Wicked Little Words

by Stevie J. Cole

  She fights me, scratching and shouting, punching, but she's weak. She's losing a lot of blood. I know because I can hear it drip—drip—drip from the bed to the floor. Not to mention my jeans are soaked with it.

  I climb onto the bed and straddle her as I grab her right arm. "Now, I do believe I remember…" I say as I rotate her arm clockwise then snap her shoulder out of socket with a more-than-pleasing pop.

  And fuck me if she doesn't scream even louder. I slam my free hand—the one with the blood-stained knife—over her mouth to quiet her pathetic cries for help.

  "Remember how you said that little move was ridiculous in my essay, hmmm, do you?" I smirk because this serves her smart ass right. She was wrong. I was right. "I am going to show you just how authentic that little story was."

  Her eyes go wide with fear, tears spilling down her cheeks as she shakes her head. I move my hand away from her mouth then press the blade beneath her chin, slowly dragging it down to the center of her windpipe. She thrashes about, crying again, which does nothing but annoy me. She's going to die, and the sooner she makes peace with that, the easier this will be for us both. It's not like I like her screaming; I just want her to shut up. That's all I've ever wanted was for her to just shut the fuck up.

  Having had enough, I watch with curiosity as I press the knife ever so slowly over her porcelain skin. A little more force and the skin breaks—almost pops. A thin line of blood seeps around the blade, and I can't help it—I want to see more.

  I press the blade against her neck a little harder, and I'm rewarded with more blood and, of course, more of Marian's pleas to a God who will never hear her. I drag the knife across her throat, and a beautifully perfect, pulsing crimson line appears. Her cries grow softer. Gurgling. She's choking. After a few seconds, she falls silent.

  Inhaling, I relish the silence as I stare at her lifeless figure, but there's something inside me—some bloodlust—that says it’s not quite done yet. I just want to know what it would feel like to take her head off, that's all. Curiosity. I just wonder what it feels like.

  I cut through her flesh over and over. Almost in a frenzy, I slice through the muscles and tendons. Funny the different levels of force one must use to tear through cartilage. And the amount of blood is unimaginable. The white sheets are drenched with it. My hands are slick with the sticky fluid.

  For some unknown reason, I want her head. It has to be off. It's an impulse, so I keep hacking away until the blade hits her vertebrae. Narrowing my eyes, I focus on the task at hand and use short, quick strokes to sever the tiny bones. It's almost loose. I can see it. I grab onto her hair and pull, then I give one final slash, and her head is freed with a delightfully wet pop.

  Smiling, I hold it up as I glare into her glassy eyes that will never again close.

  "My story was better. My words were better, Marian," I whisper before climbing off the bed. I tuck her head beneath my arm as I make my way toward the door.

  A smile works over my lips as I stash the story safely away in my top desk drawer. This girl must have demons in her past. I like that. I like that very much.

  I'm still not sure about her, but with every new craptastic story that comes in, I'm leaning more and more toward bringing her on. It's like I don't have any real option. This was meant to be. It must be.

  Out of nowhere, the words start to come. They pour from my mind and through my fingers so fast I can hardly keep up. My male lead has a woman chained to a dingy bed. Her mouth is duct-taped. Her eyes billow with tears as they beg my lead for mercy—Miranda begs for mercy. I have my muse.

  As I write with the purpose of drawing my readers into my fucked up world, I think about what it will be like to actually kill Miranda when this is all said and done. How delightful it will be to see those beautiful hazel eyes come to full realization as I unleash my hell on her. I may even keep her for longer than a week after the writing’s all finished. Perhaps, like my hero Mr. Clegg, I’ll keep this specimen a long while. Maybe I’ll keep her forever.

  It isn't long, maybe four or five pages, before the block comes again; the words jumble in my head, losing all meaning by the time they hit the screen. My stomach tightens, churning in disgust and oncoming rage, but I fight it back. I’ve been right here far too many times before to let it control me anymore.

  I got four decent pages at least. Shit, some of it may even be spared the delete key. That's enough for me to let the desire win. I'm overwhelmed by it. I yearn to fuck… and to kill.

