By the time you were fourteen, you had learned how to rebel quietly. You started sneaking out your window after dark, barefoot across the dewy grass, running into the arms of a boy who smelled like stolen cigarettes and car grease. Caleb. He was two years older, handsome in a sun-bleached, small-town kind of way, and he knew how to hot-wire his daddy’s truck. You spent most of your nights with your feet up on the dashboard, watching the flickering neon sign of the diner on the county line as you passed it by. Sometimes he pressed you up against the passenger door, his kisses clumsy and sour, tasting like the beer he had stolen from the gas station.

You loved him, or at least, you loved the freedom that came with him. You loved the way he laughed too loudly at his own jokes and how he called you his girl with an exaggerated Southern drawl, just to make you blush. You loved the way he made you feel reckless and young, like the preacher’s daughter was just a girl with bare legs and a crooked smile.

But the town always found a way to take things from you.

When you were sixteen, you finally were able to admit that an older man from your father’s bishop Isaiah had cornered you after a service the first time years ago, pressed his hands where they didn’t belong, and took something from you that you didn’t know you could lose. It took everything in you to ask for help with what had been happening. And the town? They blamed you for it.

“A girl like that? She had it coming.”

“Nothing but a Jezebel, parading around with the devil between her legs.”

No charges were filed, Isaiah still came to dinner every Tuesday, and no one ever spoke of it unless it was in whispers between hymns.

You did as you were told after that. You stopped asking questions. Stopped pushing boundaries. You had stopped being.

Then, your body betrayed you.

You didn’t know what was happening at first. You hadn’t thought about it, not after what had been happening to you. But when your skirts got tighter, when exhaustion weighed down on your limbs, when the sickness consumed you in waves every morning—you knew.

You hadn’t told anyone. You hadn’t needed to.

They had seen it in the way you held yourself. How you covered your stomach when you sat down, in the way you started avoiding the communion line, afraid that drinking the wine would make you more of a sinner than you already were. They repeated the same thoughts you had about yourself:

“How could she do this to her family?”

“How shameful, no matter how Godly the family, seems that Satan can’t be kept out.”

One evening your mama came bustling through your room, a travel bag in her hands, like she had made a decision she was too terrified to rethink.

“We’re going on a women’s evangelism trip into the city, you need to pack.”

You had done as you were told.

You had never been to Lincoln before, at least not like that. The biggest city in Nebraska, but it still felt small compared to the weight pressing down on your chest as you sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your mother’s hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She didn’t speak to you once, as if she were grappling with something herself.

The waiting room was quiet, except for the scratch of pens on clipboards and the hum of the overhead radio playing some secular music you’d never been allowed to listen to. Your mother sat beside you, her hands folded into her lap, eyes distant and almost glazed over. She didn’t tell you it would be okay, she didn’t ask if this was what you wanted—she had already decided for you.

“We won’t speak of this when we get home,” she said simply, and that was final.

The procedure itself was just a blur—cold, gloved hands, dull pain, empty murmured reassurances of a nurse who probably saw girls like you every day. You had wanted to cry, but you swallowed it down instead and dug your teeth into your inner cheeks till they bled. The taste of iron consumed the sobs, buried them so deep down where no one would ever find them.

The drive home was silent. A steady hum of the tires mixed with the wind and the road stretching endlessly ahead.

You just stared out the window, watching the sun fade out, bleeding pink and orange into the sky. Your fingers curled around the paper bag from the gas station like it was a lifeline. Mama had stopped to get you cola and some crackers, but you weren’t hungry. You still felt the nausea twisting in your gut, pulled so tight you feared you might split in two and spill.

You thought that Mama might never say anything at all. But then she did.

“Your daddy wasn’t my first choice, you know,” her eyes were fixed on the road ahead and her voice seemed steady, yet both of her hands gripped the wheel tight enough her knuckles turned white.

“But he had God’s voice behind him, and who was I to argue with that?”

Her voice was barely above a breath, but you felt it all the same.

Your chest tightened. Your throat closed up around words you couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need her to say his name.

“I didn’t want that for you.”

The car was silent after that. She didn’t cry, didn’t look at you. She just drove. The road stretched ahead of you, but you were still stuck somewhere behind it—back in that house, sitting stiffly in the pew, listening to his voice fill the rafters, preaching forgiveness with hands that had never known it.

And you knew.

She had been you once.

You hadn’t known what to feel when it was over. Relief? Guilt? Nothing at all?

But the town felt it for you.

Words, damn words like a wildfire spread nearly the moment you returned. You had been careful, you really had. Your mother never even let you out of her sight. But it didn’t matter. Maybe someone had seen you in Lincoln? Maybe the older women in the church could sense something different about you—like bloodhounds sniffing out sin.

Either way, the whispers had started before you’d even processed what you’d been through.

“She went away for a week, came back thinner.”

“The preacher’s daughter? I’d always known she was fast.”

“Her poor father, God rest his soul. How could he live with what she’s done?”

And then came the day you heard your brother talking to your mother in the kitchen.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. You had only come in for a glass of water, but the moment you heard Caleb’s name, you froze. You pressed your back to the wall just beyond the doorway, fingers pressed to the chipped wood, holding your breath.

“Left out last week,” your brother was saying, his voice low and bitter. “Didn’t even tell his mama he was goin’. Just... took off. Enlisted.”

Your stomach twisted painfully, bile rising in your throat.

Enlisted.

You shut your eyes, leaning heavily into the wall.

Your mother’s voice came next, low, like she didn’t want you to hear.

“He didn’t even come say goodbye?”

“No, ma’am.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the last time you had seen Caleb. The way he had looked at you—the heaviness in his eyes, the way he had clenched his jaw and stepped back when you tried to touch him.

And then he left.

Left you. Not a word. Not a note. Nothing.

And you knew—you would never see him again. He would never come back.

Not for you.

Because you were already ruined. And he didn’t know how to hold something broken. So he left you behind.

Your whole world had stopped.

And the town just kept right on moving.

The Sunday after Caleb left, you sat in the same pew you always had—the one near the front, close enough for your father’s eyes to find you when he stood at the pulpit. The wooden bench had always felt too stiff beneath you, too straight-backed, too polished and unyielding. But that day, it had been unbearable.

You had felt their eyes crawling over you. The deacon’s wife behind you had clutched her Bible so tightly the cover had warped in her hands, her nails bitten down to the quick. The older men had lingered on you too long—calloused fingers turning the pages of their hymnals, but their eyes had never lifted from your back. The same men who had once tipped their hats at you when you passed by, the ones who had called you sweetheart and asked about your grades, now wore looks you hadn’t recognized. Their eyes had been hungry. Knowing.

The women had been worse.

They had clutched their pearls and whispered behind gloved hands, only lowering their voices just enough to feign decency. The same women who had once fussed over your hair after Sunday school, the ones who had praised your mama for raising such a lovely girl, now shook their heads when they had looked at you. They hadn’t even bothered hiding it.

You didn't need to hear the words to know what they were saying. You had felt the judgment in the way they had refused to meet your eyes, in the way they had exchanged quick glances when you had walked by.

Slut.

Whore.

You had stared at your lap, at the hem of your dress where your fingers had curled against the stiff, modest fabric. You had picked at a loose thread near your knee, pulling and twisting it until the fabric had puckered, fighting the urge to bolt. You hadn’t sung along when the choir had risen. You hadn’t listened to your father’s voice when he had spoken. It had been just a low, droning hum—familiar and far away, like you hadn’t even been there.

You had sat in that same spot your whole life, but now you had felt like an intruder. Like someone had come and skin you alive, draped your hollow carcass in your Sunday best, and placed you right back where you were supposed to be.

