Bones (La Douleur Folle #1)

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

I seem to have a bit of a smoking problem today.

I have my third cigarette hanging from my mouth as I meticulously attempt to sew Verona’s mother back to her former state. I don’t want there to be a scar, though I know that’s a lost cause. If I had cut her correctly when I took the boy out, then there would have been less of a chance, but I lost myself in that moment.

It was of no consequence, I just needed to finish the job. I’m halfway done now, but the damn baby’s foot keeps falling back out of the wound prohibiting me from continuing. I don’t want to have to sever the leg, but I will if I must.

I give him one last hope to stay whole as I lean down and push him back in, further up into her, causing a rigid bump to form on top of her stomach.

Not my best work, but it will half to do.

I let out a sigh as ash falls from the end of the cigarette onto her stomach. I’m not upset by any means, just relieved that it’s over now. He gets to keep his leg, and I’m proud of myself for not following through on that thought.

I sit down on the bed, rub the back of my hand against my forehead, and take the cigarette from my mouth. The oddly shaped mound sitting next to me is watching me. I can see it from the corner of my eye; taunting me, telling me that I haven’t done a good job. Telling me to rip him out and start again .

I won’t do it.

I won’t listen.

I won’t let the boy mock me from inside of her.

With a quick, strong shove, I push her body onto the floor on the other side of the bed where I can’t see them anymore. Where he can’t see me or watch me or provoke me to start over.

I should probably try for that pain now.

“Verona, have you ever been to the circus? Or a carnival?” I ask, glancing up at her.

Her eyes are still closed, her chin is still resting against her chest, and for a moment I fear that I’m speaking to myself, when she coughs quietly.

“Have you?” I ask again.

Her head moves slowly from right to left.

“I used to love going to them when I was a child,” I say to her fondly. Inhale deeply. Hold the smoke. Let it out. “My favorite performers were the ones that dealt with fire. I don’t know why, but I’ve always found fire to be intoxicating. Before you ask, I’m not a pyromaniac, I just happen to enjoy the colors and the heat.”

Her eyes slowly open as she looks up at me, but I don’t meet her eyes. I can’t; not after what I’ve done to her family.

“One night I went to a carnival alone. I was about your age, fourteen or fifteen. Anyway,” I stop to flick the ashes off the end of the cigarette before I proceed, “there was a performer there that lit his body on fire as part of his act. I was so entranced that I came back every night that they were in town and watched him, trying to figure out what his secret was. I could never quite place what he was doing to be able to walk in the flames, so I stayed the last night they were in town and I asked him. It was my last chance to know his secret.”

I steal a glance at her. I want to know if she’s responding to my story, and from what I can tell she is. It would be a much more pleasant conversation if I could remove the waste-filled sac from her mouth, but her form of participation is screaming, and I finally got the headaches to secede.

“It took some convincing until I finally got him to reveal his secret. He had a coat of fire-retardant gel on his skin. A thin enough layer that the crowd wouldn’t notice, yet thick enough to keep him from being burned to death. How his organs survived the smoke inhalation is another matter, yet the thought never came across as thought in my mind until I became an adult. But this is only the second time I’ve ever wondered it, so as you can imagine, that part was never really important to me.”

I stand up and walk to the desk, snuffing the cigarette out in the ashtray. I’ve forgotten that it’s there because I’m not a smoker; I don’t need an ashtray. Just inside the armoire is what I need; it’ll show her that I’ve learned the trick and allow me the modicum of pain that would be sufficient enough when coupled with the carnage.

I walk over to her, careful not to meet her eyes, but her body starts to shake. I don’t understand why she’s so afraid of me. This didn’t have to go this far had she not been such a defiant child. Had she obeyed her mother and cared about her family, they never would have found their way to La Douleur Folle.

This is strictly her fault. Not mine. I want that to be understood. I could find much better things to do with my time than to slaughter a small family.

Which reminds me.

“I’m not exactly sure what he used, because he wouldn’t tell me more than what the trick actually was,” I say as I pull a cylindrical tube out of the armoire, “but I’m pretty certain it’s something close to this.”

I hold it up for her to see, but she doesn’t turn her head. I know this because the cord hasn’t swayed in the slightest.

I sigh.

“I’m going to do something special just for you, and I’d like you to watch me please,” I say to her in a soft, but stern tone. “Can you do that Verona?”

“Mph.”

I accept that as a yes and reach for the small butane lighter that sat next to the tube. A shiver quickly shoots through my body as I try to mentally prepare myself; to make sure that I don’t forget to put the gel on first.

I crack my neck to the right, and a small pop meets my ears. I’m ready now. I go back to the desk and place my items down before I begin.

I pull my shirt off and the cord swings gently. I can see it as I raise my eyes quickly toward her. I know that she’ll appreciate my body and more than likely, what I have planned to show her.

I continue to undress, unbuckling my belt, undoing the zipper in my jeans, pushing them off, and stepping out of them.

The cord swings again, and I swear to God I’m almost sure I can smell her now. She’s aroused at the sight of me in my almost nakedness, but I push that thought away. I won’t fuck a child; and even if I ever found it in myself to do it, it certainly wouldn’t be this one.

“Are you watching?” I ask quietly, placing my thumbs on the inside of the waistband in my boxers.

“Mph.”

I pull them off and step out of them. I use my foot to kick my clothes away then reach for the tube of gel. I wonder if it’s cold, warm, what it will feel like, or if it will protect me. So I decide that instead of my entire body, I’ll just light a part of me on fire. It should be a grand spectacle, and if it goes wrong, I have other ways of fucking. It wouldn’t make me any less of a man.

I’m becoming hard now. I can feel the blood causing me to rise in my own hand, the more I rub the gel on my shaft and over the head, making sure that everything is properly covered.

It’s an embarrassment. That my own hands can cause me to become aroused doesn’t say much about me, but I chalk it up to the nerve endings and decide to ignore it.

“I’m ready. Are you?” I ask, finally looking up and meeting her eyes. She’s watching me; her eyes wide, curious, and full of sinful intent. But as I reach for the torch, I know that in a matter of mere moments she’ll think much differently of me.

Except I can’t get the smell of her out of my nose; it’s inhabiting my senses, playing with my demons, trying to make me do things I refuse to do.

I know how to stop this.

I turn the torch on.

I lower it to my hard cock, and I run the burning flame up and down, over, and over, closer, and closer, until I grit my teeth. Until I feel the pain I was craving so deeply.

Until I can pull the torch away and stand there looking down, completely mesmerized as the fire burns down below, hoping against hope that I’ll be able to snap out of this trance before it’s too late.