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melodrama-ticcc · 6 months ago

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— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐗

𝐄𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙄𝙛 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠𝙨!

𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘺.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵘʳᵈᵉʳ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ʳᵃᵖᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ˢᵘⁱᶜⁱᵈᵉ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ.

—

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞. 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢��𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝.

—

Strange, the way the catalyst of soul festers in her like the plague, decaying and rotten, rancid and ugly. Like a hollow corpse left to bleach in the sun, half blackened and infested with maggots and worms. The sounds of bugs twisting and crawling against moist rotted flesh filling the hot, wet air, cooking in the scorching heat of a Texan sun. The vultures long since had their way with it, the torn bits of matter ripped from ivory bone an indication of such. It tore down just as much as it built up, with the sun setting the moon rising, and then, peace.

Not even he could discern what festered up in that head of her’s, not even daddy, not even nobody, nobody at all.

And yet, he believes he does, and tries to anyways. Watching the gears twist and turn like clockwork, and her expression scrunch up in an endearing and bittersweet manner. Her brows tilted downward in some fervent way, a scowl, perhaps she’d seen something she disliked.

He wears his own look stern, as he studies her thoroughly from the driver’s seat of that old white pick up truck. Her gaze flickering too and fro, not sparing him so much as a glance. He liked that about her.

“Gotta lotta floozies, don’t it?”

“Easy targets, can’t do shit when they ain’t care so much as a penny.”

“Thought you liked a challenge?”

“Tch.” The scent of chewing tobacco is thick, as Johnny spits it out the window. The muffled sound of metal clinking as the truck shifts with his weight fills the cabin, which billows slightly, before the latch on the door snaps open and his boots hit the marsh below. With the slam of the door Becca stares at him, inquisitive, and curious. It’s only when he saunters around the front of the truck and opens her door that he looks to her, a stern apparition over his features as he lifts her from the seat — hands planted firmly on either side of her waist — as he places her upright above the ground. Their bodies shielded by the cold metal door he holds her there, a knowing look in those eyes. It’s the same notion that gives her butterflies and makes her heart work a little harder, throbbing with the faint nose of tobacco and stale cigarette smoke, one which she’d become enthralled with, addicted to. One might say she was smitten, and yet, her feminine fragility proved far stronger than that. Infatuated, but not without self respect. Stubbornness faired a good fight in her.

And still the strong burly grip he has on her waist is intoxicating, drawing her in slowly with lingering dominance and enticement. As with his hardened gaze, one which she meets with a bitter sentiment. Her hands can’t seem to find comfort, longing for the rough touch of his skin, settling for the top of his chest. Clad in the same black cotton he typically frequented.

“Now you listen here, this how it’s gonna go. You gon’ get in there and wait about five minutes for me to show up. I want yer’ eyes peeled, you watch me, I give you a sign and you head out and hide nice and quiet in that backseat. Ain’t so much as a peep outta you, watch and learn you got that? And so help me God if I see any of those snotty ass university boys so much as look your way, I’ll park yer ass in this truck so fast it’ll make yer head spin.”

“Thought I was ‘spost to be learnin’, the hell is sittin’’n lookin’ pretty gonna do?”

“Yer gonna have to trust me on that darlin’, ain’t much else to it.” He can’t tell, but by the looks of her soured face it seems he’d have a begrudging agreement.

“You aughtta learn, now we got an understandin’?”

“Obliged.”

“Right, so get on in there would ya’ and quit wastin’ time.”

“Johnny boy I swear I’ll turn you purple if you ain’t watch that tongue with me, quit it. I’m goin’ already.” The pop of her pink bubblegum punctuates her anger, only to be adorned with the ornery smacks of her muddied boots against the damp soil.

Loud and dark, with the old country music blaring so loud she can feel it gurgle her insides the deeper she goes into the place. The dance floor is lined with old whiskey barrels, rotten wood splintering off in jagged pieces and open drinks sitting atop them. The main bar is tucked away towards the back right of the interior, the main floor littered with half drunken sluts making some effort to dance in their daisy dukes and cropped lace tops. Most of them seem to be young, some just out of school and others a little older, and the men lurch out like vipers to sink their teeth into prey. They flounder about with their thumbs up their asses, twaddling to their chosen one with a deviant grin and pint of beer. Others watch from afar, taking it all in and eyeing the high rise of their shorts as they dance, either too ashamed to step foot beyond or attempting to hide the sinful nature that adorned their pants. The dazzling lights of the disco ball flash about the dim room, half the stickers missing from the damned thing. The place was just as ran through as the whores that inhabited it, and she had half a mind to march on out right then and there.

