by Rick Wood
“Do you want to touch my breasts?” she asks.
I do, but I don’t.
“I thought you found fucking me to be a deplorable act?”
She shrugs.
“I just want to feel a bit of love before I die.”
Now she removes her knickers.
An entirely shaved pussy stares back at me, wanting to be touched, wanting my cock, wanting me to thrust and pound it until she screams out in pain or pleasure, either one I do not care.
She gets to her knees.
She opens her mouth.
I am not about to risk that.
I am not about to be fooled.
So I approach her and I put my hand around her neck and I move her onto her back.
She puts her hands above her head and her chest stretches and her breasts fall succinctly to the side. A painting of exquisite beauty would not match the sight.
I undo my belt and I bring my stiff cock out and she looks at it and I move it lower.
“Turn me over,” she says.
“What?”
“Turn me over. Do it like you always did. I want you to hurt me.”
“What?”
“I want to feel the pain again. I want you to thrust it into me as hard as you can. I want to feel it on my insides.”
I do as she wishes.
I turn her over.
I spread her legs.
And I thrust my cock in as hard as it will go, and as far inside of her as it will reach.
And I scream.
And I pass out.
BACK WHEN
Back when you were still asleep.
Back when I took the bleach and I put it in your breakfast.
Back when I left the bleach on the side, I knew I’d need a backup plan.
I knew you would not resist me.
It’s your carnal sexuality that overrides your need to kill.
It’s the only weapon I truly have against you.
You are attracted to my adolescent body so much it will outdo any wish you have to murder me.
You will get to the murder, yes, but first you will not miss up an opportunity for a final fuck.
I heard you get up. I heard you step out of the bed and wonder where I was.
And I knew I needed something else, just in case.
That’s when I opened the cutlery drawer.
That’s when I saw it.
Back when you were walking down the first set of stairs.
Back when I heard you so far off in such a big house.
Back when I decided to do whatever it took to survive.
I took the corkscrew from the drawer.
I felt its sharp, pointed, painful edge. A small circumference with a twisted screw that could pierce wood. Long, metal and twisted, that would push through a cork just as it could push through you.
I was wearing nothing but your shirt.
And it makes you want me.
So I took the corkscrew and I spread my legs and I reached inside of myself and I pushed it in.
It hurt, Gerry.
It really hurt.
I was dry and it scraped my insides, but I heard you approaching.
I heard you reach the bottom step.
Back when you paused to look around.
Back when you wondered where I was.
Back when you made your way toward the kitchen.
That was when I was reaching my fingers further, pushing further, and placing it so far in I knew it would not come out.
And you came in.
And you saw the bleach bottle I left out and I hated myself for it and I knew I was going to die.
But I knew I had a chance.
Back when you saw me as you spoke to the cops.
Back when you put me in the car.
Back when you knew you had me.
That was when I was resolved.
To death, or for one last fuck.
But this fuck would be the last fuck you ever gave me.
No more, Gerald.
No more.
You took the bait and you thrust in as deep and hard as you could, not just because I requested it, but because that’s what you like to do.
Your face… When the long piece of metal, spiralling and sharp, went straight down your shaft… As you thrusted in as hard as you could and forced it through you…
I finally understood what it was you enjoyed so much about seeing someone’s face in pain.
You like to hurt me.
And now I hurt you.
Those prickly edges caught you and you had to pull away and the blood fell out of me, but this time, it was not my blood that poured down my legs.
My legs were painted red, but it was not my paint.
It was yours, and you squirmed.
Back when I should have killed you.
Back when I took the knife.
Back when you passed out from the pain in an instant and I put the knife to your throat and pressed.
But I am not like you, Gerald.
I am not a killer.
Even you, the bastard who has destroyed me, has changed me for life, has given me trauma that I will never recover from – I could not.
Back when I put the tip against your throat and pleaded with myself to end it.
Back when I told myself you deserved it, that I wouldn’t be put in prison for it.
Back when I realised you had so much money that your luck would find a way out of it.
So I dropped the knife.
And I looked at you for one final time.
A crotch soaked in blood. A sight so satisfying.
You’ll never touch me again, Gerald.
Never.
I am going to run and not look back.
I am going to leave and never say a word.
I am going to be the burden that makes you worry every day.
Back when I thought keeping silent was the best thing to do.
Back when I watched you sleeping, just as I do now.
Back when I wished you dead, and now when I can’t do it.
Goodbye, Gerald.
We will never meet again.
Back when I thought this to be true.
Back when I escaped.
Back when I didn’t realise that you would never relent.
When I didn’t know there was no goodbye.
The curtains have closed.
The sentence has ended.
The book has finished.
The final full stop is here, Gerald.
It’s this one right now.
Back when I ran.
Back when I stopped crying.
Back when I never gave up.
39
Well, that was a climax, wasn’t it?
I mean, not for me, but for the story.
I guess that’s the end then.
Goodbye.
40
That’s not really good enough for you, though, is it?
If I left the story there you would be left wholly unsatisfied. You would take to the customer review section of whatever platform you have acquired this book through and write something such as this book ended right where I did not want it to, putting your opinion in writing so as to validate it somehow, writing with the self-entitlement all reviews, professional or otherwise, seem to have.
Chances are you are already going to take to the customer review section to complain about the violence or the sick and twisted and unethical management of the book’s subject matter.
But I warned you about that in chapter one, did I not?
What, you thought I was kidding?
But that is not what I am addressing here. You have your opinion that you will undoubtedly express, and I could not care less.
I assume that there are other numerous unanswered questions I should address in this, the ultimate chapter of my first memoir, are there not?
I will attempt to guess the questions you wish to have answered, and I will do my best to address them – as a human mind c
an never deal with not knowing the answers.
