Rage is the residential psycho of the club. Tormented by his own demons he lives in pain and agony, a constant state of rage. Everyone knows him as the Hellhound of the Riders of Tyr , known for his cruelty and the joy he gets from causing pain. To...
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Rage
The minute the girl vanishes in the corridor I grab the bottle and throw it on the wall.
"What the fuck, Rage?" Tor looks at me and then at the scattered glass.
I have no answer. I just get up and fuss with my hair.
"Rage, calm the fuck down!" Runner looks at me.
My hand is full of blood which means I have blood all over. I usually I don't mind. But she might come out and she will be scared. I know she will. She is already scared seeing me carve myself up.
"Rage, breathe!" Runner looks worried.
I shake my head violently and get up. I have to get out. I have to get away before I do something I will regret. I storm out and get on my bike riding away. Sure, I have to come back eventually. I live in the club after all but I need to leave as far as possible, put some distance between me and a pair of grey eyes. I press on and I see everything around pass me by in a flash.
I keep picturing the way she looked at me back in the bar. She is not the first to look upon me like that. Most rotters have seen me do weirder shit in the bar and I never gave a fuck. It is always the same. When a woman gets in for the first time, she will be drawn to me like a moth to the flame. And then one will whisper something in her ear. Or even worst. She will come closer and try to touch me. I have broken a few arms before the message got through. No touching! I can touch but none is to touch me. I am a fucking psycho, everyone is right. I don't care how Candy looks at me, how others whisper that I am a nutcase. But her...For some fucked-up reason I can't bear her looking at me like this.
It is already dark when I head back to the bar. The couches are filled with grinding couples and the booths with noisy, loud men. Only my table is empty in the quietest corner. All heads turn to me and most flinch. I get that reaction often. I don't like people staring for too long, I feel like they are trying to get into my mind and I want no one in there. It is a bad, ugly, dark place.
The voices in my head scream louder than the music and I cover my ears to hush them. My blood pounds hard in my ears and I feel my heart jump to my throat. The Hellhound comes over me and demands pain. With the corner of my eye I see Runner leave the rotter that is on her knees before him, get up, buckle his belt and come up to me.
"Fuck, Rage. You've been gone all day. Are you OK?" he asks.
His voice makes me focus on something else other than my urges. My jaw twitches and I rub my hands on my jeans. I am not. I'm never OK, not for one fucking second. I just...It won't stop, all this fucking aching, this agitation, this itch that needs me to scratch it till I bleed. I hit my head to make myself focus back on Runner.
"Bror, there is blood on you. Is this yours?"
I chuckle and I see Runner flinch. I look down. The blood from the cuts have covered my arm and I have a lot on my naked torso. There must be blood on my face, too. I nod to Runner and he seems relieved. That is who I am. People are more scared if I bled another rather than worry if I am OK. Probably because they know that if I want someone to bleed, he will be fucking bleeding to death.
"Want to clean up or you need a drink?" Runner asks.
I grunt and grab a bottle before storming out the bar and into the corridor. My room is the last one further down, next to the stairs. I need to be alone. I am not good when I am like this, when the Hellhound has taken over what is left of my soul and mind. I get to my door and grab the handle.
"Are you OK?" I hear a soft, timid voice to my left.
I turn and there she is. She is climbing up the stairs from the underground bunkers the club uses while in a lockdown. My eyes are caught in hers but still I can't find it in me to utter a single word.
"Are you OK?" she repeats.
She might think I am a mute or deaf or stupid. Truth is I am worse than that. My look wraps her figure swiftly as she comes up the last stairs. Fuck, she is so small.
"I hope that blood isn't yours." she adds looking at my hands.
Why the fuck a nice little girl like her worries about a fucked-up asshole like me is beyond my grasp. Terrified she might come closer to touch me, I shrug. She finally goes up the last step and stands a few feet away from me pressing her lips. I am still clutching the doorknob tightly and sweat comes out my every pore.
I don't know what to do. My mind tells me to open the fucking door and get the hell away from her. But I am pinned there with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, blood all over me and my dirty clothes and the urge to hit my head on the door. She makes no move to go despite the silence. She just bites he lower lip. I fist the doorknob tighter still not opening the door. I could stay there for all eternity looking upon her grey eyes, her tongue go over her lips. And at that moment, Tor comes staggering down the stairs with a red-haired, half naked girl.
"Hey, Rage. This is Iris. She'll be helping Bjorn at the garage." he points at her "Iris, this is Rage. Rage is...our residential psycho."
"Pleased to meet you...Rage." Iris hesitates.
I grunt, turn the knob and go in, slamming the door behind me. Once in the room I kick the few things I have around and take off my clothes. I never wear underwear so I stay butt naked in the dark room, still holding onto the whiskey. I sit on the cold bed and sway back and forth, trying to calm myself down. I close my eyes but all I see is her big, grey eyes. I down a few generous sips from the whiskey and feel that sweet burning that is the bringer of sleep. Troubled, nightmarish and short but that is the only sleep I get. The moment the heat from the alcohol settles in, the screams come back into my ears.
"Shut up!" I whisper.
I hit my head but the voices keep screaming. I gulp more whiskey and then I drive my nails over the cuts I have opened. The fresh wounds rip anew and bleed, making my fingers wet with blood. I chuckle loudly in the dark and pour some whiskey over the wounds just to feel the sting. I hiss when the hurt surges through my body. I throw my head back and close my eyes that are adjusting into the dark.
And through the pain and the screams, her vision comes, pushing everything aside. She is as she was outside the room, delicate and shy, biting her lip. My mind replays the vision of her pearl teeth bite down on her full lips that are like a bloody strawberry. I need to bite those lips too. I could just lean in, take her lips between my teeth, feel her taste.
"NO!" I scream loudly and get up.
I can't hurt her. I won't hurt her. I won't get near her. I am damaged and bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. I am Rage, the Hound of Hell and death is all I am. I pound on my chest till it goes numb to make my wicked, twisted mind understand.
"No. Not Iris." I repeat with every blow.
I pace up and downinto my room, drinking, swearing and hitting. The alcohol works slower tonightand sleep refuses to come. I smoke through half a packet of cigarettes, fillingmy room with smoke, making my lungs burn and I keep going up and down forendless hours. It is almost dawn when I finally pass out.
