Short Story ~~ Nine

Well, another contest, another loss. C’est la vie.

But, you know what that means: I get to post it here for you all to enjoy!

***Warning***

This story describes torture and implications of sexual violence. If you are sensitive to such material, it’s recommended you refrain from reading this story.

~~~~~~

Nine

 

A groan, half-awake and filled with pain, echoed in the small room. When Carter tried to move his hands to clutch his aching skull, they wouldn’t move. His dove gray eyes shot wide, and his heart immediately began pounding as adrenaline rushed through his system like a spring flood in a small river. Even the low light coming from everywhere and nowhere was too bright, and stabbed through his eyes straight to his brain. With his mouth dry as cotton and hanging open as he pulled in one ragged breath after another, his first thought was that he somehow managed to paralyze himself following his bender the night before. He turned his head to the right, his scalp scraping against something cold and unyielding, and it wasn’t relief that washed through him when he saw the manacle. All the muscles in his body went rigid at once.

His eyes darted to look down the length of his well-muscled and naked chest, but there wasn’t enough give across his shoulders for him to see his legs. He tried to tuck his knees, but the sharp bite of metal at his ankles told him all he needed to know. He was spread-eagle, chained down, and the cool air on his skin pointed to him being totally naked.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

His head snapped around at the calm, female voice on his left, but they must have been just out of sight, because he couldn’t see her.

“Who the fuck are you, and where the fuck am I?” he shouted, but his dry throat had the words dissolving into a less than intimidating coughing fit. He tried to swallow what little moisture he had in his mouth to get it to stop, but there was nothing for it. He’d drank way too much last night and was well beyond dehydrated.

Out of nowhere a hand touched his forehead, and he jerked away in response.

“Stay still,” the same voice said, but there was no irritation. In fact, the voice remained level, and there was absolutely no inflection whatsoever.

Two warm, dry hands touched on either side of his face, and this time he didn’t try to get away. He opened his eyes, but despite the dizziness and pounding in his skull, he was able to lock gazes with the owner of the voice. Of course, that was all he could see. A black hood from a hoodie covered everything from above their blond eyebrows up. Everything below their cobalt blue eyes was covered in one of those face masks that bikers or snowboarders wore.

Even weirder than their attire, though, was the fact their eyes matched their voice: cool, calm, and no emotion to be found. That wasn’t to say their eyes were lifeless, like a doll’s. No, there was intelligence and an assessing sort of look. Between the eyes and the manacles, Carter’s heart picked up more speed, and another wave of dizziness caused his stomach to roil. He closed his eyes, and his head involuntarily leaned into one of the hands, as he tried to steady himself.

“Skin cool and dry. Sunken eyes. Dizziness. I’d say you’re severely dehydrated. I have something to help with that,” she said.

Then the warmth was gone from his face, and small, rummaging sounds came from somewhere in the room. Carter tried to lick his cracked lips, but the sharp edges of skin merely scraped along his dry tongue. Maybe they were bringing him water. The small patter of liquid hitting the ground grew closer, and he swallowed in anticipation.

Something wet and rough slapped down over his face, and he went from being dry as a desert to drowning in the blink of an eye. He thrashed as much as the restraints would allow, trying to throw the cloth from his face. Trying to breath. He couldn’t scream out loud, but it echoed in his mind. Nothing helped. There was no escape as she poured an endless stream of water over the cloth. Darkness ate the edge of his thoughts, sending him careening toward blessed unconsciousness. Just as he was about to fall over that edge, the cloth was gone.

This time when he coughed, they were wet, hacking things that burned in his lungs and made his chest ache.

“Better?” the voice asked after his coughing had quieted down.

He squinted his eyes open to see her hovering over him again. He scowled and bared his teeth.

“You crazy fucking bitch!” he screamed, his throat raw and agonizing. He tried to spit at her, but it just dribbled over his lips and onto his chin.

The cloth appeared in his vision again, and his eyes went wide as saucers. He pulled against the manacles, hoping some of the water had wet his skin enough for him to slip free, but no such luck. His skin burned where the metal tore it further, having already scraped most of it away in his struggle from being waterboarded.

Instead of placing it over his face, though, she wiped the spittle from his chin. On instinct, he turned his head to bite at her hand, but his teeth snapped shut on nothing but air.

“You stupid fucking whore! Let me go!” he raged at her when his attack was unsuccessful.

Her eyes appeared over him again, meeting his. Still assessing.

“It’s not time for that yet,” was all she said. Then she was gone again.

