It being the killing. Murder. Death.
“I realized, it’s the most natural thing in the world. I honestly wasn’t going to finish her, that first time…I just wanted to know why he did it. Wanted to test my theory out, if you will. But then the thought came…and the rush…it felt inevitable. I laid her out so the world could see what I can do, and it was beautiful, beautiful. I thought I’d feel crazy, but it’s not like that at all.” He sighs. Puts the bottle down. Then his hand lands heavily on my thigh, and he grasps at the flesh there, pulling to loosen it. “I knew after that, if I wanted to really understand, I had to kill his darlings. It would send a message. Only he didn’t want to hear it, did he?”
I cough around the balled panties, and it shakes the chains on my cuffs again.
“Point is…I’m going to get that message across good and proper, make the most of this last time. I like sunrise or sunset for the symbolism. What do you think?” He chuckles again—that horrible, dirty sound. “Haven’t made my mind up yet. But I think when I take you, I might finally understand.” He turns, gets up on his knees. Leers over me. Then his fingers begin to prod between my legs.
I hold them together, but it’s no use. There’s no fight left in me; the last of it flew out when I cried to Aeron. Or maybe that’s not right—maybe it’s waiting until I’m able to use it. Hibernating. Settling like silt in the slow current that meanders through my veins. Or is that just resignation? My body’s given up.
Abel watches my legs spread under his hands. He scoops my thighs up with one long, lean forearm, chewing his dry lips as I’m exposed. I should probably feel violated, but it seems like the feeling is somewhere on the other side of the room; even if my arms were unchained, I wouldn’t reach it.
“I’m saving all the special things for the ending.” He prods my * with blunt fingers. He’s bunched them, shifting his knuckles and pressing down until they pop inside.
I yelp around the panties, then gag as the sound sucks them further down my throat.
“But there are other things…huh…” He jerks his knuckles in and out of my labia roughly, as if he’s trying to shove a key into the wrong lock. Every now and then, he gets another knuckle in for a second and the sting of it makes me howl. “You’re really not my type, Cock Sleeve,” he repeats.
Relief shudders through me as he pulls his knuckles away.
Only the hand has gone to his fly. He’s undoing it.
The sound of the zip sends bile up into my throat. It soaks into the panties, boiling fine tissues and stale fabric before I choke it back down in a fit of coughs.
When I shot Aeron, I went into shock. It racked my whole body and made me unstable on a cellular level, like a bad animation bleeding out of my own outline. Now it visits again as the wrong Aeron drops his mucky pants and fishes out a stiff, heavy cock. He stays over me, stroking himself until a thin thread of pre-come dribbles down on my mound. It feels cool.
I do not want to feel this at all. Don’t want to feel anything. Inside, my panicking body rushes through the emergency protocols—blood in my ears, swishing and swilling—all in the frantic search for a way to shut down.
Jesus Christ, I can smell him. He’s salt water and burned toast.
He’s not even holding my legs open anymore—I am. If I close them, he’ll only hurt me again, and my belly’s still sore from the impact of his punch. I should’ve known this was coming when I woke up naked, but then they never found evidence of sexual assault with the other victims, did they?
Abel crawls up along my body until his pelvis shoves into mine, and his face hovers over me, a hologram in hazy orange candle light.