It made her face flush red and the tips of her ears burn, an unsightly appearance to her otherwise pristine features. How could he act so valiant, so stouthearted and worthy, then turn and frequent places like this. It made her sick, made her stomach go in knots and flutter so badly she felt queasy. How could a man so perfect stoop so low, and why did she care so much. It was all most as though her feelings were wounded, and she became offended by the situation entirely. But then again, it hadn’t meant anything. Anyone he’d pick up from this godforsaken place would be dead before the sun came up and the rooster did his morning wake. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling, the residual effects of his trashy taste in women and the eyesore this heinous place was. She was a superior woman than any of these girls were, she knew it too, and still it bothered her.

She sits tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the patrons, sat at the main bar towards that back corner, sipping a glass of Texan whiskey that burns soothingly down her throat. There’s a perfect view from there, one that allots her the ability to make out every single conversation, every casual hookup, every drunken confession, making the place even more difficult to stomach.

Then he walks in, looking like Lucifer when he fell down from heaven and into hell. Striding so faultlessly, as he quickly scouts the place and locks eyes with her. Staring with that starstruck glimmer for a moments time, before he swoops in on the red head drinking by her lonesome near the dance floor. She’s heavily drunk, spitting out non sense about her boyfriend just having broken up with her and losing her girlfriends to some halfwits in the washroom. And Johnny, he’s so smooth, suave and gentlemanly, calm and charismatic and even humorous. Charming surely, and all the while his eyes flick up at her — as if to ensure she’d been watching. His words are sweet and sticky like honey, yet filled with the falsified promises of love and devotion. How easily this girl fell, it made one begin to wonder.

Part of her felt the begrudging bond they shared was unique, special, and another felt obliged to stay true to her initial impression. A devil in disguise, perhaps she’d been just as foolish as these whores and she’d allowed her guard to lower too easily. But then again; the wretched and disgusting things they’d speak about were anything but commonplace. Still, she couldn’t help but feel some feeling of shame and betrayal, the way he so easily picked up women for sport. The feeling was ugly, dark and sinister. Powerful enough to move oceans and tear apart relationships, intense enough to change a person entirely; make them heinous and bitchy. Envy was such a petty thing.

And yet, as he locks eyes with her from that fair distance between them and bites that rough lower lip into a deviant smirk, and gestures his head to bend towards the exit, she obliges his wishes and slams her hands against the damp wood top of the bar, kicking her seat back and stomping out in some fervent fashion. Belligerent enough for his own displeased look to go unnoticed by her fiery persona.

The night would carry on with the pertinacious affair, Johnny domineering their small talk whilst he wowed her with his venomous southern tongue. She sounded like she was from someplace out west, in the valley, maybe. And she’d been all too drunk to comprehend even the faintest hint of what was to come her way. Not even her sweet tone could make up for the brooding makeup she wore or her blatant ditzy character. She was an all out bimbo, frivolous and jocose, the type that made men want to shoot themselves before the night was through, but she was just cute enough to sleep with.

For much of that ride Rebecca sat in back with disgust laced in her features, nestled fully under a blanket with her arms crossed snugly and lip bit. It wasn’t until they neared closer to home that Johnny showed any intent on harming the girl, and she could hear the situation turn violent when he’d bashed her head into something — presumably the dash — before he clicked his tongue and chuckled.

“You see how easy it comes, when they just hand themselves to you like that? Get ‘em to trust ya’, they let their guard down and the next thing you know you got yer self the perfect time to strike. Gives you time to tie ‘em up and get settled.”

Not a word enunciates from those pretty lips, instead taking refuge in the privacy her cover granted her. Resentful and contemptuous she garners the feeling she can handle this on her own, but her gut tells her otherwise, and so the emotion boils over and bludgeons out of her like a bull bucking out it’s cage.

“So you’se the type, huh? Like trashy girls like that, dogs, bitches?” The moonlight shines in through the windshield, enough to illuminate his silhouette through the blanket over her head. Then he removes it from her, turned partially towards the backseat with a less than gracious look.

“Keep runnin’ that mouth of yours, show me yer more trouble than you are worth my time then.” She shifts uncomfortably, sitting up from the floorboards and glaring at him like the devil.

“You tell me why you like these unbearable lil’ sluts, you thinkin’ I’m like them ain’t ya’, a harlot?”

“Jealous, then.”

“Try me.”

“You got some nerve pippin’ up like that darlin’, tch. Thought you’d understand by now givin’ yer up class nature. Why don’t you tell me what you noticed ‘bout this girl, ‘bout all the other girls at that damned bar back there, huh? Might learn a thing or two.”

