Living Dead Girlthing

writers barely disguised fetish personified

[somnoflesh]

She is home alone. Her eyes glazed from hours of staring at her CRT television. Her foot absentmindedly kicked as she lay out on her hand-me-down couch. Just as her heavy eyes nearly began to close—

Ring…ring…ring…

She sits up enough to catch the time on her wall clock, 1:30 AM. Who would be calling her at this hour? She sluggishly sits up and rubs her weary eyes. She makes her way over to the wall. The click of her picking up her white phone replaces the ringing.

“Hello?” She says.

Nobody replies.

“Hello…?” She repeats.

She hears something. Isn’t sure what, though. She listens a while longer. White noise is all she makes out.

“I am going to hang up now.” She murmured and started to put her phone back on the wall.

“Al…ce..” She can make something out from the phone and quickly puts it back to her ear.

“Alice.” The voice is male. It sounds gritty. Tired. Almost like a smoker's voice.

“Yes, this is Alice you’re speaking to. Is this another surprise night shift? I had today off, though…” She crosses her fingers in a hope it isn’t.

“You’re alone, aren’t you, Alice?” He asks.

“What?” She drops her hand.

“Alice.” He repeats again, like he’s learning it.

She hangs up. The click of her phone on the wall was quick. She takes a step back from the phone and tries to collect herself.

She didn’t recognize the voice, she wouldn’t know why he’d have gotten her line. She double checks the lock on her door and windows. Her small apartment makes the check brief. As she finishes latching her last window she hears it again.

Ring…ring…ring…

She swallows hard. She’ll ignore it. She’ll ignore it for now. That’s all she knows to do. She walks back to her couch and notices her TV is off. She frowns and kneels down to the buttons, her hand reaches out and is pushed back by the VHS sliding out.

“No…no.” She mumbles and stands up. The phone ringing becomes white noise in her ears as she feels a chill run down her. The room got cold. So cold.

She paces back to the phone and snatches it up.

“Who are you?” Alice demands.

“What do you want from me?” She grips the phone with both hands.

“Alice.” He says again. He said it again.

“What do you want?!” She screams at him.

The lights flicker and she hits her fist against the wall.

“I will see you soon.”

He hangs up.

Alice falls to her knees, the tug of the phone line taking the phone out of her weak and unfurled grip. She leans her forehead against the wall.

She’s so tired again.

So tired.

Tired.

[somnoflesh]

The streets were illuminated with faint streetlights, one or two flickering with neglect. The sound of heels click down concrete, quiet murmuring as their wearer flicks a lighter for her cigarette. “Tch. Stupid asshole. Leavin’ me standing there looking like a street whore.” She complains, a huff or two leaving her mouth. Leaving a trail of smoke as she walks. She takes the cigarette out of her mouth and her hand rests at her side languidly as she exhales.

All so sudden she hears footsteps behind her. Her head jolts and she comes face to face with…nothing. How annoying. She clicks her tongue again and keeps walking. She nears the usual shitty alleyways she walks by on her way home when she hears more steps. She turns again and yells out, “Quit fuckin’ following me!”

She turns on her heels again and starts to walk again.

She is stopped by a sudden fervent jolt pulling her into the dark alley she just dismissed. She squirms and kicks and her angry screams are muffled by callous hands from behind her.

“Shh, shh. It’ll be quick. I’m just hungry, you know? I’ve been real hungry.” The voice talks in her ear. He sounds tired, a gravel to his speaking.

If her mouth weren’t covered she might’ve asked ‘what the fuck is hungry supposed to mean?’ but all she could do was keep wriggling.

“I got lucky finding you out here…I don’t get to feed from pretty girls much anymore. They don’t go out walking alone like you.” He moves one hand to try and shimmy her fluffy coat off her, showing her neck and shoulders.

He leans in and smells the crook of her neck, then her hair.

“Ahh…god, you smell good.” He laughed, nearly in disbelief—like he couldn’t believe he lucked out like this.

He makes quick, losing his patience.

He finds the jugular and bites. It feels like needles and she squeals from the sensation. Her body shook, causing pain from moving with his teeth in her. Her knees weaken and her vision gets a bit fuzzy. She growls in frustration trying to keep herself upright.

He retracts his fangs best he can, “You’re really stubborn, ain’t you? I like that. I like it a lot.” He licks her wound and she can feel his smile pressed on her skin. She shivered in disgust and does her best to whip her head around to smack right into his, the shock of it works and he loosens his grip, she pushes him off but can only make it about five steps out the alley.

