~
The image of Eloise’s body didn’t leave me as I got in the car, nor did it leave as I travelled the distance back to my house. It didn’t leave me when I got there either, and it hasn’t left me as I’ve tried to sleep, no matter the come I’ve splattered into the shower hoping to rid myself of the thought. It just keeps taunting me with blurred imagery, morphing Alana’s head onto the Eloise’s skin, the tone of the two completely contrasted to each other and raging recklessness into an otherwise levelled mind. It makes me toss and turn, my fists balling the sheets and ready to rip shreds out of anything that comes within feet of me.
Eventually, I sit upright, scrubbing my face and watching the moon hover over the ocean as I slide to the end of the bed. A drink might help, one with half a tonne of Temazepam in it to soothe the visions away. I move further forward, my bare feet hitting the hardwood and reminding me of reality at last. Here is real. The moon is real. The light splintering in and reflecting off the walls is real. It makes me pull in a deep breath, searching for more shards of reality as I gaze around. Nothing is any more relevant than the moon and the vast expanse of the ocean before me, causing me to get up and wander towards it. It cleanses me, rendering all other images to nothing but distant memories while reminding me of my own control. I’ve managed this, contained it. I still can.
The water crashes against the cliffs below as I slide the door open quietly and step out onto the deck, a bolt of wind wakening my body further as it hisses across exposed skin. I just stand still, letting it whip over muscles and revive them from their languished dreams. But try as I might, and regardless of the moon filling the sky with nothing but light, I can’t rid myself of Alana’s darkening eyes or the feel of her in my hold as we’d slept. She’s uplifting, bolstering. How, I can’t grab hold of. The words escape me. It’s simply an irrational thought, satisfying me with a sense of comfort in a loneliness I’ve not felt before her. I miss her.
The realisation makes me smile as another wave crashes against the steps leading to the beach. That I miss someone is enough to broaden my smile, her offering seeming to give me a purpose other than just a memory of the dead.
I turn for the house again, padding the boards and then hesitating as I grab at my jeans, wondering what I might say should I just arrive unannounced in the middle of the night. The thought alone makes me laugh to myself, more than intrigued at the sense of boyish charm radiating out into the open from depths unknown. Anxiety and trepidation, both things I’ve never felt before now, neither of which are either comfortable or endearing, and yet in some ways, both of which are enamouring because of her. I snatch up some clothes, slowly pulling them on and challenging every fucking movement because of what the suggestion means. Commitment. A joining I should be scaring her away from, not persuading her into. I’ve already organised it with Delaney and had her driven home so she can think clearly, and now I’m going to turn up in the middle of the night and hold her closer? It makes me stop altogether, discarding the shirt before I’ve slid my arms into it and looking around the house in search of reason. It’s as silent as ever, the only sound the low rumble of the sea and the occasional crash of the winter ravages coming for its structure. It all feels cold, the same sense of cold I normally enjoy. Its barren echo is usually more than enough to silence my mind. It condenses thought, making me immobile within the confines of its walls, quieting the animal inside. Why an entirely new feeling is currently diffusing the air around me, I don’t understand. It makes me walk away from the bedroom, wandering the darkness in search of whatever has changed. Nothing has. The rooms still pass by, one by one displaying their heartless interior. I touch the wall by the second lounge, slowly looking around the doorframe and remembering her inside there. I can still hear the tapping of the machine. Still smell her arousal. Still see her look of horror as I drenched her, and then the unadulterated bliss that followed, as I’d put my fingers inside her for the first time. And I can still sense my own rage as I backed the steps away from her, her body taunting me as it writhed, broaching a subject I’m still not ready to show her, regardless of my need to do so.
I hover, part listening to the ocean and part wanting to go back into the bedroom, put my clothes on, and get to her as fast as the car can get me there. The only thing keeping my feet planted in place is the correct thing to do. Some semblance of honouring a hierarchy I don’t want to respect in the slightest, even if I have employed the sentiment myself. The thought of her burns my skin, making any element of the control I’m hanging onto near impossible to maintain. Love burnishes; it appears. It glints and throws relevant thought into chaos, as does my own normally deviant mind. The two will be catastrophic, akin to the sea outside as it batters shores and then bathes the glorified in its fucking painful salt. Eloise.
