by Cerys du Lys
“Fuck,” he says. “You’re so fucking sexy, love.”
I smile and I look up at him and I want to kiss him now, so I do. I stand and cover his mouth with my lips. He staggers for a moment, confused, but then he kisses me back.
Oh, this is difficult. Noah is wearing his regular clothes now, and I am in my underwear and a shirt. It is a very easy thing to straddle his lap, pull aside my panties, and then sink onto his erection. That would be a very very easy thing to do, and I want to do it. I cannot, though. Are you aroused enough now, my sweet Noah? I kiss him and stare into his eyes. When I smile, he opens his eyes, and stares back at me.
“That’s fucking creepy,” he says. “Close your eyes.”
I shake my head, no. “Come back to the table, Noah. I will do your thumb now. I shall remove the nail.”
“Are you fucking serious?” he asks.
“Did you know that during feelings of intense arousal, we are less likely to feel or understand pain?” I ask.
“Are you saying you don’t actually want to suck my cock?” he asks. “You wanted to make this hurt less?”
“No,” I say. “I wanted to suck your cock and I want to make this hurt less, too.”
“Say that again?” he asks.
I urge him to pull his chair closer to the table, which he does. While I strap his hand in again and place his thumb in the correct spot, I say, “Noah, I want to suck your cock.”
“Can you make that dirtier?” he asks.
His thumb is in place. I twist the crescent-wedge bolt until it is pressing hard against him. “I want to suck your dirty cock, Noah.”
I do not know if that is what he intended when he asked me that, because I think it sounds peculiar, but the fire in his eyes says otherwise. I move towards him and place my hand under the table so I may feel his throbbing arousal. He is hard... very hard...
I lean in and whisper into his ear. “I am going to suck your dirty, naughty cock, Noah. I am going to make you release your seed into my throat and I will swallow every single drop.”
He tries to kiss me or bite me; I am not sure which. I like the idea of both. I dodge him, though. I leave him in the chair with his hand strapped in.
“I guess we’re about to find out how this shit works,” he says. “I don’t even fucking know if my finger’s going to be able to bleed. I think my blood’s being redirected to my cock right about now.”
That is a fun thought. Noah’s blood is wonderful and useful for many thing, is it not?
I hold my hands over the lever and give him a small nod.
“Yeah, fuck, go,” he says. “Go, go, go.”
I slam my hands down. His thumbnail goes upwards, yet not all the way. Thumbnails are the most painful. Noah clenches his teeth together, grinding them back and forth. I move fast to tighten the crescent wedge in order to peel back his nail enough that I can pull it free. My sweet Noah clenches his teeth tight, but he does not scream. Once his thumbnail is loose, I reset the machine.
There is a lot of blood on the table. There has been a lot of blood since we began. I stare at it, rapt, intoxicated by the look and smell of it. I remember the first time I saw it. I was hungry, yes, but it was more than that. I was free, too. I was saved.
I do not know why, but I think of that often. I think of it now. I did not see Noah’s blood back then, but seeing it right now reminds me of the same things. I am hungry for him. We are free. We are saved.
I want him. I want his blood, I want his cock, I want his body, I want his kisses and his love and his affection. I want his hugs, I want his kindness, I want his hate and his anger and his lust. I want everything that Noah ever is and ever will be. I want his flesh and his bones and his soul and his mind and I want him in my bed and at my dining hall table and in a chair while we watch a movie. I want to hurt him and to please him.
I will never let anyone else have him. He is mine. He did not let anyone have me, either. I am his. We are perfect together.
“I think that worked,” he said. “I don’t know how the fuck it worked, but I think it fucking worked. That didn’t hurt as bad.”
I unstrap his thumb, but I am reticent to do his final finger. He has a small splint on it to keep it straight, with tape wrapped around it, but it is not enough to stop my task. I can fit his smallest finger into the machine still. I do not know if I want to, though.
I do it, but I do not tighten the wedge. I stop.
“We do not have to,” I say. “We do not have to do this finger if you do not wish to do it, Noah.”
