Chapter 13 #3
With that knowledge, I lean down over him and press my knee to his chest, gripping his hair, exposing his throat.
The familiar rush of lust, of adrenaline, weaves through my body, settling in my cock.
I slice through the skin of his neck, detaching muscles, ligaments, tendons, severing arteries and veins, enjoying the way his body submits to the sharp edge of my blade.
Precum flows like the blood from the wound, and I love the coppery smell.
Steam rises from the gaping gash, curling in soft wisps in the waning forest light.
Standing, I stare down at his body. He’s already gone, but every now and then his body twitches.
I walk back a few feet to the large coil of steel, 3/4-inch chain, with a metal leg cuff.
I attach it to his still intact ankle and drag him back to the tree.
I glance behind me, liking the sight of his corpse, arms above his head, being pulled like the carcass he is.
His slack mouth sluggishly releases a stream of blood into the dark soil beneath his head.
His unseeing eyes stare heavenward, and I laugh in disdain.
“God won’t accept you beyond the pearly gates my friend.”
There is no one to enjoy my humor. The other deceased bodies, worm-eaten and festering, are no longer recognizable as human. The wildlife are too busy hunting for their own meal to care.
Reaching the tree, I attach him using the metal hooks I’ve drilled into each tree on the property.
Once he’s tethered, I look down at him. The chain is unnecessary; he will never walk again, but it’s what they did to my sister, chaining her while they destroyed her body and spirit.
It’s just one more in the long line of perverse rituals I exact on the Mestizos.
When his body is bloated and decomposing, I’ll return to see it.
I’ll stand here and breathe in the putrid smell of his death, but before I can enjoy that moment, I have to remove the parts of his body I will need, starting with his decapitation and ending with excarnating his body.
Soon his skin will be ready for my ink gun.
Killing him is a small victory because for every one I kill, two more pop up in his place. I need El Jefe. I need him to be the one trussed up like a pig for slaughter.
I let him bleed out, my cock hard at the sight of the blood pooling beneath his neck.
It feeds the animal inside me to know that I’ve dispatched another one.
Another piece of shit is gone. I call their names as I watch, saying it over and over, chanting.
Angel. Ivory. Angel. Ivory. Hoping wherever they are, they can hear me.
Once his skin has paled enough, signally that blood no longer travels through his body, I strip him naked, taking every item of clothing.
Then I hack away at his hair, remove his nipples and genitals.
Like what his group did to my niece and sister, as well as countless women before and after them.
Each time I create a mirror image of their murders.
Done with that part of my work, I head to the bag I brought with me, opening it to remove the hacksaw.
Removing his head takes the longest. Next are his hands. I toss both into my bucket, ready for my beetles to consume every spec of flesh and then later the kiln.
I puncture his soft belly and remove his stomach, liver, and entrails that will feed the bears, foxes, and coyotes at the edge of the property.
I flip his carcass over and pull out my knife, working quickly so I can process his skin, slicing through his back and shoulders.
I also remove part of the upper arms, removing the section of skin I need for my trophy.
Then and only then do I pose his body, leaving him to rot, naked and humiliated in death.
The fire crackles, and I watch his clothes burn.
I lift each time using a branch, feeding the cotton fabric into the flames.
A spark bursts when some of the subcutaneous fat I removed from his skin and tossed on the makeshift pyre burns.
I breathe in the delicious stench of wood, chemicals, and cooking meat.
The tip of the branch glows, and I bring the stick to my mouth to light my cheroot.
Once it starts to glow, I toss the branch back into the fire and drag in a lungful of smoke as the flames eat away at the evidence he existed.
His shoes, pants, and shirt will all be ash shortly.
Ash that I will mix with ink. There is hope that inking him into my skin will appease the simmering rage inside me.
Livia just called and told me that most of the victims we rescued survived, but a few didn’t make it, including one young girl.
Nine years old. She died at the hospital from her injuries.
Viciously raped, her body couldn’t recover from internal hemorrhaging.
I want to kill all of them again. Mutilate their bodies over and over.
Exhaustion coats my body. I just finished prepping his skin, scraping it clean, removing muscle and tissue from the top skin layers. I glance over at my drying rack, where large flaps of skin hang, drying in the heat of the fire. In a few days, they will be ready to be canvased in a few weeks.
A scampering sound reaches my ears, and I turn and watch as my dermestid beetles crawl all over his severed head and hands. His mouth and ears are filled with my six-legged friends. Thousands of them cover each orifice, greedily feasting. Their bloodlust rivals mine.
Fragrant smoke clouds the air, and I touch my cock, gritting my teeth at the pain. After each kill, the need to fuck is stronger, but it’s only gotten worse since Camryn.
I can’t stop thinking about her, drawing her face over and over.
I picture her like the last time I saw her, standing in the light of Jace’s open doorway right after Jace beat the shit out of some man who hurt his woman.
Seeing her, in that red dress, covered in my jacket, her long black hair a mess, hanging limply over her shoulder and between her breasts, did something to me.
There were dried tears on her cheek. She watched from that doorway not in disgust, but worry.
She had no idea how hard my cock got wanting to kill Keith and then fuck her while he bled out on the ground.
The impulse was almost too much to control, and I told her to go back inside before she saw my erection, and I pushed her against the side of her brother’s house and lifted that red dress.
I drag in another mouthful of smoke and blow it to the sky, fantasizing about the moment I lift her dress and push my dick inside her.
Fuck her while she wears my jacket, smelling like me.
Fuck her while I held a knife to her throat, giving her just a taste of the damage I could inflict on her.
I would have, could have stifled her cries, capturing them in my mouth while she milked my cock.
Once I was done, I would have sent her back inside to her brother, my cum dripping down her leg, hidden by her gown.
That image quickly dissipates when I remember who she is. It is why I can’t fuck her. She’s not like the women in the sex club. My depravity can’t be visible to her.
Once I was more in control, I headed back inside, avoiding the curiosity, the worry in her eyes.
She can’t worry about me. The less she knows about me the better because I’m the walking dead.
My life has a pattern and I need to remember who I am.
A man who needs to kill to function. A man with fetishes that could kill her. A man who belongs to the darkness.
? The french words for ‘The owl.’
? Alma de Cristo, santifícame
Cuerpo de Cristo, sálvame
Sangre de Cristo, embriágame
Agua del costado de Cristo, lávame
Pasión de Cristo, confórtame
?Oh, buen Jesús!, óyeme
Y dentro de tus llagas, escóndeme
No permitas que me aparte de Ti
Del enemigo, defiéndeme
En la hora de mi muerte, llámame
Y mándame ir a Ti
Para, con tus santos te alabe
Por los siglos de los siglos, amén
Pasión de Cristo, confórtame
?Oh, buen Jesús!, óyeme
Y dentro de tus llagas, escóndeme
No permitas que me aparte de Ti
Del enemigo, defiéndeme
En la hora de mi muerte, llámame
Y mándame ir a Ti
Para, con tus santos te alabe
Por los siglos de los siglos, amén