The Rebellion

It's you that makes me lose interest because you're like an icicle. I'm sure you're thinking of your loverboy again instead of paying attention to me.

What would YOU do if you had to choose between the life of your untrue lover and the life of a complete stranger, and your choice was watched by millions of your fans LIVE?

NUPTIALS OF DEATH

If you didn't read the previous part, click here

I laid there with my lips stiffened – she wrote to her blog around dawn. – I didn't have the willpower to reject him, to fight, to argue, I was just watching him push himself. He was grabbing me harshly with his shovel-like hands. He must have noticed that I'm not feeling a thing because he started to pet me where I like it. I tried to let myself go, but I remained totally insensitive. His touch almost hurt. I told him to skip it today because it won't work for me, so he yelled at me angrily:

"For your loverboy you would absolutely let yourself, no, and that's why you don't want me anymore!"

I didn't feel a bit like the same old record played thousands of times that – no, I don't have a loverboy – don't lie to me! – I'm not lying – which little dipshit are you messing with at the office? – get off of me, don't you understand I don't have anyone!! – your boss, he would try you on, I've seen how he was drooling over you – you're talking of me, not some clothes, and he's anyways married – etc etc etc so I again just got used to the fact that today there will be another strike on the list of joyless sex encounters. I started to caress him so at least I can get the maximum out of him.

When he crawled over me, I could hardly keep gagging back. His skin was breathing a stale smell of beer, a gust of body odor came out from under his arms. I was suffocating under his fat body. Naturally he didn't notice a thing of it, he just kept thrustin' around. The worst part is that when he drinks too much, he doesn't get hard enough, or he goes limp almost immediately after penetration. I don't feel anything, and he is not able to come either. So then he always wants me to go on with my mouth. And then when he finally manages to come, he goes a grace of moving down between my legs.
Oh how much I hate it when in a minute or two his head resurfaces and he asks me with an urgent expression: „Now, is that enough, baby? I don't want your PH-balance to go nuts!”

On other nights I just nod in submission and I squeeze the blanket between my legs and try to fall asleep as soon as possible, but now I remembered how he made me tiptoe around the shore whilst he was showing off his fat, and it just slipped my mouth:
„No, it was not enough! I didn't feel anything! At least once in this lifetime you could satisfy me!”

He looked at me startled:
„By this you mean I'm not good enough in bed?” – he rose his tone like a hurt beast.
„Yup, exactly. All you care about is for you to get off as fast as you can and you don't give fucking shit about me feeling good. If you drink, you don't even stand up right, and you drink every single night.”
I was surprised myself too that these sentences would rip out of me.

He jumped off the bed as he started spattering:
„What, me not being good enough? Why don't you even say I'm impotent? Well, you should know then that it's you that makes me lose my interest, because you are like an icicle. I'm sure you're thinking of your loverboy again instead of paying attention to me.”
I couldn't help laughing as he was standing there, gesticulating wide that made his fat and his dick shake around vigorously.
„You laugh at me, you cunt?– he lunged at me. – Now I will beat you until you tell me whom you fuck yourself with, since you got such a big mouth.”

„Don't hurt Mommy!” – the kid quietly said from the doorway.
We grabbed the blankets in shame to cover ourselves.
„It's okay, darling! You know, sometimes adults play a little before bed too, just like children do” – I tried to calm him.
My husband wrapped the blanket around himself and walked out with a grave expression.

Now he sleeps in the guest bedroom.
I put my son next to me in bed and I whispered in his ears until he finally fell asleep, then I sneaked out here to write this.
I'm terribly scared. What will happen to us after this?

Finally she found the shirt and the home-worn shorts. Anita sat down to the computer and typed in the blog portal's address. Even though she has written a bunch of things since then, still she got the most responses to that night's story. Again she read through those ones first. Some people offered their sympathy, but there were also always the badmouth statements of what they would do with the blog owner if they could have a little time in two. She carefully deleted those latter ones. A commenter named Sangel alerted her. He wrote nothing ugly, but his entry was still scary:

In deathly nuptials, ore meets ore, and life acquits in mourning galore…

Anita tried to find some sense in the words, then she shrugged and deleted this comment too. She quickly read over the comments to all the other entries, then she started to write about the day's happenings.