But everyone had known it hadn’t really been you anymore.

You hadn’t been the preacher’s daughter anymore.

You had been the ruined girl.

And no one had spoken to you outright. Not at first.

They had never needed to.

It had been in the way the girls you had grown up with had drifted away in clusters, casting you brief, wide-eyed glances like you had been something contagious—as if they could catch indecency. It had been in the way their mamas had gripped their wrists a little tighter when you had passed by at the grocery store. It had been in the way Mr. Allen, who had once given you a quarter for every A on your report card, had suddenly refused to look you in the eye when you had handed him your money at the counter.

But the men—the men had been different now.

The first time you had caught one of them staring too long, you had convinced yourself you were imagining it. 

You hadn’t been.

The boy who had bagged your groceries had suddenly let his hands brush against yours too many times. The clerk at the gas station had leaned too far over the counter when he had spoken to you, smiling like he had known something he shouldn’t have. When you had passed by groups of farmhands in town, they had stared you down without looking away. Their eyes had been slow and heavy, dragging over you like they were trying to commit the shape of you to memory.

You had started walking faster, keeping your eyes down, but it hadn’t mattered. They had already seen you. And it made you sick to know why.

Because you had known it hadn’t been the men who had told them.

It had been the women.

The mothers. The wives. The same women who should have clutched you to their chests and shielded you, who should have whispered, “We believe you, baby. We believe you.”

Instead, they had left you for dead.

The whispers had grown louder over time, thickening the air in the town like smoke. It didn't matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. The town had spoken for you.

You had never felt safe in that town. It had started long before you had even hit sixteen. But now? It had been like you were strung up by the neck, asphyxiating with every judgmental stare, every passing double-natured comment.

You had lived like that for two years, praying to God every night for forgiveness, asking why people ignored one of His most important teachings. Judgment had burned through you while loneliness had left a cold pit inside of you. Your father had barely spoken to you, leaving you behind on outings, raising your older brother above you as his golden child. And slowly, it had gone from not sitting next to the family in the church, to you being barred from coming at all.

“Whores aren’t permitted in God’s house. Not if I’m there.” He’d said as he had shoved you back into your bedroom when you had come out in your Sunday best. He had ordered you down onto your knees, throwing a Bible into your lap.

“Read, pray, beg, maybe someday God can grant you forgiveness.”

Your mother had never said a word, not even when you had started packing your bags. Maybe she had thought you were getting rid of old clothes, or maybe she had known exactly what you had been doing and had chosen to pretend otherwise.

You couldn’t have lived in that house, that town, that body.

The night before you had left, you had been in the kitchen helping your mama do dishes, staring at the same floral wallpaper that had been there since you were a child, when she had finally spoken on it.

“Where will you go?” she had asked, her voice hushed and defeated, as if she had known she wouldn’t get the answer she had been looking for.

“I don’t know. I just can’t stay here.”

She nodded. She hadn’t asked you to stay. Not to even write. She had just nodded, like she had known there had been no other way for this to end.

—

You had left the next day, your car packed full of what you would need and a bit of cash your mama had slipped you the night before. On the way out of town, you had made one stop: Isaiah’s house. He had lived alone, by choice he’d always said—that had been why he hadn’t taken a wife. Though you had known it had been more an issue of him preferring little girls to grown women.

You had been polite about it, knocking on the door and waiting for him to answer. When he had, he had been surprised to see you there. Isaiah had looked on either side of you for prying eyes before he had invited you in.

“Girl, what are you doing here?” he had asked, his gaze holding an air of confusion.

“I need to talk to you.” You had said, eyes dull as you had looked over him.

“Showin’ up without warning ain’t like you.” He had mused and shaken his head at you, his gait leading him back into the kitchen.

Isaiah had already been heading for the kitchen before you had even shut the door, muttering something under his breath, but you had barely heard him. The soft click of the lock sliding into place had felt louder than it should’ve—too sharp, too final—but your hands had still stayed on the knob longer than they had needed to. You hadn’t known why. Maybe you had already been contemplating turning around and walking out. Or maybe some part of you had already known you wouldn’t.

“You drink yet?” he said, casual as anything. You barely heard the words, too focused on the muted thump of the fridge opening and the hiss of the beer can being cracked open.

You stayed by the door, unsure, feet heavy and useless. You felt like a guest in your own body—lingering in some kind of in-between place, staring at your hands like they belonged to someone else.

The house smelled the same.

Cheap cigarettes and old wood. Sweat clung to the couch cushions. The faint, sour trace of whiskey hung in the curtains. You stood in the doorway, your fingers twitching faintly at your sides. The skin along your back prickled with an old, familiar heat.

“Don’t tell me you’re still playin’ holier-than-thou.” His voice came louder this time, a sneer clinging to the words. “You’re an adult now. Reckon that made you a big girl.”

You heard the beer tap against the counter twice—one, two—before you felt it press cold into your hand. You flinched without meaning to. Isaiah didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, and he just liked it.

“Here.” His eyes were hooded, expectant, the lines around them wrinkling slightly with something close to amusement. When you didn’t take it, he nudged the can against your knuckles again, firmer this time. “Go on. I won’t tell your mama.”

Your fingers curled around the can then automatically, though your hands felt numb. You stared down at it like you didn’t know what it was. You’d never even liked beer all that much. Caleb used to drink it, though. That cheap kind that made his breath sour when he kissed you. Caleb, oh, Caleb.

Isaiah nodded for you to follow him to the couch, plucking the beer from your other hand and guiding you by the elbow into the living room.

And before you even realized it, you sat down.

Right there. In the same spot you always had.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, the crinkling killing the silence of the room. He slipped one between your lips wordlessly and you accepted it because you didn’t know what else to do, your lips curling around it.

Isaiah let out a low, breathy chuckle when you didn’t move. “Come on, big girls smoke too.” He sparked up his own cigarette and leaned over, grabbing your chin so he could press the tip against yours. You pulled, getting it to light so you could get his hands off of you.

You inhaled too fast, too deep, and the smoke hit the back of your throat harsh and bitter. You coughed once, sharp and dry, the sound catching in your chest. Isaiah only chuckled again, leaning back into the couch with a lazy sort of satisfaction, his cigarette dangling between his fingers. The white curl of smoke slipped from between his lips, slow and deliberate, filling the stale air between you.

“Been a while, huh?” he mused, eyes cutting sideways to watch you. His voice was low, drawling, coated with mock sympathy. “You’re outta practice.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the cigarette in your hand, the trembling flame at the end, the small tendril of smoke rising into the dim room. You’d never liked smoking either, you still didn’t. But you took another drag anyway, the burn heavy in your chest, bitter on your tongue. The taste reminded you of Caleb, grounding you in a way.

Isaiah smiled faintly at that. Pleased. Like you were already doing what he wanted without even being asked.

His free hand slid across his thigh, slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You just sat there, sinking deeper into the couch, your body sluggish and foreign.

“You’re different now,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. The way he looked at you made your stomach churn, like he was studying you, inspecting you. Appraising you. His eyes trailed over your face slowly, heavy-lidded and lazy.

“Quieter,” he added after a moment. His lips parted slightly, just barely, like he was about to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl out lazily between his teeth.

“You always were a quiet little thing, though,” Isaiah went on, voice low and familiar, like he was trying to make the words sound fond, as if he was daring you to remember. “Always so sweet. So polite.” His lips twitched faintly at the corner, and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Mindin’ your manners even when you shouldn’t have.”

The cigarette wavered between your fingers. You exhaled heavily through your nose, feeling the burn of it scrape down the back of your throat.