“How did it happen?” he asks. “Why didn’t your fingernail grow back?”
I know, but I do not want to tell him. I shake my head at him. No.
“Tell me, love,” he says. “Please?”
I keep shaking my head, but he will not stop looking at me. I still shake it. He does not stop. No, Noah, stop this. No.
He refuses to stop.
“He removed all of my fingernails at one time,” I tell him. “One after another, he removed them, and he threw them into a glass jar. The last finger was this one.” I hold up my smallest finger that has never regrown a fingernail. It looks sick and broken and wrong. I do not want to show Noah how bad and broken I am, but he will not stop looking at me.
“I cried and begged for him to stop,” I continue. “I thought that I could not feel anymore, but he showed me I was wrong. He did not think it was enough. He did not use a machine for my final fingernail. He used tools. He retrieved a pair of needle nose pliers and pulled my fingernail off like that, except that it did not come easily. He ripped piece after piece, slowly, until finally I no longer had a nail left.”
“And then he...?” Noah asks. He does not finish his sentence, but we both know.
After he finished removing my final nail, he threw me on his bed and laughed while he forced himself on me, and he laughed more when I scratched and clawed at his back ineffectively because I no longer had any way to scratch or claw at anyone. He laughed and he laughed and he laughed...
He hurt me so much. I have urges to hurt people, too. I yearn for pain and anguish, although I do not want to because I know it is not a good thing. Despite all of that, I do not know how to hurt someone as much as he hurt me. I do not think I will ever know. I do not want to know. It is so bad. It is wrong. He deserves punishment for what he did, and yet the only thing that happened to him was death?
Sometimes I do not think this world is a fair place. Sometimes I do not understand why he was allowed to die, but I was forced to live.
“I love you,” Noah says.
He looks at me, into my eyes, into me, at my heart and soul. Noah sees me when no one else does. Noah understands me. I do not understand myself most of the time. I think I am too broken and impossible. I should not exist. I should have died, but I did not. I am not dead, I am alive. I do not know why I am alive, but if I must live, I wish to love. I wish to be allowed happiness. I want to know it is alright to feel sad, too. I want someone who will let me be and exist as I am, instead of telling me I am something else.
I smile at Noah. “We will stop,” I say. I begin to remove his finger.
“No,” he says, putting his hand on mine and pulling it away. “I want you to do this one, too. Don’t stop now.”
I nod slowly. “Are you positive?”
“Yeah,” he says.
I twist the bolt to set the crescent-wedge in place. We look into each other’s eyes for a moment before Noah nods at me. I place my hands on the lever, but I hesitate. I do not know if I can do this. I wanted to do it before. I wanted Noah to keep his promise to me. I wanted his love. I wanted him to remember me. I still want all of those things, but I remember too much. I remember the hurt; my hurt. I feel. I am feeling. It is hard to do, but I am doing it. In this past week I have felt so much. I have felt anger with Noah. I thought I hated him. I thought I would kill him. I felt happiness and lust and need. I felt fear. I felt pain and regret and remorse. I felt everything when I have not fe
lt anything for years, and now I feel love. I feel wanted, and I want, too.
Noah clenches his eyes shut. I slam my hands down hard on the lever. His fingernail pops free. His broken finger, bloody and now battered, so fragile and lost. I will help him, though. We will help each other, Noah. We will be together. No more. No more pain or hurt, alright? It is over. We are done with it. We will be happy now. We will be. I promise.
My heart beats hard and I rush to his side. Tears fall down my cheeks and crash onto his shoulder. I do not understand why I am crying, but it feels good. My tears are everything I was, transforming into everything I wish to be. They are a metamorphosis of my body and soul in a way that I do not think is possible, but it is happening. I kiss Noah on the cheek. His eyes are still shut while he deals with the pain, but they will open. I will help him. We will clean up and then we may lay in bed all day. We can go to your bed, Noah, in the room I have given you. I will feed you popcorn and we will watch a movie, and...