*

He was waiting patiently at the edge of the woods. Sometimes he got out of the car and walked around to check there's no one else around. He was avoiding the area of the factory grounds so the security guard won't see him and start asking questions. When it gets dark he'll anyways move into the small office container and watch TV until midnight, until the next shift arrives. He will have plenty of time to do his thing.

He sat back into the van and turned the radio on. He knew exactly that the man's missing won't be in the news yet – most likely not even his woman is guessing that her husband won't come home anymore –, but still he was switching around the channels curiously. After he listened to the weather news too, he looked for some music, but then he decided against it and switched the radio off.

It would've been so much better to toss the body out in some park. There the dogs would've found it in just a few hours and he could already watch it in the evening news, listening to it with a pleased excitement, what crap they talk about him, whilst they have not a single idea of the great game. Now for this he will have to wait for days, because every single little detail has a greater meaning. He's hiding the corpse into the currently unused warehouse because of the message. It will take a day or two until the start to seriously look for the victim, until then he can comfortably get rid of any and every evidence so then he can manipulate the flow of things throughout the internet just as he wishes.

He took another walk around. When he was sure there's nobody around, he sneaked to the factory fence. It wasn't completely dark yet, but it was getting harder and harder to outline things.

The office container's window was blinking in a blue-ish color. He took the pliers from his pocket and started on the fence. The rusty cable netting gave up immediately. After two or three cuts he kicked into it, and that made it collapse on a good five feet.

He put the corpse bag on his shoulder and with heavy steps he stumbled to the hole. Should his victim had paid more attention to his figure, now he wouldn't have to spit his lungs out. He went around the warehouse next to the security office and headed towards the other building hiding in the dark. That's where they kept the dangerous waste materials, locked into rusty barrels.

He was surprised how the factory skipped the eye of the environmentalists. Maybe at some point he will write an anonymous letter to some green group, then the press will be all over them for weeks, and he can just make a wager with himself when they find his little hidden gift.

He found the rusty iron gates open, just as when he came to survey the place.
He recalled where he can find that barrel that got a hole in its side so the corrosive matter slowly leaked out from it. He had to stop a few steps away from the door because he couldn't see anything. He clicked on his flashlight. He shaded the light with his hand so it would only shine to right under his feet.

The barrel was at the very same spot as last time. He dropped his baggage to the floor and put on some acid-safe gloves. With the pliers he forced off the lid of the container. He grabbed the corpse and shoved it in, then leaned against the next container and marveled over his work.

Death Matrix – that's how he called the rhombus stood on its corner, where he split two neighboring sides in four. Four by four is sixteen. That's how many little rhomboids he got. He marked both sides with the Four Elements in a way that the bottom corner would become Earth-Earth and the top corner would be Fire-Fire. Whatever makes up life is the matter of death too. One box can be checked now. Slowly, slowly each little box will get filled. Right now, the order doesn't matter, the only thing sure is the end: the last box will be the Fire-Fire: step sixteen, the finish of the great labor, the Great Meeting.

As always when thinking of the TV woman, his crotch started tingling.

to be continued next Thursday

Nightmares

Her husband expected her to have the perfect body, and what did she get in exchange? A beer-belly, humiliation and a less and less performing manhood.

What would YOU do if you had to choose between the life of your untrue lover and the life of a complete stranger, and your choice was watched by millions of your fans LIVE?

NUPTIALS OF DEATH

If you didn't read the previous part, click here.

She's laying on a marble table in a giant hall. Her naked body is only covered in a white sheet. She may be burning from fever, still she couldn't warm the cold stone up under herself, her teeth are hurting from the constant chattering. She tries to move, but her arms and legs are tied. A male choir is humming in the distance. The ceiling is covered in a giant fresco in which the painter composed day and night, planets and stars into a single picture. That makes her feel like if she was in space.