That is why you invent gods, after all.
So my prediction is that you wish to know about the following, which I shall lay out here in a standard bullet point formatting:
My dick
Mark
Lisa
Officer Ian
Flora
And we will start with the first of those subjects, the most important and valuable one of them all – my dick.
Well, I woke up in the field with a pool of blood around my crotch.
(And no Flora – but that is inevitably the last point on my bullet point list, so I will address it in good time. My appendage is a far more important matter than the petulant sexual deviant who, quite literally, fucked me over.)
I did attend a hospital, of course, not wanting to leave permanent damage to the one part of my body I truly cannot live without.
The hospital asked questions, and I gave them the answers they needed.
I was doing a prank to impress my friends at a party.
It was late and I was sweaty and it was enough to make them believe me.
They stitched me up and I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me, dear voyeur, my dick will live to fuck another day.
Mark never turned up.
I mean, of course he wouldn’t, a bunch of pigs ate him – but no one knows that but me and the soon-to-be-addressed Flora.
The police say they have not abandoned their investigation, but they are taking more and more resources away from it as they find the search for answers increasingly futile.
The family have since hired a private investigator to continue the investigation, that I have funded, who has also come up with very little. They thanked me greatly for supplying the money that allows them to retain their hope.
The mother spoke in a press conference, months after the disappearance, that she very much believes her son is alive, and will one day return home.
She remains a deluded imbecile.
Lisa’s body was identified by myself, and the police confirmed that she drowned, and, after a few enquiries, and details of the depression she had been suffering from that I had falsely given them, they concluded that it was suicide.
The youths who stabbed Officer Ian Darling were never found, and his history of depression also led to the police believing it was suicide. However, they are still following leads and are yet to conclude the investigation. I have been contacted for further questioning following my statement, which was concluded to the police’s satisfaction.
I have also donated money to a charity that helps people in the emergency services and armed forces that have depression.
And, finally, Flora.
Ah, Flora.
This is the one you want to know about, isn’t it?
Well, in the weeks following her untimely getaway, no police ever showed up at my door, no journalist ever printed a story about me, and no claims were made that would stop everyone believing I am the charitable billionaire that they know I am.
She quite evidently seems to have disappeared.
But I have not given up hope.
Yes, she has remained quiet, most likely out of fear, or maybe as some kind of unspoken deal between us that, should she never speak of what happened, I will never come after her.
My dear voyeur, I must tell you, that I do not agree to such a deal.
See, these people who claim that they were abused, as they term it, by people of similar relations, rarely come clean straight away.
It is in the years, or even decades, afterwards, in which the revolutions are made.
And I have no doubt that, someday, should she live, I will get that knock on my door.
I will get that journalist writing their article.
And I will get that charitable billionaire reputation besmirched.
And that is why I cannot allow her to live.
And that, my dear, dear, voyeur, my acquaintance through prose, my friend of no face – is why I hunt her like a farmer hunts a fox.
I track her and I search for her and I go everywhere I think she will go.
Not for revenge.
She did what she did because she was cunning, because she learnt from the best, and my penis survived the inevitable trauma she caused it.
It is because I wish to carry on doing this for as long as I live, and I will not do this from a prison cell.
And, as long she is alive, I am in that prison cell.
Not literally, of course, my house is far grander than incarceration, as you well know.
But I cannot kill and I cannot feed my needs until she is caught, so I know that I am safe from unwanted consequences.
And now, dear voyeur, I would like to stop addressing you in the final words of this memoir.
I would, instead, like to address Flora.
My darling, darling Flora.
Flora, to which I gave so much adoration, only to be met with hate and resistance.
I don’t care where you are.
I don’t care what you are doing.
And I don’t care who you are fucking.
I will come after you.
I will get you.
And I will tear your limbs off and expose your insides.
I promise you, Flora, with everything I have.
Wherever you are.
Whatever you are thinking.
I will find you, Flora.
I swear it.
I will find you.
Would you like two books for free?
Join Rick’s Reader’s Group at www.rickwoodwriter.com/sign-up
Have you read Shutter House?
Download the book that inspired this prequel…
Also Available
Also by Rick Wood
The Sensitives:
Book One – The Sensitives
Book Two – My Exorcism Killed Me
Book Three – Close to Death
Book Four – Demon’s Daughter
Book Five – Questions for the Devil
Book Six - Repent
Book Seven - The Resurgence
Chronicles of the Infected
Book One – Finding Her
Book Two – Finding Hope
Book Three – Finding Home
Shutter House
Shutter House
Prequel Book One - This Book is Full of Bodies
Cia Rose:
Book One – After the Devil Has Won
Book Two – After the End Has Begun
Book Three - After the Living Have Lost
Standalones:
When Liberty Dies
I Do Not Belong
Death of the Honeymoon
Sean Mallon:
Book One – The Art of Murder
Book Two – Redemption of the Hopeless
The Edward King Series:
Book One – I Have the Sight
Book Two – Descendant of Hell
Book Three – An Exorcist Possessed
Book Four – Blood of Hope
Book Five – The World Ends Tonight
About the Author
Rick Wood is a British writer born in Cheltenham.
His love for writing came at an early age, as did his battle with mental health. After defeating his demons, he grew up and became a stand-up comedian, then a drama and English teacher, before giving it all up to become a full-time author.
He now lives in Loughborough, where he divides his time between watching horror, reading horror, and writing horror.
Copyright © 2019 by Rick Wood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
I LIKE<
br />
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
I AM
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
WEAKNESS IS
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
I HAVE TO
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
I COULD
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
I KNOW
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
I MADE THE MISTAKE
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
I WHISPER
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
BACK WHEN
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Would you like two books for free?
Have you read Shutter House?
Also Available