His head dropped back down to the smooth stone of the table as he tried to sort through his bewildered thoughts. Nothing made sense. He didn’t know how he got here, who the weird chick was, or why she had him strapped down to an old ass sacrificial altar.

Let me go!

It’s not time for that yet.

Was she going to let him go? Did he just need to tough this out? She came back into his field of vision, staring deep into his eyes again.

“Don’t fight,” she said, and held up a black-handled, double-edged dagger.

Those words, combined with the color of her eyes, and what he assumed was the color of her hair from her eyebrows, sent his heart tripping along. He didn’t know why, but it had nothing to do with the weapon in her hand. That was, until she slowly sliced through the flesh on the inside of his left bicep.

“God damnit! What the fuck do you want?” he screamed, but she didn’t stop.

“I want for nothing here, Carter Moore,” she said, still nothing in her voice as she lifted the knife from the wound. She examined the blood as it dripped along the short length of it, and turned her gaze to him from over the edge. “I am here for the same reason you are here: necessity. You need me, just as much as I need you.”

She knew his name. Giddiness bubbled inside of him and broke out from his throat in a nervous, incredulous laugh.

“I’m stuck with a psycho stalker who thinks we’re soulmates, and she’s going to cut me to little pieces. What kind of fucked up bullshit have I walked into?”

“Soulmates?” she asked, and paused. “Interesting perspective. I suppose, in some way, we are meant to be here together. In this time and place.”

“Oh, God, you’re insane,” he said with a groan, which morphed into a scream when she drew the blade along his skin again. This one was an inch away from the first, and moving toward his elbow.

This continued on, and on. She’d cut, move an inch, and when she ran out of space she moved to the other side of the limb. She avoided any arteries. She also never cut so deep that he bled profusely enough for him to hope he’d bleed to death, and end this nightmare. Not that he wanted to die, of course, but his body was on fire from the shallow-cut nerves, and his mind was a delirious whirlwind of her words.

Each time she moved from one limb to the next, she’d stop, look him in the eyes, and say; “It’s not time for that yet.”

When he struggled, she’d say; “Don’t fight.”

When he’d pause in his screaming and cursing her to the depths of Hell, she’d respond with; “You need this.”

The first statement kept a thread of hope thrumming through him, but with each scream his throat grew rawer, until his voice was too hoarse for them anymore. The times he managed to pass out before she stopped in time to keep it from happening, she’d wake him with a cool cloth to the forehead. After the second waterboarding session, he did his best not to appear dehydrated or thirsty.

By the time she finished both arms, one leg, a foot, and had started on the next, he was shivering uncontrollably. He’d long ago puked up what was left in his stomach from the night before, and what little bile he had. She’d wordlessly cleaned him up.

But it was the other two statements, more than her torture, that left a lingering unease worming its way through his scattered thoughts. They mixed with flashes of blue eyes, and strands of blond hair ghosting between his fingers.

It was at the second cut along the arch of his foot that did it.

“P-please,” he said, teeth chattering, the word barely more than a whisper, and shuddering.

When it fell from his lips, the knife stopped. Even though he couldn’t see her, there was a stillness from where she was. A complete absence of mobility that was more like a void in space, as opposed to a person not moving.

“What did you say?” she asked, her face so close to his foot her breath tickled along his skin.

Tensing all the muscles in his body to stop the shaking for a moment, he forcefully said from between gritted teeth; “Please,” expelling the word in one go. “Stop.”

She stood, her eyes meeting his from down the length of his bloodied body. Unlike the usual, assessing gaze he was accustomed to, this time it held a weight. His chest grew steadily heavier with each passing moment, until his breathing stopped. It was in that moment, when he couldn’t draw another breath, that the final thread of hope withered and burned away in his mind.

Then, from that second to the next, he could breathe again. He sucked in great gulps of air, nearly choking. What little moisture he had went to his eyes as they watered, and he hadn’t thought his chest and lungs could be in any more pain. He’d been wrong.

It was then that someone giggled.

He cracked open one eye to look at the woman, but her eyes were back to their usual, and there was no movement from her face to indicate it’d been her.

“Oh, Sister, you always do such lovely work,” a young voice said behind him, coming from where the woman at his feet initially appeared.

“My work is only possible through you, Sister,” the woman said, inclining her head, and looking beyond him.

Another giggle. “Such flattery.”

“Still, what are you doing here? It’s time for him to move on. He’s been made ready,” she said, and tilted her head.

