voyages to sin

There is blood on his hands. You wonder who it belongs to and then decide not to. He drags a body out of the room leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Alone in the room you start wiggling against your restraints hoping to get any room to maneuver. You rock on your knees trying to wiggle your body from its position. Your ankles are wrenched together just as tightly as your wrists, but you think if you could just free one leg then maybe you could escape. 

It will be a long journey down the stairs to the front door but if you could make it out into the night then maybe you’d have a chance.

You rock against the wooden boards, twisting your already strained joints to the limit. You close your eyes for just a moment trying to gather the strength to keep moving.

Then you hear it: the heavy fall of a boot beside you.

Your eyes snap open to see him, an enormous shadow leering over you. You gasp, the sound muffled by your gag, and tumble backwards. You land on your hands and yelp, the pain shimmering up your arms. 

He moves onto you, grabbing the front of your shirt and hauling you up until you’re standing on shaking feet, blood trickling down your ankles from where zip ties dig too tightly into your skin. 

You’re nothing in his grip, you feel that much. You try to find his eyes, but they’re hidden in the dimness of the room, shrouded by the curtains holding back the moon’s light. 

His other hand touches your throat, his large, calloused fingers running up the tender skin feeling your pulse right beneath the surface. Then, without warning, you are slammed face first into the wall. The air is knocked from your lungs, and it feels impossible to regain it with the fabric in your mouth. In the corner of your eye you see a knife and you began to panic, wriggling in his grip. He rams your shoulder against the wall again before bringing the knife down. 

It slices through the binds on your wrists and then your ankles. You are free in a physical sense but are more captured than before. 

His nose presses against the crook of your neck, his lips leaving wet kisses behind. You freeze, unsure what to do. Does he want you to play along? You don’t know what to do. You never thought you’d be in this position. 

His hand slides up your leg, pushing up your skirt. His fingers are warm as he traces the inside of your thigh teasing your legs apart. He presses against you through your panties, beckoning heat from your body. He grunts against your ear when the telltale wetness finally touches his skin. 

Then, without warning, he rips your panties from your body. One large hand digs into your hip, the other grips your throat, pulling your head back. 

He slides into you with no patience. He’s large and hot, his body pressing yours into the wall until he is fully seated within your walls. The initial ache of his entrance fades as he simply sits within you, your cunt pulsing around his cock as your body expects friction. 

You start to wiggle but the hand on your hip halts the motion. He does not want you to move, he wants you to be his perfect doll taking all of him without complaint. 

So you don’t complain. Even when your knees give out and he drags you to a chair, pulling your body over his lap to keep himself plunged inside of you. He never softens, never moves more than necessary. 

It feels like hours impaled on his massive cock. You cling to his arms, shaking with want and exhaustion. You rest your cheek on his shoulder begging in a soft whisper. 

“Please.” 

His hand slides into your hair, gripping it hard at the root. 

You hated how ready you were for him, how your body knew what your purpose in Ambrose was. But the part that hurt the most was exactly how excited you were. It didn’t feel like just survival anymore. You had spent all day waiting for this moment. You’d pulled out this dress you’d taken from the pile of discarded items at the old sugar mill and even ironed it so it looked perfect. You’d done your hair and covered your lips in crimson. You even had dinner ready on the table, a glass of whiskey on the rocks waiting for him. 

You didn’t know if you felt broken or completely alive. 

He took a calm step in, taking off his hat and tossing it aside. 

“Evening, sugar,” he said with a smile. 

Your heart sank. You should feel relieved he was in a good mood and yet disappointment gnawed at your gut. Your body was waiting for rough hands and harsh words that weren’t coming. 

“Evening, Bo,” you said. You stood up, standing by your presentation and trying to be happy that he hadn’t immediately bent you over the table and fucked you silly. But God that is what you wanted. You wanted to feel the brunt of his rage. What did that make you? Sick, probably. A sick girl who got dolled up to be thrown around. 

Bo swept into the kitchen, catching you by the waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek like he was in an I Love Lucy episode. 

“I like this dress you’re wearin’,” he smiled down at you, dragging a finger down the neckline just brushing the tops of your breasts. That touch alone sent a shock through your body demanding more. It was a tease, definitely, but no where near the kind that you wanted. You craved the touched that had baptized you below the gas station. The painful pleasure that had opened an entirely new part of yourself that you were still trying to figure out. 

“Don’t get grease on it,” you said, slapping his hand away as he went to cup your breast through the fabric. 

There is a line that is always in the distance. The line that, if crossed, pushes Bo into an anger that cannot be calmed. It’s a dangerous line that you have stayed far away from since you arrived because it meant your life. You had just taken a firm step towards it. 

Bo paused and then decided to ignore the transgression, picking up his whiskey glass instead. Again frustration bubbled in your mind. You had acted out and yet he’d chosen to forgive. Since when did Bo Sinclair forgive and forget? He took a swig of whiskey and you wished you were the glass pressed to his lips. 

“How was your day?” you asked standing beside your chair too wound up to sit down. 

“Good,” he smiled, taking a seat. “This looks real good.” 

You resisted the urge to sneer. Why was he being so nice? Was this a trick he was playing on you? Was it a test. Your fingers clutched the metal of the chair. 

Want clouded every other thought in your mind. He’d trained you to live your life in such a way that kindness felt like cruelty. 

You knew you were poking the beast and that there was no telling what reaction you might get for it, but you walked to his side of the table and picked up his plate right out from under his knife and fork. You held it aloft like a diner waitress. 

He looked up at you and there was only a slight edge to his gaze, not nearly enough for your liking. 

“I don’t think you deserve this,” you said. Then you hurled the plate at the sink. It slammed into the basin, the china shattering into a hundred pieces. He slammed his knife onto the table and stood up, towering over you. 

“Did someone knock the sense from your head?” he hissed. It didn’t hold the vitriol you knew he was capable of. Despite your toes being on the danger line you willfully look another step. Your hand went for the steak knife on the table only he saw the movement. His palm slammed into your wrist, pinning it to the table top. Pain radiated up your arm but it brought a smile to your lips. “Have you forgotten your place?” 

He grabbed you, yanking you across the kitchen and slamming your back against the refrigerator. The magnets clinging to the door fell off into the floor. 

“No, you have,” you said. Your blood as electric as his fingers dug into your arms. You could feel the strength in his arms and you wanted it used against you. You arched your back against the fridge door, throwing your head back to expose your neck. 

Bo stared at you for a moment and then a grin spread across his face. 

“You like gettin’ thrown around is that it?” he said, his voice low. The look he gave you sent heat straight between your lungs. “You’re fucked up aren’t you?” 

He yanked you forward only to knock you back against the fridge again. 

“Answer me.” 

“I am,” you stuttered out half from fear and half from excitement. A terrifying cocktail of emotions were swirling in your gut. You loved the promise his anger brought, but the full force of it could burn. 

“Don’t be shy, honey, tell me what you want.” His voice was as sweet as sugar. 

All your words abandoned you and you were left stuttering up at him, your mouth watering and your face hot. 

“Looks like I’ll have to guess.” He grabbed your shoulder spinning you around so your face was pressed against the ridge and he was against your back. He flipped up your skirt, his hand finding your thighs. He slide his knuckles over the tender skin before dipping into your panties. You’re already wet for him and he gives a rough laugh into your ear as he presses his fingers instead of you. 

“You are a little whore, aren’t you?” he laughed, his fingers moving inside of you. You gasp before shoving your hand in between your teeth. Bo’s other hand grabs your wrist and pulls it from your mouth, pinning it against the fridge. “Let me hear it all, honey. I wanna know what I’m doing to ya.”