“The lot of ‘em are no good lil’ hookers who ain’t know so much as a god damn cent of respect, playin’ and caterin’ to these men like idiots. And you, you eat ‘em up ain’t ya’? Love every bit of it.”

“The chase, sure.” Johnny only huffs. “Huntin’ ‘em is fun, it’s good when they get away, gets me all excited. That’s what you aught to learn, as for their acts, they’s real easy to manipulate. Men too, you gotta find the right ones. See what I’m teachin’ you? Balance, find the in between.”

She doesn’t say a word, but her expression softens a tad.

“If you think you’s like that you less smart than I thought, you’d be dead by now if I thought otherwise. And you still playin’ hard to get.”

He says what she already knows, the same things she’s repeated flagrantly in the back of her brain and yet it quells the hotness within her and quiets her thoughts of insecurities, the ones he’d brought up in the first place.

“What’s next?” Johnny only chuckles, shaking his head. He takes her change of tone as an token of her acknowledgement and gesticulates toward the redhead unconscious in the passenger’s seat. Her forehead is bruised something ugly, purple and brown as a trail of blood dribbles from the blow to her head.

“Tie ‘er up. We’ll be home real soon, baby.”

Something foreign, something strange, something rotting in her brain. Noise of cries and scent of blood, bed creaks fast to hammer studs. The girl screams in peril, and yet he remains stern; a dominant man swindled with bedsheets soiled. Her hands are bound by his own, his bare back arched over her, while he defiles her greedily and ruts into her. Then there’s something quiet watching from afar, a quick little stir as the moan seeps out in lawl.

Something about the way he fucks her so selfishly beckons her.

Watching through the creaked door of his shack, in the backyard of his mother’s house.

And just once, she had felt piqued by such an enticing act.

Now was much different.

Something wicked in her. Something demented.

Especially in the way he glides that knife of his against her chest again; watching the thick, pretty blood spill out as her wails of pain mix with his own grunts of pleasure. How might she feign innocence, with her fingers drooping down towards her sopping wet cunt. She can’t help it, she can’t. She’d never felt so aroused before. His bare skin ornamented in blood and a petty slut’s screams of helplessness billowing beneath him. He holds her down unphased, makes it look easy. She couldn’t do a thing to stop him.

And then, he turns to face her.

His eyes fiery like hell, and his grin something unnatural.

It’s a mere glimpse and she’s petrified. Had he seen her?

In floods the guilt, the disgust. A freight train steadfast to a feather, clouding her mind with shame and contempt.

With those fingers prodding at herself in eager anticipation of release.

She isn’t sure whether or not she should feel guilty, Rebecca. But the way in which he cocks his head back in delight enraptures her, tickles her insides, urges her to press on. Then it’s almost as though she regains consciousness, retracting the fingers from her undergarments, and now fueled by envy and guilt.

The cries of their victim grow more desperate, and Johnny licks the blood from his lips before chuckling slightly. His breath is caught in his throat and he buckles. Grunting and panting and eager for release.

She’d not yet understand just how wild it drove him, only that she was guilty for indulging in such sin. So much so it poisoned her mood, she’d been driven mad by the discourse she’d made. How could she be so senseless, so vile? Why, she was no better than them, girls. She loathes it, so much so she feels the need to repent, to make herself suffer and cleanse herself of such impurities. It nearly pushes her over, to where she’d collapse and thwart herself into an insufferable series of denial and self deprecation. How ugly of her.

It’s the anger that keeps her from it.

Only when the knife sinks into skin and the blood spatters him crimson does he find release, and she watches as he cuts into the girl eagerly. With each slash a spray of blood coating the stained walls, as he finishes into her with more punctuated moans. Then, a gurgle of fluid, asphyxiated by her own blood as it bubbles up in her throat. The steel blade stiff in the grain of her neck and the thick pools drawing out of her gushes. Her screams have since become quiet, and instead, Johnny’s gasps for air fill the void as he catches his breath.

A sensation she can only pivot as infectious and dangerous, one he pushes upon her with those lustrous acts of violence and carnage. There’s a lovesick notion to her baby blues, furious with watching him pull out of the corpse on his dirty couch and stand up straight. His bare body coated in sweat and blood, and his eyes looking to her as if to call her over. She’s helpless, a pawn in his little game who’ll fold to his bend and call. How is it, she thinks, how is it that he is so breathtakingly beautiful. And still he elicits the worst in her, as she stands there shaking with terror and rage. The type that always consumes her. How could he do such a thing? A cheater, a playboy, a boy just as much as Matthias. Tears trickle at the edges of her eyes, teetering over the lip. Her body trembles the same way it always did when she was angry or reckless, barely clinging to any form of sanity.

