by Jacob Rayne
She decided to take a bath, wash all the filth off her. She ran the water as hot as it would go and stripped.
While the tub filled, she stared at her bruised, pale skin in the mirror.
The bruises don’t tell the full story, she thought. The real damage is in my head. Those are the scars that will last the longest.
She went downstairs to get the full vodka bottle.
Steam curled out to greet her as she stepped through the door.
Despite her alcohol-numbed skin, the bath water drew a gasp from her as it scalded her foot. She ignored the sensation and put her other foot in too. It felt like a thousand blazing needles were being jabbed into her feet and ankles.
She took another slug of vodka while she waited to get used to the burning temperature of the water. Her unsteady legs wobbled beneath her, making her sway like a trainee tight rope walker.
Lowering herself carefully, she again gasped as the scalding water consumed her pale frame.
She breathed in, savouring the pain that brought her back to her senses. Every detail of the incidents in the basement was scarred into her mind.
Suddenly, she doubled up as if she’d been punched in the belly. Burning bile shot up her throat and out of her mouth, floating on top of the water in a stinking yellow cloud.
Tears flooded her vision. She took another deep swig of the vodka, put the bottle on the side of the bath and started scrubbing her skin with the loofah. No matter how much she scrubbed she knew she’d never feel clean. She’d always feel used, dirty.
Her skin was red now, burnt from the extreme heat of the water. But the water could never be hot enough to cleanse her. She had that insight now.
Luke, the man she knew was the love of her life, would no longer want her, not after this. She was impure, filthy. He’d not want anything to do with her. She’d seen the carefully-concealed disgust on his face as he’d scrutinised her. No, he wanted no part in it. She could tell.
The thought of living seemed pointless. There was nothing to live for now. The clown’s repeated assaults had taken away her soul, left her an empty shell, with no chance of ever being filled. She knew that now.
There was no way things would ever improve.
No way she could live her life.
No way the man she wanted could ever feel the same way.
And there was no way she could go on living.
She knew that now too.
Chapter 87
After finishing with Kelly, Alfred throttled her and dumped her body in the boot of the car with Dean.
Then he drove to the edge of the council estate and, leaving the keys in the ignition, abandoned the car there, knowing that some chav would have it stolen within minutes.
He walked home and went straight to bed, his hands shaking with the rush of what he’d just done. Though he’d calmed down a little, he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
Luke had been walking back towards home when the car went past him. He shrank back into the trees by the side of the road as he recognised the pale, flabby face of the clown at the wheel.
The clown didn’t seem to see him, but still he waited until the car pulled into the layby on the far edge of the council estate.
The clown got out, leaving the engine running, and walked right past Luke, close enough for him to smell the fresh blood on his clothes. The sight of the clown so close to him chilled his blood, but also made him furious.
He almost ran at the clown and started swinging his arms like a threshing machine but he remembered the knife that the clown held and knew he’d be better off biding his time.
When the clown had passed, he approached the car, eyeing it like it was a hostile animal. The car was still turning over. There was no one inside, but there were a few bloody smears on the back seat.
Without hesitating, he climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away.
Chapter 88
Bryony’s eyes rolled back in her head as she finished the last of the vodka. Her arms felt limp, like they were made of rope rather than bone.
The drunkenness served only to deepen her depression. She knew she had nothing to live for and was preparing herself for the end.
She ran the bath even hotter. Now she was so drunk that she couldn’t feel the millions of needles pricking at her skin. She hurled the vodka bottle at the tiles, raising an arm in weak defence as the shards of glass flew at her face.
She picked up the neck of the bottle. The jagged edge of the glass looked perfect for what she had in mind.
Tears streamed down her face as her shaking hand moved the glass to her wrist.
Just do it, don’t hesitate, she implored herself. No going back.
She drew the glass across her wrist. A few drops of blood bubbled out of the wound.
Don’t be a pussy, do it lengthways. Going across means you want to be saved. It’s too late for that.
Do it lengthways.
Do it do it do it.
She pressed the glass to the crook of her elbow and dug it deep. The pain made her gasp, despite her drunken state.
She pressed harder. Blood ran out around the tip of the glass which was now embedded a few inches into her forearm.
Do it!
Do it! Now!
She pressed harder still and drew the glass down her forearm. Her hand went numb as the wound opened to reveal bone and glistening, ropelike tendons.
Blood jetted out, spraying the tiles in front of her.
This is it. No more sadness. No more pain. No more shame. No more.
The bloodied piece of glass slid from her grasp and disappeared beneath the crimson water.
She slumped back, no longer feeling capable of sitting up. Her eyelids felt like they had ton weights attached to them.
She felt herself weaken, felt darkness creeping into her as the blood left. Her eyes rolled back into her head.
Dimly visible was the note she’d left on the toilet lid for Luke. A tear rolled down her cheek, then she sunk into the merciful darkness.
Chapter 89
Luke pulled the car into a deserted stretch of road at the edge of town. He climbed out and opened the boot.