Bo’s thumbs rubs circles against your clit a soothing familiar rhythm that he knows will send your knees shaking in minutes. You melt against the fridge, savoring the sensation of his hand against you when he suddenly pulls away. There is no warning before he yanks you from the fridge and then tosses you onto the dinner table. You scramble, knocking knives and forks onto the floor as you catch yourself before sliding off the other side into the floor. 

Bo walks towards the table, already unbuckling his belt. Fear and thrill are fighting within your chest. 

When he reaches the table he reaches beneath your skirt and yanks your panties off. His eyes catch the bodice of your dress and he must remember you slapping his hand away from it because it becomes his next target. 

He grabs a discarded steak knife from the table and pressing the serrated edge to a strap of your dress. It’s gnarled and cut and the dress spills open. He rips the rest open his hands, tearing the cheerful fabric into bits to reach your body beneath. He presses a knee on to the table between your thighs and leans over you, his mouth against your throat like a leech. His teeth scrape and bite leaving marks along your collarbone and across your windpipe. He draws blood a couple of times, the air stinging the open wound. His hands are on your chest, pulling away your bra to cup your breasts and squeeze your nipples until you cry out. 

It’s too much. He’s everywhere at once, his weight heavy against your body and his hands and teeth sharp and wanting. Fear begins to overwhelm you and you realize how far you’ve crossed the line. You let him know how much you love this side of him and now he’ll never show you anything else. 

He throws your skirts up and slams into you. Your hands fly out, gripping the edge of the table to keep from falling off of it as each pump of his hips pushes you across the surface. 

“Is this what you want?” he barks at you, slamming into you over and over again.

"Yes” It’s true and it burns your throat. 

“Louder, hun.” 

“YES!” 

His hand catches your throat, pressing your neck to the table hard enough to make your vision blur at the edges. 

His hips knock into you and suddenly you’re at your limit. You try to gasp but you can’t suck in any air to make a noise. Bo’s fingers are clenched around your throat as you cum on his cock.

“That’s my girl,” he says between thrusts as he fucks you through your climax. “My pretty little slut cumming on my cock.” 

Your high had been reached and in the aftermath of it your lungs burned for air. Your hands went to his hand, your nails scratching his knuckles to get him to loosen to his grip, except he didn’t. His fingers tightened as he picked up the pace chasing after his own climax. 

Your vision blurred. You tried to reach for his face but your hand only hit air. Your body began to go slack until finally his hips hitched and he came inside of you. 

Only then did he remove his hand. 

You gasped for air filling your battered lungs with oxygen. You let out a raspy couch as your body tried to remember how to breathe again. 

Bo leaned down close to your face. 

“Don’t try that bullshit again, sweetheart.” 

“Now before you turn it into a doll you have to fuck it first,” Bo says, punctuating it with a hard slap on your ass. He presses himself against your back, a hand grabbing your chin to pull your ear closer to his lips. He smells like cigarettes and oil and you can only hope he’ll accidently light himself on fire. “Give him a good time, sweetheart.”

He smacks your cheek, more of a slap than an embrace and turns away. His boots echo off the workshop floor until there’s only silence. 

You’re alone with Vincent and his dark eyeless face staring back at you. Your teeth grind into the rag Bo shoved in your mouth, your body exposed and cold. You had been traveling in a thick coat and boots but had been stripped of them quickly. Now you stand in front of a stranger in a thin tank top that does not leave much to the imagination and a pair of leggings. Your feet are bare, the soles sore from running across the streets of the fake town in a desperate attempt to get away. It had taken a single shot gun blast to the air to convince you running barefoot into the woods would not be your salvation.

Despite the chill outside the fireplace beside you is cold. The only light in the room comes from a few candles arranged along the walls and the clinical light Vincent was working by. 

He stands and you take a step back. He’s as tall as Bo and just as broad despite the soft looking sweater he’s wearing. Long dark hair frames his mask and as he steps closer you realize he has knives strapped to his belt.

He looked unassuming at his desk, if a bit off putting, but he’s terrifying up close. There is power in the angle of his knuckles and the muscles of his neck exposed above his collar. There is more danger in the silence of his frame than in the loudness of Bo’s cruelty. 

You’re trembling by the time he reaches you. Tears had already run freely down your face and see no reason to try to hide it now. Your body is hunching over, trying to protect the organs that have only a slip of fabric and a layer of skin to shield them now. Your toes curl against the cold floor, afraid he might decide the slam his heavy boots onto them. Your hair has fallen from its style, the layer of mascara you’d applied hours ago now smeared across your cheeks. Snot runs down from your nose into the dirty old rag Bo had pulled from his pocket. 

Vincent stops in front of you. His head tilts to the side as if inspecting you. Your whole body shivers. You think of pleading but you have no idea if it would help. Your eyes keep flickering to the knives at his hip. 

After sufficiently examining you, he unceremoniously grabs your arm and leads you through the workshop. You pass metal tables that look like they’re straight from a forensic show and you realize what they must be for. Your heart is beating loud enough to wake the dead. 

He brings you to the corner that holds his desk, the office lamp looking very out of place in the horrors of the rest of the basement. The surface of the desk is covered in sketches and supplies: pencils, charcoal, pastels. He does not brush them all aside but carefully picks up each item and puts it in its designated spot. A tray in a drawer, a shelve mounted on the wall. He doesn’t rush and he isn’t looking at you. You’re too afraid to move but as the minutes drag by you are able to stop sniffling and think. 

If he wanted to kill you he’d take you to one of the morgue beds. If he wanted you dead you’d already be dead. What had his brother told him? You have to fuck it first.

You take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. You can see the exit to this situation but it isn’t easy to get to. You need your wits and they’re holding on by a thread right now. 

Your eyes roam the room. Small wax figures decorate every ledge and crevice.  There’s more sketches pinned to the wall. Some of them look familiar. You see the priest that’s propped up in the chapel. The beauty queen that was in the movie theatre’s lobby. Vincent had made them. 

Once every item was safely put away, Vincent turned back towards you. He doesn’t speak, only places his hands on your shoulders. You resist the urge to pull away and let him maneuver you until your back is facing the desk and you’re right in front of him staring at the neat rows of stitching on his sweater. His hands drop to your thighs and suddenly he’s lifting you up until you’re sitting on the edge of his desk. 

Your hands are still bound and you struggle for a second to keep your balance. This new position gives you some height but you’re still shorter than Vincent standing over you. You’ve never felt so small before. 

His fingers touch your chin before grazing up your cheek. His thumb is warm when he presses it beneath your eye, rubbing away the smeared makeup there. He repeats the action under the other eye. 

He tugs the rag from your mouth and tosses it aside. You gasp for air, spitting out the fibers that were left on your tongue. You’re about to thank him when his hand catches your chin in a vice grip. You freeze, staring up at him, as he presses red lipstick to your lips. The touch of the cosmetics is gentle and precise while the hand holding you still grips hard enough to bruise. 

You sit still on his desk as he swipes more makeup onto your face. You can’t stop trembling and it’s clear he is frustrated by each movement you make. Your fingernails dig into your palm as you try to keep still and prevent punishment. 

You thought this might be better than Bo’s dungeon but at least he liked to watch you squirm. Here you must be as still as the dead. 

Vincent takes his time. When he’s done with your face he pulls your hair out of it’s bun and runs a brush through it until it’s soft. He carefully braids two sections to pull it back from your face, pinning it into place. 

You feel like a doll on display and despite no longer having a gag in your mouth you’re even more reluctant to speak. 

When your hair is done he examines you only it’s hard to tell where’s he looking because of the mask. His hand reaches out, brushing your hair back from your shoulder. His fingers trail across your collarbone and down the thin fabric of your tank top until his fingertips brush your nipple. With the coldness of the room and sudden touch it doesn’t take much for your nipple to harden and soon it’s on display through the white cotton. 

