Page 16 of Slay All The Way

But it’s too fucking late.

I slam him back into the snow, pinning him down as I lean in close, feeling the heat of his dying breaths against my chilled skin. “Youwerenothing,” I sneer, my lips brushing his ear.

With a snarl, I yank his head to the side, exposing the vulnerable stretch of his throat. He thrashes harder, his hands weakly pushing against me, but the fight is leaving him fast. The knife moves with precision, glinting in the dim light as I drag it across his throat. His body jerks violently, his scream cut off by the sickening sound of blood gushing from the deep, deliberate wound. Steaming blood splatters across the fresh snow, sizzling as the heat melts through the delicate surface. He gurgles, choking on the thick liquid flooding his throat, while the once-white ground darkens, the snow dissolving under the relentless warmth of his life draining away.

Still, he tries to claw at me, his weak hands trembling as he reaches up in one last, pitiful attempt to save himself. But his strength is gone. His body convulses, twitching helplessly as the life drains from him.

I watch with twisted satisfaction, my laughter bubbling up, wild and unhinged, as I savor every last moment of his struggle. Each desperate twitch, each gasp for breath, makes my cock throb, straining against the fabric of my Santa suit. His life slipping through my fingers is the ultimate thrill, the kind of rush that nothing else compares to.

Fuck, I love this shit. Nothing gets me harder than feeling the life drain out of someone at my hands—their last breath, their final, pathetic fight against the inevitable.

I laugh again, the sound manic and echoing through the cold, silent night. Leaning in close, I whisper, “Merry fucking Christmas,” right into his ear as the last flicker of life fades from his eyes. Blood pools around him, staining the ground like some dark, twisted holiday decoration—a gift for my little snowflake.

My heart races, every pulse sending a surge of pleasure through me. There’s nothing like it.

But I’m not done with this little, gift. No, I have plans. Bigger and better plans for the perfect Christmas gift, one she’ll never forget.

Standing over his body, I twirl the knife in my hand, humming softly to myself. The tune of “Jingle Bells” fills the cold air as I glance down at his head. A wicked idea creeps into my mind, and I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face. His head—oh yes, we’re going to need that to complete my little gift. A perfect and most thoughtful little tribute for my snowflake.

Something to show her that I’m here, that I’ve always been here.

Kneeling back down, I hum louder, savoring each slice as the knife works its way through flesh and bone. With each cut, the excitement inside me grows, knowing this is just the beginning. Soon, Alaska will know she doesn’t have to worry about Mark anymore. She’ll understand that he never cared, but I did.

She’ll be mine. Forever.

I glance around and spot an axe leaning against a tree near a stack of firewood. A wicked grin spreads across my face as I grab it, the cold metal heavy in my hand. This is going to be even more fun.

I return to Mark’s lifeless form, and with a sharp swing, I bury the axe deep into his arm. The crack of bone and thewet sound of tearing flesh sends a shiver of excitement through me. It’s messy, blood splattering onto my Santa suit, soaking through the fabric, but fuck, I don’t give a single fuck. With a few more satisfying hacks, his arm is free from his torso, and I move to the next, repeating the process with a gleeful goddamn chuckle.

The axe makes quick work of the body. Blood pools in the snow, melting it in jagged, red-streaked patches. His dismembered limbs lie scattered around me, nothing more than gruesome props now. Grabbing his head by the hair, I drag the parts toward a clearing in front of the cabin where the snow glistens under the pale moonlight.

It’s beautiful—a perfect, untouched canvas for the masterpiece I’m about to create.

I chuckle softly, the sound bubbling up from deep inside as I begin shaping the snow, patting it down, rolling it into balls. It’s almost childish, the way I work, the thrill of what I’m doing intoxicating.

His head goes on top of the snowman, twisted and bloody, with his lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. I press his arms into the sides of the snowman, their grotesque angles giving it a mangled, sinister appearance. Blood stains the snow around me, painting the scene in red and white like some twisted holiday tableau.

“Killer clown, killer clown,” I hum to myself as I work, my breath puffing in the cold air. “Stalking through the snow... ribbons tight, silent night... nowhere left to go.”

I step back, admiring my work. The snowman stands tall, gruesome and towering, Mark’s head leering down at me from its perch atop the misshapen body. His eyes are wide open, frozen in that final moment of terror, and blood drips down the snow-packed figure like garland on a twisted Christmas tree.

It’s perfect—a morbid monument to my devotion, a message Alaska will understand soon enough. She’ll see what I’ve done for her, see that Mark was nothing but a piece of shit. He never deserved her. But me? I’m the one who’ll give her everything—my protection, my love. She’s mine now.

But as perfect as my little gift is, it’s missing something.

I rummage through the pile of wood and find a string of Christmas lights tangled in the mess. Perfect. I drape them around the snowman, carefully wrapping the lights around Mark’s severed arms and neck before plugging them in. The red and green bulbs flicker to life, casting an eerie glow over his lifeless head perched at the top.

I step back to admire my work, bloodstained hands trembling with excitement. It’s unnatural, twisted—and absolutely fucking beautiful.

The cold night air bites at my skin, but I barely fucking notice. My heart is still pounding, my body thrumming with adrenaline. My Santa suit sticks to me in places, heavy with dried blood from days of wear, and fresh sweat now mixes with it after all the effort. I brush a damp strand of hair from my face with a gloved hand, still gripping the handle of the axe. It was hard work, man—hacking up Mark’s body and packing it into the snow—but worth every goddamn second.

I wipe my brow, admiring the snowman again, feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time: satisfaction.

Funny thing is, I alwayshatedmaking snowmen. My parents, though, they were obsessed. Every year, dragging me out to the stupid winter festival, forcing me to take part in those ridiculous snowman-building competitions. They’d parade me in front of all their rich friends, acting like we were the perfect fucking family. But really, they didn’t give a shit about me unless I was makingthemlook good.

It was never about the fun or the holidays, no. It was about status, appearances. I’d be out there, freezing my ass off, building a stupid fucking snowman, while my parents flashed their fake smiles for the cameras.

Ugh, the fake praise, the forced smiles—they made me sick.

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