24. Hoodie Guy
Chapter twenty-four
Hoodie Guy
R age soars through me, so powerful that it has me breathing heavily, and the sound of my blood rushing thumping in my ears. How could she do this to me? Does she not understand what she means to me? Have I not made myself perfectly clear that she belongs to me, and I don’t share? My body trembles, my breath panting out of me, as I hurl the glass I’m holding across the room, and it shatters against the grimy walls of my little, hidden, dilapidated wooden shack, in the woods just outside of Soda Springs.
I warned her with the dead bird, and she didn’t listen. Instead, she ran from me, locked herself in her apartment, and sexted an asshole. One that she doesn’t even fucking realize is here to hunt her, and force her back to the life she ran from. So I sent her another message, this time a little more forcefully, hoping to get across the urgency of my intentions. You would think that stabbing that useless cunt, Dwayne, in the school coffee shop yesterday, while she stood not more than three feet away from him, would have had an impact, and she would behave like the perfect girl I know she can be, but is that what happened? No, instead, my flawless Irish clover decided it would be in her best interest to not only sext with who she thinks is a perfect stranger, but she also had the fucking audacity to schedule a porn shoot with the fucker. My my, little clover, how you have disappointed me. That’s going to cost you, my sweet.
A whimper gets my attention, and I stare down at the hooker at my feet. The one I picked up last night, so that I could vent some of my wrathful frustration on her, instead of losing my precious control and going on a killing rampage, starting with Phoebe Murphy for disappointing me. I grasp onto the grimy, bleached blonde, straw-like hair with my fingers, and force the girl to look up at me, as tears trail down her face from her shit-colored eyes, and make her look like a horrific raccoon as her cheap eye makeup smears. Her red-painted mouth is stretched, and gagged with the filthy rag I forced past her cock sucking lips, when she wouldn’t stop begging and crying. The sounds were just grating on my nerves, and I couldn’t think straight. She’s not as pretty as my Phoebe, but really, what did I expect to find on a street corner after midnight, with the promise of a blow job for under a hundred bucks?
“Stop fucking crying, whore!” I demand as I backhand her hard, and her head smacks into the old decrepit wood burning stove I keep in here for chilly nights. A gash opens on the side of her head, and tantalizing crimson trickles down the side of her bruised and swollen face, as her terrified eyes meet mine. She flinches, and cries out behind the fabric as she lifts her bound hands, attempting to ward me off, and tries to crawl away from me with her bound and broken legs, but I won’t be dissuaded. It’s either her or Phoebe, and I still have hope my clover will come to her senses. I bend down and press my face closer to hers, gently caressing her bruised cheek. “You see, in the dim light last night, you reminde d me a bit of my clover, but now, in the daylight, I see you are an ugly, cheap, and ragged imitation of her. You could never measure up to my Phoebe, and that’s not your fault.”
The stench of stale cigarettes, sweat, old sex, and cheap perfume fills my nostrils, and makes me gag. It reminds me of the past, and of being forced to live under my father’s roof. Of all the whores he brought home, whether my pitiful mother had anything to say about it or not. News flash, she didn’t, she was too busy tending to her broken bones, and attempting to stay alive. Repulsion fills me as I look over the whore’s naked and bound body covered in bruises, cuts, and track marks, who claimed her name was Scarlet. “Tell me, darling, are you an addict, hmmm? Is that why you sell your body? Is it to feed your drug habit? You see, my girl also sells her beautiful body, but not for the same reasons.” I reach back and pull the sharp boning knife off the rusted card table, and bring it to Scarlet’s leg, allowing the sharp blade to skim over her molten flesh. “I’ll bet your skin would look prettier covered in blood. Red really is your color, sweetheart.”
I press the blade deeper, sliding into the flesh of her dainty calf, as she screams and writhes, in a pathetic attempt to get away from me. “Where do you think you’re going, Scarlet? We haven’t even had some fun yet?” I slice again, this time higher and just above her knee, and when the blood begins to pour, I feel hunger aching inside of me, but not for food, for death, for depravity, for the need to soothe the raging darkness that continues to grow within me. I slash the blade forward, slicing her flabby stomach, and leaving more rippling flesh blossoming in perfect crimson. The need to hear her screams, and pretend they were from my pretty clover, forces me to yank on the rag and release her mouth. “Please! Please don’t hurt me! Please, I’ll do whatever you want!” Scarlet begs, but the only thing I truly want she can’t provide me with.
“Tell me your name is Phoebe, and you love me,” I demand, as my fingers tighten once more on the handle of the knife, my other hand circling her slim throat, tightening until her eyes bug out of her head. “My... name is... Phoebe... and I love... you,” Scarlet gasps, snot trailing from her nose to her blotchy red face. The sight disgusts me; my Phoebe would never look like this wretched creature. I’ve witnessed her tears, and even when she cries, she still looks like perfection. “I don’t believe you!” I rage and thrust forward, catching her arm and then her chest with the blade, and opening up more of her flesh. “Try again, Scarlet. Make me believe it. Your very life depends on it,” I growl, my fingers itching to press into her wounds and open up the gashes further, so I can see inside of her.
“I... I love... you! Please! I love you... and I’m Phoebe! I’m Phoebe... I’ll be whoever... you... want me to... be! Please... let me... go!” Scarlet screams, as I press the sharp point of the blade against her cheek just below her eye, and force her, with my hold on her neck, to look into my eyes. No, she’s not doing Phoebe justice, and I can no longer pretend. If she can’t bring my satisfaction that way, I will have to get it another way, by opening her up. “I don’t believe you, you haven’t convinced me.” I stab the blade into her eye, her screams fill the air around us, and finally, my blood soars with pleasure, and I can feel myself becoming aroused. “That’s it, my pretty clover, scream for me!”
I stab the blade again and again into Scarlet’s eyes, face, and neck until she stops making any noise, and her lax body slumps back. Her chest rises once, twice, and then it settles as I watch her lifeblood bleed out of all the pretty holes I’ve made, and taint my grimy floor. She’s a bit of a mess, but also an artistic masterpiece. One I would love to keep displayed, so I could come back to look at it later, but I digress. She already smells, and that’s only going to get worse. I run my fingers through the mess of blood on her skin, painting my initials, and Phoebe’s, on her chest, like one does with a high school crush. I use the sharp blade to lacerate the flesh on her chest, until I can see the muscles and tendons below. The tips of my fingers probe and prod, playing with the fresh meat, before I bring them to my lips and lick them. Bitter. Rotten. Disgusting. Even in death, Scarlet has disappointed me. It makes me so furious that I stab her again and again, all over her body, until I’m so exhausted I can barely lift my hand.
I lay my tired body next to Scarlet, placing my weary head in her lap. “I’ll just take a quick nap, Scarlet. You don’t mind being my pillow, do you, darling?” I get more comfortable and yawn, “When I wake up, I’ll dispose of you, and then I’ll go teach my pretty little clover a lesson, so she doesn’t keep repeating her mistakes. I might even allow her to keep Aiden Doyle’s head as a macabre souvenir, if she behaves like a good girl for me. I’m so generous, aren’t I, Scarlet?” I close my tired eyes and drift off to sleep, with the memory of seeing fear in my sweet Phoebe’s eyes, after she realized that I had stabbed that asshole, Dwayne. That right there is what dreams are made of.