Chapter 3 #4
“Let me hear you say it, Reverie.” The demand is rougher this time, less patient.
A whimper escapes her throat, an internal battle rendering her silent for another few moments.
“As a reward, I may keep your face out of it,” I say. “But I need to hear you’ll be a good girl for me.”
A harsh breath exhales from her nose, and her tone is clipped but breathless as she bites out, “Fine. I’ll be a good girl, Dread.”
I hum again, forcing myself to ignore how erotic it is to hear those words on her tongue. Not because she’s acquiescing, but because I’ve heard a hundred women utter similar words, and they’ve never sounded so goddamn alluring.
“That’s it,” I murmur in approval. “Now, roll onto your back, put your hands above your head, and keep them there.”
I drop my arm from her throat and lay it flat, allowing her the room to do as I say.
After a moment of hesitation, she tightens her lips into a firm line and turns onto her back, my forearm fitting into the curve of her nape.
My abdomen contracts from the thrill of watching her lift her hands above her head, threading her fingers together and clutching tightly.
Biting back a grin, I switch the phone into my left hand right beside her face, freeing the other.
Picking up the Sharpie next to her side, I remove the cap with my teeth and spit it onto the bed.
Residual shivers cling to her bones, her limbs twitching every so often while she aims her focus toward the screen, carefully watching my every move.
Even through the camera, a blueish tint still lingers in her skin, though it’s not quite as prominent as before.
I keep my promise, ensuring the camera stays below her throat, showing her tits, stomach, and the bare V between her legs.
Truthfully, I don’t need to show her face. If I were to share this video with anyone and say it’s her, they would take my word for it without question.
“You going to write insults all over me?” she snips, settling a fiery glare on me. “I can only imagine how fucking creative they’ll be.”
“I only want to write the truth,” I whisper.
She frowns, but I’m already searching for the perfect spot to start. Trading between watching the screen and watching my hand, I press the tip of the Sharpie right beneath her breast and ink the first truth onto her skin.
03/18/11.
She inhales sharply when I’m finished, recognizing the date immediately.
“The day Lionel took my mother,” I say, “and the last day I saw her alive before he scattered her remains in a fucking junkyard like trash.”
A high-pitched sound of distress emits from her throat, but I hardly hear it beneath the darkness sinking into the divots of my brain. Before those memories can resurface, I move on to the next truth, carefully writing it over her sternum, an inch lower than the first date.
02/26/09.
“Stop it,” she hisses.
“Do you remember her name?” I ask. She doesn’t answer.
“Your father wasn’t charged with her murder, of course, but we both know he did it.
Her name is Macy Brown, and she went missing on this date.
The police discovered her body months later, strewn across a middle school’s soccer field, her head placed on the center mark like it was a fucking ball. ”
She whines again, and her stomach quivers, but I hardly notice as I move a little farther down her stomach, over the left side of her ribs.
06/29/09.
“What about her name?”
“Dread, s-stop,” she begs, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Wrong,” I say. “It’s Jolene Roberts. They didn’t find the first of her remains until a year after she went missing on this date.
He scattered them across three lakes, and it took law enforcement a couple of years before they pieced all of them together.
Most of them were found by families out on their boats during the summer. ”
I move the tip to the right of her belly button.
07/02/10.
Then, directly below it, I write: 08/08/10.
As I finish, she goes to drop her arms, likely to stop me.
“Don’t,” I bark, my glare snapping up to her.
She pauses, her face twisted in agony.
But why? Because I’m accusing her daddy of atrocious crimes? Or because, deep down, she knows he’s guilty and doesn’t want to face it?
“P-please,” she whispers, visibly fighting back her pathetic tears.
The sight of them only deepens the darkness clouding my vision, growing denser and harder to see through.
“You said you’d be a good girl,” I remind her, my voice devoid of emotion.
Her lips part, but I return my attention to the camera before she responds.
“Savannah Little. The youngest of those discovered.” I flick a glance at her.
“But not the youngest of his suspected victims. Your father raped and murdered her when she was only seventeen. Her remains were discovered in an abandoned factory only a week after she went missing. A homeless man found them—Robert Fawks. It fucked him up so badly, darling.” My voice cracks, and it takes several seconds before I regain control over my tumultuous emotions.
“On the second date, authorities discovered his body hanging above the exact spot he found Savannah’s. ”
Her head shakes, as if to physically thrash my voice out of her head, but it’s no use. I move the marker below her belly button, sparing the camera a glance to ensure I’m still within view before writing the next truth.
10/21/10.
“Sandra Carmichael. Two nine-year-old boys found her head in a park, right at the top of the slide.” Her stomach shudders violently, a sob ripping past her throat.
I turn my eyes back up to her, seeing her face yet not processing any of her features.
“Their mothers reached out to me after the trial, and I still call them every so often to check in. Both kids were extremely traumatized, as you can imagine.” I cock my head. “Can you imagine?”