He holds his head and laughs, oh he laughs.

“Oh, I get it. You like to play games, don’t you, little girl?” He towers over her and she grips her fists, thinking of absolutely anything. She kicks her shoes off and sits up again. “Fuck you.” She spits out, as dizzy as she may be. She stumbles back and makes a good run for it again.

The man lets her run. He only walks slowly out the alley to shout after her, “Don’t you worry, girl! I’m gonna finish you yet!”

His verbose laugh echoes in her head as she makes her way back home. Shoeless. Coatless. And without her cigarette. What a shitty night it is.

Those were her last few thoughts as she got inside her apartment and collapsed.

[somnoflesh]

“Come.” He called, a finger pointed beside his velvet chair, his feet propped on a matching ottoman.

The noise of knees on hardwood is barely heard over the crackling of the fireplace, though the flesh is soon soothed with the soft texture of carpet.

“Good boy.” He says, rough hands caressing the soft hair of his dog before he smoothens it back.

There’s a moment of quiet, he looks to his dog. He sits still and sleepy. He had a long day today, he had visitors. Playmates. It’s only natural he is tired.

He leans over and slides two fingers between the dog’s neck and collar and pulls, the dog gives a startled yelp, grabbing his neck and looking at him in confusion.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” He says.

The dog tilts his head.

“You know, today, during your play date. One of the owners was looking at you. He told me, ‘what a lovely pet you have. How much to convince you to let me have him?’ What a fucking tool.” He scoffs and unfolds his legs from stretching onto the ottoman, planting them firmly on the carpet.

“He may as well have tried to have his untrained mutt mark you, that’s how much of a spit in my face that was.” He fumes even more, wringing his hands together.

His dog watches on, shrinking back ever an inch.

“I’m your only owner. This is where you’re going to live and where you’re gonna die. I told him that. I told him more but that’s not right for your little puppy ears to hear.” He stands up and walks to the right side of his dog, crouching down and petting his head again. He leans forward and kisses his forehead.

“You’re mine forever, puppy.”

[somnoflesh]

Owner & his dog.

[somnoflesh]

“You’re crying?”

Keeper removes his hands from his wings. He leans forward to grab little bird’s arms from behind and presses his winged back against his chest. Holding him from moving…though he was too struck with a paralyzing fear that he wouldn’t have moved anyway.

“You’re seriously crying, little bird?”

His voice is never raised. He never yells. It’s what scares birdie the most. He seems to have so much self-control despite how often he grabs and pins him still when he weeps. He scolds him so softly, reprimands him in such a kind voice, that no matter the words coming from his mouth, it seems so truthful. Something in your best interest.

“You’re that scared of me, are you? I’ve done nothing to hurt you. In fact, I do so much to help you…yet you cry. You cry like i’m so horrific…like I don’t clean you and feed you. As if I don’t put clothes on your back made just for you…”

Little bird attempts to give a weak and hoarse ‘i’m sorry’ and nothing comes out. Just his ever hitched breathing and scared little chirps each time the keeper adjusted his hold on his wrists.

“That’s enough.”

He lets go.

“I’m going back to my room. Try to calm down before your bath.”

He stands up and leaves with no other parting words. Leaving the door wide open. He left little bird to sit and cry over nothing. He never took his wings from him. He never yelled at him. Yet the little bird couldn’t help but sob.

What a pathetic birdie he was.

(from: chapter one)

[somnoflesh]

New chapter of my original work Little Bird on AO3. Been a pet project of mine for a while now, and has been on an old whump account of mine. So if she’s familiar…that’s why. Read it here, but mind tags below and within the link itself.

[somnoflesh]

My preferred form of captivity whump is in which it doesn’t feel like captivity. Whumper holds something over Whumpee’s head, guilts them, makes them believe anywhere other than with them is a lesser option. They want to leave but if they did—what would they have?

Given a life anew, a safer place, someone who will never leave them even if they just really wish they did leave them alone…they couldn’t get that elsewhere. They can’t leave. Whumper has done this for them, they have to appreciate it.

[somnoflesh]

continuation of this

The door creaks open, soft footsteps enter and promptly stop. “Brother?” The voice calls out, met with a hum in response.

He walks down the slight hall and holds the wall corner as he swings himself into the lavish living room.

A crackling fire illuminates his brother…and someone else?

“Brother? Who is that?” He asks, concern all over his face.

His brother just laughs, a pitying laugh it seemed.

“Why, that’s the dog I told you about.” He replies matter of fact.

