Chapter 11 #2
I can feel his skepticism, his reluctance to believe that this is just a bad dream, but also his longing. It's an interesting change from how Cole reacted.
"What are you..." I kiss his neck, taking advantage of his surrender to push him into the bar stool, where Noah immediately seizes his wrists, tying them tightly with a strand of multi-colored lights he yanked off the tree before Brant got home.
He tries to stand, but Noah yanks the cord tight, securing his hands at his sides, before wrapping the strand around his neck.
All the while, Brant struggles to free himself like he stands a chance at escape.
I watch Noah walk around to the other side of the kitchen, whistling the tune to “Jingle Bells” as he stalks toward the microwave, tethering it around the handle before finally turning around to grin at me.
"What the fuck?" Brant snarls, rocking back and forth in an attempt to dislodge himself somehow. "What is this shit?"
"This is fun, don't you think?" I laugh, snatching his gift off the counter and presenting it to him. "Come on, Brant. It's a joke, not a dick."
When he stares at me, I tip my head. "I mean, it is a dick, but you don't have to take it so hard."
He glares at me, his eyes dropping to the penis, and finally, realization seems to slam into him.
Dumb fucker.
His face contorts slowly into a mask of outrage, his jaw hanging open in indignation as if castrating a worthless piece of shit is the most heinous thing he can imagine.
To be fair, he does lack creativity. When he pushed me down in the snow and took what he wanted, he didn't even try to be original.
He just gripped my hips and shoved inside, pumped until he was done, and then cheered on his friend as he did the same.
It was so flavorless, less like he did it because he wanted to have that power over me, and more like he did it because I was there. Because he could.
Men like Brant— and I use the term man loosely— who have everything handed to them, often get used to taking what they want, simply because they can.
Well, I want something, too. I want to see him choke.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? You sick fucking bitch!"
"What's wrong with me?" I chuckle. "Where the hell do we even begin?"
Seriously, where do we begin? Death is freedom from the cage of life and humanity. It unlocks everything when your soul is set free— even things you wish it would have kept locked away. Memories I would have preferred to never revisit, that go back far longer than the time since I've known Brant.
"I'm dead, for starters... and what's awful is that it might be the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Admitting that feels like a betrayal to the people I still love… my mom, the twins, Cici, Alice and Peanut...
But it also feels like acceptance, like letting go of the tiniest bit of rage.
"You're fucking cracked." Brant snarls. "Let me go."
"No." I laugh. "I'm not thanking you, and I'm sure as hell not about to fucking forgive you. But I am going to repay the favor..."
His eyes narrow on me. "You can't fucking kill me. Look around, bitch. This place is covered in cameras."
"Look around, asshole. You fucking killed me. You think I'm worried about getting arrested?" I laugh, catching Noah's eye as he comes around to join me on the other side of the island.
Now that he's in front of him, Brant recognizes him, and his eyes grow wider. "You? You're—"
"Dead." Noah agrees. "Are you noticing the theme?"
"You will be, too." I assure him. "But first, it's time for your last meal."
"Last meal?" Brant growls.
"Open up." I demand, tapping the underside of his jaw to indicate exactly what I want from him.
He only glares at me as he clenches his jaw tighter, the muscle bulging on one side as he tries to bar me entry. As if I'm going to let that stop me.
"You're being so immature." I tell him, stalking around to the front side of the cabinets and opening a drawer, searching the contents for a second before slamming it shut and opening another.
It's the third drawer that houses the knives, and I select one, slipping the cover off to check the point on it.
"You gonna kill me with a paring knife?" Brant taunts, laughing now.
"No. I'm gonna kill you with this one." I lift the chef's knife out of the drawer and admire the glint of the Christmas lights that I'm using as his bondage as it's reflected back at me.
He sobers as I walk back to him with both knives in hand.
I set the larger of the two behind me, just out of reach in case he were to somehow slip out of his restraints.
He watches, wary, as I lift Cole's severed cock and spear it with the paring knife.
He cringes at the faint squelch, shaking his head in horror.
He's usually pretty dense, but I get the sense he knows where I'm going with this.
"Open for the airplane?" I tease, jabbing him against the lips with his best friend's cock.
He doesn't dare open his mouth; I didn't expect him to make it easy on me. I mean, he had to drug me to make it easy on him, otherwise I would have fought harder, too.
"Think of it like a popsicle." I say. "You were so worried I was going to turn into one."