Vincent brushes his knuckles against the other one watching the same reaction. You shiver at the touch. You want to cross your arms over your chest to hide the show but your arms are still bound behind your back leaving you exposed. 

Vincent flicks your left nipple before taking it between two of his fingers and squeezing it. It hurts but there’s something else too. The thrill of being touched, the unwelcomed sensation of stimulation. Your thighs press together tightly as he plays with your through your shirt. 

His hand drops to his hip and draws one of his knives. Adrenaline hits you like a bucket of ice water. 

“Wait please no-” you begin to beg but he presses the flat of the blade against your lips. It takes no further instruction your the words to die on your tongue.

When he’s sure you’ve gotten his message his blade drops to the neckline of your shirt. The sharp edge catches the fabric and slices it open. He drags it down, cutting the shirt open until it’s only a scrap hanging from your shoulders. 

He sheathes his knife freeing both hands to palm your breasts. He’s careful with them and curious. Rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, kneading your breasts and feeling their weight. 

He pauses, his head tilting towards to the lamp on his desk. He considers it for a moment before reaching over and clicking it off. 

The basement is plunged into darkness but for the candles along the walls. They give off very little light showing off only Vincent’s silhouette in front of you. His hands leave your skin and you hear him fumbling with something. He sets an object down on the desk beside you. You want to see if it’s knives but he touches you first. 

It’s not the warm touch of his fingers but the hot wet sensation of his mouth around your nipple. You gasp unable to hide your surprise and delight at the sensation. His tongue laps against you, his lips sucking the tender skin and sending heat across your cheeks. He plays with you, toying with your chest for an excruciating amount of time. 

It feels as if he needs to explore every part of you with his hands and tongue. His tongue finds your collarbone and he licks across it’s length. You can feel his lips bump against your neck and they don’t feel like a full set. There’s something his mask is hiding but you can’t tell what through touch alone. 

His hand trails down your bare chest until he reaches the warm spot between your legs. He forces your thighs apart, his fingers dipping into your leggings to rub against you. 

You cannot hide the full body reaction this causes. You’re hips are pressing into his touch, a moan fighting your lips to escape. His touch is measured and precise, as if he already knew exactly where to touch you to get you off. You’re glad the light is off so he cannot see the shame coloring your face as you coat this murderer’s fingers in slick. 

His hands leave you and you hear his blade leaving his sheath again. The cold metal touches your abdomen before ripping through your leggings. His hands eagerly strip you of what’s left if your clothing. He leans in close to you, his sweater pressed against your hardened nipples as he reaches around and slices the rope holding back your wrists. 

There’s a clatter of the knife hitting the table and then rustle of clothing. When he touches you again you feel the bare skin of his arm. He grips your ass pulling you up from the table as if you weight nothing at all. Your legs hook around his waist meeting nothing but bare flesh. He holds you for a moment, simply cradling you against his chest before your back hits the wax wall of the workshop. 

You’re pinned between the wall and Vincent, his strong arms holding you up. His mouth is on your neck, tasting your sweat. His tongue licks at a spot just beneath your ear that sends a shockwave through your body each time. You’re trembling in his arms, ready and willing. 

You close your eyes as his hard cock clumsily presses against your vulva. It takes him a moment to line himself up and then he’s sliding into you, stretching you to the absolute limit. 

You lock your arms around his neck and bury your face into his long dark hair as he cock fills you up. Once he’s sheathed completely you both pause, panting and sweating. 

You hate how much you love this. How he fits you perfectly and how your body yearns for him. 

Vincent leans you against the wall and thrusts into you. You simply have to hold on as he fucks you against the wall. He’d been somewhat gentle with you until this point but now you’re at his mercy. Your feet don’t even touch the ground. The only way out of this spot is the conclusion of his pleasure. 

Not that you mind. Your fingernails bit into his shoulders and you’re mumbling praises, unsure of what actually is spilling out. 

He’s consuming you. His tongue on your throat, his cock claiming your pussy. His fingers gripping your ass and slipping between your bodies to rub your clit pushing you closer and closer to heaven. The smell of his skin envelopes you: the smoky smell of a fire with the musk of sweat. 

Your breath hitches and you know you’re about to cum. He senses it and before you can make another noise his hand slaps down across your mouth muffling your moan of pleasure as you cum around his cock. 

Your body jerks between his and the wall as he fucks you through wave after wave until he follows you. It’s a quiet low moan he gives before spilling warmth inside of you. 

The room is silent but for ragged breathing. His fingers slide off your lips, his hand dropping you back to the floor. You press your bare feet to the concrete floor and feel Vincent’s seed spill down your thighs. 

In the soft candle light you watch him grab his mask from the desk and pull it on over his face. His hand hovers over the desk light before moving to the knives abandoned on the desk’s workspace. His fingers wrap around the hilt. 

It’s odd how easily people forget. Now that words come easily to your tongue they forget the month you’d been silent. Now that you smile and attend community picnics and make brownies for the church potluck they’ve forgotten the personal trauma that was the town’s gossip for weeks.

Your mother had sobbed the morning she’d come home and you’d spoken to her. You didn’t tell her of your midnight visitor or of the intimacy you had with him, only that you didn’t feel so afraid anymore. 

It’s a cold night but the chill feels good against your skin. It’s a long walk from main street back home but you don’t mind it. Even when you hit the residential areas where the streetlamps die out and the only thing to guide your path are the stars you stay calm. You know what lurks in the dark now, there is no reason to wonder. 

You saunter up to your front door and after stepping inside you don’t bother to twist the deadbolt into place. It’s easier if you don’t and you don’t feel like waiting tonight. 

You head upstairs and slip out of your work clothes. Your desk is bare but for a single letter from Illinois State University that announces your acceptance for the fall semester next year. You have some time to figure out your major but right now you’re leaning into psychology.

You walk down the hall to the bathroom and take a warm bath. You leave the door open and in the comfort of the steaming water you listen to the silent house. You hear it, the slightest creak of a stair underfoot. You’ve gotten good at hearing it now. Your heart speeds up but not from fear. 

You take your time in the bath, luxuriating until the water grows tepid. You step out and loosely wrap a towel around your body. The walk back to your room feels miles long and with each new step your heart pumps faster. Goosebumps sprout across your arms and a shiver runs down your spine and coils itself in your stomach as you turn the corner. 

Your room is dark and oddly quiet. You shut the door behind you and scan the small room for any sign of movement. There isn’t any, he’s too good for that. 

“Good evening,” you say with a smile to the quiet room. You let the towel around your body drop to the floor. 

There’s a moment where you’re alone, naked and exposed. The cold air in the room stiffens your nipples and makes you tremble. You wait, your wet hair sending droplets cascading down your body. 

And then you’re not alone. There’s movement in the shadows behind you and suddenly a warm hand grips your hip. You tilt your head to the side as lips brush over your the junction of your neck and shoulders. It’s a gentle touch that comes to a quick end as he picks you up and slams your body face first into the wall. 

You catch yourself, your hands protecting your face from a collision with purple wallpaper. Your toes just barely touch the floor and you have to rely on his body to keep you from falling over. He’s impatient tonight but you love it when he clamors to touch you. He kicks your feet apart and you follow his demands, leaning against the wall to keep from crashing into the floor. 

He kneels behind you and without warning you feel his tongue between your legs. Wet and warm you melt against his mouth, a breathy gasp escaping your lips as he laps at your clit. His movements are painfully slow and despite knowing Michael does not like to be rushed you let out a frustrated sigh. 