“D-dog?” He stuttered out and looked to and fro from his brother and the boy sat on his knees next to his velvet chair.

“You cannot be serious.” He says, walking forward to stand in front of the ottoman and chair. “Are you serious?” He repeats again.

His brother’s face turns stern, “What isn't there to get? Why the fuck wouldn’t I be serious about getting a dog?”

He’s baffled, absolutely so.

“You’re fucking deplorable. Are you really fine with this?” He turns his attention to the boy, who has been staring blankly at the floor til then. He tilts his head upward and makes brief eye contact before shrinking an inch back.

His brother stomps the floor with a foot, “Did I fucking say you could talk to him?” He shouts.

“I don’t need your permission to speak to another person. You’re being ridiculous, brother!” He shouts in return.

The dog just sits there. Knees sore and tired. He leans his head onto the side of the chair.

“Look, you’ve made him tired with your stupid fucking complaints. I’d thought you’d be happy I got a pet. You told me to make some friends—and what’s better than a dog?”

He almost stumbles as he makes his way over and grabs his brother by the shirt collar; “You know damn well this—“

He is interrupted by the dog standing up and pulling him back, pushing him onto the ground and holding his arms behind his back.

His brother laughs, clapping his hands. “Oh, what an excellent boy you are!” He stands up and walks over to his brother, who is squirming underneath the boy.

“You should know I don’t allow such disrespect in my own home. I was so kind to invite you…and you come and insult me? Tell me what is and isn’t? What a disgrace. You will leave now. I don’t want to see you until you come to your senses and see I have a perfectly fine dog, right here.”

He bends forward to pet his dog’s head. The dog stares blankly again, but pushes his head into the scrubbing.

“Now then...” He clicks his tongue and the dog releases his grip and steps back.

He pushes himself up from the ground and meets his gaze.

“Goodbye, brother. I hope I’ll see you soon.”

[somnoflesh]

“That’s all for today, enjoy the rest of your evening.” Mr. Emmerich calls the class to a close. The students shuffle out one by one.

“Ah-ah, not you. Stay.” He gestures at a female student, Clarice.

“Oh- uh. Yes, sir.” She nods and walks to the desk, apprehension on her features.

“It’s alright, get that look off your face. You're in no trouble with me.” He laughs and walks to close the door as the last student leaves. Clarice watches close as he locks the door, as he always does when they're alone.

“How have you been, Victor?” He leans against his desk, eyes on his student.

“I've been doing alright…thank you.” His tensed shoulders drop with relief, he slumps forward from exhaustion. “I think so, at least.” He adds.

“Good, good. That's good to hear.” Mr. Emmerich nods his head and smiles.

“But you know, I don't like when you lie to me.”

Victor snaps his head upward, “Huh? I didn't—” Mr. Emmerich interrupts, “You just did. Is it that boy I keep seeing skulking around you? Is he bothering you, at all?” He pesters.

“No- Eric? Are you talking about Eric? No, no. He’s fine. He hasn’t done anything, we just talk. That's all!” Victor pleads, confusion clear in the changing tones of his voice.

Why is he acting like this? Mr. Emmerich’s never been so pushy. Why’s he so worried about his friend?

“You seem so quick to tell me it’s all small talk. Is that all it is? Is all he does distract you from my class?” Mr. Emmerich grips the edge of the desk and scoffs, “I should know what goes on in my own classroom. I know everything. I know everything about you.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying here?” He takes a step back and vaguely waves his hands around, trying to conjure up thought with them.

“I lie for you everyday, you know.” He pushes himself from the desk and closes their distance.

“I treat you like a young lady in front of your peers. I tell your parents how you’re a good girl for me in class and I’ve no complaints with you. I do that because you asked that I lie. I lie because you want me to. So why are you lying to me, of all people?” His heated words come all at once, Victor can only produce sparse sounds as he tries to say something, but nothing does. It doesn’t feel real. What did he do? What did he do wrong?

“He doesn’t know, does he? That Eric boy. I’m the only one who knows you. I do what’s best for you and your happiness and I would like some reciprocation for all I’ve done for you.” Mr. Emmerich holds Victor still by his shoulders.

“You’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you? That’s what you want isn’t it?”

Victor grabs his arms and tries to tug them off but he just digs his fingers into his shoulders harder, causing a wince from the student.

“Please stop it, I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry. So please stop it!” He keeps tugging and eventually breaks the grip and backs away again only to be grabbed again and pushed against the desk. It knocks the breath from Victor, he wanted to scream but he couldn’t feel it come from his throat nor gut.