Rebecca struggles to form any sort of word, only grossed out by herself and him. If the furrowing of her brows and coarse stare is any sign of upset he doesn’t take it as such, only smirks that same way he always did.

“You no good piece of shit.” She barges through the door, blinded by her temper. “You’s didn’t tell me you fucked ‘em, you’s horrible, just as bad as any other no good pig.” She grapples him, pushing him backwards. Then points to him like one would scold a child. “I was a fool for ever trustin’ you, I hate you Johnny boy I hate you!” Her voice perpetually raises to a shrill cry, shaky as she chokes back her own vomit. The dreaded feeling regurgitating in the back of her throat. “I can’t even bring myself to look at you.”

“Oh darlin’ come on now,” Johnny can’t help but laugh, adding insult to injury. For her choler festers more violently. The feelings she thought were once dead arise again with a newfound glory; she wants his head on a stick. “Don’t tell me you’re still jealous?” He steps to her, stroking her cheek with his bloodied hand before she smacks it away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t sell ya’ self short now. That’s all they good for.”

“Don’t give me that crap, I’m fed up. You tell me one thing and make me think you’s some prim proper gentleman and you nothin’ but a cheap lil’ scoundrel. Just as no good as the others, I hate it!” She pushes him again.

“You women, always over reactin’.” Johnny sighs. “Sound like my mother now, why you still playin’ hard to get?” Again he approaches her, an attempt to bring her in for a kiss.

“I said don’t touch me!” She screams, slapping him across the face to which earns her a groan. Irascibility fuels the both of them, a bludgeon to each of their indignation. How she snaps, looking hellbent and ghastly and he the epitome of the devil.

“You aughtta listen to me ‘fore I take matters into my own hands.” He corners her, arms forming a cage when he backs her into the wall. An action that quells her outrage, so that the feelings of repugnance and abhorrence may return. She chokes back a sob, and the wretched acid that floods her mouth which she forced back down in disgust. “The fuck is your quarrel bitch, you call me some stupid shit again and you got another thing comin’.” A whisper.

It happens again, and again. The putrid abomination of a word vomit that cultivates itself into reality. She’s made herself sick with repentance, guilt. He does not a single thing to help, while she’s choking back vomit with a hand over her mouth. He watches cruelly, awaiting a response while her body wracks back and fourth with each gag. Only for her to pitifully swallow it back again. Then it stops. Her eyes muddied with old makeup as tears spew down her face.

“You . . .” She says quietly, and it’s then she thinks he enjoys seeing her like this, a pathetic abomination with nothing to show for it. As she writhes in pain and prods at the roots of her hair, her eyes wide and deranged and her head shaking vehemently. “I . . . You.” She swallows so loud it puts the buzzing of that overhead light to shame. “You told me they was sluts, pawns, that I was different. Yet you go and you have sex with ‘em and toss me aside like I’m your trash.”

“You still don’t get it.” He sighs, observes her shaking limbs and less than gracious state, and shakes his head. “That’s all they’s good for, you know that?”

“What the fuck do you want me to believe?”

“Whose still alive, and whose dead?” Johnny’s voice raises to a stern shout. “Theys sluts, whores, floozies, whatever you wanna call ‘em the whole lot of ‘em, and that’s all theys ever gonna be good for. Get it now, darlin’?” The last part is a stab, a passive aggressive attack on her personal reflection. “Drill that into your fuckin’ skull and get on with it. Quit pissin’ me off.” He leans in, and while a part of it clicks for her the stubbornness of her nature over takes the acceptance, and she punctuates her exit with a swift knee to his crotch. One that sends him stumbling back and groaning, looking to her in poignant disbelief.

“I ain’t a slut, don’t touch me.”

He’s still holding himself when she struts out, groaning out in pain and whining like a bitch.

“Try that again and see what happens, you lucky I like you’s!” No response. “You have yer’ ass back here the same time tomorrow, you hear me?” When there’s no reply he finds himself even more irate, throwing about the shack the old glass beer bottles and kicking into the cabinets with hacked off grunts.

