Page 17 of Psycho Killers

A chill runs through me as I finally approach the back, knowing this is the way he'll eventually walk out of. I have no plan, but I've always been a quick thinker, so I'm not worried about it. He'll be my little bitch by the end of the night, and I'll finally have him right where I want him: tied up and at my disposal.

After a whileof standing out back in the shadows, a pile of cigarette butts on the ground, I hear commotion coming from the door just feet away from where I'm standing. The heavy oak door of the bar swings open, spilling out the sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses. Gunnar emerges, his silhouette momentarily backlit by the warm glow of the interior. He’s talking animatedly, gesturing wildly with a half-empty beer bottle in his hand. He doesn't see me, hidden in the shadows of the alleyway. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the night. This is fucking it.

I step out, my movements fluid and silent, a predator stalking its prey. He’s still engrossed in conversation, oblivious to my approach. He’s laughing—a cruel, arrogant sound that gets on my nerves. The cigarette between my lips burns, a tiny ember mirroring the fire that consumes me. I take a deep drag, the smoke a temporary shield against the rising tide of my emotions.

He finishes his conversation, turning to leave. This is my fucking chance. I move with a speed that surprises even myself, my hand flashing out, clamping over his mouth before he can scream. His eyes widen in shock, his struggle weak against my sudden, overwhelming force. I shove him roughly into the alley, his back hitting the cold brick wall with a dull thud.

"What the fuck?" He yells, his voice hoarse and not as loud as he thinks it is.

"Hey, bitch," I laugh, watching his eyes widen at the sound of my voice, the pleasure from his fear turning me on. "You're nothing without your bodyguards, are you? Obviously not since this little girl just managed to subdue your ass so fucking easily."

"You'll fucking pay for this, Little Psycho," he spits, threatening me with a good time.

He tries to fight back, but I’m stronger and faster, obviously having the advantage against his drunken ass. I pin him against the wall, then manage to kick out his legs and knock his ass to the cold ground, my knee pressing into his chest, the weight of my body pinning him down. His eyes dart around, searching for an escape, but there is none. He’s fucking trapped. He’s fucking mine.

The fire in my veins intensifies, a burning rage that threatens to consume me. I pull out the duct tape in my backpack I’d prepared, the roll cold and slick in my hand. The metallic tang of blood fills the air as I sink my teeth deeply into his lip, the taste of his blood, and fear a bitter reward. He whimpers, a pathetic sound that only fuels my fury. I begin to wrap the tape aroundhis mouth, silencing his desperate pleas. The night is young, and I have a long fucking night planned for him. The game hasfinallyfucking begun.

The duct tape muffles his cries, a stark contrast to the earlier boisterous laughter that spilled from the bar. His eyes, wide and panicked, continue to dart around the narrow confines of the alley, searching for a nonexistent escape. I relish his fear, a perverse satisfaction blooming in my chest. This is what I craved—this feeling of absolute control—of finally having the upper hand, especially over him. He struggles weakly against my weight, his drunken bravado replaced by a desperate, animalistic fear.

I pull out a length of rope from my backpack, the coarse fibers scratching against my skin. The scent of his fear, mingled with the metallic tang of his blood, is intoxicating. I tie his wrists tightly behind his back, the rope biting into his flesh. He groans, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver of excitement down my spine. I stand, my boots crunching on the broken glass and discarded cigarette butts littering the alley floor. He’s bound, helpless, at my fucking mercy.

"You're fucking mine, Gunnar; you're finally fucking mine, and I can't wait to have some fun with you." I wink, flashing him a genuine grin of absolute happiness.

The secluded spot I found is a short walk away, a forgotten corner of the city where the shadows are deep and the silence is absolute. I drag him along, his body bumping against the rough, rocky asphalt, his muffled whimpers a soundtrack to my triumph. The adrenaline coursing through my veins keeps the chill at bay, a stark contrast to the icy fear that had gripped me earlier. Now, only a burning, consuming rage remains.