Noah wraps the lights in his fist, tightening the cord and effectively turning it into a leash that he uses to drag Brant's head back. Still, he has his jaw wired, refusing to allow me entry.
"You don't want your last meal to be your best friend's dick?" Noah muses.
"I'll let you choose." I say, stepping back after a minute of rubbing the impaled organ against his mouth. Brant takes advantage of my distance, ducking his head to cough and gag, spitting to try and rid himself of the feeling. "Your last meal can be my pie, or Cole."
Brant glares at me through watery eyes from the force of his gagging. "Go to hell, cunt."
"Pie or dick?" I ask, scooping a handful of it into my palm and holding it before him.
"Neither. I'm going to fucking—"
I seize my opportunity, stepping up to him and shoving a handful of the pie into his mouth even as he begins trying to push it back out with his tongue.
"So uncooperative." I huff, pinching his nose shut with the fingers of my stabbing hand, the knife precariously close to gouging his eye out. I think it's that, more than anything, that stills him.
Noah queues up the music— Brant's favorite— and I count the seconds, waiting for him to choose his ability to breathe over his pride.
It takes thirteen seconds of him panicking and straining before he chooses life, swallowing what was in his mouth and grimacing, choking and gagging some more.
"Fucking bitch!" He spits. "What is that? Did you drug me?"
"Drugging is really more your speed." I tell him coolly. "It's just a mincemeat pie."
"Mincemeat? What the fuck is that?"
"Traditionally?" I shrug. "Fruits and spices, sometimes beef. In your case... fruits and spices, and Cole."
It takes a moment before he understands exactly what I'm saying.
"Cole?"
"Parts of him." I nod. "He was so scrawny there wasn't much, but I think you ate his ass, mostly."
Brant turns scarlet, outrage bleeding out of him. "You better be fucking joking."
"Nope. Entirely serious." I smirk. "Just wanted you to get a taste of what it's like before you die."
He doesn't dare ask me what I'm referring to. We both know; a taste of humiliation. A taste of misery. A taste of absolute fucking helplessness.
"Now, if you want to finish your last meal, I'll give you that grace. If not... well, you have a date with destiny."
"Fuck you!"
"You're so original." I deadpan, tired of his droll attempts to antagonize me. "Noah?"
Noah nods and with a few deft movements, he undoes the ties on the Christmas lights, tipping the barstool so that Brant topples onto the tile floor in a heap.
He doesn't even get his feet beneath him before Noah's lassoed him again and dragging him to the living room as Brant tries in vain to shake him loose.
They stop before the fireplace, where large flames crackle and dance.
"You had your last meal." I say, walking around the back of them as Noah slips an arm around his neck, forcing Brant to his knees with his face mere inches away from the fire. I see it reflected in his eyes, the absolute utter terror of such a violent, painful death. "Any last words?"
Brant says nothing, trying to wriggle out from Noah's grasp or the Christmas lights. "Fuck!"
Noah pushes him further toward the fire, but with his knees bent beneath him, he can't get any leverage other than to tilt his upper body away from the flame.
I lift the fire poker and hold it in the flames for a minute, wishing I could feel the heat coming off of the fire. I know it's hot; I can see the iron glowing red the longer I hold it.
When I turn to Brant with the poker in hand, his eyes are as wide as saucers.
"Fuck, no! I'm sorry! Okay? I'm sorry! Is that what you want?"
Is that what I want? Like an apology would suffice after everything he did.
It's amusing, if nothing else, that he held onto his apology that long if he genuinely thought it would get him out of facing my wrath.
It won't.
"I'm sorry, too." I tell him, slamming the poker down between his spread knees and finding my mark easily.
Brant howls in agony as the iron sears through his pants and blood pours out from the puncture. His face goes white as snow, the blood rushing to escape him like even his own body is sick of his shit.
I drop down to his level so that he can see me. "How's it feel?"
He doesn't try to answer me, but he doesn't need to. I know it hurts. But not as bad as what I'm going to do next.
"I know, even if you don't tell me. It hurts like hell, doesn't it? You smell that? Your flesh burning?" I laugh. "It's awful, huh? You're scared, too, I bet, because you know how this is going to end. There's only one way..."
He shakes his head, but the movement is slow and stiff, halted by the shock he's in.
"Think warm thoughts." I suggest, shoving him forward into the waiting fire.
His screams are swallowed by the sound of his screaming music, which is playing on speakers set up all around the house, echoing in every corner of the vast space.
"Brant's nuts roasting on an open fire..." I muse, holding him still all through his struggle... all the way until it stops.