Bones (La Douleur Folle #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I’ve put the rag away now, under the sink with the stain cleaner where it belongs. I’ve gotten dressed and am ready to roam the streets to find her, but as I hover in front of my front door, I feel like something is missing.

I think I know what it is. Maybe today isn’t the day to look for her, maybe what I need today is some pain, and I know just where to go. I don’t know if I’ll get what I need this time, what I feel I deserve, but I’ll try it again. One of my best facets is that I don’t feel fear. I mean I do, but it’s such a rare occasion for me to feel anything that I welcome the moments when I can put myself in danger.

As I walk out the front door of my home, I reach into my front shirt pocket and pull out my half smoked pack of cigarettes. I know what you’re thinking; if I’m so hell-bent on keeping the shit I put into my body to a minimum, then why do I smoke?

It’s a simple, quick satisfaction.

That’s all I can really say about it. I’m sure I can stop anytime I want to, much like taking skulls, but I like to enjoy a cigarette every now and then. For instance, this pack has lasted me three weeks. I don’t smoke much, I find the taste unsavory and the scent it leaves on my clothing is enough to turn my stomach, but I’m very good about finding things to keep me calm. This just happens to be one of them, so allow me this moment, please.

The end of the cigarette burns brightly as the death hidden so neatly inside of the tightly manufactured paper catches fire, and I inhale deeply. The burning smoke that travels down my throat and into my lungs, blackening them slowly, mummifying them with invisible and hollow fingers, sends a shiver through me. I always feel that way when I haven’t had one in a while. I don’t know if it’s because I can feel myself becoming a living sarcophagus or if it’s because I just don’t care. But what I do know is that it’s that simple, quick satisfaction that I’ve already explained, that makes all of the damage worth it.

It may be a selfish thought to have, but I’m entitled to selfish moments just like anyone else. And as I walk quickly along the pavement toward my destination, I wonder if maybe I’m not as hideously minded as I’m led to think I am. No one is appealing to my eyes today, which means they’re all safe. I can usually find something about anyone that would make me want to bring them home to entertain me for a few hours .

Not today, though.

Today is a day for some much needed pain. It’s a day to feel without the usual irascible thoughts that would taunt me for not having my main display piece yet.

Pain is a beautiful thing.

It jars all of the senses and brings to life things inside one’s self that you didn’t know were already there. It lurks, waiting for a chance to come to the surface; pain is a great equalizer. Some can sustain more than others, and those are the ones I like the most. The ones that can last longer before they’ve reached their breaking point. The ones that bite their lips until they’re raw and bleeding, tears streaming down their faces, until they finally submit to the bliss of pain.

It’s a lovely, cool day in Kalispell, Montana today. I chose this place purposely because the temperature would drop drastically in the winter meaning I could work outside instead of my home if I wanted to .

I haven’t had the chance to do it yet.

One of the most cherished places for me here is a chalet-style mansion on the edge of town. It teeters near Glacier National Park, but it’s not easily accessible. It’s a hidden mecca of tears, blood, and the occasional exquisite death hiding in plain sight.

Most of the people fear me there. My brand of pain is different than what they’ve experienced or have witnessed before, but the truly brave ones always rise to the challenge for me.

Most, but not all.

I reach the intersection in the center of town and feel a strong wave of confusion wash over me. How did I get here? This isn’t the direction I need to go in, but yet here I am.

My body betrayed my mind again and went off on its own, but this time I was lucky enough to stop myself before doing something quite regrettable in public. Something that would embarrass me enough to stay home for the next solid month.

Putting the cigarette to my lips, I glance around curiously. What was it that brought me here? My thoughts were focused, and I had a purpose, but I lost my way.

Why is it always so easy for me to lose my way?

I’m not lost.

I know exactly where I am now. I let the cigarette slip between my lips and inhale the sweet throngs of hollow death into my rotting lungs and smile briefly. This is exactly where I was a few months ago. It was where I found a street peddler that called himself Monet.

He so desperately wanted to be a piece of art that he compromised himself and used a name that didn’t belong to him. I did give him some money though; a twenty-dollar bill if you must know. Then I took him home. I promised him food, a place to sleep, and presented it with the kindest smile I could bring across my face.

My smile makes people trust me.

It’s tragic sometimes.

Now that I know why my body brought me here, I go over to the spot outside of the small mom and pop store that he would sit outside of with his sign and sit down. I wonder how easily it would be to be able to swindle people out of money.

You see, I quickly learned that Monet wasn’t as destitute as he presented himself. No, he told me that he was too tired to work ten-hour days anymore, and that he knew that three out of five people would find it in their hearts to give him their hard-earned money.

As I bring my knees up to my chest, I chuckle. I understood his meaning, but I didn’t appreciate his candor. So when the time came to put an end to Monet’s simple life, I was sure to cut out his own heart and give it to him, like so many others had given theirs.

I took my money back after that and went to a local Salvation Army bell ringer and dropped it into their old, red metal basket.

I take another pull of my cigarette realizing I am near the filter and decide to play a game. I look up and down the street before I flick what is left of the paper into the street and ruffle my hair violently. Then I wrap my arms around my knees and look up at everyone that passes me with big, sad eyes.

Will I say anything to them? No, they don’t need to hear my words, and I don’t need a sign either. My false sadness, my forced tears should be enough to garner some sort of attention.

The first woman; she’s large, has brown hair pulled back in a loose bun, and a horrid amount of makeup smeared on her face, but she leans down and gives me a dollar .

I wipe a tear away and nod.

This is too easy.

I wait until she disappears down the street before I get back to my feet, smooth my hair out, and walk into the shop. I quickly locate a package of gum and take it to the counter. With the woman’s dollar, I pay for the spearmint flavored breath cleanser, and tell the elderly woman behind the counter to keep the change.

I need to get the taste of this cigarette out of my mouth. It’s making me insane and I’m not crazy.

As soon as I walk out of the store, I use my teeth to rip away the edge of the gum package. One last look up and down the street is all I need as I pop a piece of gum in my mouth.

I almost lost myself for a moment there.

But my will is strong, and my intentions will get me to where I need to go.

Back on track, toward the pain I need so desperately.