Isaiah reached over then, so sudden and fluid it didn’t seem like you had time to react. His hand brushed against your knee, fingers curling lightly just above the bone, testing the weight of his touch.

You flinched. You didn’t mean to, but you did. You felt your muscles tense automatically, your whole leg stiffening under his grip.

He noticed, of course he did. His fingers tightened slightly, just barely, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you felt it. Enough to remind you that he could do worse.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, the room too quiet, the smoke thick and heavy in the air.

Then he smiled, that slow, lazy stretch of his mouth—like he was mocking you, daring you to move.

“Still shy, huh?” he muttered, voice low and almost affectionate. His thumb brushed slowly along the inside of your knee, the rough pad of it dragging over your skin. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t swallow.

You took another long pull from the cigarette just to keep your hands occupied so you wouldn’t have to feel the way they were trembling in your lap.

Isaiah’s eyes stayed on you, sharp and gleaming beneath the smoke-laden haze. You felt them moving over you, deliberate and heavy, following the slow, mechanical rise and fall of your chest.

His hand slid further up your thigh, slowly. Testing you, waiting for you to flinch.

“I have to use the restroom,” you muttered quickly, suddenly standing up and kicking over your beer in your stumble. The cigarette between your fingers was quickly tossed into the ashtray on the side table as you practically booked it through the kitchen to the bathroom. Your eyes caught a shine on the counter; a knife. It was no butcher’s knife, rather more of a midsized one, serrated on the end.

Isaiah followed you into the kitchen, throwing away the now empty beer can and glancing up at you. “You ran off pretty fast, angel, had me worryin’ ‘bout you,” he hummed, hands finding their way to your hips from behind. “Come’re…”

You squirmed, trying to turn around and your hands pushed at him to get him off. “Isaiah, don’t. I don’t want…”

His hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, flattening against your stomach and holding you in place. You squirmed harder, your fingers twisting around his wrist, trying to shove him off, but he barely budged. His grip only tightened slightly, pulling you back against him with a low, satisfied hum.

“Shh…” he cooed, his breath warm against your neck, thick with stale beer and smoke. “You’re alright, angel.”

You shook your head quickly, a sharp, jerking motion, your nails biting into his skin as you writhed in his hold. But he didn’t let you go.

Instead, he moved fast—too fast. His hand shot up, catching you by the back of the head. His fingers threaded into your hair, gripping hard at the roots, and shoved you forward.

Your chest hit the counter with a dull thud, the edge biting into your ribs. Your hands shot out, palms slapping against the cold surface to brace yourself, but he was already on you, pressing down harder. His weight bore into you, flattening you against the counter, your cheek mashed against the worn laminate.

Your breath stuttered out of you in a sharp gasp. You clawed at the counter, your fingers slipping against the smooth surface, scrambling for purchase.

His other hand slid down, catching at the small of your back. His palm pressed flat, pushing down just enough to arch you slightly, keeping you still. His fingers splayed wide, spanning the curve of your spine like he was measuring it, feeling how you fit under him.

“Mm…” he exhaled softly, almost thoughtful, his breath feathering against the back of your neck. “You were real jumpy tonight. Why was that, huh?” His tone was mockingly sweet, almost pitying, like he was talking to a child. “What had you so worked up?”

You tried to push back again, twisting under his grip, but it only made him press you down harder. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, yanking your head back slightly, just enough to make your throat stretch. You let out a sharp, choked gasp at the sudden tug, your eyes squeezing shut.

His mouth dipped closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, amused murmur.

“You grew up real pretty,” he drawled, almost pleased. His hand on your back flexed slightly, pressing down again, firmer this time. “Though, I miss when you were eager to please.”

You shivered beneath him, your stomach twisting violently, bile rising thick and sour in your throat. Your eyes flicked to the knife on the counter. You couldn’t reach it, not with your head against the counter. 

“Isaiah,” you choked out, barely above a whisper, your voice trembling. “Don’t. Please.”

His hand dragged down your back slowly, deliberately, the rough pad of his palm scraping over the back of your dress.

“Aw, now,” he murmured, his voice lilting with mock sympathy. “No need for all that.”

His lips brushed against your ear again, warm and wet, and you squeezed your eyes shut, a sharp tremor running through you.

“You came back, didn’t you?” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “That meant you missed me.”

His hand slipped under your dress and you froze. Every horrible, haunting memory flashing through your head. 

Suddenly, you were thirteen again on your knees in the church basement. Your hands were clasped together so tight in your lap that your whole body trembled. Isaiah was standing in front of you and he was guiding you through a prayer you’ve never heard before. His big hand guided through your hair while your head pressed against his thigh. 

“You’re so well behaved, angel. Open those pretty eyes for me.” He’d murmured, his hand moved from the top of your head under your chin. He tilted your head up, thumb caressing your bottom lip as you obeyed. When his eyes met yours, he let out a groan of appreciation and pressed the digit to your tongue. 

“Good girl. Open up a little more. Yeah, that’s it.” 

Then, you were fifteen, bent over the worn desk in his office. The wood was splintered at the edges, one of the legs uneven, making it wobble slightly under your weight. Your cheek was pressed against a stack of hymnals, the cracked leather biting into your skin. The faint scent of dust and old paper clung to the pages, but all you could breathe in was him; his heavy cologne, the bitter tang of whiskey on his breath, the musk of sweat clinging to his shirt. 

You could still feel the sharp bite of the desk against your hip bones, the uneven leg rattling slightly with every shallow gasp. You had stared at the wall—the peeling floral wallpaper, the faint water stain in the corner. You had counted the cracks in the plaster just to keep yourself anchored, just to feel like you were somewhere else.

Then, you were seventeen, in the seat of his car. It was the old, beat-up sedan he drove, the backseat perpetually cluttered with sermon notes and empty coffee cups. The vinyl seats were cracked and torn in places, the foam poking through in jagged strips. You remembered the smell of the stale air freshener; cheap pine, masking the scent of cigarettes.

Tears were streaming down your face as you clung to him in the driver’s seat. The other girls had bullied you out of the youth group that night. No one ever seemed to want you around. Isaiah found you crying and took your hand, leading you to his car without a word. 

“I know, angel, and I’m sorry. I know you feel alone. But I’m here.” He’d mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, letting his hands run over your back. 

And for once, he actually just drove you back home.

Maybe that’s why you thought coming here would give you the apology you deserved. 

Then, you were back in the kitchen. Isaiah’s hand was still on you, splayed wide across your lower back, his fingers digging into your skin through the fabric of your dress. You were still bent against the counter, your cheek pressed to the laminate, cold and unyielding. The sharp scent of stale beer clung to his breath, warm and humid against your ear.

And in that moment, something in you just snapped. 

Your hand found the handle of the blade in a flash and you turned as much as you could. The blade sank into him with a sickening, wet sound—a dull, meaty schluck as it punched through skin and muscle. You had aimed low and blind, but somehow, you struck true. The tip buried deep into his side, slipping just under the ribcage, slicing clean into where his liver would be.

Isaiah staggered back with a ragged, wet gasp, clutching at his side. His hand slapped over the wound, slick and clumsy, fingers trembling as they pressed against the gaping tear in his flesh. Blood seeped through the cracks in his knuckles, spilling in thick, syrupy ribbons down his wrist, dripping to the floor in uneven splatters.

He slumped heavily against the opposite counter, his knees bending slightly as his weight buckled. His breath rasped out in broken, uneven pants, shallow and wet, hitching violently in his throat. 

“Angel, baby, please, don’t do this…” He begged.

Isaiah’s eyes widened slightly, his chest stuttering with a broken wheeze. His hand pressed harder to the wound, smearing more blood across his shirt, as though he could somehow hold himself together, somehow keep everything from slipping through his fingers.