Then a girl came into view on his left. She was in her late teens, wearing a flowing, green dress accentuating her curves, and could certainly be the sister of the woman. Her curling, blond hair was loose about her shoulders. The only difference was, this girl was full of life. Personality. And at the moment, she was pouting.

“I wanted to send him on his way with you. You know how much I enjoy these ones,” she said, moving closer to the table. Her hips came flush against the stone, right above his arm. She turned her face to him, skin at the corner of her eyes crinkled with mirth and her eyes themselves dancing. She bit her lip.

Something about her raked along his consciousness. It was almost as painful as her nails digging into his arm as she dragged them across the sliced flesh from wrist to upper arm.

“Sister,” the older one admonished as he screamed.

“Who are you people?” He sobbed.

They both went still in the same way the woman had earlier. As though his words were some kind of switch thrown within them.

“Don’t you remember?” the younger one purred. She shifted to face his head, and leaned over.

He gave a small shake of his head, unable to speak, his airway constricted.

She put her mouth to his ear. “Perhaps you want a reminder then,” she teased, and licked his ear lobe. “Come on, Baby, don’t be like that. You know you want it. You need this. Don’t fight,” she whispered.

The phrases rippled through his mind, as though the words were stones and his thoughts a pond.

The girls. The abandoned trestle bridge not far from the old quarry. The shattering of one beer bottle after another on the rocks of the creek’s embankment. Stroking himself to completion as the events with the most recent girl played over and over his mind. Taking her from the parking lot at knife-point, the blade leaving a small, shallow cut through the fabric of her dress and in her skin. Her wide blue eyes. Matted, wet blond hair from his fist holding her beneath the water. Cold, blue lips, forever parted but never again to draw breath.

The new mystery girl moved her face so it was inches from his. Their eyes locked. He fell into her gaze, spiraling, until he wasn’t looking at her face, but his own. He’d recognize that sneer anywhere. Heat filled the other’s eyes, and his own laugh rumbled eerily through the body his mind was trapped in. The other him leaned down, and he struggled to get away, but couldn’t. The other was just too strong.

“You need this, Baby. Don’t fight.”

Carter screamed as every horror he visited upon those girls was paid back in full. From abduction to death. For all nine of them.

Then he was back, gazing up into the younger one’s face. He met her smile with tears and terror.

“Who are you?” he whispered, the words carrying a foreboding that was heavier than lead.

“We’ve been known by many names over the years,” the older one said. “Spirits of vengeance. Maiden, Mother, and Crone…” she trailed off.

“Or Judge,” the younger one whispered, and nuzzled his cheek with hers as he whimpered.

“Jury,” the older one said.

She pulled back the hood, and pulled down the face mask. Every time he blinked, her face changed, cycling from one of Carter’s victims to the next. Not as they were in life, but as they appeared in death.

The older ones were in various stages of rot, all the soft tissue of the face gone because of the carrion feeders. Teeth were exposed with a few missing, caught in an eternal, ghoulish grin, the gums black with decay.

The more recently deceased still held an echo of the ethereal beauty they had in life, but their skin was pale, and they watched him with white, filmy eyes.

“And Executioner,” a new voice rasped, like sawgrass rubbing against itself in the night wind.

Carter shuddered. The new voice penetrated to his core, and his bones ached.

In the wake of that proclamation, a third woman appeared behind Jury. Her spine was bent with age, and the determined thud of her gnarled, wooden staff on the floor echoed as she made her way to the table. Her skin was wrinkled, and her thin-lipped mouth was a severe line across her face. She wore a black cloak, and wisps of white hair lay across her shoulders. There was a black blindfold across her eyes, but Carter knew there was nothing she missed.

“You were taken from the mortal realm by our youngest Sister,” the Crone said.

He looked at the younger one, who grinned and wiggled her fingers at him in a small wave. “I couldn’t wait to meet you, so I took you early! The girls had told us so much about you,” she said, her grin broadening to a manic level.

He grimaced in response, and returned his attention to the Crone.

“We do not generally condone such actions,” the Crone said, admonishing the younger one, “but it was deemed appropriate that you surrender your few remaining months in light of your behavior. A form of expedited karma, if you will.”

She lifted the staff, and when the butt came down thunder rumbled through the chamber. “Your soul has been Judged and found wanting. The Jury has made it ready. It is time, Carter Moore,” she intoned, and leveled the considerable weight of her attention on him. “Choose. Remain here in the care of my Sisters for eternity, for your soul is not fit to reenter the Cycle. Or, surrender yourself to me, and cease your existence forevermore.”

