*A dark, chilling fiction short story for the Halloween season
I can feel it in my bones; the rage, the anger, manifesting deep inside my blood, a thirsty beast in its cage. I have this urge, you see, to have you kneel before me and beg, to draw blood from your fragile flesh with the prick of my thumb and watch it trickle down your neck. If I could just feel your hollow throat in my fists, if I could squeeze your chin within these palms, if I could just make you look into the eyes, my eyes, the ones that made you a man…why, yes, we should kiss, we should lick, suck, bite — devour each other’s bodies. Yes, you should taste the bitterness in my soul. You should worship the heat between my legs. You should breathe your last breath before I reach inside your tainted chest and rip out the bloody organ that beats.
So the power is yours, you say? You sit in this chair like a foul little fool, reeking of stupidity and idiocy as if you’re going to be honored. I mean look at you, babe; button-up open, body exposed, legs spread, bulge perfectly constricted. You look at me like it’s a privilege to be in the presence of a man, and it’s become expected of me to exalt him, a man who has apparently given me the world, who made me scream and shudder, who pleaded for more like a boy when my cheek was pressed against the desk.
But this is a game to you, isn’t it? Some sort of play for you to win and conquer. I’ve noticed this little game for quite some time now, have gotten to learn the rules; which ones to bend, which ones to break. You change it up on certain days; move the game pieces when it benefits your move. And I’ve decided to become a player, become the Devil’s advocate, if you will. Because no, I don’t believe it’s right for you to take and take and take pieces of my soul like they were nothing and use them to satisfy your own needs. I’ve given you everything, everything! But you stole from me, sliced and diced away everything that was left so I can kneel on the rugged floor as you pin them against me. You shoved me in the basement and tied me by the ropes you deceitfully held since the moment you asked for my name.
Haven’t I told you I’m continuously being underestimated? You think I’m not going to take back what you stole? I’ve become an expert at this game, perfected a façade, a strategy, right underneath your nose so you wouldn’t notice my hidden plans, a detailed itinerary of the upcoming play.
That’s why I bought erotic red lights for the occasion, to hang above the ceiling and darken our souls. That’s why I turned the music on high volume, almost at max, playing slow, sexual rhythms to set the mood. That’s why I made you a nice cold glass of your favorite whiskey to drink, challenging you to guzzle another and another, just until you wouldn’t question the abrupt change of plans.
That’s why I called the demons to stand and watch tonight, for black spiders to crawl from the floorboards of the house and appear in dark corners of the room, for wolves to howl during the October full moon and wait until your body is limp with sharp, snarled teeth.
I dressed up for you, I wanted to; wore your favorite laced corset and black knee-high tights, wore dark red lipstick so you gaze and wander, bite your lips at the sight. I wanted you to come home early tonight, arranged your boss to succumb to my lies, just so I can flirt with your ego, make you crawl on all fours, see what it would be like to have authority, power on my hands.
Please baby, no, look at me. Watch me.
Let me slowly come towards you as you squirm helplessly in your chair, aroused at the very movement of my curves. Let me touch your beautiful skin, kiss your full rough lips so you can relish the taste of mine. You attempt to grasp my hips, so eager and impatient, but I pull apart from you, slowly walk behind you as my heels echo in the room, drag my fingers across your neck. You gasp, aroused. And I sigh, sheepishly, smile at the thought of ruining you, knowing well you have no suspicions of my haste. You moan my name when I graze my hands down your sculpted chest, and I chuckle at that, love just how much I truly affect you.
I’m dragging this on, isn’t it obvious? There’s a part of me that wants to spare your life. But there’s an ache in my chest, a certain hunger within my soul, and if we’re being honest, your blood needs to splatter these walls.
So I briefly go down and take hold of your manhood, confirm the smallness of it, and then draw my hands back up your chest, wrapping one of them around your throat. With the other, I retrieve the knife from the back of my corset hidden among the ties. I smile while you moan at the pressure I applied, and I tighten my grasp to the thought of cutting off the oxygen, the last bit that entered your lungs. I then lower my lips to your ear and tease your dainty earlobe with my teeth.
“For the win,” I whisper.
I quickly slice your delicate throat with the knife then, hear the swift motion of the blade tear your flesh deeply apart.
I drop the weapon in sudden surprise. I then watch you, your reaction, your body, become incredibly fascinated with the blood that gushes uncontrollably out of your neck, coating the fibers of your shirt as you drown within gore, guts painting your hands like dying, bleeding roses. Your choking sounds are heavenly! You gasp and gasp for breath, choking, dying, choking, dying, choking…the choking! And they end like applause from an audience watching a choir perform, bewildered and wild with shock, wondering how the fuck something could sound so beautiful, magical, exquisite.
I exhale in relief, your corpse slumping out of the chair with a monstrous thud. You lie lifelessly on the floor before me, delicious clots oozing out of the wound in a flood, drenches the wood of our home.
It falls silent for a while as I tilt my head and stare at the art I created; the beats had ceased, the music ended, and I’m now perplexed, no, mesmerized by the design, the beauty within the mess.
And then the wolves begin barking and the demons begin knocking, pound and scrape on the door as the spiders crawl towards you, starving for their promised meal.
I walk over to the door with ease and open it to greet our guests. I let them drool at the sight of your fresh dead body, at the thick blood seeping into the planks, calling to be devoured. They gawk at me with their dark, devil eyes and scorched horns as if requesting my approval, my permission, to command them to brutally rip apart their food like a colorful, copious feast. How humorous! I am the Devil’s advocate after all!
I raise my chin up and smile at my famished pets, giving them the answer they need.
Go ahead, my darlings.
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