The journey is short, but it feels like an eternity. Each step is a victory, each groan from Gunnar a testament to my power. Finally, we reach the spot—a crumbling warehouse, its windowsboarded up, its doors rusted shut. The air hangs heavy with the scent of decay and damp earth. It’s fucking perfect.

I heave him inside, his body thudding against the concrete floor. The darkness swallows him whole, leaving only the faint glimmer of moonlight filtering through cracks in the boarded-up windows. I pull out a flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom, illuminating his terrified face. His eyes, wide and pleading, meet mine. He tries to speak, but the duct tape holds firm. His silence is a fucking gift that I appreciate more than ever.

The fire within me burns brighter than ever, a relentless inferno fueled by years of pain, betrayal, and simmering rage. Tonight, I'll unleash it all. Tonight, Gunnar will fucking pay. Tonight, I'll have my revenge. And tonight, the fucking darkness will consume us both.

The flashlight beam dances across Gunnar's face, highlighting the terror etched into every line. His eyes, wide and desperate, plead for mercy, but I offer none. I enjoy the silence, the absence of his pleas, the absolute control I hold over him. This is better than I ever imagined. The years of simmering rage, the pain, the betrayal—it all coalesces into this single, potent moment.

I pull out a small, rusty knife from my backpack. The blade gleams faintly in the flashlight's beam, a promise of the pain to come. He flinches, a barely perceptible movement, but it's enough. It fuels me. I trace the blade along his cheek, feeling the rough texture of his skin beneath the cold steel. He whimpers, a choked sound muffled by the duct tape. I press the blade lightly against his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. He flinches again, his body trembling.

I spend the next few hours torturing him, savoring every whimper, every groan, every desperate attempt to escape. I inflict pain methodically and deliberately, each cut a testamentto the suffering he inflicted on me. The warehouse echoes with his cries, a symphony of pain that fills me with a twisted sense of satisfaction. The darkness of the warehouse seems to absorb the sounds, leaving only the rhythmic thud of my actions and the heavy breathing of my victim.

As dawn breaks, painting the sky in hues of grey and orange, I finally stop. Gunnar is a broken mess, his body bruised and bleeding, his spirit crushed. He lies still, his eyes vacant, his breathing shallow. I stand over him, my heart pounding, my breath ragged. The fire within me has finally burned itself out, leaving behind an emptiness that chills me to the bone.

I leave him there, in the crumbling warehouse, a testament to my revenge. I walk away, leaving the darkness to consume him, leaving the silence to swallow his cries. But I'll be back.

As I walk, a chilling realization dawns on me. The emptiness isn't satisfying. It's fucking terrifying. The rage has gone, but the pain remains. And Addy… she's still there, a silent observer, a constant reminder of the darkness that resides within me. The victory feels hollow, the revenge incomplete. I have destroyed Gunnar—not all the way but enough for now—but in doing so, I have only further destroyed myself. The night has ended, but the darkness remains. And I am alone, truly fucking alone, in the chilling aftermath of my actions with the haunting reminder of poor Ash trumping everything else in my mind.

TEN

ACCEPTANCE

POST SCRIPT: FINCH

CALISTA

Walking into the apartment, instead of the anticipated darkness and silence at nearly three in the morning, I find Five, Dominic, and Killian sprawled across the living room couch, shirtless, the television competing unsuccessfully with the blaring radio. The usual detritus of their lifestyle—uncapped needles, rolled-up bills, and a graveyard of empty bottles—litter the floor and countertops, all swallowed in a thick haze of smoke.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I ask, a grin dancing on my chapped lips.

Their silence is deafening, their shocked stares spotlighting me in a way that sends a shiver down my spine, triggering a visceral flashback to my childhood performances in my parents' basement. Glancing down, I notice the blood—Gunnar's blood—staining my clothes.

Fuck.

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