His tongue leaves your skin and you know what comes next.  You watch his shadow unfurl against the wall in front of you, bathing your entire body in darkness as he stands up. There’s a rustling of clothes and then the warm hard length of his cock is pressing against your entrance. You have only enough time to take a breath to brace yourself before he grabs your hips and slams into you. 

Despite his nightly visits you’re always surprised by the size of him. Your mouth falls open as your body stretches to accommodate the intrusion. He does not give you time to acclimate, he’s already pulling out to slam back into you. 

His hands move, grasping your wrists and pinning them painfully against the wall. His chest is against your back, sweaty and hot as he thrusts in and out of you. His mouth is beside your ear and you listen to him panting as he takes his pleasure with you. You want to turn around and kiss him, to look into his eyes as he brings you to the edge, but there is one rule about these midnight encounters.

He sees every part of you but you’re not allowed to see his face. You listen to his groans, you memorize the touch of his hands, but your eyes never meet. The urge to break the unspoken rule is strong, like thirst in a desert. 

His hands tighten around your wrists as if reading your very thoughts.

Then, in the midst of pleasure, he slips from your body and takes a step back. You stumble, catching the edge of your desk to steady yourself. You look up to see Michael at your bedroom window. The moonlight catches the curves and dips of his muscles, the sweat across his skin glistens. His mask has been discarded on your nightstand and you realize that if he just turned around you’d see all of him. Instead he pulls the curtains closed sending the entire room into pitch black. 

Your body is confused. Warm and wanting, but also cold and for the first time in a long time a little scared. You can’t hear him moving in the dark, his steps to quiet against the carpet. 

Suddenly hands grab your waist and lift you into the air. You can’t fight your instinct to struggle and you twist in his grip. Then you’re tossed through the air and land on your bed. The springs squeal with the sudden weight and the pillows are knocked askew, falling into the floor. As soon as you land on the mattress he follows, his weight pressing you down into the blankets. His hands are parting your legs, his fingers circling your clit for a moment before his cock is pressing back into you, slowly. 

You let your head fall back. He never fucks you in your bed. He’ll bend you over the side of it but he is always standing. He fucks you against walls and over tables but never in bed like couples do. 

Your knees are on either side of his hips as he thrusts into you. His hands are planted beside your head, his breath hot against your face. If there was only a little light in the room you’d be able to look into his eyes. 

His mouth falls to your throat and you’re lost in the sensation of his lips and teeth against your skin. He’s not fucking you like he usually does, he’s fucking you like they do in movies. You would dare to call it making love if you thought he was capable of such an emotion. 

Your body trembles as his touch pushes you further away from rational though. You’re so close to your peak and in this angle you can do something about it. You wrap your legs around his hips, crossing your ankles to hold him in place. Your nails bite into his shoulder blades as wave after wave of sensation rolls over you. His teeth sink into the mess of bite marks along your collarbone and your hips jerk against his with the force of your climax. He fucks you through it until his hips stutter. He doesn’t spend it on your back or your stomach but fills you with his warm seed. Laying beneath him it doesn’t run down your thighs but stays deep inside of you. It makes your heart flutter. 

Without thinking you lean up in the darkness. Your lips bump against his nose at first but you find his lips soon enough. Your blood covers his lips giving his kiss an iron tang. 

You pull away just as headlights on the street light up your window. Bright light filters through the curtain and shines across his face revealing sharp blue eyes. 

Your name was plastered on every newspaper for two whole weeks. Pictures with your shell shocked face on every corner, every doorstep. It was unavoidable. Everyone knows your name, knows your trauma, and knows the wound hiding beneath the high collar of your shirt. 

People have taken pity on you. There’s plenty of god-fearing Christians in town that brought a casserole to your mother’s door to help the silent victim hiding upstairs. You weren’t sure how a casserole would heal the wounds Myers left on your body. 

At night, when the street is quiet and you’re settled in bed and sleep is just beginning to pull on your mind, you remember him. The way his hand felt around your neck, the press of his lips against yours, and the sharp Shhh he’d hissed into your ear. 

You toss and turn for hours unable to escape his phantom touch. 

You rarely leave the house now. All the college pamphlets you’d gathered collect dust on a high shelf. Your mother, in a rare show of concern, tries to fill your time. 

On Friday nights, when your mother is working the nightshift at the gas station, you babysit the Jones twins from down the street. The seven year old girls are quiet, like you. Their mother drops them off after school and you watch movies, and silently help with homework until the clubs close. Mrs. Jones is usually too tipsy to drive so you help her walk the pair home. They’re only eight houses down from yours. A short distance for most, but a marathon for you. 

Tonight Mrs. Jones doesn’t show up at her usual time. The twins fall asleep on the couch watching NBC’s Midnight Special and don’t stir when the program clicks off and is replaced by static. 

You turn off the television set and pace around the living room. You’re not tired, but you are nervous. The house is too quiet and you can hear every creak of the pipes and groan of the house settling. 

Suddenly the phone rings and it makes your heart jump into your throat. You pick it up quickly, holding the receiver to your ear. 

“I’m sorry honey,” Mrs. Jones says over the phone followed by a loud hiccup. “Could you walk the girls over?”

You want to say no. It’s 3:30 in the morning and the thought of stepping outside right now makes your stomach flip. But the words are stuck in your throat, choked out by a strong hand a month ago. Mrs. Jones isn’t expecting an answer either, why would she?

“Thanks, see you soon!” 

The line goes dead. 

The girls are stirring, the loud ring of the telephone having woken them up. You help them gather their backpacks, your hands shake as you help them tie their shoes. 

You stand before the front door, your heartbeat a deafening thunder in your ears. You briefly consider calling your mother but there’s nothing she could do, she’s stuck at work until 7am, besides your tongue wouldn’t untie itself to explain your fears if she could assist you. 

Your hand flicks open the lock and before you can think better of it you’re out in the chilly fall air. 

The neighborhood, so bright and cheerful during the day, is silent but for the crunch of leaves under foot and the whistle of the wind between the houses. Some houses have porch lights on, lighting your way, but some are completely shrouded in darkness. There is only one streetlight on the road and it’s down near the four way stop by the twins’ house. Too far to offer any real solace. 

The twins walk in front of you, dragging their feet across the sidewalk as you make your day down the block. A dog is barking a few streets over, you wonder what has elicited such a vicious sound. 

You’re halfway down the block when you feel a shiver creep up your spine. You stop and peer into the darkness of the house you’re passing by. The porch light is off, and every curtain is drawn. It’s a tomb that seems to radiate darkness. It feels as if it shadows could slither across the tidy little yard and consume you. 

The twins are still walking and you can’t leave them alone, not here. You start to run to catch up with them and for a split second you see something move in the corner of your eye. When you stop again there is nothing, but the curtains in the house’s grand bay window seem to lay differently than they had a second ago. 

You catch up with the twins and keep your eyes on the sidewalk all the way to their front door. 

“Thank you dear,” Mrs. Jones says. Her lip stick is smeared at the corner of her mouth, her barrel curls turned to frizz over the course of the long night. She pulls her wallet from her purse, flipping through bills with the end of her manicured nails before pulling out a few bills. “And there is some extra in there for your trouble.” 

You nod and shove the money into your back pocket. You stand there for a moment in the Jones’ foyer, reluctant to face the night again. 

“Give my love to your mother,” Mrs. Jones says with a tired smile. She takes a step forward, shepherding you out onto their porch. “Good night!” 

The door swings closed and you’re alone on the dark street. 

You used to walk at night regularly before the sanitarium. You would walk to the gas station to bring your mother breakfast and leave thank you notes in mailboxes before the sun rose. You used to be a part of the town instead of just a story it told. 