Days go by, then weeks, and every night is some derivative of the same routine. They go out late and pick up some senseless little slut, Johnny woos her enough to take her home and the much of the same ensues. Sometimes he’d let Becca stay in the room with him while he fucked them, or let her cut into the bodies and take a portion of the kill, it became more frequent as time passed; he liked watching her do it all most as much as he enjoyed it. And Rebecca is so natural, so seamless in her execution, quick to pick up on the smaller things, and eventually she’s able to rope in some stupid men, too, begrudgingly to Johnny. Who’d never let her tease them too far before stepping in. Despite the bitterness though, he’s proud, excited even, and those weeks prove to be useful to her. Why, even their discourse had all but subsided, and she’d come around to him the way he’s liked her to all along.

She’d learned all but one thing, the thing Johnny always took care of.

She never knew what came of the corpses once they were done with, where Johnny hid or disposed of them. Whether or not he’d thrown them into the lake or buried them someplace out of the way. But she knew he did it damn well, for if it weren’t the blood that painted the rotting wood of his shack there wasn’t a trace of anything at all. Just an unassuming shed in the middle of bumfuck Texas.

Yet within that time was her perpetual inner conflict, one which picked at her each and every time she slipped those fingers into her drawers as she watched him senselessly fuck whore after whore. She learned to understand what Johnny did and why, so much so it was invigorating to her sexual gratification. The one which she all but embraced, but denied with great obstinance. Of everything it was the single most gruesome thing she could not accept; why she enjoyed seeing it so much. The self hatred that fleeted her head each and every time she enjoyed it would pick at her like fleas to rats. She still wasn’t sure if he’d ever realized, but as the weeks went by the antipathy only grew.

She’d painted herself a depiction of some shameless harlot, and couldn’t bare to stand the idea she’d become just as wretched as the girls he adulted with. Some nights she’d cry and scream and tear her hair out, work herself up so much she’d become sick and vomit face first into the toilet. Other times she became numb and would stare blankly into oblivion, nullifying her pathetic existence under the guise of being a no good woman undeserving of his praise. For the first time ever Rebecca found herself entirely horrified by the shell she made herself to be, insecure, and without an ounce of dignity. The repulsion she exudes only made things worse, as she tried uselessly to control herself and the urges, which overtook time and time again, only to send her fumbling back down the rabbit hole which she tried so desperately to climb out of.

There came a time, later, in which a fork in the road permeated itself before her. Progress, call it an epiphany. For that had been the sudden realization of her existence. She felt for the first time in some time some sensibility, a ground to stand on. Her self righteousness and worth still in tact. Yet still, it loomed over her like a storm cloud the Great Plains of Oklahoma. A familiar feeling would make itself known through this, the return of her lost sanctities, no control. Johnny had always stolen that from her, this was no exception. She craved it so much, to withstand herself, her thoughts, her feelings, she could never let go. It would drive her mad trying to do so, so many countless breakthroughs in her perfect little facade.

But why did she take pleasure in it so damn much.

This was the hunch that kept her moving forward with such grace, for what she knew it to be was a secret and nothing more. She’d hide it, for as far as he knew she was the same prim and proper woman he’d taken in. Her struggles were her own to bare, and the sacrifice of her control was one she would live with for the sake of being with him, a real man. That is, until she would pull his strings like she knew she could. And he knew too.

Sometime later, between the late nights with Johnny and the early mornings with her father feeding the cattle, there had been a change in her. Subtle and sweet, a benign switch in which her attention diverted and she found herself day dreaming in a senseless manner out in the hot sun each day. Smiling sweetly at her Johnny as he comes up on the pavement toward the front of the house. And her daddy, fixing on asking her just what the hell had changed between them.

That day she’d been cleaning the house, with plans set on seeing her Johnny that evening and heading out again to go hunting. Her father, half dazed by the days work and covered in mud and dirt clamors in from the foyer, leant up against the frame as he fiddles with the dirt stuck in his nails.

“You look real nice.” His low voice rumbles, as she places the roast atop the oven mats on the table. “Time’s he comin’ along?”

There’s a gentle hum in her cantor, as she seamlessly sets the table and minds her own.

“Any minute now I’d reckon, Johnny boy’s joinin’ us for supper, don’t you remember daddy?”

“Ah,” he glances up. “Y’all been gettin’ along nicely. Seems you’s both . . . close.”

“Yes well, he’s good to me.”

“Wasn’t always that way it seemed. In fact, there was a time you swore it was quite the opposite. Gotta imagine my concern when that’s changed all of the sudden.”

“Ain’t you like Johnny? I thought you’d be happy. ‘Sides, it ain’t, somethin’.”

“Rebecca.” He warns. “He’s a fine young man, and I think he’d do you alotta good, but I’d be lyin’ if I said I ain’t notice a change in you. You seem, well, different. Distracted, I reckon.”

“Why’s that daddy,” she only chuckles.

