Chapter 4
Chapter Four
As I walk with Priscilla, the lady of the manor, back up the stairs and into the house, I have a plan already devised. I would do something different today; I would convince the woman inside to live. I would convince her to take her children with her and leave this place because they weren’t here for the right reason.
At least not for me.
The child growing inside of her couldn’t make the choice to live or die, and that she was taking away that choice and playing God was a bit disconcerting to me .
Why she thought she was allowed to make such a decision in a place such as this, how she even knew how to find it, made me wonder if Priscilla spent too much time with her slimy lips wrapped around the cocks of too many men to have enough common sense to question it.
It’s not my place to ask.
We enter into the main room on the ground floor. It’s large with high wooden ceilings, low-hanging iron chandeliers, and interestingly enough, a check-in table near the western wall.
I nod quickly at the young, barely legal girl behind the counter. She knows me well by now even though I don’t frequent the establishment as much as I used to. She knows to stay far away from a man like me, yet whenever we make eye contact, she always looks at me with seductive eyes, leans over the counter, her large breasts damn near spilling out of her shirt, and gives me a damn charming smile. Maybe I’d find time for her, but for now I am not interested. Especially since she has her long blonde hair pulled back into pig-tails. It makes her look younger than she really is, and I already have enough on my mind when it comes to children.
“Where?” I ask Priscilla.
“I put them in your usual playroom. I figured this would be something you wouldn’t pass up,” she replies with a chuckle.
I should gut you. I really should rip out your intestines and strew them on the doorway like garland. I should, but I won’t.
I nod and walk away from her. I can’t let the thoughts consume me. Nothing will get me kicked out this place faster than killing the person that keeps it running. The owner of dark secrets, the purveyor of every dark desire one could imagine, the supplier to our drug of choice; Priscilla will have to live, or I will lose my sanctuary.
As I climb the main staircase, I can’t help but sigh. In my heyday, the entire top floor belonged to me, but as my commitment to this place began to falter, as I came only when I needed to, Priscilla began to give away most of the rooms on my floor. However, the room as soon as I clear the landing is mine. I’ve done too much, accomplished too many things, for her to give that room away, and she knew it.
I roll my eyes as I put my hand on the doorknob. I can hear them bickering inside; the mother and the teenage daughter. I can hear the daughter telling the mother that she doesn’t care what she says, she’s not going to die in a place she didn’t want to come to.
And that’s when I pull the door open.
They both stop their back and forth nonsense and turn their eyes to look at me as I enter. I close the door behind me and turn the lock, but I don’t look at them just yet. I find that one of the best feelings in the world is when you gain trust, and to do that I know I have to remove the intentions from my eyes.
Clearing my throat, I walk past them, the mother swollen with her unborn child sitting on the edge of my bed and the teenage daughter standing above her. I keep my eyes low to the black, shag carpet. Priscilla quickly learned that when I needed my doses of pain that blood was usually on the menu, so she replaced the usual white rug with a black one. She said it was more for my protection, so that whoever entered my room wouldn’t know how ungodly my desires could be, but, frankly, I think she was just tired of cleaning up my messes.
Not that I minded, because while Priscilla had that hideous mouth, the rest of her could be pleasant on the eyes. If you like that sort of thing, anyway.
I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me. My ritual is always the same. I turn on the faucet and splash hot water onto my face to get my blood flowing. I always pick the soft, white hand-towel second in the stack, and scrub my face vigorously to wake myself up. No matter how ready I always am, I get hit with a sense of tiredness before I begin.
Maybe it’s because that’s when all sense of humanity in me goes dormant to allow me to act as I truly should, but I can’t be sure. And if I’m to be completely honest, I don’t care. I know how to snap myself out of it, to bring the evil that harbors the thoughts of madness to the surface, and that’s what I need most in these moments.
I place a hand on either side of the skull carved porcelain sink and look into the mirror. My eyes, normally electric blue, are almost completely overcome with their dark center and that’s how I know.
It’s time.
I place the hand-towel on the side of the sink and turn away from my reflection knowing that I’m a different man now. Knowing that I can commit any atrocity that will satiate my desire as I have so many times before.
It’s a powerful feeling and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy it.
As soon as I step back into the room, the girl, with her face twisted in anger and disgust, crosses her arms defiantly over her chest and stares at me. I’m sure the look is meant to make me cower, to second guess my intentions, but it doesn’t work, and I smile in place of the fear she was hoping for. A slow, deliberate smile that lets her know who’s in control in this room.
“Who the hell are you?” she barks at me.
My eyes leave her face and land on the mother, who now has her hand resting on her stomach. She’s looking at me with pleading eyes, and it only makes my smile widen slightly.
“Do you know why you’re in this room?” I ask her softly.
She nods.
I raise an eyebrow. I had expected words because I wanted to know what the sound of her voice sounded like before it was thick with agony.
“And are you sure this is what you want?” I ask, my tone softer than before.
She nods again.
I want to rip her face off; stomp on her neck until her windpipe is crushed for her lack of words, but I control myself.
Self-control is key.
I walk over and sit next to her on the side of the bed. She’s too eager for this; too unaware of what comes when partaking in the pain and perhaps ultimately dancing with death.
I have to convince her otherwise, and when I’m sure she wants to live, I’ll kill them all. It’s much easier that way and much more enjoyable.
“Then let’s begin,” I say, rising to my feet.