My heart beats so hard and strong, agonizing. My body hurts. I feel a sharp pain in my side, so harsh and immediate that I breathe in fast and hitch my breath. Is this what such a powerful emotional love feels like?
When I look to my side, there is a knife sticking out of me. It sits there, ripping through my shirt and my skin, making me bleed. I recognize it as one of my own, one that should be hidden in my home. How did that get there? Where did it come from? I look to the side and over my shoulder, but that is the last thing I do.
Pain and hurt overwhelms me. I slump to the floor, lifeless. Blood pools around my body.
*** Noah
I’m gone. It’s gone. The last one. This is over. It’s over. Everything is fucking over.
Who the fuck knows why, but I feel like this is a new beginning. I’m free. I am fucking free.
Angeline’s with me. The crazy fucking bitch is kissing my cheek. Seriously, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with her, but I think I could get used to it. I know I could. I want to.
It’s the simple shit that you never really think about. You never realize you’re missing anything. Yeah, I watch a lot of movies at home, but it’s only me. It’s a fucking escape from reality. It’s an escape, but it’s really fucking lonely, too. I sit there, watching whatever the fuck I want, but what’s the goddamn point? After awhile, there isn’t one. It becomes mindless. I have to face the music again and go back to the real world.
My real world isn’t a happy place. It’s full of despair and pain, hate and anger. I kidnap women for fuck’s sake. That’s not a happy fucking thing to do. I hurt them, I force myself on them, I break them down until they stop resisting, and then I try to fucking stop, too. I try to go slower.
I’m fucking sorry, love. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to hurt the fucker that wanted me to kidnap you in the first place, the asshole who paid me for you, but in order to that I’ve got to sell him something. Right? It’s nothing personal, love.
Someone will save you. If no one saves you, I’ll come back for you. I try to deal with the nicer assholes, so I can get to the really bad ones, but an asshole is an asshole, and you never really know. They might fucking snap at any minute. I try not to think about that.
I don’t know what I’m going to do anymore. I don’t know if I’ll do anything. Why the fuck should I? That’s not how this works, though. I can’t fucking stop. There’s no way. It’s impossible. I can figure something out, though. Angeline’s here and maybe we can work something out together. I’ve got some ideas. I’ve been thinking about this. I don’t fucking know if they’re good ideas, but something’s better than nothing.
She stops kissing me and moves away from me. I hear the sound of her voice, gasping. I don’t know what the fuck to do. I want to say something to her. I want to promise her something, but I don’t know what the fuck to promise. This is way too fucking difficult.
It’s the simple shit that you never really think about. I never thought about asking a girl on a date before, but suddenly I want to. Hey, Ange? You want to go on a date? Not right now. Soon. My fingers really fucking hurt. This shit is seriously painful. In a bit... tomorrow? Fuck, maybe tonight. Something small. Let’s just watch TV. Let’s fucking cuddle. I want to cuddle with you, bitch. What do you say?
I’m real sweet like that.
I open my eyes to at least acknowledge her presence, but she’s gone. I heard something, but I didn’t recognize what it was at first. I realize it now. I glance downwards and Angeline is laying on the floor with a knife in her side, bleeding.
What the fuck? I don’t fucking understand. What the fuck happened?
I look up. Standing to the side is Chastity Fucking White. What the fuck is that bitch doing here?
“Noah,” she says in her frantic, whiny voice. “I stopped her. I saw what she was doing to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop her sooner, but I didn’t have a chance. I was hiding and waiting and I jumped in as soon as I could, and...”
Chastity stabbed Angeline. Chastity Fucking White stabbed Angeline. What, the, fuck. Who the fuck does she think she is? She fucking stabbed her! Seriously, fuck, I want to kill this fucking bitch. I want to fucking rip out her throat. I want to...
Fuck...
I convince myself to calm down with one soothing fucking thought. It’s not fucking soothing, though. I grab at my wrist and fumble with the straps binding my arm to the table. I pull. I fucking pull with all my might and the table shakes and staggers. This fucking table is lucky it’s fucking bolted to the floor, because otherwise I’d fucking rip it off the ground while my hand was still strapped down, and I’d fucking bash Chastity White over the head with the entire fucking thing.