You swallow back your fear and start down the sidewalk. It was easier to walk when you had the twins to consider. You were the adult, you had to make sure they got home. Now, with nothing to care for, you can feel your panic begin to consume you. 

You wrap your sweater closer around your body and push through the autumn chill towards home. 

The house that had given you pause on the way to the Jones’ stands just as still as before. A cat sits on it’s front steps, a lazy tabby that barely gives you a glance. 

That had to be the movement you saw earlier, just a cat going about it’s nightly ritual. You hold onto that thought and the longer it lingers in your mind the better you feel. There’s nothing here, just the usual quiet that comes with nighttime. 

You’re almost smiling by the time you turn up the path to your own house but it falls as you look past the bright light set above the porch. 

The front door is open. 

Your heart is lodged in your throat choking off your air. Fear drips down your arms, collecting in your fingertips and numbing them. You feel as if you might pass out. 

Something deep inside of you, behind your thoughts and dreams and fears, you know you have to go inside. There is no help for you at the neighbors’ house, and a call to the police would be fruitless. 

As you walk towards the open door you feel weightless. It takes you ages but you finally climb the steps and cross the threshold. 

You close the door behind you and listen to the quiet of the house. 

You move through the house slowly, flipping lights on to find empty room after empty room. And yet the thought is still scratching at the back of your mind, that you have to find whatever is waiting for you. 

You move upstairs, past your mother’s room to yours. The door is ajar, moonlight from your window reaching out into the hall. 

You turn the corner and no one is there. You move towards your bed and think that for the first time in a long time that if you laid down right now you could fall asleep. 

Then there is a prickling feeling on the back of your neck that drips down your spine. Ice fills your veins and air is suddenly impossible to inhale. 

Slowly, you look over your shoulder and he’s there. A hulking figure, well above six feet. He’s wearing dark coveralls and a mask, but you know it’s him. You’d know him anywhere. 

You want to scream but it’s impossible, all you can do is tremble. He takes a step closer and you jerk your head down, closing your eyes and pretending it’s all a dream. But you can hear his boots muffled against the carpet and you know it is truly happening. 

A hand grabs the back of your neck. His fingers slid into your hair, his thumb reaching around to press against the rapid beat of your pulse. 

His other hand pulls at the collar of your sweater, pulling it back to expose the teeth marks still visible on your skin. Of course he’d want to see the mark he’d left on you.

You stand there for a long moment, his hand on your exposed throat, before he finally lets go. You don’t dare move, your eyes stay glued to the bedspread stretched across your bed in front of you. You hear him move and then the white mask that had covered his face is thrown onto your bed. You have only to second to register he had taken it off before his hands are on you again. 

His mouth finds your neck immediately, his teeth nibbling at the skin there. You’re frozen under his touch, too scared to move. He doesn’t seem to mind. His tongue drags over the scar he left, tasting your skin. His hands slid across your ribcage to cup your breasts through your shirt. You haven’t worn a bra all month and it’s all too easy for his fingers to find your nipples. He presses down on them hard enough to make you gasp in pain. 

He doesn’t release his grip, instead twisting them until tears prick at your eyes. His hands slip under your shirt, his warm skin rough against the soft flesh of your breasts. You expect another cruel grab, instead he gently runs his thumb over the battered skin. The touch makes something tighten in your core. When his thumb grazes your nipple again you know exactly what feeling he is eliciting. 

You bit down on your bottom lip as his hands roam down your ribs to your hips. His hands reach for the front of your jeans, unzipping the fly. His hand slips into your panties and you jerk at the sudden touch. It takes a second but you find yourself relaxing against his fingers. His hand is large and warm and before you realize it you’re pressing yourself into his palm. 

His fingers press against your clit, swirling you into oblivion as the pleasure his touch gives you drowns out all the fear that has reigned over your mind for the last month. You were convinced there’d be pain and had lived in anticipation of it for weeks. You were not prepared for pleasure. 

The skin on his fingertips is calloused and rough but it feels heavenly against you.

Just as your knees begin to give way, he moves. His hand leaves your skin, leaving you cold. His fingers grab the belt loops of your jeans and yanks them down. The fabric is tangled around your knees and you start to step out of them when his hand grabs the back of your head. He shoves you down against the bed, the edge of the mattress pressing into your stomach. Your feet are still on the floor but your face is pressed into your sheets. His hand doesn’t let up, but holds you down. You listen to the zipper of his coveralls open and then the hot touch of skin on your bare ass. 

Your first instinct is to be scared, but the heat between your legs makes it hard to hold onto. You find yourself wanting, yearning. You spread your legs as far as the fabric tangled around your knees will allow. 

He is not gentle. His fingernails bite into your hips, his thrusts harsh and quick. Your mind is a cocktail of fear, pain, and blinding pleasure. Your fingers wrap into the sheets as you fight against your own body to keep from ending too soon. 

It’s a strange thing to describe but after a month of wondering where he could possibly be, waiting for him to strike, it feels amazing to know exactly where Michael Myers is. He is in your room, inside of you. He’s the weight pushing you down, the groan echoing through the room. He’s the confusing ecstasy shoving every thought from your mind. You close your eyes and lose yourself to it. 

His fingers grab your hair and suddenly, after a month of silence, words spill from your lips. 

“Yes, please, yes,” you chant. Your neglected throat burns as you mutter more demands. 

His thrusts quickens to a punishing pace but you keep up. You’re screaming his praises by the time his hips begin to stutter. His fingers yank your hair back and suddenly his teeth are on your collarbone again, breaking the skin that had spent the last month healing from his last assault. You scream. 

He pulls away and you drop to the bed, bleeding and exhausted. His seed drips down your thighs and you begin to wonder what you’ve done. 

By the time you look up at him he’s pulled the mask back into place. It feels like a mistake to look at him, face to face, and you quickly look away. 

He leans over you, grabs your chin and roughly pulls your eyes back to meet the dark holes where his gaze hide in the shadow of the mask. His other hand touches the fresh bite in your skin across your collarbone, his fingers digging into the wound. You gasp in pain, spots crossing your vision. 

He’ll be back. When the skin is finally just a scar, he’ll return to reopen it. He doesn’t speak it, but the way his fingers clutch you tell you it’s so. 

“I-” you begin. You don’t know what you were trying to say but his finger quickly silences any talk. 

“Shhhh.” 

His fingers touch your eyelids and like in the sanitarium a month ago you let him close your eyes like a pretty little doll. A doll to sit on a shelf and wait for his return. 

There’s a lot of people watching in the Sanitarium. At first you thought it was impolite to watch the patients so you watched the doctors. The men clinging to the last bit of hair with thick glasses and impatient tones. The nurses with bags under their eyes. The guards with cruel stares. All the same stories. The patients, on the other hand, were full of life. 

You didn’t know much about them, their files were locked in cabinets that you didn’t hold the keys to, but each one had a story. It was in their eyes, in the hunch of their shoulders and the stutter in their voices. 

There was one patient you found yourself thinking about more often than not. A large man set at the end of a hall. He was alone most of the time, the doctors openly talking about how much of a lost cause he was. You’d drag your mop bucket down that wing and stand in front of the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of him through the narrow window. 

He was an artist of some kind. He huddled over a desk surrounded by masks made with his two hands. It was impressive. The spark of curiosity had been lit and no matter how hard you tried it could not be contained. 

Every week your crew gathered bedding from the rooms and put fresh sheets on the beds. You were normally working on the other side of the building in the women’s ward, but after a few sly talks with the rest of the crew you managed to get put on his hall. After a month of peeking through his window, you’d get to finally meet him. 

