Page 75 of Corrupting Ivy

I sat in my seat as he stepped back into the room, holding a white cloth the size of a huge cloth napkin in his hands, then stood behind me. I shifted in my seat to see what he was up to, but I didn’t have to. He reached over my head and wrapped the material under my chin and around my neck, tying it like an adult bib.

“We don’t want you to get dirty.”

His soothing tone assaulted my nerves with an irritation similar to a poisonous itch. An elephant-sized ball of frustration built up in my chest and forced itself out with lightning speed before I could reel it in and control my tongue. “Let me go, you fucking psycho.” I rattled my chair back and forth as I struggled to free myself.

“That’s one pretty little stitch right here,” he said, his finger touching the corner of my lips.

I seethed as I watched him move over and open the cabinet at the bottom of the bookshelf, then pulled out a small tin and a first aid kit.

Oh my god. He’s serious.

Of course he’s serious, Ivy. He’s a serial killer, and I just pissed him off.

“Wait,” I cried, “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Give me another chance, please?”

“Oh, hey,” he said, placing the tin and kit on the plate before me, “don’t worry. It’ll make you a better listener. You’ll thank me.”

He hadn’t even put a stitch in, but yet I couldn’t speak or find words. How is this even possible? And why me? Not after everything I’d gone through. Not after I’d pulled myself from the rubble and started anew. A solitary tear fell down my face, wetting my cheeks, and absorbed into the dress. “Please don’t.” I never expected to have to beg another man not to hurt me after putting a bullet in Billy’s chest. My well-earned freedom didn’t last long.

“Don’t cry, please. We don’t want salt to irritate the wound. That’ll only make things worse.”

As if sewing my mouth shut wasn’t bad enough, he’s worried I’ll hurt myself much more. I can’t even with these mentally unstable men.

“Now, if you don’t stay still, this might go right through your cheek.”

He threaded the curved needle you’d see in doctors’ offices, rubbed a propylene glycol pad over it, and moved towards me. My tears flowed freely, in a flood I couldn’t control.

There was no way he was sticking me with that. If he had to sanitize it, that meant he used it on some other poor soul who didn’t come out alive.

He slammed his hand down on the top of my head and fisted my hair, holding me still from shaking my head from side to side. The stinging needle-like agony of my hair follicles ripping away from my scalp forced me to pause long enough for the needle to enter my bottom lip.

My body froze as my heart sped up to a speed that I imagined would propel it flying out of my chest. I wanted to move, but terror gripped my body and forced me to remain motionless. He let go of my hair, squeezed my lips together, and punctured my upper lip.

The needle popped through layers of fatty tissue and skin, finally emerging on the other side.

His tongue peeked out from between his lips, just enough to show the concentration it took for him to destroy me.

Tears streamed effortlessly, but my body refused to comply with my demands. Instead, like a doll, I sat absolutely still for him, my body betraying me.

He twisted the thread into a complex knot, then drew it apart in opposite directions, tightening it against my wounded flesh as he drew the thread close to my lips and snipped it. “There. That’s better,” he said before placing it in the tin and closing it. “Now, who’s ready to eat?” he asked, clapping his hands together and rubbing them excitedly.

Mr. Grady grabbed the supplies, then placed them on the table beside the police scanner as my body thawed. I strained, pulled hard, and twisted every which way in my restraints. But they wouldn’t budge. There was no reprieve from their hold. I shifted my focus from him to my wrists, making sure I didn’t offer him any more reasons to get angry, then reached for the knife with crimson-coated hands.

I stopped as he returned to his seat and served out the meal. “I know Veronica, but I warned her,” he said to the deceased woman.

How was it that a man with a broken psyche like him could function in society and no one even questioned who he truly was?

He picked up his fork and stabbed the meat, then brought it to her lips. “It’s good, right?” He placed it back on his plate. “She likes it. Here you try it.” He picked up the same fork with the same piece of meat that touched her mouth and brought it to mine.

I clamped my mouth shut as hard as I could and turned my head away from him. He sighed again.

Mr. Grady’s sigh gave him away. It forewarned me he was about to do something that would pause the illusion he had created. It was as if his breath permitted him to go out the door, fix the problem, and then walk back inside, restoring his illusion.

“Open your mouth, or I’m going to rip that stitch from your plump lips, shove my fork into the back of your throat, then stitch you back up.”

My legs bounced from the adrenaline flooding my system with nowhere to go. He’d find me. I had to hope and pray that he’d come back to me and find me missing. But what if he didn’t? I studied Veronica. The poor woman. Who was she before he made her his puppet for eternity?

A sob escaped my lips as I forced my mouth open and closed my eyes. I couldn’t watch him put contaminated food in my mouth. He placed the fork between my teeth and scraped the cold meat off. The seasoned meat landed on my tongue, causing my stomach to cramp and twist.

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