By Trayvon Martin
My name is Trayvon Martin. I am walking through my apartment complex. A moment ago, I had an uneasy feeling about a person out here in a car. A moment from now, I will go back around and see him waiting for me. A brief confrontation will arise and end in my death.
This is not my story.
This is the story of another man... and in order to tell it, I must take you back to February 28th, 2012.
And tonight, George Lorenzo sits at his worn-out desktop with a mug of cold black coffee, contemplating Yahoo! News. Suddenly, he is struck by the throbbing bloody spear-tip of my 15 minutes. His tired eyes study the text, and then return to my face. As they do, he takes a sip.
On the morning of the 29th, he goes to work. George Lorenzo is a funeral director at a Miami mausoleum, not too far from my grave. Today, it's business as usual and George kindly provides his deepest sympathies to his house's patrons. On his way home after work, he meets a friend of his who works at mine and they go for dinner and a chat. Afterwards, they went to George's house for wine and fucking.
Two nights later, they met again. Quietly, George and the second man exhumed my corpse from a site on the business place of the latter and loaded it into the former's car. From there, it was taken to George's basement; a large dungeon with black walls and s&m equipment. They lay me in a soft coffin overlooked by a St. Andrew's Cross. The coffin was closed, and I lay there undisturbed until the second man left. It was then that George re-entered the room, opened my coffin, and masturbated on my dead face.
George never spoke a word to me until a few days later. He had brought me up to his bedroom, and as he held me and penetrated my shriveled black boycunt lustfully, he whispered softly in my ear.
"Tray, what did it feel like to be killed?"
I paused. No one had ever asked me that before.
He came inside me, producing the celebratory musk of formaldehyde dancing on the contorted carcasses of a few thousand unsuspecting sperm cells. He left me there as the sun came up. Perhaps he wanted me to think about an appropriate response to the question. Maybe he was just going to work again. I didn't know. But soon enough, night came again, and again he was by my side. Alas, I still had not thought of an answer. I don't know if he was frustrated by this, but if he was he didn't show it.
As lovingly as ever, he penetrated me. After he came, he asked me again. This time, when I didn't respond, he stared for a while before leaving the room in a bit of a hurry, as though frustrated. I just lay there. For a few hours more, I tried to sleep but could only stare at the ceiling. Rain started pouring down outside, but I was too deep in concentration to hear it. Suddenly, the door burst open. It was George, and he was angry.
"I'll show you for playing deaf with me!" he shouted, as he whipped a belt across my cheek. He raised his arm for another strike and froze. He paused for a moment, then lowered his arm, dropping the belt to recoil on the floor.
"Oh, Trayvon," he said sadly as he sorrowfully stepped to the bedside "I'm sorry."
"I just lose control sometimes. I don't understand it, but I'm so sorry, Trayvon. I'm sorry..."
He examined the scratch he left on my cheek, his expression turning to one of deeper regret and anxiety
"Oh God! This is never going to heal! Oh God!"
But then, just as a first tear trickled down his wrinkled cheek, his mouth began to convulse. His lips quaked until a small, controlled grin appeared. He look away from me, then back, then away again. He began to rub my cheek, and this continued over the course of an hour until he left the room again to drink at his dining table. Finally, he fell asleep in front of the TV, leaving me in my bed until he kissed me goodbye and went out to work in the morning. He was a little late, but he works with a patient crowd.
After work, he met with his friend again. Brought him back home. They drank for a while before coming upstairs to see me. We shook hands and they took me back down to the dungeon. Face to the wall, I was attached to the St. Andrew's Cross. They both took up their own whips and cheerfully tore into the skin of my back while I did nothing.
"Yeah, take it you fucking dead bitch," said George's fishing buddy, "We don't need nunna your kind 'round here." In agreement, I took my punishment. George pulled out a large medical needle and stuck it in one of my buttcheeks. He was injecting liquid fat under my skin. He did so in both cheeks until my rotting buttox was bloated and lumpy.
"Now that's a ghetto booty if I ever saw one," George remarked to his friend. They laughed and he began injecting the fluid into my lips as his friend fucked my bulging ass and bit down on my neck. "And a nice pair of dick sucking lips, too!" remarked George as he finished and began kissing me and rubbing my facial scar. His friend let out a small smirk as sweat ran down his neck. His body pressure made fat leak out of the holes in my ass like cream cheese from a jalapeno popper.
After they were done with me, they left me there for the rest of the night.
George returned the next night. He detached me from the cross and facefucked me on the ground, breaking a few of my teeth to help get in. That was all I saw of George for a while