Two pairs of glassy, dead eyes stared up at him. Unable to help himself, he stared at them, ran his hands over the dead girl’s body, savouring the clammy, waxy feel of her dead flesh. It awoke feelings in him that had laid dormant for too long.
He enjoyed the sight of the two bodies for a time then parked the car behind the graveyard where his father and sister had been buried. He knew that the bodies were the clown’s victims and figured he may be able to use them to get back at him.
He walked back into town, stopping to pick up a box of cigarettes at the all night garage.
As he queued up behind an old man who seemed to be paying his bill with pennies, he turned and scanned the magazine racks. His gaze was drawn to a familiar face that stared out from the front cover of one of the lads’ magazines.
It took him a few moments to place the girl, but then he saw that it was Kate, the bitch who had set him up to get attacked by the Marshton Eight.
An idea hit him like a thunderbolt and he bought the magazine. He flicked through it, eager to find the section featuring his nemesis. She was a glamour model now, according to the blurb on the article. The photos of her brought back the memories of how she’d led him on.
He was going to make her suffer too.
And he knew exactly how to do it.
Chapter 90
When, an hour later, sleep still eluded Alfred, he went downstairs. A small white envelope lay on the floor behind the front door.
At first he took it to be a scam and was about to tear it into pieces, but curiosity made him open it.
He was pleased when he did, as a glossy photo of one of the hottest girls he’d ever seen greeted his eyes. She was blonde and slim, with tits that most porn stars would kill for. The glint in her eye made him hard just looking at it.
Beneath the picture was a mes
sage reading, ‘I’m a huge fan of your work. Meet me tomorrow night, eight o’ clock, outside the Black Cat x.’
He had an urgent need to ejaculate – which was so strong it stopped him worrying about how someone knew his secret – and he was regretful that he’d finished with the mouthy slag from the pub so soon or he could have taken his frustrations out on her.
Still, he had the girl in the basement to satisfy his desires, but decided he couldn’t be arsed to struggle with her tonight.
He took care of the problem using his imagination to dictate what would happen when he got his hands on the pretty blonde girl.
As he drifted off to sleep he couldn’t get her pouting lips and come to bed eyes out of his head.
Luke smiled as he made his way home. The picture of Kate had surely done the job. The clown’s lust would be his undoing.
Luke was going to put him through hell and then put him in a shallow grave.
Chapter 91
As the front door swung open, Luke was instantly aware that something was wrong. He had no idea what it was, but he had a cold squirming feeling in his bowels.
He called out to Bryony, then stopped himself. It was after two. Chances were she was asleep and he had no intention of waking her. It was better for her to sleep as much as possible. That way she wouldn’t be thinking of her ordeal at the hands of the loathsome clown.
He moved into the hallway, noting the bathroom light was still on. Still he couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong. So she’s forgot to switch the light off, he thought. It’s understandable she’d forget that after what she’s been through.
He moved up the stairs. The bathroom light blazed a hole in the darkness.
There was a dripping sound coming from the bathroom. Nothing to be scared of, he thought. A dripping tap that’s all.
When he saw the large pool of bloody water on the bathroom floor he instantly knew what had happened.
Screaming, he ran into the bathroom, skidding on the water and nearly pitching headfirst into the bath.
Bryony was laid back in the blood-filled tub. Some of the thick gore had spilled over the side, forming the pool that lay on the tiles.
Her left arm was laid open from elbow to wrist, showing off gleaming bone and shredded arteries. The immense wound was clotted with blood.
Her eyes stared up at him as if accusing him of abandoning her when she needed him most. The image of her blurred as his sorrow streamed down his face.
He dived forwards, his arms encircling her. The coldness of her body startled him. Usually he loved the feel of dead flesh, but this was different. He hated the cold feel of her skin, knowing that it was his lover, his best friend, who was the owner of the bulging, glassy eyes that seemed to bore into him.
He cried, his tears falling into the bathwater to mingle with his lover’s blood.
When he’d finished, he cradled her carefully and lifted her out of the water. Blood red water dripped off her still form, leaving a trail behind them as he carried her to her bed.
He laid her down, closed her staring eyes and looked down at her body.
He was still staring at her when she sat up and let out an ear-piercing scream. Luke jolted, certain that she had been dead already.
Her voice was weak when she spoke. ‘It hurts so bad, Luke.’ Tears rolled out of her glassy eyes.
Luke joined her in her sorrow.
‘I can’t bear this, Luke. I don’t want to live.’
He stared her in the eye. ‘Is this really what you want?’
She nodded, a further stream of tears pouring from her eyes.
His eyes streaming, he picked up the pillow and pushed it over her face. He expected some sort of a struggle, weak though it would be, but she welcomed the cessation of her oxygen supply. She thrashed a little but made no conscious effort to save herself.
‘No one will ever hurt you again,’ Luke whispered. He held her convulsing form, his body racked with sobs. He kissed her, held her, stroked her hair. Whispered to her.
Chapter 92
When he came out of his daze, he brought a kitchen knife upstairs and cut the skin at the back of her neck. Blood slowly dripped out from her dead flesh. He put his hands on the nape of her neck. The drops of blood that fell onto his palms were still a little warm and felt sticky.