Some quiet noises are heard. She lifts her head. Figures in white hoods arrive, their faces covered by scary masks. The singing gets louder, but the lyrics seem to be a nonsense jabber.
Suddenly all becomes dead silent.

One of the figures steps up to her. Under his mask a pair of eyes flares up with hatred. He's just staring at her, won't say a word. He's holding a golden bowl.
She starts to toss herself around, the rope biting into her flesh.
She feels a sharp pain in her wrist, her hot blood drizzles into the ice cold bowl.
– You can sacrifice me, it won't be a salvation for your sins, for I am a sinner too – she yells.

The man leans to her face as if he wanted to whisper her something, but he remains silent.
She already knows, he won't speak because she knows him. The scent of his deodorant suddenly hits her nose.
It's him!
She screams.
With a sudden move she knocks over the bowl half-filled with blood, it hits the ground with a loud thump.

The sound of the phone dropping to the floor was still echoing as Orsolya Manner came back from her dream. She was laying on the floor of the study, still in her clothes, the phone cord somehow got twisted onto her wrist. Her back was cold and her whole body was shivering, even though the sun shone through the window. She rubbed her eyes and looked on the clock. It was just past one. She feverishly tried to remember what happened last night - to no avail. She got up and looked around in her apartment. She was alone, the door carefully locked from the inside, with all three deadbolts. At least this time she didn't carry an unknown man with her.

It's been a year since the hostess of the tabloid magazine show Snapshots was kidnapped by her own boss and kept in inhuman conditions in an underground hole. János Márkus, the programming director of Channel Three, tried to take revenge on the unsuccessful television career and suicide of his only daughter in this way. His mind, falling to pieces after the loss of his child, made him think that the other show hosts, especially Orsolya Manner were responsible for barring her daughter of realizing her life-long dream of becoming the star of one of the most watched TV shows, Snapshots. But Melinda Márkus was just simply too tight for a show host. She may have known all she needed to know about the trade, she may have been radiantly intelligent and beautiful, it just didn't come through on screen. Orsi couldn't reach up to her in many means, but still, if her face turned up anywhere, she could glue millions of viewers to the screens.

Márkus has killed other women too before he could catch Orsi. Luckily the police and one of the editors from Channel Three traced her down so he didn't have enough time to finish off the kidnapped hostess. Máté Farkas lured him into a trap, and police sharpshooters killed him. In a few hours they found the lair where the hostess was hidden and she was freed.

Since then, Manner has had constant nightmares, reliving and reliving the time kidnapped. She has even tried drugs before it all happened, and after her rescue she got totally hooked. She knew she would need help, but a star can't show weakness, so she rather just locked herself into her home and every night she drank and stuffed pills into herself, but she would also shoot, sniff, smoke anything else possible if she could find a source that she thought to be untraceable. She wasn't afraid of harming herself, but she was panicked from being discovered.

She quickly took off the previous day's clothes and stood under the shower. She let the cold water run on her until the icy pain shook even the last frames of the nightmare away from her brain. Then she turned the water hot, and she laid down in the tub.

After her kidnapping, she moved the 1pm topic meeting to 3pm, claiming that she wasn't able to fall asleep until early in the morning, so she still had time to get herself together. From seven till seven-thirty she has to look like it's expected from the best known star of the country. And she met these expectations day by day, even though she felt it more and more often that the bottom of the hole is nearing, and from there she won't have a way back anymore.

She tried to put the phone together when she noticed that her computer was left on. So she again dozed off whilst surfing on the web. She didn't even dare to think whom she chatted with, and of what. She took a peek into her outbox, maybe there was a trace of what she did. She was relieved to see she didn't write any emails. That's when she pointed out a new message. The first part of the sender's email - mate.farkas – hid the name of the editor who saved her life at that time, and who became the editor-in-chief for Snapshots, but its second half was from a free email server that he has never used before.