Your vision swam violently, the edges blurred and hazy, smearing together in a disorienting whirl of color. Your ears rang with a shrill, hollow static, drowning out the wet, labored gasps rattling from Isaiah’s throat. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the floor tilting unevenly beneath your feet, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you thought you might collapse.

“No, no, no, Isaiah, I’m—” You stuttered out, dropping the knife and grabbing him as he fell to the floor. His weight slumped heavily against you, knocking you back slightly as his legs buckled. You staggered, your knees nearly giving out beneath you as you sank to the floor with him, clutching at his trembling body. Your hands were slick with his blood, slipping against the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of it seeping into your skin, sticky and hot. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, don’t…God, in Heaven, be m-merciful…” You whimpered. Your hands pressed down hard over the wound, trembling violently as you tried to hold him together, trying to stop the blood that wouldn’t stop coming. It poured in sluggish, red waves between your fingers, thick and warm, slicking your hands, clinging to your skin in sticky rivulets.

Isaiah’s breath came in shallow, broken gasps, each one thinner, wetter, more rugged than the last. His chest stuttered faintly beneath your hands, the faint rise and fall uneven and weak. His bloodied fingers clutched at your arm, trembling violently, his grip already weakening.

You could feel the wet, sluggish stutter of his pulse beneath your palms. Weak. Slowing. Too slow. He was fading too fast to get help. But too slow to be humane.

And you knew—God, you knew—he was going to die either way.

Either slowly, choking on his own blood, whimpering as he suffocated…

You pulled his head into your lap, cradling it with trembling hands. His bloodied hair clung to your fingers, damp and sticky, but you still smoothed it back gently, softly, as though it might somehow comfort him. Your other hand fumbled blindly for the knife, slick with blood, your grip weak and shaking.

With a fractured breath, you brought the blade to his throat, your fingers trembling so violently you could barely keep it steady. Tears blurred your vision, hot and thick, streaking down your cheeks and dripping into his hair.

“Lord, forgive me…” you choked out, your voice breaking on the words. Your chest heaved with a sharp, ragged sob. “I’m…I’m sorry…”

And then, before you could lose your nerve, you pressed the blade down and dragged it across firm and quick.

His blood came fast, pouring over your hands in a hot, heavy rush. It was like he was giving all of himself to you, baptizing you in his life. You gasped, the air catching in your throat, and the sound of it tore through you like a sob you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body trembled, your grip on him tightening as you rocked slightly, tears falling from your eyes in jagged, uneven drops, landing on his cooling skin.

You held him longer than you should have—you knew it, but you couldn’t make yourself let go. His body was already going cold against yours, the warmth draining from him. The blood beneath you had started to thicken, congealing into sticky, clumpy patches that clung to your skin, leaving a slick, foul mess.

The room was eerily still. Too still. The only sound was the soft drip of blood hitting the tile, slow and steady, falling from your hands, your arms, as you shook. It smelled like iron, stale beer, sweat, and smoke. It smelled like him.

And then, reality hit you. You blinked, feeling dazed, your eyes unfocused and heavy. You pulled your hands from his body, slowly, shakily. The blood was so thick on your hands that it felt like they weren’t even yours anymore. Your chest hitched again, a soft, broken breath escaping as you stared at your trembling fingers, the dark, sticky smear of his blood stretching between them like a sickening string.

Your legs were stiff from kneeling too long, sore and unsteady, buckling slightly as you tried to push yourself up. Your palms slid against the counter as you braced yourself, leaving red streaks on the worn surface. The room around you swam, the walls tilting and bending, but you fought to say upright, your knees threatening to buckle again.

You didn’t think, you didn’t process—you just moved. Your body knew what to do even if your mind didn’t. You found his wallet on the counter, the old, cracked leather sticky with blood where it had fallen. With shaking hands, you pulled out every bill you could find, stuffing it in your pockets, his cash, his cards. 

Your breath was shallow, coming in quick, uneven gasps. Your chest was tight, your throat raw. You stumbled through the house, bumping into the walls, tripping over the rug. Your fingers fumbled, unable to find their way as you yanked open drawers and cabinets. You found more cash, tucked under a pile of receipts, and shoved it into your bag.

The floor wobbled beneath you as you made your way to the door, your hands slick and trembling. Blood stained everything you touched—counter edges, fridge handles, doorframes—leaving a trail of red wherever you went. You yanked the door open, feeling the sticky resistance of the knob, and stepped outside.

The air was thick and heavy, suffocating. You stumbled barefoot across the porch, your feet slapping against the dirt, the gravel biting into your soles. But you barely felt it. You barely felt anything.

Your car sat where you had left it hours ago, crooked in the patch of dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, fumbling as you grabbed for the door handle. It slid open with an unsteady pull, and you clambered inside, the door slamming shut behind you with a hollow thud.

Your fingers were clumsy as you reached for the keys, your hands weak and uncoordinated. You forced the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine sputtered once, then roared to life with a low, grinding hum. You gripped the wheel, your knuckles white, and slammed your foot down on the gas.

The tires spun, sending gravel flying as you peeled out, the car jerking forward in a cloud of dust and dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, smearing the cracked leather of the steering wheel, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even look back.

You just kept driving, too fast, too erratic, but you didn’t care. Your mind was a blur, your vision too cloudy to focus, the road ahead just a faint stretch of darkness. The headlights cut through the night, but your mind was so far away, you couldn’t make sense of it. You didn’t need to.

You just kept driving.

— 

Bo sat on the porch, one boot propped up on the railing, the other tapping rhythmically against the wood. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the thick, sticky air, mixing with the sour scent of rain that was starting to roll in from the horizon. He flicked the ash off the end, watching it flutter away in the wind, and sighed.

Ambrose was as quiet as ever. Empty. There hadn't been a soul through this town in weeks, maybe months. Nothing but the steady hum of insects and the occasional gust of wind pushing the dust around. He liked it, in a way. The silence made it easier to hear his thoughts, but hell, there was only so much thinking a man could do before it got boring.

A storm was brewing off in the distance—clouds heavy and dark, swirling like a storm ready to eat the town alive. He could feel the pressure in the air, thick and sticky, like the whole world was waiting for something. His fingers drummed against the side of the porch, the rhythm of the storm creeping into him, making him restless.

There wasn't much to do in Ambrose anymore. Vincent was holed up inside doing whatever it was he did—Bo had stopped paying attention to him. Lester... well, Lester wasn't exactly company, but he was around. The dog, Jonesy, was more of a companion than anyone else, and even he had his moments when he was more trouble than he was worth.

Bo took another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he exhaled, watching the way it hung in the air, thick and heavy. The town was dead. There were no tourists passing through, no one to catch, no one to play with. He hadn’t seen another living soul in so long, he was starting to think they all just... disappeared. Maybe they were all part of the town’s secrets. Maybe they were never here at all.

The rain was getting closer now, the sky blackening, and the wind kicked up, rattling the trees. He flicked his cigarette away, watching it land in the dirt, and stood, stretching. A storm was always good for something. A little chaos. A little change.

But even as the first drops began to fall, it wasn’t enough. He needed something more. Needed some kind of distraction. Anything. Bo shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out over the empty streets again. It was going to be a long night.

No matter how dirty your habits were, you still found a way to look down on him. You saw him as inferior, lesser, dirty. Without him, how would you stuff that stuck up little nose full of your favorite white powder? You relied on him, you needed him; you needed a lesson. A lesson on respect, on how to appreciate those who did you favors. 