Judge, Jury, and…Executioner.

It’s time.

Don’t fight.

You need this.

There was a fine trembling running through his body, down to what there was of his soul. “Yes,” he whispered to the Crone, “take me.”

This time, she gripped the staff with both hands and lifted it from the ground. “So Mote it Be,” she said, her voice wielding the very essence of Creation and Destruction. Beautiful and terrifying in its power. She brought the staff down, and there was a flash of intense, bright light, followed by a crack. When the light dimmed, the table was broken in half, and Carter Moore was gone.

The younger one pouted. “It’s never fun when they choose to leave.”

“As though we don’t already have plenty to tend to,” the middle one stated, and then sighed.

A warm breeze blew through the room, and her appearance changed, along with that of the younger sister. Between them they were all women, spanning the past, present, and future of the world. When the wind died down, nine women were gathered around the altar, and nine sets of blue eyes were fixed on it.

“The contract is fulfilled,” the younger one said, and this time her smile was bittersweet.

“Balance must be maintained,” the middle one said, her smile as gentle as April rain.

“So Mote it Be,” the Crone said again, but this time the power was tender, and wrapped lovingly around the spirits like a handmade quilt.

The women, no longer rotting and dead, looked up at the three, silent as the tears streaming down their faces. They all nodded, and then were gone, following Carter Moore into oblivion.

The Crone leaned heavily on her staff, and her gaze fell on the cracked altar. “Humanity is rife with darkness, Sister; fear not. There will always be more,” she rasped, and then they, too, were gone.

Writing Prompt: (Graphic) Sometimes, the Low Road is More Satisfying

writing-prompt-35

 

Her hair was stringy and greasy, an unwashed, tangled mess of brown hair that was probably once a rich dark chocolate, but was now lackluster. The rope only allowed enough slack for her to stand on the balls of her feet, and the muscles in her calves twitched and jumped. Her face contorted and a small whimper escaped her throat, like a rabbit flushed from a bush, and she lifted her legs up enough to flex her feet.

“Cramps,” she said, breathless from the agony.

“Wh-where am I?” he asked, surveying the small, metal box of a room. The dark gray walls ran with some kind of green mold intermixed with rust stains, like someone threw water on a particularly drab watercolor painting. A slow, steady trickle of water ran from the ceiling down toward a drain in the center of the room. Patches of dark red were splattered here and there, as though someone had taken a can of paint and tossed it about to add color.

There was a quivering spot, just below his sternum, that whispered, ‘That’s not paint.’ He resolutely turned his head, straining his neck to watch her, and waited for her response.

She shrugged, an interesting movement given her position. “I don’t know. I’ve been here a while,” she said, her voice raspy from disuse and thirst.

The end of her sentence echoed eerily against the walls, and should not have been possible in the tiny space. Her words thrummed through his mind, familiar in their cadence, and he tried to dig the memory out from the haze of his mind like a particularly obstinate rock from the dirt.

He turned his eyes away, not wanting to see his horror reflected in the muted despair and surrender of her dull hazel eyes.

“Don’t like it much, do you?” she asked, her voice changing from the consistency of gravel to the purr of a high-end sports car.

It snapped his head around like someone in a movie breaking a neck.

She was changed. No longer bound, she walked over to him, swaying her full hips. Jeans with artful rips in all the right places, and a v-neck, sleeveless coral shirt that shimmered in the low light that came from nowhere, yet everywhere, clung to her. She also wore a white, half-sleeve cardigan, and her hair was in in a messy carousel braid, hanging over her left shoulder and ample breast. Her strappy, caramel brown sandals had beads over the top of her foot, and revealed feet tanned to the color of Kahlua and Cream, just like the rest of her smooth skin.

His mouth went dry, and his heartrate picked up, beating against his rib cage like a man desperate to be released. He clenched his fists against the painful tightening in his jeans, and he licked his lips.

“Untie me, and you’ll find out just how much I like it,” he fairly growled.

She laughed, low and cruel, running her hands mockingly over her breasts and hips. “What, you don’t remember me?” Then she paused. “Or this?” she asked, and ran her finger over the tip of her tongue, and slowly pulled her lower lip down.

Then she pouted, and moved closer, until her breath was hot on his skin, even through the thin material of his blue cotton shirt; the one he’d picked because it matched his baby blue eyes.