She clicked the icon to read the message.

I need you, I want to meet tonight at midnight by the City Park Lake. You get me in deep trouble if you talk about it to anybody.
Máté.

Her stomach got tight. Máté Farkas knows it exactly that she's terrified by lonely places ever since she was kidnapped. Why would he still invite her to a night meeting behind the back of God? And in addition, the editor-in-chief has taken a week off and traveled out of the country. How did he get home?

She grabbed her cell phone and looked up Máté's secret number in her directory.
The number you dialed is currently unavailable.
She expected nothing else.

She quickly answered the email:

Why do you do this to me, you know how scared I am ever since...
She sent the letter without a signature. She glanced on her clock. She will be late again. She quickly turned off the computer, locked the door carefully and ran off.

*

Anita kicked off her heels right in the doorway and ran to the study barefoot to turn her computer on. After she filed the report, she excused herself by saying she had a debilitating headache. She felt she would go crazy if she couldn't check her blog. Whilst the antivirus was loading, she peeled off her uncomfortable business suit too. She stopped in front of the mirror for a second. Her thirty-five-year-old body was perfectly toned, her tummy flat as if she never had a child, her skin tanned. That's what her husband expected from her, and she did everything to live up to these expectations. She tormented herself every other day in the gym, in the weekends she was biking and rollerblading with the kid, she spent fortunes in salons and spas. And what did she get in exchange? A fattening body, a beer-belly of the size of pregnancy, constant alcohol-breath, a less and less performing manhood.

The bra was too tight, so she dropped that too. Her breasts, careful work of surgeons, were standing up nice and firm as in her teenage years, but now she was sorry for letting herself be talked into the painful procedure. True, her breasts sagged a bit from breastfeeding, but they remained full, round and smoothly swinging, and now they are like if they weren't hers, living their own life like two huge watermelons. Not even to mention the scars that remained. And she hated how the silicone pressed the veins to the surface of her skin.
Whilst she was looking for her worn T-shirt saying Be Cool that she wore for home, she remembered the minutes of rebellion.

At that point she has been blogging for weeks. It was the blog that changed her life. Even though she didn't even know what the word meant when on a girl party one of her girlfriends was explaining how awesome it is to keep a diary online.
– Hiding behind your anonymity, you can tell about even those things that you would never tell to those living near you – she was convincing the company. – Unlike a regular, old-fashioned diary, this one your partner will never find, so you can even share your sidetracks with others. And also, your readers will tell you what they think about you, and you can ask for advices too. Even though it's all unknown folks, you'll never be alone again.

Anita was nodding as if she liked the idea, but then she thought she would never be able to admit her secret desires, she would be ashamed to open up for complete strangers.

Then one night when she was really upset about an unfinished presentation, she snuck out of the matrimonial bedroom and into the study and turned on the computer. Work didn't want to flow, so she started to surf around for no particular reason until she somehow bumped into a blogging portal. She started reading others' diaries with growing interest. Around 2am she took the courage to put a few lines of a comment to one of them. She was surprised to see that within ten minutes there was an answer. They started a long discussion. It was dawning when they finished. The person convinced Anita to send them her email address in a private message. They have been mailing for days until the blogger finally convinced her to open her own blog.

At first nothing has changed, it was only the online friend commenting on her entries, but as she started to open up the miseries of her marital life with a more and more cruel honesty, more and more readers found her blog. In less than a month she had a pretty little community built up. Others told too how they suffer from their husbands, lovers, and Anita learned how to drop her taboos.

A blogger called Psychofairy was the first to encourage her not just to write about her pain but to do something against it.

That's when she revolted.
On a hot Sunday they went to take a bath at the lido. After they got bored of laying in the sun they went for a walk on the lakeside. First their son, then her, her husband last, smoking as he walked. She wanted to put on a dress, but Sanyi told her not to, just stay in her bikini bottoms and put on her little white top for it, and for his sake, wear her high heel sandals instead of the flip-flops.

