still a family all the same.
You never really know your family isn’t normal until you grow up and realize how incredibly abnormal things were, but by then it’s too late, the abnormal is already taking its toll. Not only is it written into your DNA, but it’s stamped on your soul and in charge of your actions.
What is normal, anyway?
In our household we had no mother. She died when I was a baby and there was no other extended family that visited. That right there is not normal, right? But how was I supposed to know that? It was just always that way; I have no memory of ever having a mother. There was just me, my big brother, Noah, and our father who worked at the local video store until I was around six years old. After that he stopped going. He never explained why and we knew better than to ask questions. Times didn’t get tough. If anything he appeared to be better off, spending more money than usual, spoiling Noah and me with new clothes and toys, especially when he returned from taking one of his weekend trips away. He always left Noah to watch over me on those weekends, and the only adult we would see would be Mrs. Foreman, who worked in the local diner. She checked in on us and delivered supper before returning to her own children. No one really stuck their nose in our business, or didn’t care that we got left alone, despite Noah only being around eleven at the time. No one would have thought he was that young, though. He grew up fast; we both did, and he took his responsibility seriously. That was the only time I actually felt like a child. He played normal games with me; Cops and Robbers, Hide and Seek. That was one of the first things that changed about Noah when our father first began taking him down to the basement, a place I was forbidden from. I missed those weekends with my brother. We never did find out where our father went.
