The One — K. Austin

Bravely, I face the scars. I look forward more than I look behind me. If and when I do look back, I make sure I'm stoned to perfection. They're all still back there, dead and festering. It's as if my closing eyelids shed sparks, tossed forward to light the pale faces in the otherwise liquid blackness of my dreamscapes. Oh, they're back there, moaning and bitching about the brevity of life. Me? I'm loose and fast, as always. Some think me flawed, others prophetic. Some see flaws in the still tender, red flesh. I see the fucking scars. I remember the fights, the disappointments, the beautiful drugs and immortal sex, as if part of me is still there. Flawed … Fuck you. There you are, beaten bloody. His hands balled and twisting before you, his body upon you. You've never known the potential for feeling alone, until this moment. He demands these things, and you, too weak to fight back, deliver. The taste never leaves your mouth. Revenge opens wide and devours you. You are sealed in it. You would rip your eyes out if you could deliver something like justice. You'd pay, with anything, for the euphoric sexual crescendo of brutal, ruthless, bloody, revenge. You would beg God for someone as reckless as me. We are here to stand before closed doors and wonder if we dare open them. We are here to decide for ourselves whether we need to know or if we can trust the man. Some people open doors and find wonderful things. Me, I just keep finding more doors. I am Ved Ludo, and you need this.