"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.