Page 381 of Vicious Saint
So much he gets sloppy and forgets to make sure my hands are still tied when he leans into my face.
Breathing a rancid stench of fish and cigarettes, Boris grinds out, “I’m going to have a good time killing you, Saint Lavell. Slowly, limb by limb until you cry out for your little princess here to save you. But she won’t be able to save you…you want to know why?”
“I’m on the edge of my seat waiting.”
“Because before I kill you, I’m going to make sure you watch me fuck, stab, and shoot every inch of her body until she’s strung up like a lifeless piece of meat in a freezer.” He grins ear to filthy ear. “And then, only after she’s bled out completely in front of you, will I offer you a slow death.”
I grin right back as the corridors of my mind appear before me, finding them no longer a pristine white, instead, a mix of blue and black. They contract, expand, crack, but instead of them closing in, I’m being drawn to the darkness where I can feel him waiting.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt his presence, allowed him to take over, but right now there’s nothing I want more than to let Vicious, whether real or fake, consume me whole. Use me to unleash havoc and destruction on this motherfucker who dared to breathe near, let alonehurtthe woman I love.
Or better yet, to work together side by side.
“Damn, Boris. That’s an impressive monster you got in there.” I gesture for him to come closer, and when he does, I grit out, “Ready to see mine?”
50
Hendrix
Mayhem unfolds in the form of me watching in horror as Saint digs his teeth into Boris’ cheek, ripping out a chunk of his skin, then spitting it onto the ground like it’s a glob of saliva.
Boris cries out, stumbling back holding his cheek before tripping and smacking the back of his head on the ground.
Saint uses Boris’ grogginess as an opportunity to unfasten himself, then carry the chair over to secure it against the door.
“You okay, baby?! Talk to me,” he asks, not making eye contact as he bends down to pick up the hammer Boris used on his arm.
Which is when I’m reminded it’s most likely broken.
Not that Saint appears bothered by it.
Either he’s too hyped up on adrenaline, or unlike me who’s crippled by pain, the laws of physiology failed to reach him.
Saint repeats the question, but this time standing over Boris like a vengeful beast.
“Yeah…I’m okay.”
“Good girl. Now close your eye for me, yeah?”
His voice forebodes impending violence, but there’s a hint of softness to it I know he’s trying to maintain for me. Even remain playful with the mention of my singular working eye.
A destructive energy radiates off Saint as Boris groans at his feet, and somehow I know, I justknowwhat I’m about to see him do will be the worst thing he’s ever done.
And it will be solely for me.
So, how can I not look at all of it?
How can I not look at all of him?
The good, bad, and the ugly.
“Last chance, baby.”
“I’m not looking away.”
That’s all Saint needs to hear before dropping to his haunches, raining down hell on Boris with the hammer. Striking him in the face one, two, three times with his uninjured arm until the guy mirrors roadkill.
Gurgling noises come from him at first, but the more Saint obliterates him with the hammer the lower they get. Until eventually, the guy is limp, and no noises come from him at all.
