Page 9 of Drowned In Silence

Watching someone patiently isnot my fucking forte. It’s been almost an hour since one of Dynah’s regulars waltzed into her room like he owned the place. He slammed the door and then peeked out of the curtains, and that’s the last I’ve seen of him so far. I can’t wait to get my hands on this slimy motherfucker. He just gives off those petty fuckface vibes.

After our little field adventure last week, I watched her from afar until she woke up. She was dazed and confused, but made it back to her room intact and continued life as normal. It amused me to watch her stumble around in a panic. I wonder what else would make her react this way. Her little fluttering heartbeat, the way she was looking over her shoulder every ten seconds. She even slid her hand between her thighs, making sure I didn’t take anything yet.

I’ve watched this guy on camera for about ten minutes,until I can’t stand to watch anymore. He’s an aggressive man, thinking he owns her just because he will pay for the hour. I understand that she does this as a living, but I can’t believe she will just lay down and take this shit. It makes me more and more angry the longer I sit by and watch.

I’m going to have to do something about this. As soon as this guy walks down to the parking lot, I'm going to give him a taste of his own medicine. I’ll beat him the way he is beating her. I will shove my fist down his throat like he shoved his cock down hers.

Fuck!

Grabbing my mask from the passenger seat, I sit in the dark, waiting for my moment of release. He should come out soon, and then it will end.

Within seconds of my thoughts, the door swings open abruptly. He is now covered in blood, and I assume it isn’t just his. Fucking piece of shit, asshole, cunty, fuck.

I wait until he gets down the stairs before slowly slipping out of my car. Thankfully I'm already in all black to blend within the interior of my car. As soon as he rounds the corner, I’m on him. I punch him in the head, knocking him out with a thud. He may be a bigger one, but the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Struggling to drag him to the field, I reach under his sweaty arms, pulling him into the weeds and down the traveled path.

“Son-of-a-bitch, you’re fucking heavy,” I mumble under my breath. “What the fuck did you eat growing up? Fucking bricks and concrete?”

He mumbles back, waking up and trying to gain a grip on the ground below him. “What the fuck?”

“Shut up, fatass. I was talkingaboutyou, nottoyou.”

I drop his arms once we are far enough from the motelthat no one will see us within the weeds. They are too tall and overgrown to see anything, unless you are standing right next to us.

I slowly walk around him as he sits up, shaking his head and coming back to life.

“Who are you?” He yells.

“Shhh. You’ve already awoken the Gríma Sýn, you don’t want to wake the dead, too.” I push him back down with my boot, covering his lips with the sole. “You’ve treated enough people like dog shit, and your days are now at an end.”

Bending down I let the horror plastered on his face shine back at him within my mask. Taking my knife from within my pocket, I flip it open, letting him see the blade. He tries to fight back for a minute, before I give up and sit on his chest. One hand wrapped within his shirt, and one hand holding the blade.

“I’d ask if you have any more words, but I don’t care to hear them,” I lean down and whisper in his ear.

“You’re–”

I take the blade and slowly drag it across his throat. The blood that pours out looks like it’s made from ink, seeping to the ground below us. He gurgles, unable to speak. Trying to reach his neck, he fights with my legs, trying to grab at anything and everything. I sit on top of him, reveling in the way his life fades from his eyes– watching as he stares back at himself in my mask.

“Perfect ending for a perfect asshole,” I whisper as he finally gives up and his soul leaves his body.

Sitting there for a moment, I gather my thoughts. Killing all these people almost makes me feel grounded, and it feels so fucking refreshing. I haven’t played The Gríma Sýn in a while, and it’s a fun character to impersonate. Stalking people in the night, chasing them down with my mask on, slittingtheir throats, and playing in their blood. I don’t know if Dynah would feel the same way as I do, but I hope with all the trauma she’s seen, she would at least understand the carnal need to kill someone for being evil and lesser than we are.

I get up and pull the ceramic raven skull from the small backpack I grabbed on my way out of the car, and place it dead center on his chest. Carefully dipping my hand into the purple Crown Royal bag, I grab a handful of glass shards and sprinkle them around the skull. Taking two large shards, I shove them into the dead eyes that stare back at me.

A raven is symbolic for a lot of things, but to me it means transformation, reflection, and the secrets we keep. The carrion birds feed on the death of things, a symbol of life coming to an end, only to be rebirthed as new. A reflection, if you will, on the life that you live. Whether it be good or bad, it will always end.

That’s why I chose a mirrored mask– it's a reflection of who the person is now.

Dead. Expired. Inanimate.

I am careful when I stand, making sure I don’t disrupt the natural flow of the sticky blackness below us– careful as to not leave any trace of myself as I walk back to my car and drive away.

Dynah should be joyful. One less creep in a world filled with them.

If a man should hit a woman and turn a blind eye towards her pain, then he doesn’t deserve to see.

Now he will be blinded in whatever life he reincarnates to.

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