Page 31 of Unholy Bonds

“Oh, I know. Dead bodies tell no stories.”

“I’ll kill you for this. I’ll kill you and eat you and then fuck your dead body.”

“How? You’re dying tonight, right here, right now. So how will you kill me, Victor? Enlighten me, please.”

I couldn’t stop the peals of laughter as I let my knife speak with his skin. Cut, stop, press. A seductive dance. Repeat. Until the song was only his scream and my laughter.

It was compelling, the music he made! I craved the music as much as I craved blood.

Some nights, I’d sit with the blood on my hand and wonder if I was a good person or a very evil one?

To the man under my knife, I was a monster, a heartless heathen.

“You’ll die a painful death, whore. I’ll tear your pussy apart and then—”

But he wasn’t the only one in this world. He was only a very small part.

Right now, somewhere in a rundown building, a girl, barely at the brink of womanhood, could be thanking me for saving her from this man. I was not a monster to her.

“Oh, shut up. Don’t waste your breath.”

“Victor, it’s time for you to go.” I plunged my knife into his chest. Once. The glug of blood echoed in the emptiness of the cold room. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he stared at me. “Let go, Victor. Death is your liberation. You’re free now.”

“You’ll die for this. My b—”

I thrust the knife directly into his liver. This time, he screamed at the top of his lungs, and I stabbed them next.

“Death by exsanguination. Your body is slowly being deprived of the oxygen it needs to survive, and you… do you feel like you’re swimming underwater?”

He wailed. I smiled.

He screamed, then, with full force, gathering the last of his strength, and I screamed with him, releasing my anger in waves before piercing his heart with one last accurate jab.

The sound of the metal cutting against his flesh, hitting against his ribs, filled the air.

“It’s over.”

He shuddered. The bastard was relentless—I had no idea how he was still holding on.

“You’re a stubborn asshole, aren’t you, Victor? But hope is cruel,” I said as I thrust the knife into his stomach until the darkness in me dispersed into him, until the overwhelming echoes of the demons in me quietened, until there was only the sound of the blade meeting his flesh and the hot spray of blood on my face.

He was gone, carrying my demons with him. For now, everything felt blissfully quiet and breathtakingly bright.

I was whistling.

“Look what you made me do, Victor.”

This was the part of my ritual I loved. The part where I wrote stories with them.

“Sleep tight. May no angel ever feel the violent touch of your demons. May they rest in peace! You may not.”

“I’ll see you soon, Victor. Your story is just beginning.”

14

HUNGER

YARA

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