She was wavering on the 4-inch heels as if she was on the catwalk. The men, of course, stared after her as if their heads were all connected on a line. She turned her eyes down and cursed herself for letting her husband get her into such a humiliating spot again. Her eight-year-old son was running to and fro happily. He didn't notice the hungry gazes or her mother's discomfort.

– Don't run around like that, you retard! – the father yelled at him. – You will end up trotting over some meathead's junk and I can go having a fight because of you.
– Now what is your problem? Why do you hurt Rómeó? – Anita turned back angrily.

That was the last drop in the glass.
Whilst she was marching around, putting her body into the shop window, her husband pulled his khaki muscle shirt over his beer-belly as if he wanted to show off all his fat. His jersey shorts slipped down to his hips, lit cigarette in one hand and opened beer in the other, he was trotting behind her in his worn-down cheapie flip-flops.

She felt like spitting on him.
Men weren't quite staring at her body, they were more mystified by how can such a beaten bum have a woman like her.
– You should just pull that shirt down on your belly rather than fucking with the kid! – she groaned at her husband who in turn slapped the back of her head. He called this maneuver a bitchslap, he learned it at the Army and found it amazingly funny.

Her hand was shaking from humiliation and anger as she rose it for a hit, but Sándor stopped it with an easy motion.
– Don't make an act here, baby, or you get another one! – he said with a stupid grin.
She started crying. She was just about to rise her knee in a desperate kick when the child said something.
– Are you playing now? Everybody is watching us!
Sándor held her arm even tighter.
– Yeah, retard, we're playing mom-and-dad – he answered Romi.

She just wanted to disappear in shame. She yanked her arm out and rushed ahead. The whole afternoon she didn't say a word to her husband who compensated himself with more and more beer.

On the way home Sándor cunningly started to mention what all he wants to buy for the kid. She answered with not much willingness. She didn't want Romi to be the one suffering from the parents' fight.

At night she could barely wait to sit down to write her blog, but first her husband had to go to bed. She just kept opening the beers for him so he would pass out faster, but Sándor sobered up completely from the dinner, and got all perked up. He was trying to be funny, treated her to cocktails, he seemed to be trying to make up for the afternoon slap. After the kid went to bed, he immediately tried to get his reward for all the kindness and started to pushily court her.

Aren't You Scared Of Revenge?

She can deal with most men single-handedly, but some make her more scared than an oppressed little girl
What would YOU do if you had to choose between the life of your untrue lover and the life of a complete stranger, and your decision was watched by millions of your fans LIVE?

NUPTIALS OF DEATH

She couldn't check her blog for hours because her boss kept giving newer and newer tasks by the minute. She felt like as if the pile of papers on her desk would slowly bury her under. Luckily the director - as every single day - locked his door exactly at noon so he can eat his special lunch menu, prepared by his wife, protected from any curious eyes. All employees were guessing what may he be eating, but nobody ever dared to ask.
Anita knew it, but she never told the others. She used the breather to quickly type in her blog address. Before she would've actually pressed Enter, she looked around. She sadly realized that her team leader was heading right towards her. She closed the browser. The man stood behind her, not saying a word, but staring at her screen unconcealed. Anita faked indifference as she turned around:
– Géza, no offence, but the boss asked me to take this report confidentially.
– Really? – he yelped. The employees all rose their heads to the loud word, so he continued somewhat softer: – István never mentioned that you two got into some project together…
Anita typed on silently.
– Should I know about something? – the team lead squatted next to her, as if to win her confidence.
Anita looked over herself then she carefully rearranged her skirt, so he definitely won't see more than what he should.
– If you want to know more, ask him! But if it would concern you the least, he would've already let you know – she turned to him with a mysterious look on her face. He jumped up in anger:
– It can't hurt to remember that I'm your superior.
– Just as István is yours - Anita answered quickly. – And now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to continue…
The team lead hung around her desk for a few more seconds. He was visibly trying to think as hard as possible to find a riposte, but most likely nothing came to his mind, as he finally left with a long face.