I suck in air and turn from the hall, intent of heading back to bed for an attempt at some rest. Now is not the time for adolescent trips of sentiment or love. She can make that decision afterwards, perhaps honouring me with one more chance at her lips before she withdraws and makes the right choice for her. But the stars from the large redundant den stop me as they shine in the sky, making me check my own mind for something to cling on to. They fill the darkening sides of the skyline, reminding me of paths as I trace the lines of constellations with my eyes and walk into the space. They all lead back to her. It makes me smile again, thinking of the way she crossed her legs on the bed, announcing that she wasn’t afraid of me, that she was just writing a story. And how scary could I be anyway? I’m just a man. “You’re just a man, Blaine.”
I don’t deserve it. I know that, but it doesn’t stop me drawing back the sliding wall, exposing the dusty armoury as I do and thinking of her in here. Lines and lines of implements, all crafted to inflict the greatest pain. Each one used. Each one worn well against flesh and still bloodstained, long after they’ve been cleansed of the physical evidence. I flick my gaze to the stars again, immediately seeing Eloise alongside the moon, her frame hovering in the open doorway ready to descend to the sea for comfort after the event. The thought wakes my fucking cock further as I turn back to the wall, my fingers dragging casually along the display of riggings and tools. Push, push, push.
I turn and cross the room to the opposing wall, turning the screws to bring the hooks out of their sanctuary, readying them for use without thought perhaps. I don’t know, but the calm that falls over me as I methodically ratchet them into position is purgative, ridding me of any concern other than Alana and her body. Love, it appears, is a challenging dilemma. I back away from the wall, staring at the hooks now embedded into steel and the drawers open for play. A multitude of sin, diverse in its array and yet so unfathomably simple to a sadist’s mind. The thought of her fingering objects, her body swaying between each one as she tests everything for its reasoning, makes me smile wider. I’m almost damn well grinning at the image of it, her responding confusion making her ask all the whys she has in her vocabulary. And I’ll answer this time. Not by simply showing, but by talking it through with her, by explaining so she understands the depths of sadism. I’ll reward her offering with an insight few have so she can write it, use it, understand its merits and harness them into written verse for the world to see should they want to.
I press on the safe, carefully punching in the numbers and letting the doorway swing open. Her reward, the thought makes me chuckle as I step inside and glance round at the shelves piled with money. She can have this, too, if she gives me what I need. She might as well. I don’t use it. I haven’t touched it since my parents’ deaths. I neither value it nor levy it for anything other than its grimy positioning within these walls. It’s simply paper, something to be used as a necessity not enjoyed. No holidays, no frivolous spending. Perhaps it will help Alana enjoy the journey, help her see it as acceptable. I can both teach, train and care for her, giving her all that I have along the way and honouring her for the love she offers. Perhaps learning how to do the same in reply.
The realisati
on makes me back out of the room and turn to move faster along the corridor toward the bedroom again, my hand reaching for my shirt as I keep looking upward and hold her smile in my thoughts. She’s there, in a bed, waiting for someone to show her her story, perhaps give her a surprise ending. Maybe I can, with time. Maybe we’ll find a route through what is to come. And maybe this time I’ll control it, maybe not even need it. I’ve worked hard enough on it, and I won’t know unless I try. I won’t know unless this feeling inside me is given a chance to engage something other than just the sadistic thought process I normally live within. Time is what we need. A chance to try at something new. For the first time, and because of her, he want a love I’ve never considered rational before now. I want the normal other people live in. I can taste its effect on me already as I remember her lying in my arms, her body breathing in sync with mine and her smaller hand linking her fingers into mine as she slept. I knew then, and I knew in the pool, and I know now.