“Well girl, I’m gon’ tell you summin’ you might not like, but you listen and you listen well here to me. Seems you’ve caught on too quick. You go ‘bout the days without so much as payin’ any mind to this old man of ya’s, and seems that boy of your’s is askin’ to take you out every night. I know you like ‘em, but no matter how grown you’s is you still my lil’ girl. And now, I see that gleam in those eyes like you know summin’ I don’t, and I know damn well you real fond of that young man. But don’t forget where you’s come from, don’t be wait in’ to see ‘em all day, live in the moment.”

Becca’s back turned, a gentle grasp shys from the dish she’s holding.

“Love’s a funny thing ain’t it. Ain’t you tell me I knows when I got the one? Been tellin’ me that an awful long time there, since I was a girl I reckon. Now just ‘cause I ain’t waitin’ on you no more don’t mean I don’t care ‘bout ya’, just means it’s gettin’ time for me to flee the nest. Wouldn’t you say, daddy?”

“Rebecca Payne, you aught to understand i ain’t say things without no reason.” Her words frighten him, and that feeling of familiarity regarding her unstable tendencies pigeons in his gut. “I believe you, I just say be careful. Don’t go ‘n end up like your momma and I-”

“Whatchu just say ‘bout momma?” She’s gripped the glass rim of each side of the dish, planted square on the dining table which he sits. As her eyes make death threats to him and she scowls in bitterness. Hate clouds her vision, a fuzzy memory of what’s buried in the past. Feelings of discourse and guilt, animosity, all chalked up to the horrors in her head. She’d shake fervently, losing control of her body as she trembles violently. That moment she could only see red, crimson. The thick liquid that which made up all things. Pictures of her bloodied limbs sprawl out over her vision, a mad woman, painted in the blood of her friends and foes, as she take the knife to daddy’s skin. And as she makes her face scarlet in sanguine detail, the room falls.

There’s a knock at the door.

“There you are dear, daddy’s at the table. Have a seat ‘n I’ll fix you a plate.” Her sing-songy chime keeps at bay the turmoil within, as she invites Johnny in with a sweet smile.

His cold gaze lurks behind a smile, as it softens when it meets the beauty of her stature. He watches her there, her painted up face and pretty eyes. Lips shining red, a color which he most found flattering to her. Her hair was neatly curled and styled to suit the form fitting dress she’d opted for the evening, a pretty pink number which he’d half a mind to tear off — if it weren’t for her proclaimed aversion to such a sin. His arm takes her waist and the other her hand, to press the soft palm to his chapped lips in a hungry kiss. Eyes unmoving from hers, even as he bites into her skin there.

“Lovely as always.” Heavy boots step into the kitchen and her pearlescent heels follow with quick clicks. Johnny takes the seat beside her father, shaking hands to adhere to formality and greeting him with a most kind look. “Good to see you sir, gotten round to any game lately?”

“Well now as a matter of fact I’ve got some wild hog dryin’ out out back, caught ‘em just yesterday. One shot straight through the damned thing’s head.”

“Always preferred tradition myself, grandpa got me this ol’ huntin’ knife way back when. Use it for most of my kills, they die better that way. You ain’t want none of that gunpowder in ya’ meat.”

Their conversation was much of the same, about hunting wild animals and the work out in the fields. Before too long Rebecca had placed a plate full of pot roast, mashed potatoes, sugared carrots, and a piece of cornbread in front of Johnny with a smile. Then, with a kind hand pressed over his shoulder reached to place the glass of sweet tea in front of him too. She makes a point to kiss his cheek, patting the spot on his shoulder before stepping away to make her father a plate.

“Here ya’ are, eat while it’s hot.”

Disbelief perhaps, or sheer astonishment, written in the wrinkled features of her father’s impression makes itself clear as day to both Johnny and Rebecca, as she carries on without care, and Johnny chooses to await Raymond before indulging.

She had never served another before him, not even once. And there they stood, indifferent. As if the entire world had changed through the one subliminal action.

Supper was long and drawn out, like a days work in summer heat. Yet as they concluded their festivities and Raymond gave a begrudging goodbye to his winsome daughter, she and Johnny had made it out to Cedar Canyon at some back house bar with somber music and people to match. It was a quiet evening in a small cramped building that smelt of wet earth. They’d been there before; one of the rotations Johnny took her on when searching for prizes. It was always peaceful there, relaxing even. The hustle and bustle of both Pfluegerville and Uvalde paled in comparison. On these nights, the chase was much more leisurely and pleasurable. No pressure and no eyes prying, all most as though they’d found their natural element. It reminded her more and more of Oklahoma.