So when your desperate text lit up his phone—"Now. Need it. Usual amt."—he made a decision. Before he packed your pretty little bag of coke, he laced it with something extra. .25 grams of ketamine. Just enough to make you soft, slow, stupid. Not that he didn’t enjoy a bit of fight, but he had no interest in hearing your shrill, entitled screaming tonight.

The headlights of your brand-new Audi sliced through the dark, the sleek car coming to a halt under his sagging carport, making his battered ‘91 Ranger look even shittier in comparison. You pull your Prada bag out of your passenger seat and push your Gucci sunglasses to the top of your head. He watched from inside, through the cracked plastic and duct tape holding his window together. He's surprised Curly hasn’t forced him to get it fixed yet, considering how often he bitched about it. 

You strut your way to the front door, buzzing his broken doorbell and leaning against the ripped screen door after opening it. 

“Jim! C’mon, it’s freezing out here!” You complain, like always, you never stop fucking finding things to complain about.

“I’m comin’, girl, be fuckin’ patient for once,” Jimmy grumbles, opening the door and rolling his eyes when he sees your appearance, “No wonder you’re cold, you’re dressed like a goddamned hooker.” 

You walk past him, shaking your freshly salon-done hair, the scent of expensive perfume trailing in your wake,  “A hooker could only dream to wear something like this. You have my shit?” 

It takes everything in him not to tug you by your hair, slam your face against the coffee table, and spit on that ugly, cashmere top. He shut the door, following you to the table where you were already rifling through his things like you owned them.

Jimmy tsked, slapping your hand away from his main stash, “Get your fuckin’ paws off my shit, daddy never teach you manners?”

“Manners are for the poor.” You scoff, refusing to sit down on his couch next to him. Its original beige color is now a dull brown, with black spots from years of god-knows-what being spilled onto it. You think you’re too good to sit on the ash and cigarette burn holes? Fine, he’ll rape you on it. 

“Yeah, I have your fuckin’ shit.” He wrestled the jammed drawer open, pulled out your usual 3.5 grams, and dumped a bit onto the table. He dumps a bit on the table, pulling his old work ID from the table to chop up a line for you. “Where’s my money?” 

You pull four crisp one hundred dollar bills from your pocket and toss three of them on the table, rolling the other as a straw. Funny how you refuse to let your miniskirt touch the couch, but you’ll press your perfect nose to a table that’s never once been cleaned. You kneel, snorting the line from the table and sniffle it back for a moment before digging your perfectly mannered nail into the bag and taking another bump. 

“It really burns, Jim,” You whine, leaning your head back. It normally never hurt this bad, “the fuck did you cut it with?”

Of course you’d find a way to bitch. He couldn’t wait for it to kick in so you’d shut your fucking mouth, “Nothin’, do you ever fuckin’ shut up?” 

“Seriously, it hurt– did you even crush it?” You ask, leaning over to look at the bag. Shards glimmer up at you through the fine powder and you groan. 

“You expect me to wrap it in a bow too? Goddamn, have you ever done a thing yourself?” Jimmy rolls his eyes, distain seeping through in his voice. He sparks up a cigarette, taking a drag before blowing it out in your face, “Spoiled fuckin’ brat.”

You ignore his comment to pull out your daddy’s black card, moving to kneel on the dirty carpet–god, should it be this crusty? For once, you were actually focused, pressing and breaking up the powder like it was some delicate art form. He could see it now, though—the shift. The way your movements started slowing. The distant look settling in your eyes.

Your breath hitched. Your limbs felt… strange. Floating yet sinking all at once. There was peace to it, but something was off. This wasn’t coke. Not just coke. 

“This–this isn’t just blow, what did you give me?” You ask, leaning back on the couch as your vision begins to blur. 

Jimmy only smirks–you’re right where he wants you. He shifts, tucking his cig back between his lips. You feel hands on you, tugging you on the couch and then he’s groping you through your shirt. 

“K. Enjoy the trip, bitch.” He practically spits, shoving his fingers into your mouth. A second later, his fingers were forcing your jaw open, shoving their way into your mouth. You barely had time to squirm before your drugged-out brain could even process what was happening. A stinging, radiating pain on your tongue and the taste of ash. Face contorted in pain, you gag at the taste and try to pull your head away with no success. 

"Stop—" your protest sounds feeble, the word slurred and pathetic as it tumbles from your numb lips. The K is hitting hard now, your limbs heavy as lead, mind floating somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.

Jimmy laughs, a harsh, guttural sound that reverberates through his yellowed teeth. "There she is. Not so fuckin' high and mighty now, are ya?" His calloused fingers trace your jawline, rough against your expensive moisturized skin. "Daddy's princess, laid out on my shitty couch. What would he think of you now?"

The room tilts and spins, everything moving in slow motion. You try to push him away, but your arms feel disconnected from your body, like you're trying to control them through thick syrup. The overhead light flickers, casting Jimmy's face in demonic shadows.

"I don't... feel right," you manage, panic rising through the chemical fog. "Please, I need—"

"Need what? Help?" He spits on the floor beside you. "Funny how you need somethin' from me now. But you never give nothin' back, do you? Just take, take, take."

His weight shifts on the couch, springs creaking in protest beneath you both. You feel his hands yanking at your miniskirt, tearing at the delicate designer fabric that cost more than his monthly rent. The sound of ripping cloth penetrates your haze.

"No," you whimper, struggling against his grip on you. It’s pathetic, really, considering you’re so strung out you can barely move.

You squirm beneath him, panic bubbling in your chest. The room spins, and his grip on your thigh tightens. Your designer skirt is gone, fabric torn away like it was nothing but cheap cloth. 

"Stop," you gasp, trying to catch your breath. "You don’t want to do this." Your voice trembles, a desperate plea that feels hollow even as it escapes your lips.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound that sends chills down your spine. “Oh, I think I do. You’ve played the princess long enough.” His fingers dig into your skin as he forces you back against the couch cushions.

With every ounce of energy left in you, you shove against his chest, but your body won’t cooperate. It feels like you’re fighting through molasses. “Get off me!” You try to scream, but the words barely make it past your lips, muffled and slurred.

“Not gonna happen.” His breath is hot against your face as he leans in closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “I think it’s time for a little reality check.”

You manage to twist away just enough to see the crumbling walls around you—the faded posters peeling from the plaster, the stench of stale smoke and desperation heavy in the air. This was not some wild party; this was hell on earth.

“Please,” you plead again, voice cracking as tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t have to? Oh honey,” he smirks, pressing closer until you're pinned beneath him. “I want to.”

His hands move again, slipping beneath the remnants of your skirt. You feel sick—your mind screams at you to fight harder, but every movement feels weighted down by a drug-induced haze.

“Just give in,” he whispers into your ear, breathing rancid smoke and something darker. “Thought you wanted to be bad.” He laughs softly; it's cold and cruel.

“I’ll pay you,” you stammer through gritted teeth, desperate for any way out of this nightmare.

His laughter rings in your ears like a gunshot, all too loud and jarring. “Too late for that now.”

You feel his hands roughly tugging at your underwear, the lace fabric giving way beneath his force. Tears stream down your checks, mingling with the trail of mascara that has long since smeared down your cheeks. You're hyper aware of every sound in the room—the ticking clock on the wall, the distant hum of a passing car outside, even your own ragged breathing as you fight to regain control over your body.

"Please," you manage to whimper one last time, but it's futile. His grip on your wrists tightens, pinning them above your head as he leans in closer.

"Shh," he coos in your ear, his voice a mockery of comfort. "It'll be over before you know it."

The weight of him presses down on you, crushing any remaining air from your lungs as he positions himself between your legs. The room spins around you as panic threatens to consume you whole.

