Page 11 of The Monster of Hotel No. 7
This, though, is a moment I have craved.
Aloneness, with him. The ghost of Ritual Drive.
“Please don’t go.” It slips from my mouth like poison, viscous like honey, the way it oozes between us, unanswered.
My eyes feel heavy, pressure building behind the tight, shut lids, shame growing wet in the form of tears at my own pathetic desperation. It is getting harder to remember this isn't real as it slices through my nervous system like a scalpel.
Why do I want you?
My parents aren’t evil. They are indoctrinated and we are obedient to the whims of Writhe, but I am not abused, mistreated. Neglected, perhaps, but I have Cosmo and Von and Isadora and the rest of them for that. I can buy anything I want on Mommy and Daddy’s credit cards. I drive a BMW. I have more commas in my bank account than most people see in a lifetime.
Given to me.
Handed down.
I know Jimmy Choo and Gucci and Valentino and Burberry like the dearest friends.
Why do I look for you around every corner? Imagine your unseen hands twisting and wringing out my body, forcing me to stare up into your pain.
It’s there.
I sense it.
Let me drink it from your blood, Sullen Rule.
“Something happened to me, you know.” His voice claws through my euphoric, deranged thoughts. It sounds so real, and I am enthralled.
I lie still, even as he slips his hand from me.
His touch is gone.
I cannot move.
See.
Speak again.
But he continues and I don’t cry for his absence yet. “Beautiful horrors. They are embedded in my skin, Karia Ven.” The way he says my name is divine, full of wanting,worship.
Tell me everything.
Rip it from your soul.
What did they do to you?
Something shifts. A movement in the air. A specter of steps.
The green is gone.
Yawning darkness takes its place.
I shiver, tremble, I cannot stop it.
Then the whisper of a blanket, it is unfurled over my naked body. A gust of air, the settling of deliciously soft cloth on my skin, starting at my chest, grazing over my tummy, my hips, lightest and last on my legs, my feet.
I am covered. A pre-burial, perhaps?
“Do you want to know who did it to me?” His voice is lower. Scratchy, rough.Distorted. “Who made me this?”