You pushed the laundry cart down the hall, the guard next to you a loud amalgamation of sounds. Rattling keys, chirping walkie talkie, the squeak of chewing gum. You both stopped at the end of the hall, a little plaque beside the door listed his name: Myers. 

“Be quick,” the guard said, unlocking the door and stepping in first. “Stand back, Michael.” 

Michael Myers. What an unassuming name. 

After the guard gave you the signal you stepped in, your arms full of clean sheets. The window in the door had not given you a proper view of Michael’s room. It was absolutely covered in masks. Every wall had been decorated and each one differed from the other like a collection of snowflakes. 

“Stop gawking,” the guard said, his hand resting on his belt. 

“It’s impressive.” It felt good to let out the word you’d associated with this man for so long. You looked at him and your heart jumped into your throat. You knew he was tall, but standing in the same small room made you feel incredibly tiny. He was well over six feet and just as broad as he was tall. Long light brown hair hung over his face hiding his eyes. “You’re very good.” 

“He doesn’t talk,” the guard said, his tone pointed. “Now hurry up.” 

You nodded, reluctantly pulling your gaze from Michael to move to the bed. You began to strip the sheets when something caught the light. You shook out the fabric and pulled out a metal fork. 

Your voice was caught in your throat. You finally got to meet this distant friend only to have to turn him in. You didn’t like being a tattletale but with a guard right behind you there wasn’t much of a choice. You stood, frozen, gripping the utensil. 

“You know the other gal never takes this long,” the guard said. His boots squeaked against the floor and a hand came down on your shoulder. “What do you have?” 

You twisted out of his grip, tucking the contraband fork behind your back. 

“I thought I saw a spider,” you lied. The guard gave you a suspicious look before peering down at the bundle of sheets you abandoned on the mattress. 

The next few seconds felt like a dream, slowed down as if submerged in gelatin. The moment the guard’s gaze turned away from you, a warm hand gripped yours. Thick fingers pulled the fork from your hand. 

You were more surprised than scared and instead of a scream a small gasp escaped your lips. 

The guard turned towards the noise but was too late. Michael reached over you, jamming the fork into the man’s eye. It went so deep there was only a slip of handle left sticking up out of the mangled mess. The prongs had hit brain and the guard twitched before collapsing to the floor. Blood spilled from his face pooling around him. He was trying to speak, his mouth moving but the only sound he could make was a weak grumble. You stared at the man, at the growing puddle of blood and found yourself unable to think. 

Michael’s hands grabbed your waist, picking you up out of the blood and dropping you onto the bed. You had a moment to look up at him before he was on top of you, his hand wrapped around your throat. Strong fingers pressed in on every side choking off all air. You tried to scream but with no breath it was impossible. You tried scratching at his hand but your fingernails couldn’t hurt him deep enough to convince him to stop. You struggled in his grip, your hands reaching up his arm trying to find something to pull or scratch. 

Your fingers found his face, pushing the hair away from his features. Your gaze met bright blue eyes and you were paralyzed by them. How could someone so large and brutish have such beautiful eyes? Even as black spots crowded your vision, you could still see his eyes. 

At least you’d die looking at something pretty. 

Without any warning, his fingers relaxed. You gasped for air, the first breath hurting as much as suffocating had. His hand was still around your neck, as if debating to continue or not. You could feel the skin under his fingers aching and there would certainly be a bruise. 

He put a finger to his lips as if to shush you but didn’t make the noise. His hand at your throat trailed up your face, his thumb brushing your lips and his fingertips grazing the tip of your nose. You stayed still under his touch, afraid of what a sudden movement might cause. He pressed his hands over your eyes, as if trying to shut the eyelids of a child’s doll. You let him, closing your eyes. You felt his hand pull away from your face. 

There was nothing for a moment but the sound of your heartbeat and the slow breath of Michael above you. Something warm met your lips: a pair of lips. His lips. Hesitantly you returned the affection. His mouth opened and you mirrored the action, letting his tongue slid across your lip. Then his teeth caught your lip and bit down hard enough to draw blood. A startled squeak left your throat and suddenly the mouth against yours was replaced by the rough skin of a finger. 

“Shhhhhhh” came a voice you’d never heard right beside your ear. You could feel him moving over you, warm breath dancing over your neck and collarbone. Fingers yanked at the collar of your uniform and without any sign it was about to happen, teeth sank into the skin at the base of your throat. You bit your lip to keep from screaming as pain bloomed over already battered skin. 

He’d closed your eyes and silenced your speech and you could only shutter as Michael dragged his tongue over the wound he’d made. 

The mattress creaked as he moved off of it. You stayed still on the bed, listening to his footsteps around the room. The jingle of the guard’s keys being lifted off his belt and then the thud of the door closing. 

You didn’t dare move. Not when the alarms sounded, or when the screams came from the hallway. Not when fists slammed against the door. It was only when glove covered hands touched your throat, feeling for a pulse and announced there was one did you open your eyes. 

Police were like flies, huddled over every surface and filling every empty space. A nurse wrapped an arm around your shoulders and started to lead you out of the room, her eyes on the bruising and blood coating your neck. 

“He’s gone,” an office you passed by said. 

“How can he just vanish? He’s not the boogeyman.” 

The woman led you to the nurses’ station and sat you in a chair, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. A paramedic hovered over you, cleaning your neck and flashing a light in your eyes. He asked questions but you didn’t answer, Myers had taken your voice.  

Bo’s shoulder presses into your stomach and each step he takes sends nausea clawing up your esophagus. You haven’t eaten anything in days but a dry heave tears at your throat anyway. Bo shakes your frame, his hand gripping your ass tight enough to bruise. 

He’d taken you down into his little room but you hadn’t cooperated like he wanted. You weren’t “fun” as he put it. After endless nights of being tied down and tossed around he gave up. 

“I got one for you Vincent,” Bo says, throwing you off his shoulder and dumping your body onto the floor. The impact knocks the air from your lungs and you struggle to regain it. You landed on your bound hands and your fingers scream from being crushed. 

There’s a fireplace beside you, roaring flames heating the air and making sweat bead up on your forehead. 

“She wasn’t worth the trouble. Sorry ‘bout her face,” Bo says before leaving the room. 

You don’t make a move to escape, you simply lay on the brick floor sticky with half melted wax until a figure shuffles across the room to kneel over you. 

Vincent, as Bo called him, wears a leather apron covered in wax splashes over an old sweater. He has no face, only a wax mask. Emotionless and vacant, framed with dark hair. The fire casts a shadow across his face, the eyeholes as dark as night. 

“Are you an angel?” you ask, looking up at him. You read somewhere that angels’ true forms are too terrifying for a human soul to process that they must disguise themselves. This man scares you. There is a power in the angle of his knuckles and the broadness of his shoulders, but it is controlled behind a pale human façade. A mask to protect his true soul.

He does not answer. His fingers touch your face lightly, cataloging the damage done to your eye socket. He gives a soft huffing noise from behind his mask. Not anger, that you’ve felt for the last few days, this was frustration. His fingers travel your face taking a record of all the injuries. You wince but he ignores it. His palm cups your bruised temple, his thumb skims your split lip. 

His hand rests on the finger shaped bruises on your throat. His skin is warm, his touch soft. After so much pain it almost feels nice. 

He grabs your arms and hauls you up. You sway on bare feet, but Vincent keeps a sturdy grip on your elbow to keep you from tumbling into the fire. He leads you across the room to a chair, shoving you down into it and adjusting the ropes on your wrists. Instead of twisted behind your back you are now chained to a bar set in the edge of a table. It looks like the tables in morgues you see on television and you have a good guess it’s used for similar purposes. 

Vincent grabs your chin and pulls it so you’re looking at him instead of the room. He says nothing but presses a finger to his waxy lips. You nod. He leaves. 