With every ounce of strength left in you, you twist and buck beneath him, trying to throw him off balance. But it's no use; the drugs have sapped away any semblance of power you once had over your own body.

"Fuck!" he growls in frustration as his grip on your wrists tightens even more, digging nails into your skin. "Stay still!"

You bite down on your lip until you taste blood in an attempt to stifle a scream that threatens to escape you. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers something too low for you to hear over the pounding of your own heartbeat. You can feel his erection pressing against the sensitive flesh between your legs, and you wish you could squirm away.

You hadn’t even registered that Jimmy had gotten his jeans off when the head of his cock is pressing against your clit. Tears are pouring down your cheeks when he forces way in, nails digging into the meat of your thighs. You claw pointlessly at his chest, but you’re much too weak to fight him off.

“Think I like you better like this,” He grunts, a sick smile on his face as he pulls out and slams back in, “dumb and quiet. The way women were made to be.”

You try to say something—a plea to stop or slow down, anything but it all comes out so slurred.

“Jim…” You mutter, your eyes staring up into his as he hammers into you. The burning sensation from the friction starts to dull into a strange ache of pleasure. A wave of absolute disgust hits you— you’re getting raped and you like it. Distantly, as if he’s a million miles away, you hear him laugh at you. He can feel how wet you’ve gotten, how your body is naturally starting to tense up around him. 

“Knew you were nothing but a whore. All you girls are. You bitch and fight it, but all you really want is for a man to put you in place.” Jimmy scoffs, his hand coming to your face to force you to look up at him. He spits down onto your face and smears it around with his fingers, shoving them back into your mouth. 

You don’t know how long he’s been fucking into you when you tumble over the edge, instinct taking over. The sounds spilling from your lips don’t even feel like your own—like they belong to someone else entirely. A few more ragged grunts, and then he’s pulling out, stroking himself to completion, warm streaks painting your face and chest. 

Your body feels heavy, your mind foggy, slipping between consciousness and oblivion. You try to form words, but all that comes out is a garbled murmur before the darkness swallows you whole. 

When you finally start to surface, your head is swimming, nausea curling in your stomach as you blink against the haze. Your body feels strange, heavy, like it doesn’t quite belong to you. You sit up slowly, wincing at the dizziness that follows. 

The room is thick with smoke. Jimmy’s on the other side of the couch, lazily hitting a blunt before passing it over.

“How long have I been out?” Your voice comes out rough, dry. You shift, frowning as you tug your skirt down. It must’ve ridden up in your sleep. A strange discomfort settles in your chest. Why the hell did you forgo panties with this outfit? 

Jimmy exhales, smoke curling lazily around his head. “Couple hours. You wanted to try ket. Think I dosed ya too high.” He shrugs, casual, like it’s nothing.

Something about his words feels off—like you’re missing a piece of the puzzle. Your skin feels sticky, your thoughts disjointed, fragmented. What the hell happened before you passed out?

“Hey, beautiful,” He murmurs against your temple as he plants a kiss there, his nose nuzzling in your hair, “Why didn’t you let me know you were stopping by?”

He’d barely put his hands on you and you're melting into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I did, must’ve missed it. Were you sleeping?” You ask, pulling away enough to set the drinks down onto his desk. 

He lets out a quiet chuckle as he shrugs, “Yeah, dozed off in bed, long day, I guess.” 

You naturally move to the kitchen as if you’ve done it a million times before. Getting on your tiptoes, you pull out a wine glass. “Tell me about it, I cried as soon as I got in my car.” You sigh, making your way back out to grab the bottle and settle on the couch. 

“You want to talk about it, doll?” Rudy asks, moving over to sit next to you after he grabbed the six-pack. He takes your bottle and pours your glass for you. 

“God no, I just wanted to be with my boyfriend,” You say, taking the glass and sipping much too large of a sip from it, “Maybe get a little bit of dick.”

“Well,” That draws a grin from him, his lips brushing the top of your ear as he whispers, “You definitely came to the right place for that.”

—

A bottle of wine and six-pack of beer later, you both are tangled up on his bed. There’s a giggle between every kiss and every movement is clumsy, uncoordinated. His head is buried in your neck, peppering kisses, bites, leaving marks all over your skin. Each sense is filled with him– him, him, him. Every experience with him felt like that from the moment you met. You fell so fast, so hard. And Rudy made it so easy and so damned sweet. 

“I’m so in love with your body.”  He murmurs against your skin as his hands trace patterns across your bare abdomen.  Most of your clothes never even made it to the bed, a trail of fabric littered its way like rose petals. 

Your hand tangles in his hair, guiding his head towards yours for another kiss. The flavors of beer and menthol flood your mouth, a combination that has become familiar and addicting. You have grown accustomed to everything that is uniquely him and crave it like a drug. It's as if you stopped needing air the day you met him.

His hand pulls your thigh over his legs before sliding up to firmly grasp your ass. You grind your hips against him, feeling desire pooling between your thighs and drenching both of you. He hardly needs to touch you to elicit such a reaction anymore - just one look from him and you're ready for him.

“Please,” You whisper, pulling back and resting your forehead against his. It's tender, loving, soft– his beautiful face melting into that darling smile as he guides his fingers through your wetness. How could he still look like a Disney prince with his hand between your legs? 

"Here?" He teases, rubbing slow circles on your clit and studying the way your eyes flutter closed in response. "Or here?" His voice dropped an octave as he slowly pushed the tips of his fingers into your hole before returning to your clit.

You whine in frustration, pushing your hips forward into his hand and trying desperately to gain more than he was giving, “Rudy, I need you, stop teasing…” You plead.

He knows how easy it is to rile you up and play with you. “I’ll take care of you, doll.” He smirks, rolling you onto your back. His lips find their way from your neck down to your chest, pausing to explore every inch of skin and eliciting gasps and moans from you. When he playfully bites down on your hip bone, you squeak in surprise. “Just lay back and let me work my magic.” 

Rudy doesn’t have to tell you twice, you simply lay your head back and let your eyes close. The warm, wet trail of saliva followed his tongue as he traced it over your hip bones, then down to your mound, and the junction of your legs and thighs.Your grip on his hair tightens as his tongue makes contact with your clit.

“Fuck, Rudy…” You sigh as you roll your hips towards him for more contact. He chuckles softly at your eagerness, holding you down by placing his hand on your lower abdomen.

"Easy now, don't get too greedy," He mutters before biting down on your inner thigh and sucking softly. "Take what I give you."

You nod in agreement, loosening your grip on his hair slightly. "O-okay."

Rudy seems pleased with your submission, continuing to pepper kisses along your thighs. "Good doll, good…" He praises as his other hand moves between your legs to tease around your entrance and lubricate his fingers. Slowly, he slides two fingers inside of you and you let out a sharp moan, pushing back into the pillow. The pace is gentle and slow at first, his fingers opening you up and preparing you for more. His tongue continues to work its magic on your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of pleasure.

Your body arches as Rudy's skilled fingers and tongue work in tandem, pleasure building steadily. The room fills with your soft moans and the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers. Your hands tangle deeper in his hair, holding him close as your hips begin to rock against his face.

"God, Rudy, don't stop," You gasp, feeling yourself getting close to the edge. You can barely open your eyes to look down at him, but you’re so glad you do. He looks gorgeous like this– his dark curls tangled in your fingers, eyes closed in concentration, nose brushing against your mound. 

He hums against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your thighs begin to tremble as the tension in your core builds. And the moment he opens those breathtaking eyes to look up at you, the dam breaks and you cry out, waves of ecstasy washing over you as your orgasm crashes through your body.