This isn’t a useful thing to do. Calm the fuck down, Noah. Think about this shit.
I manage to unstrap my wrist, but my finger is still stuck. The wedge is pushed in against my fingernail. I scrabble to loosen the strap, but it’s hard. There’s blood everywhere. My fingers are bloody as fuck. What the fuck do you expect? I just lost four fingernails. I fucking asked her to do it. Out of all the fucking times Chastity White could have shown up, she showed up at the worst possible one.
She tries to help me. Her hands are on mine, trying to help me undo the strap.
I swear to fucking God, Chastity, if you don’t get your goddamned fucking hands off of me...
I slap her hands away, but she hovers near me. She’s standing over Angeline like she doesn’t exist, like she’s already fucking dead. Get the fuck away from her, Chastity. My hand is free now, finger is loose. I rip it away. The nail catches in the belt and I roar out in pain.
I don’t fucking care. I’m in a whole lot of pain, but almost none of it is physical. I will fucking tear off my fingers if I have to. I don’t even fucking want them.
What the fuck did she do! That fucking whore.
Chastity tries to come to me to comfort me. When she opens her arms to embrace me, I slam my palm onto her throat. My bloody fingers wrap around her neck and I squeeze. I stare into her face as her eyes begin to bulge.
I want to kill her. I want to rip out her fucking throat and throw it against the wall, separate from the rest of her body. She’s really fucking lucky that I don’t.
I stand up and slam her into the chair instead. She sits, confused. I let go of her throat and she gasps for breath. Bloody fingerprints mark where my fingers used to be. She moves her hands to her throat as if this will help her somehow. Guess what? It won’t. Fuck off, Chastity.
I slam her hand down onto the table and deftly strap it into place. She stares at me and shrieks. I love the way she screams out her fear. It’s fucking music to my twisted mind. She tries to fight against me when I grab her other hand. I slap her across the face.
“Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up,” I say.
She does the exact fucking opposite. What a goddamn whore. This fucking slut.
I slam her other hand onto the table and strap that into place, too. I move behind the chair, grab her head, and forcef
ully pull it back so I can latch a strap around her forehead, too. She cries and fucking screams.
She can fucking cry and scream all she wants. I don’t fucking care. You know why?
I’m not even going to fucking do anything to the bitch. I have better shit to do. Once she’s trapped and bound, I leave her.
“Noah, what are you doing? I came to help you! I stopped her from hurting you... don’t you understand? We’re free now. We can escape...” She fucking whines at me like a useless fucking naive college bitch. That’s exactly what the fuck she is, so it makes perfect sense.
“Fuck off,” I say. “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t fucking want your help. You don’t fucking understand and you’ll never understand. Just sit there, shut the fuck up, and leave me the fuck alone.”
Chastity lets out this sickening whimper and I want to fucking backhand her, but I don’t have time. Kneeling, I carefully slip my hands under Angeline’s still body, cradling her in my arms. Gently, I stand up. What the fuck am I doing? Who the fuck is going to help us? The whole fucking world is against us, and probably for a good fucking reason.
We aren’t good people. We’re not nice. We’re vile and vicious and fucked up. We’re twisted and wrong. We are fucking sick and there’s no cure for the type of disease we have. There’s no cure except for this, no cure except to die, but I don’t want that to happen.
I growl into Angeline’s ear. “You can’t fucking die,” I say, throaty and rough. “I’m not going to let you die. I forbid you from fucking dying, love. I’ll fucking kill you if you die.”
Yeah, fuck off. That makes no sense. Fuck you. She’s been hurt enough. I’m not going to let this shit happen anymore. We all get hurt. We hurt people and we get hurt. I’m tired of it. I don’t want to hurt people anymore. I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry.
I don’t know who the fuck to pray to. No one in their right mind would ever listen to me.
