Page 88 of Tyrant

Part of me wishes I would have given her more than what I did, to kill her. But then that would have resulted in an investigation and pathology and all that bullshit.

You know, in some other fake hopeful fucking world, Bridgette will wake up and not remember a thing and then decide a path of sobriety is necessary because she doesn’t want to mess up and hurt or kill herself. And then she’ll realize that she doesn’t want to be alone and she’ll call Serafina and—

“Yeah, fucking right,” I growl out loud.

Life is dark, evil and mean and an awful experience. Money or not. Power or not.

I grip the knife tighter and I want nothing more than to cut this cunt’s throat. I want to go ear to ear and watch her fucking bleed out. Can’t do that right now. But I can… fuck around a little.

I grab for Bridgette’s right wrist and I lift it up. I hold her hand and place the tip of the knife to her wrist. Of course I have to be careful here. I can’t cut too deep or else she’ll bleed the fuck out.

If that happens, it’ll look like a suicide…

Now that’s tempting.

I touch the tip of the knife to the cunt’s wrist. I apply pressure, watching her skin tear open. Blood runs freely but not squirting as though I’ve gone too deep. Bridgette groans and stirs in bed. She can still feel pain. She just can’t wake up. At least not yet.

I slide the knife from her wrist up along the inside of her forearm. It’s just a surface cut, but I go all the way to the bend of her elbow. Enough that she won’t be able to hide the cut with a simple bandage.

I clean the end of the knife from my fingerprints and leave it on the nightstand. She’s going to wake up, be covered in blood, find the knife, and freak the fuck out. No choice but to assume she did it to herself. And then what?

I walk out of the master bedroom and walk through the massive hallway toward Serafina’s old bedroom. I’m surprised it’s been left untouched.

I’ve already gone through the entire room, top to bottom. I’ve looked at every piece of clothing. I’ve gone through her drawer of panties and touched, smelled, and smiled at each pair. I found a couple questionable thongs that made me want to burn the fucking house down.

One other thing I managed to find were some old love letters, handwritten, from a guy named Calvin. I also found pictures of Serafina and Calvin. Young love. Teenage love. Dressed up for parties and then in a dress and tux for a prom or some stupid shit like that.

This is the guy though. Thefirst loveguy. The one that she hurt. A few more letters reveal that maybe things weren’t exactly one sided. Turns out Calvin may have gotten himself into a bit of trouble on a ski trip.

It’s almost comical to read letters from when they were in high school, the torrid affair of Calvin fingering some girl that lives in Denver. Just a rumor.

Yeah. Okay.

Then there’s a letter from Calvin that intrigues me very much. He claims it’s the last letter he’ll ever write to her, which as far as I can see has proven true. But the contents of the letter. Calling myclaimed onea slut. A bitch. Saying she deserves to get hurt. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday she will get hurt.

To me, that’s a threat. I don’t care how long ago the letter was written. If Calvin wants revenge on Serafina, he’s going to have to go through me.

I don’t know who the fuck this guy is in real life. He could be a goddamn humanitarian that saves the lives of starving children across the world.

But guess what? You fuck with myclaimed one, you fuck with me. I have no heart. I have no care. I don’t give a fuck who starves. I want violence, revenge, blood, death. I want it on my hands, dripping as freely as Serafina’s sticky, honey cum that pours from her cunt when I fuck her with my tongue or my cock.

As far as I give a fuck, this Calvin is as good as dead already.

“Calvin,”I growl. “You with me, old friend?”

I’m in my black robe, with my mask on, and I’m using a voice changer. I mean, if I’m going to do this, why not do it right?

Calvin lives alone in a large house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. No real security measures because he doesn’t need them. He’s an environmental lawyer. One of thegood guysapparently. He’s dating a woman named Lisa. They’ve been fucking for a year and she really loves him but he’s not sure how he feels. Hence the reason he has a secret online dating account and hasbeen talking to two other women. Brooke is a schoolteacher and they talk about books a lot. Now Heather, she’s a wild one. She loves to get naked and send pictures of her perfect tits to Calvin. And pictures of her soaking wet cunt.

Only issue there is if you take one second and run a cross reference search, those images all pop up online from various porn sites. Meaning this Heather person is sending Calvin fake images. Part of me wonders and hopes that Heather is really Lisa, and she’s catching him in the act.

Then again, all this personal drama means dick to me. It’s just good to know as much as possible about someone before you attack them. Calvin made it way too easy though. Sitting at his dining room table, drinking wine, working on some fucking paper.

He made it too easy to sneak into the house. And the guy is made of fucking paper. I barely hit him and he was out cold.

Now he’s tied to his bed, slowly starting to come back to life. When he sees me, he freaks the fuck out, as expected. I look like something that crawled out of hell and here I am ready to claim his mortal soul.

I have a few knives from his kitchen on the bed. And a hammer I found in a toolbox in the pantry closet. Oh, and an electric drill. That’s what I’m holding in my right hand.

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