She stared into my eyes, I stared into her soul. My mind became cluttered with thoughts that terrified me, but at the same time made me lustful. She smiled at me, that precious little grin. My face remained numb, expressionless. Emotionless. She slowly moved her hand up my thigh. I knew her intentions. This quaint little harlequin was dancing on the wrong side of fate. She looked down for a second as she began to gradually slide my zipper down. The little cracks as it came undone. My lungs began to feel heavy, my breath was stunted with the stench of cigarettes and alcohol. She didn't seem to mind. She was so focused on my pleasure that she didn't even notice my arm moving for the ashtray next to me. I grabbed it quickly and with all the force my body could sum, I struck her. The solid glass ashtray collided with her head. In a split second she collapsed to the floor, unconscious but still breathing. My heart began to race. The sweat on my brow was collecting profusely. I started to hyperventilate as I looked down at her motionless body. Blood had started to soak her mangled hair and was running down into a puddle on the carpet. A crimson color, so beautiful. My hand was shaking and I gripped the ashtray with a tight fist. I took one deep breath, let it out and closed my eyes.
The voice on the evening radio bellowed in the living room upstairs, echoing down the passage way and into the basement doorway. I loved the evening radio because the voices were so tranquil and calming. They didn't shout and perform like most of the daytime hosts. They had a quiet serenity that surrounded their tones. I loved it. It took me back to the times when radio was king. When girls dressed like ladies and boys acted like gentleman. The days when the loudest voice was the quietest one.
I found myself cursing her name again. God how I missed her. It was all my fault. But she never knew how much I cared, I regret never telling her. This girl, this, whore; looks just like her. Though she could never be her by character, I could make her look the same by appearance. I just need time. "God damn it I just need time!" I shouted at her. She sat there, in her chair, wearing that short skirt, that skimpy little number. "Whore!" She didn't respond. Her body remained still, her chin against her chest. "Wake up. God, please wake up." Tears began to form under my eyes. She didn't want to wake up. My pain turned to anger. "Wake up bitch!" I cocked back my hand and hit her across the face. She fell over and suddenly started screaming. I put my boot on her face and said, "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up!" She started crying and I took in a deep breath and rolled back my eyes. I got down on my knees and whispered in her ear, "Shut up, or I will break your fucking jaw. I will fuck you up." She stared at me with such crippling fear. Just the way I liked it.
I pulled her up by her hair and she screamed in pain. I felt the chills run down my spine; an almost orgasmic experience. I wouldn't call myself a sadist, I don't enjoy bringing pain to others, I just do it because I have to. I'm not insane, I'm not psychopathic. I'm just a man who has found his calling in life.
She cried and cried, her eyes swollen and a little bloody. "Why do you keep making the same mistakes?" I asked her, cleaning my equipment. "Wh...what?" The fear in her voice was so prevalent. It was so lovely. "I said. Why do you keep making the same mistakes?" I stared down at my pair of surgical scissors, closely admiring them. "I...I don't know, what you're talking about?" She could barely manage a sentence. "You know exactly what I'm talking about!" I slammed the scissors on the metal tray table in front of me. I swung around and walked over to her. I towered over her. "I'm sorry!" She started to cry again. I knelt down in front of her and tilted my head to the side. "Hey, hey, hey, hey! Don't cry. It's okay. You're going to better soon. I promise." I stroked her hand gently, the latex sticking to her skin with each movement. "Why are you doing this to me?" She whispered, tears pouring down her cheeks. I stood up and wiped her cheek and stuck my finger in my mouth. "God, your tears are so sweet...If you open your mouth again, I'll fuck you up, okay?" I stared into her eyes, my eye brows raised and a grin on my face. "Why are you doing this!?" She shouted at me. The grin on my face turned to a growl and I grabbed the knife from the holster on my thigh and stabbed her in the leg. She let out a blood curdling scream and I pulled the knife out. The blood started to run out of the gaping wound and down the sides of her thigh. I raised the knife to mouth and licked the edge. "I told you. I'll fucking kill you if you don't shut your mouth." I said as I licked my lips.
I spent an hour sitting in the corner of the dimly lit room, staring at her. Each thought running through my mind a decision I had to make. Do I break her bones? Do I cut her up? Do I burn her? So many options, but so little imagination. My spirit was willing but my body was weak. I couldn't just go to bed and let her stay down here. "What if she escapes?" I thought to myself. "I could always put Butcher at the door. That might keep her down here if she does get loose; and that way I can always just let him go at her if she tries to fight back." Butcher was my rottweiler. He was a vicious, nasty piece of shit of a dog. But he kept me safe. He only listened to me. I fed him, I sheltered him and I punished him if he got out of hand. A more loyal dog you will not find. I still remember the one day I was almost robbed. I came home to a broken back window, and a blood soaked kitchen. Butcher had ripped the would-be burglar to shreds, I'm assuming within seconds. I walked in through the back door and found him chewing on the guys arm. This guy was hiding in my closest, unable to move and bleeding profusely. I used him for practice. He wasn't very useful though as he died from blood loss within an hour. Butcher was only two years old then and still had no name, so I decided on Butcher after that day. I spent nearly three days trying to clean up his mess. Slobber, blood and flesh make for one hell of a mess.
I woke up to the sound of Butcher barking down the hall. I got my clothes on. Boots, jeans and top. My apron and belt was down in the basement. I walked down the hall to Butcher and he was barking at the basement door, slobbering all over the place. I put ear to the door and heard a noise. Someone was messing with my tray table. I shook my head in disappointment and leaned against the door. I looked down at Butcher who was now sitting patiently, waiting for my command. He stared me in the eyes and I saw the red in them. I opened the door and shouted, "Get em boy!" He barked like a wild animal and bolted down the stairs. I closed the door slightly and put my ear by the crack. Screaming and growling. The sound of metal pinging and banging against the floor. The sound of a struggle and ripping flesh. I gave Butcher two minutes to finish her off, but he only needed one and a half. I swung open the door and slowly walked down the steps. I walked into the room and there was blood everywhere. Butcher was lying down next to her bloody, bruised corpse. He had gone right for the neck. Ripped her throat clean out. Savage little bastard. He wasn't the biggest rottweiler but he was strong. He knew how to kill. I looked around and saw the surgical equipment strewn across the floor. She obviously managed to undo the knots I had made. I sat down in front of her bloody body, grabbed what was left of her arm and whistled, "Here boy!".