“Nobody knows you but me, Victor. But maybe they will. I’ll tell them. I will tell your lovely mother & father about your little boy fantasies and see what they think. Their little girl Clarice plays as a little boy with her favorite teacher. What would they think?” He seems to smile again, but it scares Victor. It made his skin crawl. He hits his chest and tries to shove him off as he whines, “You can’t do that! You said you wouldn’t— you can’t do that they can’t know about it! Why are you acting like this? Why?”

“You’ve always been my favorite. You were a pretty girl who loved my lectures and you loved the work. You always listened. Do you know what I felt when you confided in me and only me? It was exciting.” He holds down Victor’s hands onto the desk.

“What? …what?” Victor sputters and squirms, he doesn’t know how to process the words flowing through his ears. He can only ask again and again, why?

“Be still.” He lets go of his hands and presses them either side of the student, leaning his forehead onto his. He can feel the slight cold sweat of Victor’s brow.

“Please. Please leave me alone.” He whispers like a prayer to himself and shifts his head to turn to the ground and shuts his eyes tightly.

Mr. Emmerich takes this none too kindly, though. He slides his hand from a brief touch to his leg to his face to tap lightly under his chin, “Look at me.” He asks gently, at first.

Victor doesn’t listen. Mr. Emmerich grabs his chin and forces him to face him. “Look at me.” He seems to growl out, his brow knitted tightly.

Victor opens his eyes and looks. He can’t stand to look at him anymore. It makes him sick in the deepest part of his stomach and it tightens his throat.

“Good…that’s a good boy. That’s what you like to hear, isn’t it?” He caresses his cheek, his other hand holding onto his knee to push so he can allow himself to stand between his legs. His long uniform skirt rustling and sliding up in small portions. Just enough to make Victor feel a chill run across him.

“I’ll take a kiss just for today. That will be my reward for doing what you want. You can do that much, can’t you?” Mr. Emmerich questions with another light tap under Victor’s chin to direct attention.

“If you’ll…if you’ll leave me alone.” He bargains with him, pitifully.

Mr. Emmerich neither takes or rejects the terms. He leans in and kisses him. Hand grazing from his shoulder to his side, other pressing against the desk to hold himself in place. Victor slides his hands back to keep himself upright, refusing to touch him anymore than he touched him.

Mr. Emmerich attempts to get more than a shallow peck before he knows Victor isn’t kissing him in return.

“Kiss me back. Now.”

He complies.

No matter how ill it made him feel. He couldn’t do anything, though, could he? That’s what drained the fight from him all the more. He’s just a simple girl always meeting with her favorite teacher after every other class. Eric told Victor some classmates thought Clarice was giving favors to Mr. Emmerich for good grades. He assured Clarice he didn’t think they were true, but she could see the look in his eye. Victor could see the look in his eye.

[somnoflesh]

“Come.” He called, a finger pointed beside his velvet chair, his feet propped on a matching ottoman.

The noise of knees on hardwood is barely heard over the crackling of the fireplace, though the flesh is soon soothed with the soft texture of carpet.

“Good boy.” He says, rough hands caressing the soft hair of his dog before he smoothens it back.

There’s a moment of quiet, he looks to his dog. He sits still and sleepy. He had a long day today, he had visitors. Playmates. It’s only natural he is tired.

He leans over and slides two fingers between the dog’s neck and collar and pulls, the dog gives a startled yelp, grabbing his neck and looking at him in confusion.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” He says.

The dog tilts his head.

“You know, today, during your play date. One of the owners was looking at you. He told me, ‘what a lovely pet you have. How much to convince you to let me have him?’ What a fucking tool.” He scoffs and unfolds his legs from stretching onto the ottoman, planting them firmly on the carpet.

“He may as well have tried to have his untrained mutt mark you, that’s how much of a spit in my face that was.” He fumes even more, wringing his hands together.

His dog watches on, shrinking back ever an inch.

“I’m your only owner. This is where you’re going to live and where you’re gonna die. I told him that. I told him more but that’s not right for your little puppy ears to hear.” He stands up and walks to the right side of his dog, crouching down and petting his head again. He leans forward and kisses his forehead.

“You’re mine forever, puppy.”

[somnoflesh]

Michael Myers & Psych

Warnings for — sanism / ableism, sexism, incest, sexual violence, animal death

I will not give a very long preface, most are aware of Halloween and M. Myers. My fascination with the Horror and particularly the Slasher genre is deeply connected with my sense of Mental Illness & Disability. I am an extremely low empathetic individual and have always felt an outsider for my violent & weird tendencies. It was, perhaps, only natural I find some kinship in these exaggerated killers of disorder.