Rudy works you through it, lapping up your release as your body quivers beneath him. When the last aftershocks subside, he plants a final kiss on your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.

"You taste divine," he purrs, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mingled with the lingering flavors of alcohol.

Your hands roam over his muscular back, feeling the strength coiled beneath his skin. Rudy's erection presses insistently against your thigh, hot and hard. You reach between your bodies to wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly.

"I need you inside me," you breathe against his lips. "Please, Rudy."

He groans, rocking his hips into your touch. "Anything for you, doll."

Rudy positions himself at your entrance, teasing you with just the tip. You whimper arching your hips to try and take him deeper. He chuckles softly, nipping at your earlobe.

"Patience, doll," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "I want to savor every moment with you."

Slowly, torturously, he sinks into you inch by inch. Your breath catches in your throat at the stretch, your walls fluttering around him. When he's fully sheathed, he stills, giving you time to adjust. No matter how many times you’ve taken him, the full length of him always left you breathless. His forehead rests against yours, those mesmerizing green eyes locked on your face.

"You feel incredible," Rudy breathes, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "So perfect for me. You were made to take my cock."

His words send a shiver down your spine, igniting a renewed fire in your core. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Your hands slide up his strong arms to cup his face, pulling him down for a desperate kiss. As your tongues tangle, Rudy begins to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm that has you gasping against his mouth. 

"Yes," you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. "God, Rudy, you feel so good."

He picks up the pace, driving into you with powerful thrusts that make the bed creak beneath you. Your nails rake down his back as the pleasure builds, leaving faint red lines in their wake. Rudy growls, burying his face in your neck as he pounds into you relentlessly.

The room fills with the sounds of your shared passion– skin slapping against skin, breathless moans, and whispered sweet nothings. Rudy's thrusts become more erratic as he nears his peak. He slips a hand between your bodies, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit.

"Come for me again, doll," he commands, his voice rough with exertion. "I want to feel you squeeze my cock when you come, let me feel you."

His words and skilled touch push you over the edge once more. You cry out his name as waves of pleasure crash over you, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around him. The sensation triggers Rudy's own release. He buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he spills inside you.

For several long moments, you both lay there panting, bodies slick with sweat and tangled together. Rudy presses tender kisses along your jawline before capturing your lips in a languid, post-coital kiss. When he finally pulls out and rolls to the side, you whimper at the loss.

“Mm, come back…” You whine as you wrap your arm around his abdomen, head settling on his chest and leg strewn over his. He presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his hand running through your hair softly.

"Feel better now, beautiful?" he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You nod, nuzzling into the crook of his neck with a yawn, “Much better.” 

—

Hours later, you stir a bit, waking up with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. Maybe drinking the whole bottle wasn’t the smartest move. You turn over, hand reaching out for Rudy but he’s not in his usual spot next to you. 

“Baby?” You murmur, sitting up to look around. He’s not in the bathroom– the lights off. You grab the robe you keep at his place, wrapping it around yourself as you stumble through the apartment, still slightly buzzed.

Maybe he’s in the kitchen? You make your way through the apartment, slightly stumbling since you’re still a little drunk, a frown set on your face as he’s not in any of his usual spots. That’s when you feel a cold draft hit you next to the living room with a sigh. He must have left the freezer door open, when would he even have opened it?

You creep towards the cracked door. You’d never even seen the inside…had you?

Your fingers grip the cold handle, and you pull the door open just enough to peek inside, curiosity gnawing at you. And what you’re greeted with is enough to make you sick. 

A frozen woman’s body lies in pieces on a metal table, limbs neatly arranged as if pieces on a board. Your boyfriend stands over her, bone saw in hand, cutting through one of the limbs with a practiced rhythm.

You stagger backward, your breath hitching in your throat, eyes wide and disbelieving. The bottle of wine and the six-pack seem like artifacts from another life, the cozy intimacy of just hours ago obliterated by the macabre sight before you.

Rudy looks up at the slight noise you make, but makes no effort to move. His face flickers through a spectrum of emotions: surprise, irritation, and finally, something calm and unreadable. That calm, more than anything, makes you begin to tremble in fear. 

"You're awake," he says simply, as if you’ve just caught him reheating leftovers instead of dismembering a human body. His voice is steady but there's a tension behind his eyes, something calculating, as if he’s evaluating your reaction. He doesn't stop working, the bone saw whining softly as it slices through icy cartilage and bone.

You want nothing more than to run, scream, throw up– but your feet are planted frozen to the floor in fear and disgust. 

“You-you…” You mutter, heart in your throat as your hand comes to your mouth, the other wrapped around your abdomen in a guard, “What have you done?” The walls feel like they're closing in on you and you fight down the bile that seers through your esophagus, threatening to escape with each breath.

Rudy sets the saw down with precision, slipping off his gloves like he’s just working on a project. "I was hoping you wouldn’t see this," he says, his tone almost regretful. "Not like this, anyway." 

It clicks together like some fucked up grotesque puzzle, “You’re the killer I’ve been reporting on for months.” You manage to croak out, pure anguish settling over you. How could you have never guessed? How many times had he fucked you in the same bed as these poor girls? How many of them sat in his passenger seat with his hand resting on their thigh like you had?

In some fucked up way, the thought of him cheating on you makes you just as sick. 

But no, this isn’t real, this can’t be real. This has to be some twisted nightmare, a drunken hallucination that will disappear once you rub your eyes hard enough.

But no matter how hard you try, the moment doesn’t fade away.

“Listen, I know this is a lot to take in,” Rudy says, moving from around the table to approach you. You should run, why aren’t you running? “But I’d never hurt you, you know that right?”

His hand comes to your hair, petting it as he’s done a hundred times before but this time, it felt like a façade, his way of lulling you into relaxation. 

“Don’t you trust me?” He says, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of your head. You feel disgusted, every touch from him is tainted by all the blood he has on his hands. He’s a monster—and by all means, you should treat him like one. But he’s looking at you with those forest green eyes, they’re so full of emotion like he’s begging you to trust him. 

‘Trust?’ You want to scream at him, every nerve and warning sign igniting in your body. The rage inside you is boiling: you had trusted him so foolishly, how you had no knowledge of the monster you shared a bed with every night. But your frozen, mouth agape, more conflicted than you had ever been in your entire life. 

This shouldn’t even have to be a conversation. The moment you saw him with that saw in his hands you should have ran, called the police, anything than stand here like you are right now.

Of all the emotions swirling within you, one nauseated you the most; you were jealous. The Ice Truck Killer only killed prostitutes. It gnaws at you, the thought of him touching them, the same way he’d touched you. His hands on their skin. His lips against theirs.

Your thoughts are a tangled mess of rage and self-loathing as you try to articulate any of it. “You’re—you’re just sick…we…we can fix it. You just need help…” You stutter out, the words even more pathetic than they had been in your head. He wasn’t some broken little boy who needed fixing—he was a serial killer. A wolf in sheep’s clothing you’ve let devour you whole. 

“You think I haven’t heard that before? I spent fourteen fucking years in a ward getting ‘help’. It didn’t change anything. This is who I am.” He shakes his head, reaching his hand out to caress the side of your face. 

“I-I don’t understand,” You deny, bringing a hand up to grab his wrist. You don’t pull him away, however, you just stand there in confusion holding him, “You were good, you’re…you’re good. You wouldn’t…” This doesn’t even feel real, you are trapped in a haze of fear, disgust, shock, and confusion. All you want to do is disappear or go back in time and live blissfully unaware. You’d give anything to have not woken up or let yourself get curious, you didn’t want to have to face this. 

“Hey, hey, doll, look at me,” Rudy cajoled, hooking his finger under your chin to meet his eyes, “It’s going to be okay, I promise. You just have to stay calm, alright?”

