Page 20 of Spark of Madness

I slam it shut behind me and ensure its locked before crossing the ivory carpet to my desk. I pull out the chair and sit, huffing out a heavy breath as I stare at the beige wall. My desk is pushed up against it, sitting between two windows that look out to the rolling mountains.

I open the drawer on my right-hand side and pull out my leather-bound journal and fountain pen, placing them on the neatly organized desktop before me. I peel off my leather gloves and drop them onto the desktop.

I stretch and flex my fingers, observing the uneven texture and pinkened color of the scars from my old burns. The roughly textured surface of scarring on my left hand extends from my wrist, twisting along the back of my hand, and stretching to the bends of my pointer and middle finger. A circular patch covers the back of my right hand, thankfully stopping before reaching my fingers, allowing me full movement without pain—if I couldn’t write, I don’t know what I’d do.

I keep my hands covered most of the time, but not because I’m hiding them. I keep them hidden because these scars are forme. My scars are a reminder of how little self-control I had in my youth.

I unwrap the leather cord from around my journal and flip to the next empty page, smoothing my hand down the center to press it open. I uncap my pen and quickly scribble the two lines that had come to me earlier:

Breathing you in is sweet sin,

transgression worthy of fire and brimstone.

I move my pen to the next line, letting a dot of ink bleed out from the tip—hoping the words will bleed out from me, too. And soon, they do.

You are heat.

You are flame.

You are smoking ash which floods my lungs with each delicious breath I take.

My breaths quicken as I draw my pen across the page. Memories of Mercy in my hold as I brought her to pleasure dance across my mind. I remember each drag of my fingers inside her—each twist, each stroke, each thrust—and the sound of her secret, warm breaths puffing delicately against my skin.

I’d never felt anything like her before.

Burn, sweet sinner, and I’ll bathe in flames with you.

Heat washes over me as the image of her sets fire in my mind’s eye. She is the same as the flames where I burned my hands in my youth—a flickering light that calls to me, heats me, begs me to be burned.

I will disintegrate to ash at your feet.

And my remnants will beg for your grace, your sin…your mercy.

“Mercy,” I breathe her name aloud. “Sweet,sweetMercy.” I scribble on the page.

Send me to hell, you demon of delight.

Burn with me.

I drop my pen, suddenly heavy with the weight of words I didn’t know I was holding inside my mind. I lace my fingers behind my head as I stretch, leaning back in my chair. My cock is hard, and it’s all because of this girl—thisservant—I had hardly noticed before.

What is it thatchanged?

What removed her cloak of invisibility?

It was her running that made me stand and take notice, but I don’t know if that’s where she drew my sudden obsession.

No.

It was the grip of her fingers on my biceps and the rocking of her hips as I made her come. It was the way she bit my neck to muffle the sound of her orgasm.

It was her pleasure…the way she fought against it but took it all the same.

“Fuck.” My palms drag down over my face.

I slap the journal shut, coil the leather cord around it, drop it in the drawer, and slam it closed. I hadn’t felt a need to lock that drawer before, but I feel the need now. The poem must be kept secret, a shameful thing I need to hide.

I use the band on my wrist to engage the magnetic lock on the drawer before shoving to my feet so forcefully that my chair topples over backward. I ignore it and march toward the bathroom, stripping my clothes off as I go.

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