Myers is a unique case to me, however. Psychiatry is a large if understated part of Halloween. Much staging for the films and stories are of institutions that simply can never hold Myers for long, and a reoccurring face is of Dr. Loomis, Michael Myers’ psychiatrist.

This is an important part of Myers for both story and real life inspiration purposes. Carpenter based much of his concept for Michael Myers on a real person.

In A Cut Above The Rest, a Halloween documentary from 2003, Carpenter shares that while he was in university his class visited such institutions and he saw a young boy of about 13 there. He describes his eyes as a “schizophrenic stare”, referring to schizophrenic catatonia in a blithe manner. This directly is the spark for the quote by Dr. Loomis within the films;

Loomis: I met this... six-year-old child with this blank, pale, emotionless face, and... the blackest eyes - the Devil's eyes

The connotations of schizophrenic individuals have shifted from the time of Carpenter’s experience to current day, with Myers being spoken of in more schizoid terms, coldness, apathy, social isolation, and his catatonia. Michael Myers is explicitly stated has experiencing catatonia in numerous films.

Interestingly, regarding his catatonic states, in a scene added to pad more time in the television cut, Dr. Loomis thinks he is faking catatonia. Myers is about preteen or teenaged in this moment. From a young age Dr. Loomis made his mind that he cannot he fixed and that there is nothing more than a primal instinct to kill.

Loomis : [talking over] Michael Myers is the most dangerous patient I have ever observed.

Younger Doctor : Doctor, there is no diagnostic evidence to support that statement.

Loomis : He's... he's covering up. This catatonia is a conscious act. There's an instinctive force within him. He's waiting.

Younger Doctor : For what?

Loomis : I don't know.

I find that Dr. Loomis claim that he is faking is as in character as it could be, this belief permeates the franchise save for some exceptions. It is key, as well, that Dr. Loomis is always proven right about Michael Myers.

The institutions he is held in do not fail him, Dr. Loomis does not abuse his power and cross boundaries, Myers is not dehumanized by him, he is incurable and inhuman to start with. There was nothing to be done about Michael Myers.

Loomis: You’ve fooled them, haven’t you Michael?

Loomis: But not me.

Dr. Loomis’ stance on Michael Myers rings very familiar to the experience of those denied care or humanity because those who hold power over us declare that either we are faking our ailments or that we are incurable.

With Dr. Loomis main position on Myers as such, It is not the only ‘diagnosis’ he receives through the films.

In The Curse of Michael Myers, the films writer intended a sexual deviance within Myers. Sexual sadism being a repeating concept of serial murderers of women. Farrands believes he wants to repeat the murder of his sister, Judith. It is of note she was naked at the time he had murdered her when he was a young boy, an impressionable age for him. Though, Farrands’ idea of Myers having an incestuous obsession isn’t just exclusive to canons in which he isn’t related to Laurie Strode.

Sex as power and violence against women is the main fear and persistent trait of serial killer archetypes. Myers characterization is no exception to this. Making a psychosexual aspect of Myers is what feels natural to someone who wishes to dissect the mind of a killer. Michael does not only kill, he stalks. Particularly his female victims. His primary watch is as always Laurie Strode. Compared to his immediate violence to men, boys, and on occasion animals.

Michael Myers is the perfect vessel for a societies fears and conceptions about serial killers, despite his own creator wishing for him to be more of a supernatural force. He is grounded in real life by those who view him and use him.

He is the suburban terror. An anonymous danger you never know will turn up. He stalks and kills your teenaged daughters, he kills your children while they play in the same park you’ve taken them for years, he’s why your dog ends up lifeless in a home invasion, he is whatever you want him to be—as long as he is evil. For when these things happen, you simply cannot think of why. Why someone could be capable of this. It must be some instinctual base reason beyond our moral and good human thought. It must be a fear as old as humans can conceive of. It must be evil.

Michael Myers can be whatever fear you wish him, can do whatever you wish him to do, but he will always be connected to the idea that mental illness beyond others compassions and imagination are an inhuman primordial thing, that they are evil and must be purified.

He cannot be fixed, he is not a person at all, he must be stopped and yet he can’t be. He is evil simply. For evil does not end as long as it’s feared. It merely breeds more evil. Like an infectious disease the same people could not dream of contracting and spreading. A sickness they thought only the other could have.