  But I never kill what I fuck.

  Call it not shitting where I eat, I guess, but I have a prostitute out of Asheville I always use. Chastity likes to get fucked… and she likes to get fucked hard. Her tears are very real as I choke her half to death, simultaneously slamming my cock into her, but she gets off on it every single time. She begs me for it. Half the time she doesn't even charge me. And then, after her, I find my prey.

  I grab my leather coat from the chair back and my beanie from the bookcase, pulling the hat on as I head for my office closet. I open the closet door, exposing my gun safe. With a quick spin of the combination lock—0-4-2-0-1-1, the date of my first murder—the solid steel door creaks open. Inside are my guns, twenty of them and of all varieties, along with three identical briefcases tucked neatly at the bottom of the safe. I crouch and grab the first one, which contains my bind-fuck-kill kit. I don't even need to check if it's the right one. I've been doing this a while.

  Closing the safe and closet doors, I make my way through the cabin hallway to my front door. My body is buzzing. The adrenaline has kicked in, sending a charge up and down my arms and legs. I'm ready for this. And even though I have an hour’s drive ahead of me, this feeling won't change. When I'm on the prowl, I'm at my best. I conquer the world one miserable soul at a time.

  My first stop is Taylor, NC, about thirty minutes from my cabin. It’s a quiet, dreadful little town full of redneck fucks I’d rather not mingle with, but one of those fucks is an old high school friend—if I’ve ever had such a thing as friends. He runs a Ride Spot Rent-A-Car out of Taylor. He gives me good deals, doesn't ask questions, and rents to me whenever I damn well please. Being a well-known author, my name carries weight around this entire fucking world. Now imagine how it is with those I grew up with. It's not hard for me to make shit happen.

  He rents me a little Chevy Sonic.

  "Business in Myrtle Beach," I tell him.

  "Been there once. Fucked three strippers," he responds.

  After a quick cash transaction, I'm on the road again and ready. Ready to take on the night. Ready to unleash some carnage. Ready to fuck some shit up.

  Asheville isn’t the quaint little Southern city it once was. Many of these desperate city streets, ones I've become quite familiar with, are now places normal people like to ignore. They're the gum on the bottom of your shoe. They're straight out of fucking Hollywood. For me, they're like a drug. I feel comfort in the darkness… in the silence.

  I park next to a curb, drawing the attention of a few bums huddled along some buildings, but most stay bundled tightly in moving blankets and newspaper. I shoot off a quick page to Chastity, my only method of communication with her—the only one I want to use, that is—and after a few moments, she comes slinking from the alleyway in her usual yoga pants, Nike running shoes, and black pullover, her arms folded tightly against her petite body. She pulls the handle and jumps quickly into the passenger seat, putting both hands to the vents.

  "Don't you own a jacket, woman?" I ask as she looks at me, her nose and ears bright red, skin flushed, and bottom lip clenched between chattering teeth. I pull away as she finally begins to warm up.

  Her shivering calms. "I didn't think it would be this cold. It's only a few flights of stairs and a ten-foot walk, but damn, I think my pussy froze off." She laughs.

  "I guess I'm destroying your asshole then?" I shoot her a smirk, and her eyes instantly widen.

  She shakes her head slowly, her long blond hair swinging from side to sid
e, her arms still mummy-like against the vents. "Please, no, I think she's gonna be just fine." She laughs again, patting her groin and sliding her other hand against my leg. She gives my thigh two good squeezes. "I've missed you."

  "Honey," I say as I pull into our usual motel, “Well, I can’t say the same, but I can say I’ve missed fucking you." My dick twitches at the thought of cuffing her hands and feet to the bed frame and taking her for everything she's worth.

  "You have no idea. I've had so many fucking old rich fucks lately who want me to peg their assholes. I just don't get it," she says.

  My nose scrunches in disgust as I put the car in park. "Well, my beautiful little slut"—I grab her hair and pull her face closer to mine—"I hope you didn't bring your strap-on tonight because you certainly won't be needing it."