Through your good eye you take in this workshop. On one side there is the fireplace and various tables large enough to have a human body set on. A large device is rigged up on one wall, dripping with wax with a million different points of articulation. A chair is set in the middle and you could only assume it’s for torture. 

There is a desk is behind you, a lamp giving off a cold blue light down on the sketches on the surface. They’re all human figures. Some just doodles of faces or hands, others mockups of body positions. 

It’s a studio of sorts. Where all the wax art for the museum is made. Where the unlucky visitors are given their final homes. 

You should be horrified but you’re not. You’d spent three full days with Bo Sinclair, anything was better than that. Even death. 

Vincent returns, a bag in hand. He sets it on the table and rifles through it. He pulls out a tube of ointment and squeezes out a dab onto the tip of his finger. He tilts your chin up, and you watch as he methodically presses the medicine into the cuts on your face. He takes extra care with the one in your lip, his finger pressing the ointment into your flesh like a kiss. 

He pulls an ice pack out and presses it against your injured eye. The coolness sinks into the swollen flesh soothing the pain. A sigh escapes your lips. 

Vincent grabs your wrist and pulls it up, motioning for you to hold the pack against your face. You follow his instructions, pulling at the limit of your restraints. 

Then he’s off again, wandering around the workshop. You listen as he tidies up the room. He seems to actually clean his space unlike Bo. Your nose wrinkles at the memory of oil and sweaty laundry. The scent of the glue is still stuck in your nostrils, your skin barely healing from it’s harsh hold. 

When you didn’t obey he smacked you, when you didn’t cry you got smacked again. Too neutral, too empty. 

No fun.

Chair legs scraped against the floor. Vincent sat in front of you, a sketchpad turned to a clean page and a pencil in his hand. You closed your good eye, listening to the calming scratch of graphite against paper for a while until a hand tapped your shoulder. 

Vincent eased the ice pack off your eye. You still can’t open it, but it feels a little better than before. He places his sketchpad on the table you’re chained to. There’s three figures drawn on the page. Little circles and squares giving the basic idea of a person holding a pose. 

He taps the page. 

“Do... do I pick one?” you ask, unsure. He nods. 

The first one is a woman lounging, like old singers used to lay across pianos. The curve of her hips are accentuated and she looks graceful. The second figure reaches up as if to grab a book off of a high shelf, and the third sits cross legged on the ground peering into their cupped hands. 

“What is it for?” you ask, examining the page. 

Vincent doesn’t hesitate, he pokes a finger into your chest right above your heart which immediately drops. 

“Upstairs?” 

He nods. 

You wet your battered lips, staring down at the page again. It’s more of a choice than Bo ever gave you. Isn’t this what you wanted, to die rather than stand him for one more moment? 

“Does it hurt?” you ask. It feels like a childish question. Of course it must hurt. 

Vincent pauses, before scribbling on the bottom of the page.

Not in death. 

“Then remember to kill me first,” you joke, the smile makes you wince as it stretches the budding scab on your lips. You bring a hand up to your neck, making a slicing motion over your throat. 

Vincent catches your wrist, shaking his head in disapproval. You begin to stutter out a question when he tilts your head back. Your hair falls back and the side of your throat is exposed as if he was about to sink his teeth into your jugular. His fingers run over your neck, a ghost of a touch. You wonder if he can feel the rapid beat of your pulse under his fingertips. 

You look to his mask, half expecting it to clue you in to what he could possibly be thinking but it is still as blank as it was before. 

“You like my neck?” you guess. 

Vincent nods, his hand trailing down your throat to rest on your collarbone. Without thinking, you slid your hand on top of his. His fingers were warm and while they were the same size as Bo’s, they felt completely different. 

“The first one,” you tell him, nodding to the lounging woman half sketched out. It was the one with the most visible view of a person’s neck, her head tilted to the side as if eyeing an audience member. 

Vincent nods. He lets his hand linger against your skin for a few more long moments before vanishing from the room again.

It’s a while before he comes back and you nod off, your good cheek pressed against the cold metal of the worktable. The shuffle of boots wake you and you look up to see Vincent carrying an armful of red fabric. 

He frees your hands and shoves the wad of crimson into your hands. 

“Here?” 

A nod. 

Maybe it’s the quiet that surrounds him, or that you can’t see his eyes watching you, but it’s surprisingly easy to strip in front of Vincent. You fought for every inch of fabric on your body in Bo’s domain. But there it was only meant to be consumed. Used, beaten, thrown out. Here skin was looked at differently. An art. 

You shrug off the clothes you arrived in Ambrose in and shimmy into a red evening gown. It’s tight and hugs close to every inch of your body. There’s no sleeves but a low neckline that teases that something may slip at any moment. It’s covered in sequins and jewels, the hem layered in matching tulle that flutters when you walk and a slit in the skirt that reaches the top of your thigh.

It’s gorgeous, ethereal, and you feel like art in it. 

Vincent moves the stool behind you and you perch on it, copying the sketch from his book. Vincent’s fingers find your jaw, tilting it just so. He brushes your hair off your shoulder, pulling it back and pinning it behind your ear. The air is cool on your fully exposed neck, a contrast to the warm hand that keeps touching your skin to move your body a millimeter in one direction or another. 

“How do I look?” you ask. Vincent finally walks around to the front, examining your pose. 

“What’s this?” It’s Bo’s voice, you can tell with him behind you. It sends a shiver up your spine. Without thinking about it you catch Vincent’s wrist, hoping he’ll stay by your side. Hoping he won’t let Bo drag you below the gas station again. “The hell you been doing? Fucking around playing dress up?” 

You can’t help but turn in on yourself when he raises his voice. He’s not talking to you anyway, he’s yelling at Vincent. The silent twin doesn’t fight the hold you’ve put him in, but you can see Bo in the corner of your vision and your grip grows tighter. 

Vincent starts signing to Bo only for Bo to turn away before he’s done. 

“Process? Whatever,” he scoffs. “If you want sloppy seconds, be my guest.”

There’s a loud thud and you turn to see a body flop against the table beside you. It’s a young man, early twenties. His brown eyes stare up at nothing and there’s a chunk of his neck missing from a shotgun blast. 

You can hear Bo walking around the table and then the heat of his body as he presses against you on the stool.

“All that fight, only to fall into place behind Vinny.” He gives a harsh laugh right beside your ear. “You’re a freak, aren’t you?” 

You don’t move, your eyes straight ahead. 

“Well don’t let me stop you,” he says, slapping your shoulder and taking a step back. “God knows he needs a lay.” 

You chance a look at him. He’s smiling. Amused. But what does he want? You can’t tell and it makes your stomach churn. 

Vincent points to the door and Bo laughs again as he leaves. 

Only once the echo of his laughter has settled do you finally release Vincent’s wrist. 

“Sorry,” you say. You hands grip your shoulders, feeling more exposed in your dress than before. 

Vincent moves to the worktable where the body is laid out. He straightens out the limbs and pulls out a leather kit and spreads it out. It holds all sorts of tools some medical like a scalpel or scissors, but some art supplies. Little clay tools used to scoop and scrape a sculpture into place. 

You it quietly, waiting for your heart to slow down after Bo’s presence. It’s almost soothing to watch Vincent’s hands as he works. He cuts the clothes from the body before inspecting all it’s injuries. There are other incisions across the man’s body, it looks like he got into a knife fight before the gunshot that did him in. Vincent works on the neck first, handling a needle and thread with steady expert hands. He occasionally softens wax by the fire and presses them into the gap trying to reform the structure of it. 

 “Can I see?” 

The mask turns to you, considers the question, and then nods. 

