Acid Minded

Lemon

He suddenly realised that the lemon was still in his hand. This bright fragrant little fragment of hope, enveloped in his flesh. Power began to surge into his hands; Power fuelled by sheer hatred for this single most beautiful fruit. He wanted to crush it. Nothing else would have made him happier than to gently make this lemon bleed it’s sour juices. The people around him began to notice his obsession and begged him to stop: ‘No’ they cried, ‘Not the Lemon!’.

but Oh Yes! he thought. They couldn’t possibly understand. If only they knew how good it felt, to crush this soft defenseless object, especially when it had built up popular support! He was no longer crushing a mere piece of fruit, but the hope of everyone who so wanted it to survive.

The sense of power this gave him was better than any sexual experience; it overwhelmed his senses. He gave a quick cruel smile to his audience before proceeding with the show.

His nails began to dig under the soft pockmarked skin. Flashes of flesh made him sometimes confused as to what he was indeed holding, but he pressed on. The people around him had vanished as his mind focused on these new sensations.

The bitter fragrance which teased his nostrils. The weak resistance which his strong hand was gradually overcoming, and then the cool refreshing liquid that crept from the open wounds.

No other cruelty had ever felt more stimulating or pleasurable.

But sadly, no good thing is everlasting. The once wondrous lemon, symbol of happiness and hope to any drug crazed mind had been turned into a crumpled mushy mess; no more pleasure could be derived from this carcass.

So he threw it away, rinsed his hands, and moved on.