  I kiss her hard, taking her bottom lip between my teeth and pulling back almost enough to break skin. She whimpers before our lips connect again. I tear away, letting go of her hair. Her eyes remain closed, her head drifting slightly from side to side.

  "I can promise you that." I smile and pop the door open.

  "Now that I've missed," she says, opening her eyes, a broad smile taking up her face.

  I lean toward the backseat, grab my briefcase, and step out of the car before looking back in at her. "Don't go expecting much of that. Don't you even think about it." I pass her an evil smirk and close the door just as she attempts to respond.

  Have you ever had a moment when you were in complete control? When the world felt as if it were just a marble in your balled up fist? That's how I feel when I fuck and when I kill. This is my hour. This is my calling. I am the god of fuck, and I do the Devil's dirty work, and tonight, my wrath will be felt.

  Each of Chastity’s slender limbs are cuffed to the bed frame. She looks beautiful spread out in an X, blindfolded, gagged, and facedown on a mattress yellowed with age. A dim glow is cast around the room by the few large candles on the cheap desk. I take one in my hand. I can hear her force thick, wet breaths around the ball gag as I inch closer to her, steadying the burning candle. She knows nothing about what's to come. She never does.

  With a quick flick of my wrist, a smattering of melted wax plops against her back and ass. She gasps, her hands gripping the cuffs so tight it looks as though her ligaments may rupture her skin at any moment. Another flick of the wrist and she lets out a muffled scream. Her body curls in pain.

  "Shut up, Chastity!" I say with a growl, placing the candle back on the desk.

  I rub my palm over the curve of her ass before smacking it hard. A red handprint slowly rises to the surface of her pale skin, and I smile. I want to hurt her. I want her to scream until those worthless fucking tears of hers spill down her cheeks.

  The thought of those tears nearly drives me to the brink of madness, and I quickly pull down my jeans, grabbing my cock and fisting it as I loosen the restraints around her legs. Stepping behind her, I grab her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh as I yank her ass into the air. Sometimes I wonder if I could grip her hard enough to tear her flesh open, but I won’t do that tonight. I’ll save that for next time—maybe.

  I press my left hand over the small of her back, forcing it down into the mattress as I rub a single finger over her pussy, exposed and waiting for me to do with it as I fucking please.

  “Remember. Don’t fucking move.” I place my cock against her then grab her hair and yank her head as I lay over her, placing my lips by her ear. “And don’t make a goddamn sound. Play dead, my little slut.”

  I slam into her, burying myself to the hilt. She is completely under my control, and though her cries sound as though she's in agony, she's loving every fucking minute of this. She craves receiving pain just as I crave giving it to her. Right now, I own her, bought and paid for. I am reinventing her, using her, and the thought that, if I wanted to, I could kill her with my bare hands… well, that makes me fuck her even harder.

  I wrap my hand around her neck, and with each powerful thrust of my cock, I squeeze just a little tighter. She gags and chokes, and I let up, wanting to crush her throat but knowing now is not the time. The temptation is there though—but then again, when isn't it? I fight the urge to end her because I like making her come, making her moan, and all at the touch of a murderer.

  It's my dirty little secret, my wicked little lie.

  An hour later, I drop Chastity off in front of a 7-Eleven, and with a screech of tires against the pavement, my night truly begins. If it goes according to plan, this evening will come to a close on Tenth Street.

  “Creep”—Radiohead

  I'm a sad, pathetic little fuck—it’s all I can think as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  Now, I know that's probably not something you're likely to hear from most thirty-somethings who are fit and possess a legitimate career. Something more than “entrepreneur,” that is. But for me, it's an intrusive thought that takes over from the moment I wake. Blame me if you want, but I was programmed this way.

  The morning news spouts the usual depressing bullshit in the background as I sip my coffee and Jameson, half ignoring what I'll get to experience firsthand shortly. I've been a homicide detective with Asheville’s police department for four years now. I served three tough years in the army before that. I've seen the worst this world has to offer, and I live it every single day through victims and heartbroken family members, through the carnage and bloodshed.