I don't wait for her to answer and write the next date below it.
11/13/16.
“One of the boys, Lewis, killed himself on the day he and Jacob found Sandra, six years later. Jacob, on the other hand, is a drug addict, living on the streets. I paid for a few rounds of rehab to help him, but he keeps leaving. He’s got hepatitis C and is refusing treatment for that, too.
He told his mom he prefers to die on the streets with heroin in his veins than live a sober life remembering Sandra Carmichael’s head on the top of the slide. ”
“Stop,” she squeaks desperately.
“Just one more,” I whisper as I write another date over her left hip.
There are so many more I could stain into her skin, but I feel her reckless energy mounting, and I’m on limited time before she snaps.
06/17/08.
“Margaret Lever,” I say quietly. “The public hasn’t treated her well.
On this fateful day, she sent her little boy away to his grandmother’s so she could invite over a mystery man for dinner.
She wouldn’t tell anyone who it was, of course, only that he was married and needed to keep his identity a secret until he was ready to leave his wife.
Regardless, the media painted her as a homewrecker, a whore, and a terrible mother.
A couple of days later, a woman found her remains in a garbage bag outside of a domestic violence shelter.
No one knows why that location, but it led to many assuming her ex-husband was abusive toward her.
That speculation has been a dark cloud hanging over his head, and I hear he’s a recluse because of it. ”
“Enough,” she spits, her voice wobbling. “I’ll scream, and I don’t fucking care if you kill me, Dread. You’re done.”
While I’m tempted to test that threat, Reverie has proven time and time again that she has a spine of steel, even if it’s not always in her best interest.
However, what truly stops me is the dark place my head is quickly spiraling to. It's been a long time since I've lost myself in that abyss, and I'd rather not pay it a visit tonight.
My thoughts are quiet as I grab the cap and slide it back on the marker before tossing it to the floor. Then, I move the phone back to my right hand so I can pan the camera over her stained body, though I keep her face out of it, just like I promised.
When I’m finished, I end the recording before switching the screen back to portrait mode. I aim the camera so it captures the two of us clearly while I lean on my elbow and crowd over her.
“Look at me,” I order, focusing on her face.
“N—”
“Now, Reverie.”
Snarling, she turns toward me just as a tear slips down her cheek. I dart forward, catching it on the tip of my tongue, and instinctively snap a photo of us.
“Dread,” she hisses, jerking away before turning and pressing her forehead into my bicep as hard as she can, as if she’s merely an apparition capable of sinking through a solid form. “Delete that now. You said you’d keep my face out.”
“I said I’d keep it out of the video,” I retort casually.
I open the photo, drawing both of our focus.
My blood heats as I take in the side view of her face tilted up toward mine, mouth parted, eyes leveled on me.
My tongue glides along her cheek, several strands of my hair concealing part of my face.
Her arms are still hiked above her head, and her tits are perfectly visible, though the date written beneath them is just out of view.
The picture belongs on a goddamn porn site, and even though the ghosts of her father’s sins bury any rational thought or emotion, I can appreciate how fucking sexy it is.
But the thought curdles in my stomach like spoiled milk, and I return my stare to the black ink written on various parts of her flesh.
She’s shown unwavering support for the man who committed those crimes, for the man who has ruined so many lives beyond the women he sliced into pieces. He not only has their blood on his hands, but that of innocent people unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
My upper lip curls in derision, though I can’t decide who I’m more disgusted with—her, or myself for finding her alluring for even a fucking second.
She’s a terrible human being. Fuck, she’s not even human, and she shares the blood of two goddamn monsters. Her mother’s just as guilty.
The entire family deserves a fate worse than death.
I exit out of the photo and turn off the screen, plunging us back into a darkness where my outside world reflects my insides. I toss the phone on my nightstand, grab the blankets at our feet, and lie back down, covering the two of us beneath them.
Tucking her arms against her body, she rolls on her side, her back to me once more. She keeps silent, likely sensing I’m walking a fine line, split between the side of me with a slice of humanity and the side who’d love nothing more than to make her swallow her fucking teeth.
Bitterness coats my tongue, and resentment churns in my chest, replacing the heart her father broke almost fourteen years ago.
It keeps me awake, even as Reverie’s breaths even out after a few minutes.
The storm inside my head muddles anything coherent, so when an idea flits across my mind, I don’t stop to consider what I’m doing.
I roll to my side and press my chest against her back as I reach for my phone again.
Then I take one more picture of us that’s sure to piss her off.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with it yet or if I’ll ever even use it, but I like having it just in case.
For the second time, I set my phone back on the nightstand and settle in.
Despite the anger simmering in my blood, it doesn’t take long for me to drift off, floating somewhere between awareness and unconsciousness.
At some point, I’m vaguely aware of her body warming against mine and her shivering ceasing completely.
As if my consciousness was holding on until that moment, I pass out afterward.
I don’t remember a single thing past her languid form melting into mine.