“I thought I’d made more of an impression on you…” she trailed off, looking away.

His mind raced, still trying to place her, but it eluded him in the same way a nightmare dissipated upon waking. In fact, it gave him an uneasy sensation in his gut, much in the same way greasy food sat uneasily on a bottle of his favorite rum.

“I mean, a girl doesn’t get much closer to someone than being killed by him,” she whispered, and her eyes turned back to his, no longer hazel, but eyeless with the angry yellowish-red of lava in the center of the pits, and surrounded by the black of volcanic sand. Blood mixed with her mascara and ran in crooked lines down her cadaverous skin.

He jerked back. “What the fuck?!”

She tsk’d. “Such language. Though what did I expect from you? Certainly not this,” she said, and stepped back. Like magic, blood ran like a river from the corners of her mouth, and she opened it wide to reveal no teeth and her tongue cut out. She held it in a hand devoid of fingers from the second knuckle onward, replaced from that point on with sickly green, scaly fingers tipped with razor sharp obsidian nails. It was as though her human hands were merely fingerless gloves for something far worse hiding beneath. All her hair had been clumsily shorn, leaving clumps as an insult to her former beauty.

Her shirt sat oddly flat against her chest, as both of her breasts had been cut off, and blood soaked through the shirt. It fell from the hem in a slow, steady drip, and splattered on the floor in the softest of patters. The crotch of jeans was soaked through, too, and all down the inseam of her pants.

Recognition slammed through him like a bullet through the gut, and his breath caught.

She hadn’t been his first, or even his tenth. Not for him or his knife. He’d kept her chained in that box for weeks, prolonging the torture for as long as possible. First he’d taken her hair, removing the braid she’d played with coyly on their date, her tears of shame and humiliation making her makeup run almost as fast as she had when he’d taken her. After raping her more times than even he kept track of, and breaking her spirit to pieces smaller than eye could see, he’d stabbed her where all women were filthy and tried to control men. But not him. After that, there was no more amusement for him, so he’d untied her and made sure the police couldn’t identify her remains; his final act of control over all of them.

How was he to know the road to his favorite dumping ground had been washed out in the heavy rains, as his windshield wipers labored to keep up with the downpour? When the water swept across the road and took him into the river, it forced him to be the one to feel the fear he’d inflicted on others, as a force beyond his control took his life.

He choked on the remembrance of the river, and his eyes widened as he couldn’t look away from her gaze.

“Good, you do remember.” Then she smiled, her mouth full of brand-new, needle-like teeth, and a longer, prehensile tongue grew from the stub of the old, like watching a vine lengthen in fast-motion. When she ran it hard over his cheek, it tore flesh away as though it were made of shark’s skin, and she laughed as he screamed in pain.

“Stop!” he demanded, his emotions a maelstrom of fear and anger.

“But you didn’t, did you?” she asked, and pouted again, though this time it didn’t have the same effect on him. “You know, when I died they offered me a nice place for the rest of eternity, or I could join you here, and wallow in this miserable pit, but I would have my revenge.” She paused, as her smile grew even wider. “Taking the high road is overrated.” Then she straightened her fingers and stabbed her nails into his crotch, closing her fist and ripping everything away, flesh and clothing alike.

He howled like the winds of a tornado bearing down on a town, and thrashed against his bonds. She shoved her severed human tongue in his mouth, cutting him off, and he gagged against the cold, slimy flesh. Vomit hitting the back of his throat like a jab. But when the first icy touch of water met the flesh of his feet, he cracked open a tear-filled eye. The room was filling with murky water, fast, and pooled around his ankles. His panic spiked higher as the water level increased, and all she could do was laugh.

She grabbed his handsome face, her nails now stabbing the flesh of his cheeks, and pulling his chin down to look in her eyes again.

“You shouldn’t give it all up on the first date,” she crooned, throwing his words from their first ‘date’ back at him, like hot oil from a frying pan. “We’re going to have so much fun.” Then she rent the flesh of his face as he cried out around the tongue, blood, and water choking him.

The last thing he heard was her chuckling, the sound falling like heavy stones in his mind and against his flesh, and then all went black. He couldn’t breath, and his lungs burned with the water and blood that made its way past his constricted throat.

Again, her voice echoed in the dark, and it was then, for the first time, he knew their fear. The fear of the never ending. Of an eternity of pain.

Good, she whispered. There were times her dance with his pain was fast, like a quickstep, while others were slower, like a samba. Even though she’d given up the chance to be in a better place, sometimes revenge was enough.