I watch my reflection in the mirror as I button the last of my shirt, still questioning what the fuck I’m doing and not giving a fuck about the answer anyway. I’ll sleep with her, hold her, tell her how beautiful she is and then fuck my way through her, forging us closer and not allowing her escape. Maybe I’ll need to break her for that to happen, decimate her even, but she is as much a part of this as I am. And when she holds me, when her lips meet mine and she rolls her tongue, her nails digging in at the same time, she fucking knows, too. Kink be damned. This is about so much more than kink, or sadism. It’s about love, and about a feeling so reflective I don’t know why the fuck I’ve been denying it. It wrecks me, tearing my insides around and making me crazy for her. I haven’t been tossing and turning because of what I want to do to her, or what I’ve been dreaming of. I’ve been restless because she simply isn’t here to hold me still, just as she had done last night.
Snatching my keys from the table, I walk out along the corridor towards the door, wondering how long it will take to get there and considering phoning her in case she isn’t even there. Then I carry on regardless of whether I should phone her or not. I know where she lives, and she will either answer the door or not. If she isn’t there, I’ll call her and make her come back. Or find her. I don’t give a second thought to the way I look as I slam the car door and began the journey, swigging at a bottle of water and wishing it were a bottle of Jack instead. Fucking nerves. I laugh, letting them crawl over my skin and remind him that I’m as human as the next man. If not a little more fucked up than most. The sensation makes me laugh so much I nearly miss the turning, my feet slamming on the brakes as I haul the wheel around the corner. Christ, it’s like being in senior year again, although only barely the same. Senior year, in reality, had been nothing more than studying and fucking my way through anything that registered as motivating, hoping that I’d be able to come in it. I hadn’t come in anything, not in a cunt anyway. But I can in hers, and it’s waiting there for me to do it again, making me speed my foot further onto the peddle and picture a reason to use the wealth accumulated. Maybe Delaney is right. Holidays and private islands. Walks along a beach for no other reason than the walk, holding hands. Laughter, the sort that makes the air rattle and stomachs convulse. It’s so long since I’ve been a part of that, if ever.
The thought makes me frown, remembering the way Eloise had tittered and giggled at me when I gave her just a small piece of my soul, mainly to keep her coming back for more of what I wanted her to take. It slows my acceleration, making me, once again, question the merits of what I’m doing as the houses begin to drift by. I hardly see them, choosing to focus on the blue eyes staring into parts of me I’ve not allowed viewing before. My lips tug upwards again as the drive slows to a quiet meander, sensing her crawling in deeper somehow. It makes me look at my hands, the tension in them as strong as it always is, but they suddenly hold a softer yield to them, one that wants to caress. They tap lightly on the wheel, feeling the leather in my grasp and remembering her quivering beneath them. It isn’t simply a memory, though. It affects me, my heart already stretching the distance between us to feel her again. I want her wrapped around me, for no other reason than the feeling of her warmth against my skin.
The sound of a man’s dulcet tones drift around me as I turn on the music, as much as the surroundings do. It appears that no amount of concentration on anything makes her eyes disperse, nor her smile. She glows in my mind, radiating inside it and shining something new at me rather than the normal clarity of everyday mundanity. And the moon still hangs low in the sky as I gaze at it, reminding me of the one night we’ve had in bed together as I watched the light filter in on her. I’d hardly slept, choosing to watch her instead as her frame settled back into me, her purple stripes irritating my face and her stained fingers making me frown. I’d put that staining there, just as I will continue to do, opening her up to a world filled with unimaginable immorality. And in this moment, and probably because of the way my heart reacts to the thought of not having her, I couldn’t care less. She will either enjoy my tainted ethics, immersing herself in them and dwelling with a transparency she’s never known before, or she won’t. Either way, I won’t let her go. I can’t. Not now I’ve felt a pull towards sensations never set free before. She’ll be made to watch and then make her choice, the latter of which will mean nothing to whether we see each other again or not. I’ll fucking sit on a beach just to spend time with her, not touching her for fear of breaking this connection if that’s what it takes. But I won’t lie about what I am. Not with her. Not this time.