You have trouble focusing on his eyes, your rationality a million miles away, “O-okay? How is it going to be okay?” 

Rudy sighs, leaning his forehead in against yours, “You know I love you, right? More than anything.” 

You just nod dumbly against his head, your fawning response settling over you. He says he loves you and as long as you behave, he’d have no reason to hurt you. You didn’t have to end up on the table all the other girls had. You were important to him, different– better than them. 

“Good, baby, good.” He mutters, planting a kiss against your lips. He’s ice cold to the touch, the time in the freezer showing with the red on his cheeks. It’s something you would have teased him about had you seen it in a better setting. God, it’s hard to think. The sight before you eats away at every positive memory you’ve ever had– your brain feels like utter mush right now. 

Your fingers tremble against his wrist, and it’s not from the cold but rather the unbearable weight of what you’d seen. The man who held you so tenderly, who made you feel safe, was the same man who had been dismembering women and arranging them like frozen sculptures in public like a gallery of horrors. 

“Rudy…” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the freezer. Your grip on his wrist tightens, but you still don’t pull him away.

“I know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple as if this were any other night, as if you weren’t standing in front of proof that the man you loved was a monster. “It’s a lot to process, but you don’t have to be scared.”

The way he says it—it’s almost comforting. Almost.

But you are scared.

Terrified, actually.

Not just of him, but of yourself. Because as much as every bit l in your body is screaming at you to run, another part of you—the sick part of you that has spent nights tangled in his sheets, breathing in his scent, tracing the lines of his body with your fingertips—wants to believe him, wants to believe that somehow, someway, this isn’t as bad as it looks. You want to believe that there’s a version of this story where he’s still the same man he was a few hours ago, where you can wake up tomorrow and pretend you never saw a damn thing.

But the body on the table won’t let you forget.

Your stomach churns as your eyes flicker to it again, the pale, dismembered limbs arranged with precision. You gag, clamping a hand over your mouth, and Rudy’s grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength.

“I need—” Your voice cracks. “I need a second.”

“Of course,” Rudy says smoothly, finally letting you go. Your body stumbles back before you catch yourself against the door.

He watches you, not like a man afraid of losing his lover, but like a predator waiting to see what his prey will do next.

You could run.

You should run.

But where would you go?

Your phone is in the bedroom. Your keys, too. And Rudy—Rudy is faster than you, he'd beat you to the front door, watching you with those green fucking eyes, as if he can hear every frantic thought racing through your mind.

“You’re thinking of leaving.” His voice is calm, but there’s a warning beneath it.

You shake your head without hesitation, even though you both know it’s a lie.

Then, with a rush of adrenaline, you’re sprinting to the door. If you could get to a neighbor's door, you could scream and someone would help you. 

Your hand is on the handle and you are pulling it open, you’re going to make it out.

A surge of pain radiates from your head and your vision goes for a moment, the sound of the metal door slamming filling your ears. His hand is tangled in your hair and he’s pulling you back against his chest, then his bicep is wrapped around your throat. 

“I told you to stay calm, this could have been different. Why didn’t you listen?” 

The sound of his voice is distant as you can feel yourself slipping in and out of consciousness from the lack of blood flow to your brain. 

You want it to stop. 

God, please someone make it stop.

Stop. 

Stop. 

Stop. 

“You should have listened, doll.” 

Stop.

authors note- it was originally supposed to be a drabble and i got carried away. oops. hope you enjoyed! <3

He’s hammering into your cervix, drops of sweat run down his cheeks and his bottom lip is tucked between his teeth.

You knew it was wrong—fucking your older brother’s best friend like this. Jimmy was everything you should’ve avoided: crude, cocky, and utterly perverse. Even Grant had warned you, more than once, to steer clear of him. But now? Here you were, sprawled across Curly’s bed, succumbing to every urge.

Jimmy doesn’t care. His thrusts are relentless, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you with every movement. Beads of sweat trickle down his jaw, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, attempting to cling to control. His ragged breaths and the obscene sound of skin meeting skin fill the room.

“He’d fucking love walkin’ in on this,” Jimmy mutters, burying his face in your neck. He bites down on the junction between your shoulder and throat, hard enough to draw blood. “Seein’ his slut of a sister soakin’ his best friend’s cock on his bed.”

You help at the bite, hands coming to the front of his shoulders to push him back a bit. “That’s hurts, jimmy—“

He laughs at you, leaning back to wrap his hand around your throat tight. “Too fuckin’ bad, you’re gonna take it like the bitch you are.”

Jimmy’s hips shift with the new position, the head of his cock now pressing into your spot with each roll of his hips. The pain almost instantly melts away, your head tilting back with a string of moans each time he thrusts forward.

“There you go, that’s it,” He grunts, his hand around your throat tightening in sync with your cunt tightening around him, “you wanna cum? touch yourself.”

You nod, tears of pleasure trickling down your face as your vision blurs a bit. Your hand slips down to rub quick circles on your clit, back arching up towards him. It’s not long until your trembling beneath him, mouth dropping open in a silent moans.

“Come for me, baby.” Jimmy grunts, his grip tightening. And you do, letting out a loud and desperate moan as she trembles under him. You tighten down so hard on him, your wetness running down the curve of your ass onto Grant’s bed.

The door opens the same moment you feel Jimmy flooding your cunt with thick rope after rope of his hot cum. A look of horror crossed your face when you see your brother standing in the doorway, his gym bag dropping to the floor with a thud.

“Hey, Curly,” Jimmy says nonchalantly, pulling out enough to push his cum back into you with the tip of his cock. you have to stifle back a moan, trying to pull Jimmy closer to cover yourself.

You saw it in the dark, hungry look in his eyes—the promise of exactly where you are now. Your hands are bound tightly behind your back with his tie, your body arched against his as his bicep wraps firmly around your throat. His teeth graze your shoulder before sinking in, sending a shiver through you, while his hand claims your breast with bruising intensity. Each relentless thrust pushes deeper, making it clear he’s lost in his desire, your comfort the furthest thing from his mind. 

“S-Slow down, baby…” You whimper through your breathless sobs, tears running down your flushed cheeks.

“God, are you crying?” Rudy grunts with a chuckle, his hand on your breast moving up to shove his fingers into your mouth, effectively gagging you, “You’re fucking pathetic, sobbing over my cock when you should be grateful for it.” 

The grip on your throat tightens, cutting off just enough air to send a wave of panic and thrill racing through your body. For a fleeting moment, you’re certain this is how it ends, but the fear only heightens the intensity of everything else. The pressure on your airway and the relentless ache between your legs blend into a haze that leaves your vision swimming, every nerve alive with sensation.

Your bound hands twist behind you, desperate for reprieve, nails digging into curves of his abdomen begging for mercy. Rudy groans at the sting, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “Stop fucking struggling, take it, fucking take it.” 

“Rud–Rudy, please, I can’t– I can’t take anymore…” You croak out tightly, your discomfort evident. 

“Does it hurt, doll?” He asks, his hips slowing for a moment as his grip on your throat loosens enough to give you a moment to breathe. He plants kisses over the back of your shoulder, his nose nuzzling against your skin. This moment is one of reassurance; he still loves you, no matter how hard he’s drilling into you– he’s still your Rudy and he’d do anything for you.

You nod, sniffling back your tears and trying to ignore the drool running down your chin. His hand moves to tilt your head to look at him, his eyes scanning yours–studying you. Rudy is checking if you’re okay, if he should actually slow down. When you give him a slight nod with that desperate and needy look in your eyes, he smirks and leans in to plant a kiss to your jaw.