Chapter 38
Thirty-Seven
Adrian
Penelope Karner became my puppet with the final few carvings on her body. I had to remove her tongue because I couldn’t sew her mouth shut. I had to take away her voice for real.
Marionette’s mouths moved, their jaws hinged up and down, chins swinging and swaying. But they didn’t speak; they were spoken for.
I felt nothing as I yanked her tongue out, slicing my blade through, sawing until the organ was free of her body. And nothing struck me, not even a wash of nausea, as I discarded it in the dusty sink.
We were complete. Her transformation done. She was no longer going to die by my hand; she was going to live in hell.
The wounds I carved into her turned purple, the seeping fluid drying up, so I scooped her up and carried her to my bedroom. The room seemed a farce now, a joke, like I thought I might run a half-assed sex dungeon, with my worst nightmare tied to my bed while I tested outlandish toys on her.
What the hell had I been thinking?
Penelope’s body was colder than normal, stiffer, but she never stopped glaring at me. Once she was healed, when I’d reopened the scars and driven black ink into them, I’d string her up on the stage again, but for now, my bed.
I was so damn tired.
Her body was unyielding as I laid her down under the sheets, draping the comforter over her before tying both her hands above her head. Her skin strained where her arms hung, floppy and heavy. None of the fight I was used to, none of the rage that fed every step of what we did.
It was dark, nighttime with no natural light shining through, and the lamps switched off, so she was in shadow, her body all stark contrast.
“My puppet,” I whispered, climbing on top of her. “You can’t hurt anyone anymore. Not even yourself.”
She said nothing. Her eyes blank, the pins doing their job to keep them open and on me.
I slapped her, sudden and harsh, and still nothing. It unsettled me in a way I didn’t want to process.
“I’ve done it, Penelope, little killer, I won,” I told her, ripping my shirt away, pushing against any of those doubts, any niggles that I craved what she gave.
No, this was right. She was a mind-filled puppet, scared and angry behind blank eyes.
When I lay on her, pressing my entire body onto hers, I just wanted… shit, I hated the quiet.
Despised it.
“Penelope,” I groaned, repeated it over and over. I needed to see that life in her eyes, even stiff and broken and turned into my fucking marionette; I needed to see her.
Her.
Killer, disgusting cunt. I slapped her again, grabbed her cheeks and squeezed, but she didn’t give.
I roared her name, desperate. Nothing.
Nothing nothing nothing.
Shoving my hand between us, I ripped my cock free and shoved her legs apart. If she didn’t get the fuck back to life I was going to…
I pushed into her resistant body, quick and desperate, fucking her as she gave me nothing back, cold and unmalleable, eyes blank, mouth slack. Not good enough. No no no.
I grabbed at her flesh, digging my nails into her nipples until I broke skin. I clawed at her face, squeezing her jaw until it creaked and pushing against her broken nose.
She didn’t react, didn’t fight back or snap at me like I fuckin craved. Still, I hammered into her, cock chafing, balls slapping on her clammy skin. My orgasm was pathetic, built to nothing with only a small surge of cum.
Pathetic.
I left it in her and climbed from the bed, shoving my waning cock into my pants as I crossed the room. It hurt to leave her, but she couldn’t escape from the constraints and I just needed a damn minute.
I paced the apartment, glancing over everything. The photos she’d pilfered still lay scattered on the floor by the sofa; the TV was on its screensaver, but I knew if I clicked a button, those home movies would return.
No food, all in her stomach. My stomach. This was the pathetic bubble of the life we’d lived in ugly flashes.
My cell phone sat on the kitchen counter, untouched by both of us. It would tell me so much if I just switched it on. I could reveal so much, spill everything I’d done, let the world know that Penelope Karner was over. That I was.
I stared at the cell, my stomach churning, my head throbbing. My surroundings tunneled, the edges of my vision turning black, closing in as my heart pounded and my veins ached.
My entire body built a deep, aching heat, a pressure like I would burst, spraying viscera over my meager belongings.
No.
I marched back into my bedroom, kicking my pants off and lying down beside Penelope. The outside world wasn’t welcome here.
For what felt like hours, I stayed there, curled up and naked, trying, fucking trying, to see a way onto the next step. But there were none.
Penelope was unmoving, prone, injured beyond repair. Steeling myself, I stood and looked at her again. Her eyes were still open and staring; her body a disaster zone, pale and blotchy, covered in my marks.
Holy shit. I stepped forward and brushed my fingers along the wounds I’d caused. And damn everything, I liked them. Despite it all, I liked seeing them. Wanted to do more.
Sick, twisted. Fucked.
“Penelope,” I told her, scooping her up into my arms, cradling her cool body against my heated one. We walked naked through my theater, my feet soft and bare. I needed to move, to show her something, to keep going.
“Yes?” she responded, peering up at me.
“Do you think we can ever get through this?” I asked. “Do you think I can ever get over what you did to my brother?”
She laughed, that sweet laugh I hated and lusted after in equal measure. At last. A noise, a reaction, gorgeous, disgusting, she was just toying with me. She was so far under my skin it was like a disease, full of festering rot that something like relief struck my heart.
“No,” she replied, reaching up to stroke my cheek, blinking away tears as she stroked under my eye. “But I think we can die trying.”
I carried her across the stage, past the patches of dried blood and discarded tools. Down the stairs and through the aisle until we were back on the balcony.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice high, soft, gentle in a way I hadn’t heard from her.
I sighed. “To the place where it all began.”
With a grunt, I settled us into the dusty old seats, cradling her body to mine, letting her head fall onto my shoulder with a sigh. The rough velvet made my ass cheeks itch, but I ignored it.
“This was always our favorite spot to sit in, my brother and me,” I told Penelope, stroking her smooth skin, enjoying the way she held onto my bare chest, playing with the scatter of hair there, her fingers relaxed and heavy.
“Not too close to the action, far enough away that we could see the mechanics of it, the attention to detail needed to make these puppets come to life.”
“Tell me more about it, please,” she whispered.
So I did.
We sat there.
In that theater.
A knife in my hand, from the toolbox I’d abandoned up there the last time.
I told her everything.
Until there was nothing.
And soon, I was rotting with her.