He held his hands in front of his face, then licked the blood from his fingers. The taste was like no other. He put his hands on the back of her neck again, until they were covered in blood, then pressed them into his face, feeling, seeing, smelling her on him. He felt so good, so warm, so alive. He had never loved her more than now.
He reached behind her head again, feeling her blood on his hands. The colour was so bright, so beautiful. He sucked all the blood from his fingers for a second time. The taste was even stronger.
Every one of Luke’s senses was heightened. He could even hear her blood dripping onto the bed.
He was euphoric. This was the best he ever felt.
He kissed her cold, dead lips as he rubbed his hands into her blood again.
He stripped himself and held her, like he had longed to for such a long time. She felt even better than he had imagined.
He enjoyed her still-warm embrace, while stroking her hair, kissing her face and telling her that he loved her.
After a time, he realised what he had done. Letting go of Bryony as if she was red hot, he let out a stunned cry and scrambled off the bed.
Covered in her blood, he rocked backwards and forwards, staring at the pool of crimson on the bed. He had never seen so much blood.
He muttered to himself, trying to justify what he had done.
Realising he had zoned out, he picked up his knife again and sat next to Bryony, staring at her, stroking her beautiful soft face. He kissed her again.
Placing the knife against the back of her neck, he applied a great deal of pressure and dragged the blade up into her hairline. The knife continued its path down her back, further opening the wound on the nape of her neck. The cut was extremely deep. But that was good.
He made a deep slash around her neck, going around her shoulders, and began to peel the skin back.
After a lot of care and effort, he managed to loosen the skin. He cut carefully around her eyes, unable to bring himself to damage something so beautiful.
Eventually, he pulled the skin from her head and neck. It was so beautiful. He held it in front of his face, kissing the soft, perfect skin and laughing to himself.
Chapter 93
Luke wanted to see what it was like to be beautiful, so he tried to put Bryony’s skin over his head as a mask.
He knew that once the news broke that he had not been killed in the asylum riot, people would be looking for him. This would hide his identity for long enough to take out his enemies. He laughed at the thought of the terror his new face would inspire in his victims.
It went on easily, like it was made to fit him. The still-warm blood and the feel of her dead skin pressing onto his face felt divine.
It was a struggle, but he managed to stitch the back of the neck together. A couple of times, the needle punctured his own skin. When it did, he continued, sewing the mask to the back of his own neck in places. The thread bound them together for eternity now.
Admiring his new features in the mirror, he found that he looked beautiful, like he knew he would.
He went back to Bryony and attempted to take off the rest of her skin. The arm that she had slashed was easy, he just pushed his fingers into the wound and worked the skin until it was loose enough to get a blade in to cut loose the connective tissue.
Bryony’s right arm was more of a problem – the skin was seemingly clamped tight to the muscle and bone beneath.
Luke wandered around the kitchen, looking for inspiration. He raided the drawer and found a pair of kitchen scissors. The next drawer down yielded an assortment of tools, including a hacksaw. Grinning, he took his two new tools upstairs.
He set the hacksaw t
o Bryony’s right wrist and started sawing into the bone. The sound was the older, uglier brother of nails being dragged down a blackboard.
Blood seeped from the cut, clogging up the blade. He stopped every dozen strokes and wiped the sticky paste of blood and bone dust onto the bedclothes.
Finally, one of the bones in Bryony’s forearm snapped. The hacksaw blade sunk through the gap in the bone and jammed against the other bone at an angle. Cursing, Luke tried to pull the blade out but it was wedged in awkwardly.
He gripped her wrist with one hand and bent it slightly, trying to make enough room to pull the blade out. The sensation of the shorn bone moving beneath the skin was nauseating but he continued with his task.
He managed to work the blade free and started again, sending sprays of congealing blood flying everywhere. His mask was spattered with it and the sticky flux of blood and bone felt warm on his face where it had gone through the eyeholes.
Finally the second bone gave way and the wrist went slack. Just a few tendons and layers of skin held the hand on. He sawed into these, which were a piece of cake compared to the bones, until the hand came free with a liquid splat.
When he had the hand loose, he ran the scissors up the skin on the inside of the arm all the way to her armpit. The scissors chewed through the dead flesh, the nauseating sound of the blades grinding against each other not registering in Luke’s mind.
Using the kitchen knife and his fingers, he carefully managed to work the skin loose.
After this, he took the saw to her ankles and repeated the process. The ankle bones were much thicker and harder to cut. He found himself wishing he’d done them first. The wrist would have been a breeze in comparison.
Itching from the mixture of blood, sweat and fragments of bone that coated his skin, he panted for breath. The mask did not inhibit his breathing in any way. It was like it was made for him.
It took all of his care and patience, but after a time he managed to remove all of her soft, beautiful skin. He had the arms, up to the wrists, the legs up to the ankles, the chest and belly and back. He left the genitals in place – he knew he’d need to piss – and also he had something else in mind for these beautiful, secret parts of her.