Eventually, the rumble of the bridge pulls me from thought, a car horn blaring out as I drift over the lines and narrowly avoid crashing against the barriers. It makes me snort out as I straighten the car, considering the last time anything had made me deviate from sound, level-headed thought. Nothing has for some time, nothing after Eloise, anyway. And I can’t remember ever being coerced in thought by her, either. She simply existed to be used. Toyed with. She was my exploration into what my hands could achieve when something was willing enough to comply. She debased herself willingly, allowing me every deviance I could amass with a trust I didn’t deserve.
The sight of the funeral emerges in my mind, something finally managing to push Alana’s smile aside for a few moments. One hundred and sixty guests, all dressed in black, her mother wearing a veil, her father crying, and Eloise’s young sister staring blankly into the ground. I’d cowered a long way back, skulking between trees in an attempt at apology as I watched them lower the coffin. No one knew who I was, the family barely recognising anything other than the sight of their precious child being taken from the earth long before her time. They all cried and wailed, some of them murmuring prayers and nodding at the Preacher in thanks for the service. Morbid was the only consideration I’d given the show. A pretence at sorrow and grief. Eloise wasn’t happy in life. She’d longed for death, chartering me further into her murder with every offer of submission. She lathered her old scars with concealer daily, hiding the truth from those who loved her while begging me to wipe it away so she could show the world how miserable she was. Fake parenting, both of them with little to no desire to see the truth staring them both in the eyes. The best schools, pushing her to achieve their dreams rather than her own. The finest clothes so she could keep up with appearances needed for a family such as theirs. The hour I’d stood there had filled me both with rage and regret, part wanting to tell them it was their fault she was in that ground, and part wanting to throw myself on top of her coffin and have them all stab me for her murder. They’d sent a troubled young girl straight into the hands of a young, fucked up sadist, telling her everything would work itself out when she graduated, and not having the slightest idea what they’d sent her to. I was supposed to guide her through her psychology degree, offering her a path out of her own screwed up nightmare of a mind. Instead, I’d immediately noticed the scars on her inner thighs, a summer’s breeze blowing her skirt up in the wind, and then used them for my own
depraved compulsions, enjoying her torment as I’d led her further into darkness.
I’d eventually walked away from the performance quietly, promising myself I’d never touch someone like that again. It might have been a heart attack caused by a weakened valve no one knew about, but I’d still forced the heart under attack, still caused the fucking thing to stop under the pressure I’d put her through. And fuck, I can still feel her skin under these hands now, the leather in my fingers reminding me of anything but Alana. I can still feel her heart thundering away against my chest as she’d taken everything I’d given, her screams bellowing out into the deep, dark forest I’d taken her to until it had eventually just stopped and she’d gone lax in the chains. I hadn’t even noticed, too engrossed in her body to care whether she was breathing or not, and too invested in my own amusement to recognise her demise. She’d just hung there, naked and warm. Still offering everything she could with her body, regardless of her death, and winding me further into an adolescent frenzy I should have controlled.
I pull the car over as the sight of her floods me with regret once more, unable to carry on driving for fear of powering straight into the nearest wall. Time might have moved on, the coroner’s verdict ruling death by fatal heart incursion when she was found in her room days later, but it still didn’t remove the facts. I killed her, accidently maybe, but it was still murder. A life taken.
The torment makes me stare vacantly into the blazing lights of Manhattan, hardly recognising streets or passing traffic. It doesn’t matter how I’ve controlled it since, or how I’ve protected countless others from the same fate. And it isn’t relevant how often I’ve trained new versions of myself, guiding them from their deviance and channelling it into something they can use efficiently, hoping to contain their mind’s advance at the same time. I’m still a killer. A man who has killed under the delusion of pleasure, actually enjoyed its resonance until I noticed the death dangling in chains before me, and only then because the come spat inside her prone body ended the release.
Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1) Page 32