  I rub a hand through my uncombed hair. The ever-present tired look in my eye staring back at me from the mirror is a nice reminder that being a detective takes the life right out of you. That's not the only thing sucking the life out of me, of course. My childhood comes into play quite often. My time in the army also consumes my thoughts, playing out like fucked up home movies in my dreams.

  Sometimes I look back and wish I could change things. I wish I could erase the war, erase the pain of growing up broken. But more often than not, I'm resigned to a sense of understanding. I've made my peace with the Lord, however broken that peace may be. I'm his factory defect. I try my best to fight the absurd carnival of torment inside my mind, but alas, it’s a twenty-four-seven party.

  The unusual bustle of the department at seven in the morning lets me know I'm in for a treat today. I'm one of only a handful of detectives around when I arrive most mornings, and I'm always the first one in from the day shift. As I reach my office and toss my briefcase onto the desk, my partner, Detective Tommy Matthews, appears in the doorway. He raps two knuckles against the doorframe and lifts a manila folder, shaking his head.

  "Let me fuckin' guess," I huff as I sit in the stiff leather chair. "Another cold one?"

  "You got it. Two units found her around 3 a.m., dumped in an abandoned house down on Tenth Street." Tommy tosses the folder on the desk in front of me and takes a seat himself. "It was a fresh one. Cold maybe three hours."

  "Tenth Street? Go figure. Is it our guy?" I flip the folder open, grab a pair of reading glasses from the desk, and slide them onto the bridge of my nose. I only hold the folder for now, peering over the top of my glasses at my partner and waiting for a response.

  "Sure looks like it. Tortured and his signature Xs. When Joe called me this morning asking if I could come in early, he said he could tell right away this was our guy. Either that or a real good copycat." He motions to the folder, drawing my eyes to it. "If you'll look at the pics he took and the report, you'll see what I mean."

  I scan the information and see a picture of a woman, shirtless with jean shorts hiked down to her ankles. Her hands are bound with her own bra. A mess of duct tape is wrapped around her eyes and nose.

  "She was bound the same way,” he says. “No rape, but looks like some real fucked up shit was done to her before she died. And like I said, she was marked like the others. We got the examiner looking at her now."

  Her face is beaten beyond recognition. Each breast is engraved with a deep, bloody X, the nipples removed. I flip the picture and review Joe's report.
<
br />   Tommy continues as I read. "Twenty-seven, no immediate family, a dozen or so prostitution arrests. The last one was just two months ago. This is our fucking guy, Jax. Or a real good fucking imitator."

  "Is Joe going to let us in on this one or be a prick as usual?" I ask, knowing full well our dear Detective Sanders is a bit of a hoarder when it comes to big cases. He detests sharing credit.

  "You know with any other case he would've bitched up a storm and probably kept us as far away as possible, but he knows this guy's yours. He knows what the case means to you. Besides that, Chief Wentz knows what the case means to you. I don't think Joe's going to fuck with that," Tommy says, much to my relief. He motions to the book on my desk, the latest best seller from my all-time favorite author, EA Mercer. "How do you even read that shit? Considering what we do for a living, you don’t get enough murder and mayhem on the job?"

  "What can I say, man? The guy changed my life. He’s the reason I became a cop. Besides, he’s a North Carolina treasure,” I say as my mind drifts to my college days, which seem so long ago.

  I got out of the army without a clue of what I wanted to do. I went to some shit college to be a financial planner or some nine-to-five bullshit like that. Picked up one of his books one day, and I fell in love. I wanted to be one of the detectives from his novels, catching the cocksuckers that now take up my every thought. Their crimes are a morbid tapestry in my brain.

  I smile, raising my palms to show off my pint-size office. "And the rest is history. Now I'm the made man you see before you."

  Tommy grins and shakes his head. "You sure you ain't regretting changing your degree? A recent college grad on the arm and a Benz in the drive don't sound half bad." He scans the tiled ceiling and blinding fluorescent lights as if in thought. He shakes his head again. "Yeah, real fuckin’ good."

  "Shit, at least you got a wife and kid. You're smart—you got married in college. Trying to find a wife after getting in this field? Not fuckin' happening."