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between his skin and bones - excerpt...
I was never afraid of being killed in a wreck, just anxious incase I did die and I wouldn't be able to fully experience the aftermath of the crash. This was extremely unlikely to happen – I’m special; I’m not like anybody you’ve ever met. I have a genetic anomaly that allows me to do incredible things when I am injured. Yes, I can die, I can be killed, but it would take more than a teeny little wreck to finish me off.
But still, it was hellish for me to think of not being able to see the contents of the other car, or touch them, or talk to them, or feel their blood rain on my skin. It gave me such a rush to stand on the roadside and talk with them about how lucky we all were, about there-but-for-the-grace-of-God we went, and how we just knew that somebody had to be watching over us all. And all the time I would be thinking, you self-centred bitch; what's so special about you and your fat children and your redneck fuck of a husband? Sometimes, the contents of the other car were such wastes of life I wanted to pull out my Norinco 9mm, stick the barrel into their greasy-lipped mouth and unload my clip in their throat. But I digress; this isn't about my sociopathy, or about me being a misanthrope, or about me being a freak of nature – just accept that fact about me. It’s my normal. It’s me. There’s nothing particularly fascinating about it; it’s just how I was born. It’s nothing to be proud of. It is not something I achieved. I didn’t influence it, or create it or make it happen. It just is. No, this isn’t about any of that shit - this is about my best fucking car crash ever. I've been scarred by it, both mentally and physically, so you can imagine how bad it was. I wake up screaming in the dark in the grip of nightmares, dripping with sweat and memories and cunt juice.
That night, as is my custom, I waited for the right vehicle to come along - this is always important. The best ones are always pre 1980; little to no chance of an airbag. Something really old, rickety was usually my first choice, but then I saw this thing. It was hurtling down the highway toward me, zig-zagging and wavering all over the road. It was beautiful. It was so fucking big. I just had to hit it. I had to know what it felt like to hit something of that size. I only hoped I would survive to enjoy the afterglow and the physical trauma.
That night, my grip on the wheel was so white-knuckled that my fingers were numb. My anticipation of what the next impact would bring my way made my womb tighten and my guts knot inside me. There was something in the air that told me this was the one. This would be the night – if I survived it – that I would remember forever, the night I would cherish. I could feel it in the warm night around me, I could feel it in my bones. The aroma of excited sweat came off my skin like the scent of a rare bloom, and I could feel the wet trickle of it sliding down my back and between my breasts...
severin speaks...
Motor vehicles frighten me. Or rather, the idiots who operate them frighten me. Stalkers frighten me. I don't find car wrecks in the slightest bit erotic. I like guns. I've never given head to a dying man riddled with cancer who just smashed through my windscreen.
Somewhere in there lies the reason I wrote 'Between His Skin & Bones.'
But I do I think about vehicles a lot. About car wrecks. Here, you cannot escape them.
This is RTA central, USA. This is the town where we hear the scream of brakes, the soft splutter of hydraulic cutting equipment, the piercing wail of the emergency services sirens at regular intervals, where sand is scattered to cover up the blood.
This is the capital of the Roadside Memorial.
Christ - that must've been some pile-up. Eight fucking wreaths and crosses lying at the side of the road, photographs of dead people, little pieces of paper saying how much they're missed, and plushie teddybears holding fluffy hearts embroidered with 'I Love You.'
My husband and I drive around late at night listening to George Noory or Art Bell on the Coast to Coast AM radio talk show. We look at each other and raise our eyebrows, giggle at the nuts and flakes who call them to say they've been abducted by aliens, or they have proof that George W. Bush is the anti-Christ, or they know the exact date when Armageddon will begin, but that doesn't matter because they're gonna be one of the few to be called home in The Rapture.
But then sometimes, once in a while, somebody will say something that strikes a nerve. Somebody will say something that makes my skin crawl. Somebody will say something I wish I hadn't heard because I know it's gonna come back to me in the dark.
The trucker stories are always the best. They've so many stories of highway hauntings and encounters on the backroads of small town America. These stories I don't giggle at. These make me feel uneasy. These make me hesitant to look in the side mirror as we pass yet another roadside memorial. But have I been able to stop myself from looking, even once? No, I have not. What is it I'm afraid of seeing? Am I afraid of seeing headlights behind us, growing ever larger, knowing what is behind them cannot stop? Am I afraid of seeing cars slamming into each other in my passenger-side mirror, hearing the incessant blare of car horns and having to go back there and help, and look, and see, see it all, see everything, see the carnage, smell the blood. Or is it a simple fear of seeing a bewildered apparition standing on the spot where they died wondering where they should go now?
You : "That's no reason to write that shit, Sev."
Yes, it is. I like writing about things that scare me. I like writing about things I like. I like writing about things I don't like. I like writing erotica about things I find repugnant, about things I don't find in the least bit erotic or titilating.
That is a reason.
severin bio...
Alex Severin writes horror, vampire erotica and screenplays. You can learn more about her at her website www.alexseverin.com, or the ubiquitous MySpace page, http://www.myspace.com/vampire_erotica_stories. This Scottish quine is married to a yank and now lives on the wild west coast of the USA. They still have cowboys. Yeee-fuckin-haw.
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