The Necrophiliac Read Free Page A

There was a neighbour three or four years older than me, a tall brunette girl with green eyes I saw almost every day. Even though I wanted to, it never would have occurred to me to merely touch her hand. I waited; I wanted her death and that death became for me the pole around which all my thoughts gravitated. Shall I then say that I longed with an earnest and consuming desire for the moment of Morella’s decease? I did. More than once, the mere meeting of that young girl — her name was Gabrielle — threw me into a tremendous excitement that I knew, however, would pass the very instant that I took it upon myself to make the first move. Instead, I spent hours picturing all the dangers and ways of death that could strike down Gabrielle. I loved to represent myself on her deathbed, imagining the exact details of the environment: the flowers, the candles, the funereal odour, the paling lips and the badly shut lids revealing the whites of the eyes. One time, meeting her by chance in the stairs, I noticed that my neighbour had a painful cut at the corner of her mouth. I was young, in love, and romantic, which led me to immediately conclude that she had a secret penchant for suicide. I ran and locked myself in my room, threw myself on the bed, and devoted myself to solitary pleasures. In my mind’s eye, I saw Gabrielle delicately balanced, hanged from a ceiling hook. From time to time, the body, dressed in a white lace slip, turned at the end of the rope, offering a look at every possible angle. The face pleased me greatly, even though it was inclined and half-concealed by the hair, sinking that enormous tongue — which was almost black and filled the open mouth like a spray of vomit — into shadow. The arms — a beautiful dull brown — hung from gently dislocated shoulders; the shoeless feet were pointed inward.
    I renewed this fantasy without modifying anything every time my desire demanded it, and for a long time it brought me intense pleasure. But Gabrielle left town; not seeing her anymore, I ended up forgetting her, and the image that had caused me so much joy was eventually worn out in its own time.
August 3, 19...
    Henri, dead of scarlet fever at six — though I never catch the slightest sickness — is a brave little man. He has the perfect body for playing with, for enjoying, even though games and pleasures have to take place on the external surfaces. This child is so tight that I have to renounce more profound delights at the risk of hurting both of us. In vain I tried various techniques, some of which I was naive enough to think infallible. But Henri is succulent the way he is. The inside of his thighs, slightly concave, allow for an almost perfect union. As he is, unfortunately, quite advanced already, I don’t know if I will be able to keep this child much longer. Besides, I’m hardly saving him, not hesitating to play with him in warm baths despite the fact that I know, unfortunately, they advance his degradation. His flesh softens from hour to hour; his greening stomach sinks in, rumbling with bad flatulence that bursts into enormous bubbles in the bathwater. Even worse: his face frowns and becomes alien to him; I don’t recognize my little Henri anymore.
August 7, 19...
    Yesterday evening, I took my leave from Henri whose odour was becoming intolerable. I had prepared a strongly perfumed bath so that I could once more press the deliquescent little body against mine. Henri gave me a surprise, for the dead are full of the unexpected — I think of Marie-Jeanne’s breasts; I think of still others. He finally permitted me to really penetrate his flesh, softened as a melting wax: his way of sweetening our farewell. I dried him in a bath towel; I put back the little blue brushed cotton pajamas he was wearing when he arrived; I smoothed out his brown bangs that the bathwater made to seem almost black. In the car, I had seated him next to me, supporting him with one