As the man stepped out of the office, Anita's neighbor rolled her task chair around her desk to her.
– Now you really stepped into his soul – she said with honest admiration. – Aren't you scared of revenge?
– He's too much of a coward for that. You know how scared he is from the boss… – Anita pointed at the director's office.
– But he can do something behind István's back…
– Dare he try! – smiled Anita, and clawed the air with her carefully manicured artificial nails. – I'll scratch his eyes out!
– Anita, is the report ready? – the director asked from his doorway.
The women parted. Anita's stomach got an immediate cramp.
– Sure, I'll take it in in just a sec! – she whispered barely audible.
– Now that's top priority, don't let anyone hold you off!
So he was watching Géza interrogating her from behind his blinds.
– Ten minutes and it's there!
– I'll be waiting! – said the man and slammed the door behind himself.
Whilst her fingers ran over the keyboard faster than the wind, she kept thinking what may be the reason that whilst she can deal with most men single-handedly, some make her more scared than an oppressed little girl. And her husband literally hypnotizes her. He forces his will on her with such a strength, she serves him without asking as if she was not his wife but his chambermaid.
She got a sudden headache, just like every other time when she thought of her marriage.

He killed without a soul. He felt no joy, no sympathy, nothing. He imagined himself as an executioner who kills as a profession.
The victim stared at him with fear in his eyes in his last minutes, and tried to jump further away on the chair to which he was tied.
– If you get a new incarnation, in which I don't believe, treat those better who treat you good!
His words sounded like a verdict.
The man finally grasped that that was it. From his taped mouth, a scared gargle came up. Maybe he tried to ask something, or stand up for himself. It didn't matter anymore.
The executioner placed his metallic briefcase on the dirty table and opened the lid with a pleasing slowness. The victim couldn't see the tools inside, but the theatricality of the motion was even scarier than the sight of the torture tools. Just as lace lingerie is a lot more exciting than a naked body.
Suddenly the woman's picture rose in front of the executioner. Her wavy brown hair, her white teeth, her slightly slanting, cat-like green eyes.
The whore doesn't know it's all about her – this filled him with a sense of feel-good.
He hasn't killed in a year, and hasn't been with a woman for so long.
At that time, the TV slut almost cost him, so he retreated. He disappeared from sight, just to be able to plan the Big Meeting, where the hatefully adored woman will die, but from the union a higher level of existence will be born.
Just before they will play a little.
Then he underestimated his opponents, now he knows whom he's facing.
Their suspense grows weaker by the day, whilst every single minute, every one of his thoughts is preparations to the Big Meeting.
Sixteen steps. That's how far ahead he is. And when the time comes, he will tell everything to her, from the very day he has seen her picture online.
He will tell her how he found out everything about her with his computer, how he stalked her, how close she was to death when they met in her stairway.
Then he will tell also how he disappeared for a whole year after that bitch almost lead him into a trap, almost lead him into the hands of the downtown cops

By then she will be bleeding from a thousand wounds, and he will be telling about how he was planning the Big Meeting step by step, for over three hundred days.
Suddenly the man stopped whining.
They looked at each other.
His eyes betrayed the victim's intentions. His instincts lead his gaze onto his freshly freed right hand before he lunged over his captor with the chair. In his fall, his left hand also slid out of the loosened noose.
He managed to pull his executioner to the ground, but he couldn't stop him in grabbing an exacto knife from his metallic case.
The first cut slit the victim's stomach. The executioner jumped back in disgust from the blood. Whilst women's blood heightened the pleasure, men's blood just made him sick.
With the next move, he cut through the victim's throat. The man grabbed the wound and held his neck startled. His eyes popped out more and more, his face went blue. Then he stumbled back and didn't move any longer.
The executioner felt no victory, no sympathy, nothing. This was just the first step.