There in that dirt parking lot did Johnny grasp her hand, only to pull her into him with a grin that lacked the playful and malignant criteria his signature had. His eyes still stern as he watched her, palms now planted on either side of her head.

“Hey.”

“I know my way baby, don’t you worry. Gettin’ the hang of this now.”

“I have summin’, would ya’ turn ya’ self around so I could put it on ya’?” The statement seemed to have stunned her, as her delicate fingers float and her arms feather down to her sides. Her face, so prettily in awe beckons him, like a siren to man. So she twirls quaintly to face away from him, fingers grasping onto one another in anticipation.

She’s unsure what to make of his sudden change in tone, the affectionate gesture which had her heart throbbing in her chest. It was different than his regular demeanor, but she enjoyed just as much his sweeter side. And how it made her mind soar, like nothing she’d ever felt before.

“Now don’t go gettin’ a big head, s’just summin’ I found off one of them bodies, thought it’d look real nice on ya’.” He pulls out the fine silver chain from his tattered jean pocket, rubbing the damn thing until it fell straight and the slightly tarnished silver locker dangled from it. “Here, hold that hair.” As a careful grasp clasps her hair up his rough touch grazes the tender skin of her neck, looping the chain around it and hooking the eye in the back.

The cold touch of metal falls onto her skin, all most burning, and as she frees her hair from the confines of her palms Johnny cannot help but to stare. Perhaps he’d never realized what a pretty neck she had, and a part of him wondered what it might feel like to strangle it. Feel skin gripping flesh and the air vacate her lungs as he watches the life drain from her cerulean eyes. Instead however, he spins her around to relish in the fruits of his labor; the prized necklace sealed round that neck, a means of claiming it as his own. And she, so enthralled, takes the heart shaped locket between her fingertips with an unbeknownst smile, examining it thorough before she looks up to him.

Of course she’s different, his trophy wife in some ways, well not yet, but certainly what she’d become. It didn’t stop those thoughts though, the ones that plagued his brain each time he looked to someone. Even his mother, whom he loved, was no exception to his beastly thoughts.

“It’s beautiful Johnny, which ones it off?” The yellow spot on the lockets middle crumbs beneath her fingertips, sprawling outwards toward the edge of the thing where she could pop it open. She hesitates though, as there’s a somber change to his appearance, one she’d never seen before. She wasn’t sure of it, but it looked she’d prodded at some wound of his.

It takes him some time before he chirps up, a calm and casual tone.

“It ain’t from ours.” He says plainly. “This one’s different, been savin’ it.”

There’s a pretty engraving around it’s outer edges, a thin brocade design blackened with decades old dirt and grime. The bail is also browned, coated in the tarnish it had endured for so long. Then there was the bits of dried blood too, something you would only see so close. The thing looked as though it sat in a drawer for years, a little elbow grease would have it looking pristine and new.

“But you said-”

“Dammit woman I know what I said,” Johnny huffs. “It’s an old one I’d been saving, thought it’ll look real nice on you’s.”

“Well,” she indulges, stepping back and lifting her head upwards to show off that neck of hers. “How do I look then?”

“Beautiful.” That feeling came back to him like hell in a hand basket, the same one where he could hardly handle the instincts cemented within him. A part of him longed to shower her in such frivolous matters, taking to her the finest jewelry and clothes money could buy, letting her exude the lifestyle she looked the part of. He thought about it, how to treat her right. But he couldn’t understand, and maybe he never would. For as much as he wanted something like that he’d never be able to wrap his head around it, how to express such an odd feeling; one he lacked control over. Another reason he resented it so much, and still, he sat with the uncomfortability.

The other part of him wondered if what she’d look like in the cold room. Some sick and twisted side, yet he found she’d be no use for him there. Without her he’d end up lonely all over again. And something about her likeness made him feel something, other than sanguine hunger and bloodlust.

She was the only woman he’d always told the truth, from the very start.

“Oh Rebecca Payne, you sure do drive me wild.” He softens, a tense shell now keen on her beauty. The feeling subsides, not before he’s got a hand on her waist pulling her close, and the other caressing the skin of her neck. Skin gripping flesh, her hands take solace at his chest, then his neck, then the nape where his hair meets his head.

Chapped lips against cherry lip balm, soft and sugary like the pie she’d baked all that time ago. The metallic taste of blood is just faint when she bites his lip, for her turbulent nature always did rival his own. As the pads of his fingers grip into her neck his hold travels upward, pulling at her cheek and into her silky tresses. He can feel the way her hands tug at his scalp, and the way she so desperately kisses him, biting away as though it had been a millennium since they’d last met like this. Something in the way she lets his hands grip her body or his tongue slide into her mouth, or even the way she breathes out so tantalizingly against his own that has his world spinning.

