Post by Robbie Hope on Jan 19, 2021 22:26:33 GMT -6
The shaft is wrapped tight in the grip of my pulsing fingers.
But it’ll only penetrate what I tell it to.
I just need to give it proper instruction.
“Place your right hand here, pet,” I ordered, watching his eyes grow in excitement. He placed his calloused paw on my knee, as gently as he could, but his rugged, chafed skin tugged at the fabric of the lace. He tried to run his hand upward towards the skintight leather, and I swatted at his hand with derision. “Did I tell you that was okay?”
He shook his head ‘no’ in shame and embarrassment. The Other looked on, the jealousy evident in his eyes. I smirked, not paying the Other any mind. Not yet.
I ran my thumbs over the bridge of his nose, tracing down the blackened contusions that formed along his thin cheekbones. When I dug my nail into the wound, he winced, shifting in his chair.
“Did that hurt, pet?” I asked, feeling his fingers grip my thigh instinctively. He bowed his head and nodded. “I’m sorry for the things that I’m doing to you.”
His broken eyes opened, and I could see the pain and the terror behind them. He moved his ankles, which had been shackled to the chair legs underneath, the steel ripping into the skin.
I grabbed his fingers from my leg and led them slowly up my body, feeling the primal touch of his fingers on every inch of the exposed flesh of my abdomen. I felt a jolt of electricity course through my veins. But this was not supposed to be exciting for me.
“But I’m sorry that I’m not going to stop.”
I bent his index finger backwards until his knuckle touched the skin. The snap of the bone ricocheted off the empty walls. His scream was muffled; mostly, in shock, but also, in fear of what I would do next.
“Shh, shh,” I said, consoling him, wrapping his ears in my hands and gently planting my lips on his forehead. “I need you to be very quiet, my pet.”
He nodded, and my eyes turned to the Other.
“You,” I instructed. “Come with me.”
And he followed me hand-in-hand into the lair, his bloodied feet scuffing the hardwood below.
I wasn’t always like this.
I used to be a nice girl. A girl with wide-eyed wonder, a heart full of the best wishes and the biggest dreams. I used to mean something, not just to the world at large, but to the people who lived it.
I was a figure of hope.
Now, there isn’t any to be seen.
This city, a once-paradise, vitalized by glitz and glamour, fame and fortune, is now a seedy underbelly run amok. There’s no law, there’s no order; there’s only the laws of survival. Finding the means to exist when terror creeps around every corner. Boarding up windows, chaining your doors, hoping the night doesn’t leave you vulnerable.
I’ve learned to survive in the calamity.
Masks keep us safe from the transference of the airborne killer.
But masks also conceal the thieves and the rapists and the barbarians.
Masks keep our faces hidden from curious looks.
And they hide our true intentions.
I know about Michael Cade’s mask.
He doesn’t know I do.
That thin piece of fabric, designed to keep us from spreading infection among the population; the children and the elderly, the healthy and the sickly; it only achieves one thing.
It hides our smiles or our frowns; our happiness or our anger. You could be holding an entire conversation with a stranger and never see the blood lusting from his lips.
That’s why I’m not here to wear a mask.
I want you to see everything.
I want you to see me.
And I want you to be scared.
Because this is just the beginning.
“Stay still,” I ordered, pushing the Other in the frame of the window. He was statuesque, towering a full foot over me, but with his limbs constricted by the steel manacles like a viper squeezing it’s prey, he was left burdened and secure. I ran my hands around his torso before gripping the curtain and pulling it open, leaving him exposed to the eyes on the streets of North Las Vegas.
“Am I not your pet?” he asked quietly, the tinge of envy in his voice.
“Not until you’ve earned it,” I challenged, raking at his back with my fingernails. I reached down and ran my finger along the sheath holstered to my side. I squeezed the sharp edge between my thumb and index, and with my left hand, gripped the leather collar squeezed around his neck.
“How do I earn it?” he asked, choking out the words as the strap constricted his throat. I pulled backwards on the strap and rested the back of his head on my shoulder. I looked outside and saw that the curious eyes on the streets were watching us.
“I want them to see you,” I said, extending my tongue and placing it on his cheek. “I want them to see everything.”
I turned the Other around to face me and ordered him to kneel. I raised my boot and placed it on his shoulder, and I could see he was itching to put his hands on my skin. With the ball of my foot, I stepped on his fingers.
“Keep your hands on the floor,” I said, lodging his bones beneath the sole of my boots. He nodded his head, and I placed my fingers on his hairless skull, running his cheek along the leather sheath at my hip.
“Are you ready for what I’m about to do now?”
The dagger is nothing more than a tool;
Neither for courageous defense in the face of evil;
Nor for the diabolism that feeds the black-hearted soul.
The blade itself is not of significance;
But the onyx that wields it’s power.
The pain had subsided from Pet’s shattered finger. He was now devoid of any feeling at all, numb to the torment the Huntress had inflicted on his fragmented body. She may have inflicted irreparable pain, but he still found it justified, rationalizing her outburst, knowing he still provided her with protection. He felt necessary in the final plan.
She was to win the tournament.
She was to win the prize.
She was to do it with his help.
He looked around the ghostly room, the cold air enveloping his half-naked body. But he didn’t feel vulnerable. Exposed. Instead, he felt important. He felt achievement.
She needed him.
The carcasses of dead moths piled in the corner underneath the shimmer of a dim lightbulb. He saw the wings of the moth twitch as it clung to the final remnant of life.
And then, he heard the Other scream.
It was at this moment, for the first time, that he begun to reconsider the certainty of his purpose.
“She’s going to kill me,” he thought to himself. “Do I deserve this?”
I wasn’t always like this.
I wanted to be good.
I wanted to be heroic.
But I was molded into the beast I’ve become. Bloodthirsty and ravenous; the taste lingers on my lips. My appetite is insatiable, and it won’t be fulfilled by mere victory, or by the high-stakes prizemoney that is awarded to the ultimate survivor.
This tournament is a tool.
Much like the dagger on my hip.
I’ve fought the creatures and the fiends that permeate the walls of every locker room I’ve ever dressed in. And they’ve cornered me, and pulverized me, and prepared me;
And THEY are responsible;
For what has become of me.
I was a beacon of hope.
Now I carry a heart of ash.
I don’t hurt anymore. I’m impervious to it. I feed off it. Because I am forever hungry.
I am the Huntress.
I am the Onyx.
I wrap the tourniquet on the open wound of the Other, his thick, warm blood pooling at the base of his feet. His eyes are pouring tears, but he doesn’t say a word.
He knows.
He understands.
He accepts.
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” I tell him. “My pet.”
You’ve got a beautiful family, Michael Cade.
I hope they’re able to recognize you.