Page 77 of Fragmented Illusions
Creepy’s head is tilted to the side as he regards me. With his close proximity, I can vaguely make out the color of his eyes. They are blue—on the darker side, but still vibrant. He slowly pulls my hand into his and weaves his fingers through mine.
There is blood on my glove, but that doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.
Of course it doesn’t.
You’re not bothered by it either.
In fact…
“What’s going on in that pretty little head on yours?” he asks me. His words are soft, curious. I find myself smiling.
“I’m thinking I… I love the sight of her blood…” I choke on my words, the brutal truth of them shocking me.
“Fuck.” He groans and shifts around, readjusting his sweatpants. “As if I wasn’t hard enough before.” My face blazes when I make contact with the bulge in his pants, and I quickly dart my eyes.
Creepy chuckles but doesn’t say anything. He then picks up the knife—his knife—I dropped and pushes it back into my hand.
“You were doing very well. But you were being too delicate. Yes, flesh cuts easily because it’s tender, but we’re not trying to be hesitant here. You know what you want, don’t you?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.
My blush deepens but I nod. “Yes.”
“Good.”
I shift until I’m on my knees in front of the girl. She’s shifting around more, and I know she’s going to wake up soon. I don’t know if I could still do this with her screams ringing in my ear, so taking Creepy’s advice and swallowing my hesitation, I shove the knife into her shoulder.
It tears through the thick muscle with little force. When I yank it out, a gasp flies from my mouth when blood pours from the open wound, soaking the front of her shirt. I glance over at Creepy. “Did I do it right?”
“Oh fuck, pretty girl.” He groans and moves so he’s sitting behind me. He wraps his arms around my middle and clasps my hand holding the knife. He wraps his fingers around my entire hand, gripping my fingers tightly to control my movements.
He then guides the blade of the knife in our hands to the woman’s chest. Her shirt is loose-fitting so it’s hanging off of her, but Creepy easily tears the knife through the thin fabric, exposing her. My eyes fall to her breasts and my head tilts to the side as I observe her body. Blood runs down her shoulder, across her breasts and down her stomach to the floor.
My eyes follow the path of the blood, following every trail until I’ve mapped out every single one in my mind.
“You love the blood, don’t you, baby?”
“Too much.” There is no point in denying it. It fascinates me. It’s also probably why I cut myself. I wanted to bleed. Not because I wanted to hurt myself with the knife, but because I wanted—no, Ineededto see the blood.
I needed to smell it. Feel it.Taste it.
It all makes so much sense now. Many things are snapping into place, like missing pieces of me I never understood were missing until I got them back. Now I feel myself becoming whole, I realize I’ve been living in a fragmented version of myself.
Without truly thinking about it, my hand not holding the knife reaches for her body. I trail my gloved fingers through the blood running between her breasts. I can’t feel it on my skin, but I wish I could. I know it would be warm. Sticky.
I hesitantly bring my fingers towards my mouth without once taking my eyes off of the blood. I can barely make it out in the darkness. All I can see is the way it glints off of my glove, shiny in appearance.
My eyes flutter closed when my fingertips brush my lips. They open automatically at the sensation, allowing the blood to cling to my tongue. Copper and leather flood my mouth and I groan at the heady flavor combination.
I suck my fingers deeper into my mouth, desperate for more of it. I lick each digit until they’re clean and all I can taste is the leather of my glove. I pull my fingers from my mouth and reach for her body.
Before I can gather more blood like it’s my last meal, voices pull me away from my desperation.
“She was made for us,” Silent muses. His voice sounds closer, and I would have forgotten he was here if his presence wasn’t so dominating.
“That she was, brother.” I can hear the amusement in Creepy’s tone, and I find myself smiling.
This is nice. Being accepted. Not being told I need help.
I’m sick.