You join him, standing at his elbow and watching as he works. It is a slow, methodic process to prepare the skin but he does it with a practiced ease. It’s neat, careful work with small stitches. Once the neck is done, he hands the needle to you.

You stare at it, looking to his eyes for confirmation. He nods. 

The needle is heavier than you thought in your hand. It’s longer then a sewing needle, and curves back around like a scythe. Your hand trembles. 

Vincent’s steady hand takes yours, leading it to the still warm body in front of you. You shift beside the table, the metal pressing into your hips. Vincent is behind you, one hand on yours. You’re unsure where to begin and he senses it. His other arm comes around your shoulder and suddenly you’re encased in his arms. 

His fingers guide yours, moving the needle through the skin around a small gash and stitching it up. Your heart is beating loud enough to drown out everything else in the room but the steady breathing from the man behind you. It takes forever, but you get the entire wound closed and the thread tied off. 

You sigh, leaning your head against Vincent’s shoulder. He is rigid under the touch but only for a moment. His muscles begin to relax, his arms linking around your waist. You run a hand over the arm holding you and you can feel the controlled strength in it. 

Your whole body is warm. Vincent’s hand finds the slit in your dress, his fingers pressing under the fabric to touch you. Your breath hitches and you melt into his embrace. The wax cheek of his mask is pressed to your flesh one as his fingers explore you, cataloging which touch earns a response. His thumb brushes your clit and a moan escapes your lips. It’s an embarrassing noise, not a a low mutter like they make in movies but a high-pitched breathy gasp. However, Vincent grips you tighter when you make it, showing more attention to that spot to elicit the same reaction. 

You grip the table in front of you as his hand speeds up, sending your breathing into a panting mess and turning your legs to gelatin. It’s a slow build he elicits in your body and by the time you’re rounding the peak you’re shaking in his arm a shuddering, moaning mess. You cum with his name on your lips and nothing but pleasure on your mind.

Your body is weak and can hardly stand after the last few days. You waver, leaning against Vincent and pressing your face into the side of his neck. Here you can smell the smoke that clings to his clothes and the faint vanilla scent to his skin.  

He can feel your fatigue and with a fluidness that would scare you if weren’t so mesmerized by his smell, Vincent sweeps you into his arms. It is not a long trip, just a walk to the other side of the room where he sets your body on a cold, metal table. 

Your hand catches in his sweater before he can step away, and you twist your fingers into the knit. 

“You never answered my question,” your voice is hoarse. Despite the hard metal under your spine you can feel sleep dragging at your mind. “Are you an angel?” 

Vincent takes your hand, carefully unwrapping your fingers from his sweater and pressing them over your chest. He looks down at you and in the dim light of the workshop you can make out a single blue eye looking back at you. 

He gives a slow nod, so subtle it’d be easy to miss, and presses a finger gently against your chest. 

He may not be an angel in the tradition sense, but he was yours. 

You stand up ready to bolt from the shallow bank when he steps forward, pulling off his cap and revealing a mess of sweaty brown curls. 

“Whoa hey there. Do you need help?” 

There is something in your gut, instinctually and animal, that tells you to run as far as your legs can carry and then crawl the rest of the way. 

But there is no where to go and you shove that voice down and nod. 

Bo walks you to the small town of Ambrose hidden in the trees. He’s talking about his business—mechanic—and his brother—Vinny—but you have a hard time focusing on his words. You’re thinking of the blood stuck in the creases of your fingerprints. 

You barely take in the quaint dusty storefronts of the main street as Bo leads you into the bright white lights of the gas station. 

“Why are you out here?” he asks, busying himself with something behind the counter. 

“I was... with a friend,” you say, the words sticky in your mouth. Bo pulls out a tangerine colored jug of harsh hand cleaner. 

“Go on, sweetheart,” he says, nodding to the jug. Hesitantly you put your hands out, pumping thick soap full of grit with a thick scent of citrus into your hands. As you rub it between your fingers and into your nail beds Bo is watching you. “That strips off stuff you couldn’t imagine.” 

You look up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s a dark smile. He’s amused but by something no normal person should be amused by. 

“Do you have a sink?” you ask. 

“This way, miss.” You follow him behind the counter and down the stairs. He steps aside and lets you enter a small bathroom. He shoves the tip of his boot in front of the doorframe in case you close the door. You don’t. Instead you wash the blood from your hands with this sickly smelling soap in front of him, making sure to clean every last flake of scarlet from your hands. When they’re clean and dry you move to leave the bathroom but Bo steps in front of the doorway, filling it with his broad shoulders. 

“How’d you do it?” His easy going grin replaced by a truly intrigued expression. He wants to know what you did, he might even get off on it. 

You should have listened to your gut on the creek bed.

“A knife.” Your voice sounds miles away. “His knife.” 

“Where?” 

“Up the road about—”

“No. Where did you stab him.” 

You swallow hard. 

“Here.” You press your hand against Bo’s side, right beneath the ribs. “And here.”

You move your hand up, pressing two fingers against the side of his neck. You can feel his pulse, it’s quick under your touch. 

You watch him and let your hand linger on his throat. Then, like a coiled snake, he strikes. He has a hand on the small of your back and an arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders. His mouth is on yours, hard and uncaring. He tastes like cigarettes. 

He’s kissing you and you let him. You ragdoll in his arms, leaning against his chest. You can’t return the embrace, he has your arms pinned to your side, but you accept his. He’s pulling you out of the bathroom and across the narrow hall into a dim room. There is the hum of a television set to mute and the blueish glow the screen gives off illuminates various polaroids tacked to the wall. They’re all the color of flesh and you look away before you recognize anything else. 

The concrete wall is cold and rough under your back as Bo presses you against it. You’re balanced on the tips of your sneakers, unable to truly feel balanced. His knee is between your legs, his mouth trailing down your neck. 

The room behind him is a nightmare. There is a mattress with a dirty sheet stretched over it. A chair is positioned on the other side of the room, tilted back and equipped with various straps and cuffs. 

What you did up the road is nothing compared to the evil that rolls off these walls in waves. 

You dare a look at the photographs to your left. There’s no faces in them, only bodies twisted and posed. You can’t tell if the subjects in them are alive or not.

Bo’s teeth scrape against your throat and you shiver, a hand automatically pushing against his jaw at the sudden pain. He snaps up your wrist and slams it to the wall behind you. 

“That’s your only warning.” 

If there was one thing that the last few hours had taught you about yourself it was that you are a survivor. That no matter the task, if it meant living to the see the other side, it’d be done. 

You glare at him for a moment, examining the thin lines by his eye and scar in his chin. He’s taller, stronger, and if this room was any indication had far more blood on his hands than you did.

You lean forward and capture his mouth. He is moving against you, his fingers clutching your wrist tighter as he presses you into the wall. 

You’re surprised how easy it is to writhe under him. To wiggle out of your shorts and wrap your legs around his waist. To pant when he nips at your throat and to moan as he enters you. 

He isn’t gentle but you didn’t think he would be. His pants are open, his belt buckle digging into the skin of your thigh as he bucks into you relentlessly. You lock your arms around his neck and ride it out, letting him knock you into the wall until you’re cuming breathlessly around him. 

He follows soon after, grunting as he spills into you. He slouches against you, pinning you back against the wall with his shoulder as he catches his breath. 

You’re not quite sated, not in this unfamiliar place. Yours eyes move to the polariods on the wall again, their blurry images of flesh sending that instinct to run through your gut again. You can make out an arm, a breast. The faces are marred with duct tape and tears. 

“You didn’t ask why,” you say, leaning your cheek against his shoulder. He smells like sweat and grease. 

“What?”

“You asked me how and where but not why.”