Page 2 of Bleed
“Yet you still dropped to your knees for me?”
“Yes.”
“Filthy whore. No good filthy whore.” I tsk at her, clicking my tongue. “I think you deserve to know, I guess.”
“Know what?”
“Who I am.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the reaper, and you my dear…” I sneer in her face, then lick up her cheek with my flattened tongue. “You are the next on my list.”
“What?” She asks, her voice becoming panicked, her body stiffening in my grasp. “Who?”
“The reaper.” I say flatly again, as if she’s supposed to know what that means. I mean shouldn’t everybody? “I’m going to give you a choice. Easy and clean? Or rough and dirty?” I add, leaning in closer again, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my breath wafting over her skin. “Please choose rough and dirty.”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Christina Franchesca?” I ask, rubbing my bearded face on her cheek, feeling the terror building up under her skin.
“Yes.” She says, trying to pull away unsuccessfully. “How did you…?”
“Like I said, you’re next on my list. Valentino says hello and goodbye.”
Her blue eyes shine so brightly with the lights flashing across them, their surfaces so shiny with her tears as it finally registers in her head. For a moment I think she’s going to break down, cry and beg for her life like they all do, but she surprises me.
Steeling herself in my grasp, she furrows her brows, and changes before my eyes. The scared little thing scowls at me instead and snarls in my face like a rabid animal.
“Tell Valentino he can go fuck himself.”
I don’t know whether or not I should be proud of her, or angry with her for her insolence towards me, but either way, she’s redeemed her respect from me. She’s not afraid to die, and I know she wouldn’t choose the clean and easy way to go.
My kind of girl after all.
The knife makes a metallic sliding sound as I pull it from its sheath in my waistband. It feels heavy in my hand, and comforting, like a security blanket of sorts, and I bring it around in front of me, while pushing her back further into the shadows of the club.
The lights barely reach us now, and she is shrouded in complete darkness form my large body blocking the rest of the world from her. I won’t be able to see the blood spill from her, to watch her bleed out, but I’ll be able to feel it, and smell it, and that’s good enough for me.
“Any last words?” I ask as I bring the blade up between our faces, letting the edge of it scrape across her soft cheek.
“Fuck you.” She spits at me, her saliva splattering on my face and in my beard. A droplet lands on my lip, and I lick it away.
“As you wish.”
The way her eyes widen, and her mouth opens behind my hand as I cup my fingers over her lips and drive the knife into her chest is goddamned euphoric. Her pupils dilate, almost covering her irises, and I can see my reflection in them as I press forward harder, advancing the single edged blade deeper into her body. She curls forward from the impact as the hilt smashes into her flesh, and her scream of pained surprise dies behind my hand in a raspy gurgle.
The smell of the blood, all heavy with copper and iron fills my nose as I bring my arm back, withdrawing the knife, and plunge it back in, once, twice, three more times until my hand and arm are soaked in her essence, and the floor under my feet becomes slippery with the blood and urine mess that pours from her.
She’s a silently dying, quivering mess in my hold, her eyelids fluttering closed, the long lashes brushing her wet cheeks as I grip the handle tighter and pull upwards, cutting the blade through her chest, until it gets stuck on the bone of her sternum.
I would love to watch those eyes roll back in her head, but the view’s obstructed by her teary lids, and that’s okay, because the feel of her hot blood running down my forearm and dripping off my elbow is just as orgasmic. I can feel the climax that she failed to produce minutes ago raging through me, and as she stills against me, slumping into a lifeless bag of shredded skin and bones, I cum in my pants, soaking the fly of the denim.
“Oh fuck yes. That’s it.” I groan, my own eyes rolling back but not in death, in pleasure. The pleasure that only comes when my mark ceases to live.
Gently setting her down in the corner, I leave her as if she were just a drunken slut that I’ve finished using, because, well, technically she is, even if she was on the list I carry in my head.
With a mental check mark to my hit list, I turn and walk out of the club, with no one the wiser, leaving a trail of red drops on the floor behind me that quickly gets smeared into an abstract artwork by the shoes of the dancing club goers.
