Page 59 of One
“You still don’t need to do what we…” I let the words die, even though I want to tell him everything. But seeing the crazy look in his eyes, the shudders shaking his body, I know it’d be too much.
“What you…?” he repeats.
But I shake my head.
“Fuck!” he chokes out. “Look!” He yanks his leather jacket off and then pulls my shirt off himself in an angry movement, throwing it somewhere on the floor.
My eyes quickly land on the soft hair covering his pecs. But then his arms catch my attention. Because they are covered in scars. Long, short, horizontal, vertical scars. Mostly small ones, but there’re a few big ones around his biceps.
I’m on him in his next breath, grabbing his hands and turning his arms to inspect more of his skin. There are more wounds.
“Who the fuck did this to you?” I hiss menacingly, already enjoying the pleasure I’m going to feel disemboweling the faceless dead-fucker-walking.
A drop of water lands suddenly on his forearm. Then another one. When I look up, there are tears rolling down his cheeks. His capricious eyes are as light and clean as waterfalls, and filled with agonizing pain. If I had any empathy in me, the sight of his red face and his helpless gaze would have killed me on the spot. I can’t erase the pain inflicted, but I can get him revenge. And repay the same pain ten-thousand times over on the fucker.
I grab his wet face with both hands and, looking straight into his eyes, order him sternly, “Tell me his name.”
The tears seem to double in his eyes before Michael softly breathes out, “Me.”
Shock rolls inside me and I freeze.
“I-I did this to-to myself,” he hiccups.
“Why?” My fingers start stroking the uneven lines on his skin. They are all old. Years, months. There are no new ones.
“It’s the blood. I-I need the blood. Inside of me, there’s a h-hole that craves the sight of it. And m-more. That’s why I’m a coroner and a hematologist. Because I need to see, to touch, to feel it. It soothes and… excites me at the same time.”
His eyes are looking down, but the tears are still falling profusely. “My p-parents saw something was wrong with me. My obsession with gory movies, horror books, and visits to the emergency room just to get a peek at open wounds alarmed them. They made me promise to stop following my inner… inner monster.” He squeaks the last word. “But I just couldn’t. So, I started… cutting myself. As sweet punishment. A painful reminder of why my bloody cravings were wrong. And years later I found a job that filled my inner need without the risk of revealing it to anybody.”
If it was anyone else, this confession would be a mega-cringeworthy, nails-on-a-chalkboard moment. I’m that unfeeling. But with Michael, everything matters. And nobody can hurt him, not even himself. Unfortunately, his parents are dead already. Otherwise, I’d have pay them a visit to show them the color of the ignorant, prejudiced, bitter blood running in their fucking black hearts.
“And it’s getting worse. I’ve never tasted anybody else’s blood before you.” He breaks down in convulsing gasps, his sobs are filled with despair.
I let go of his hands and head toward the sideboard. Crouching down on the polished wooden floor, I push a hidden button on the side and watch the dark brown door slide open. Inside, my knife collection salutes me. It’s neatly arranged, not by sharpness or size, but by effectiveness and deadly precision. I grab the last one, a Damascus hunting knife I had custom made. It’s a small, five-inch blade, never used. The handle is made of light blue turquoise. I unsheathe the short, vicious dagger and walk back to Michael. He’s still standing where I left him. Head down, arms around his shaking body.
“Look at me,” I order. When his eyes finally lift, I take off my shirt and turn the knife toward my left arm, quickly making a cut on my forearm.
Michael’s sucking breath is loud inside the silent room. “No!” he screams, stretching his hands toward the bloody wound. But I move my arm away, smirking at his horrified expression.
“If you want to make it better, you need to kiss it better, babe,” I rumble. He licks his lips, staring at the small drops of blood rolling down my arm and hitting the polished wooden floor. But he doesn’t make a move. He shakes his head. His gaze shifts up again, eyes large in his pale face.
“This knife’s steel artwork is unique. The blade has a wavy, mottled pattern that runs through it.” I place the flat on my forearm again to show him the intricate design. “To some, the pattern on the steel looks like an imperfection. To me, it’s a thing of beauty,” I tell him, staring at his arms.
His hands go automatically to cover the multiple lines marring his skin.
But as he whimpers, he takes a step toward me when I moan a ‘fuck yes’ at the feel of the blade slicing my forearm again.
“And it’s getting better, not worse. You and me together could never be bad, babe,” I tell him.
His eyes jump to mine, and I point the knife at my bicep. But he grabs my hand before I can make another shallow cut. He brings my fist, still holding the blade, down to my side, and with the other hand, he lifts my injured arm.
His head comes down, and then his warm tongue is on my skin, lapping at my blood. My dick starts pulsing inside my jeans, insistently demanding some action. When his lips close and suck hard, I growl and grab his head, pulling it up. His mouth is smeared with my blood, eyes still watery, cheeks flushed. He’s a vision.
“I’m a monster,” he whispers brokenly.
I give him my best cold-blooded smile. “You have no idea what a monster is, piglet.” I see a brief fire burn in his eyes, but it fades quickly.
I tighten my fist in his hair and yank his mouth against mine. It’s a feral kiss. The taste of my blood on his tongue drives me almost fucking insane. I tuck the knife in my back pocket and, grabbing a handful of his ass, lift him up in my arms, swallowing his sound of surprise into my mouth. Without halting the kiss, I walk straight to my bedroom. Fucking against the window will have to be postponed until next time.