“I’ll say, lookit what we gots here.”

“Well I’ll be, wearin’ a dress like that bound to get you’s into trouble. Say, how much for that there girl you’s got? She a real prize.”

First he stirs, then she follows. His head and gaze low at her, and Becca can see the anger beckon him. A fury and rage akin to no other, like the devil himself had come to reap. The darkness washes over him like it always did, tearing at the seams where his demons fought tooth and nail to climb out. And there he was, opening the gates. A scowl accompanied with that swollen lip of his rises, when he lifts his head from her height to overhead to watch two drunkards heckle like fools.

She quips her head around real quick, all most as angry as Johnny if it weren’t for his need for such inhumane territory.

The two are drunkards, half falling over the other as they hiccup on their own words. They reek of beer and sweat, still wearing the overalls from the days work that had been covered in dirt and whatever else. Their dress did little to hide the gut on each of them, grossly sticking out and firm and just plain ugly. The one on the left stood back a little, still choking on the last of his bottle before he tossed it to the ground. The mullet on his head is half balding. The one on the right does most of the talking it seems, and he’s bigger, like he’s got muscle beneath that pudge of his. He hides his round face behind the brim of his hat, nodding over to each of them and clicking as if she were a bitch.

“Well? Answer me boy, I’ll pay ya’ top coin for a pretty one like that.”

Upset stirs in her, arms falling at her sides and hands fisted. The polished nails dig into her skin and her eyes flash crazy to a Johnny as if to say ‘you gon’ do summin’ ‘bout that?’

Without a word he maneuvers her aside, gaze dead on the man attempting to negotiate. His rage is silent and seething, as he strides over to the primary subject of his vexation and sends a fist to the man’s nose. There’s a heinous crack! as the man cries and clasps at his nose, not before Johnny sends a knee into his pelvis. Again he whines out, broken by the vomit that disgustingly ruts out his mouth and to the floor. He topples over and Johnny wastes no time kicking into him, spitting over his face.

“The hell you say to me?”

It all had happened so quickly, and in an instant his friend approaches Johnny in an attempt of defense, striking dead on his jaw. It’s with a groan Johnny sends fists back, and Rebecca wastes no time in digging through the truck bed and fetching the old rusted wrench from it.

In that time the man on the ground had gotten up and, while Johnny preoccupied himself in fighting the other this one had decided to get the one up on Johnny.

She could laugh at their stupidity, how they left her all alone leaving her such a clear opportunity to enact revenge. Or she could take offense, for that meant they saw her to be a non issue. In typical fashion she takes the ladder, which only worsens her anger. She wondered if Johnny’d kill her for striking them with the axe then and there, or if he’d have her head for trying to slaughter them out in the open. Well, she hadn’t observed anyone there. Inside the bar was primarily vacant.

As fury agonizes within and her thoughts stir the idea becomes increasingly palpable. That with the pig behavior of these idiots and their lack of proper judgement about women, she was sure she aight to teach them a lesson once Johnny got through them first. There’s a yearning for hate and destruction in her, the kind where she let loose and enact a crime so vicious and malignant they’d never warrant such atrocities again. It’s a blood boiling affair that has her head dizzy with contempt and bloodlust, prodding at her consciousness as she sway towards the fantasy. Killing them had to be the answer, the utmost form of vengeance and satisfaction. Yet unlike before, she practices restraint as she watches Johnny beat the life out of the one, coloring himself red with blood splatter. The world seems to stop then, and a feeling she came to know as instinct flutters in the pit of her stomach. How undoubtedly breathtaking he was. A stalwart apparition of what she desired most; it all most distracts her from what’s at stake.

It’s in one quick movement and a brute grunt that she swings the wrench upside the back of the man’s head, striking a flesh wound into his skull that caved inwards. Bits and pieces of matter dangle from the wrench, as blood flies to coat her pink wardrobe.

Well, shit.

She hadn’t meant to injure him so badly, more than she did just to knock him out. If his unconscious body is any indication of such she’s quite pleased with her work, huffing and puffing over his body while she throws the wrench down. The scowl written in her features grows darker, and the fire in her eyes ignites.

“God damn you half wits, ruinin’ date night!” She calls out, stepping over the body to waltz over to Johnny and the man he so graciously was kicking the shit out of. A pause in her cantor and she feels overwhelmed by the joy it exudes, such a chivalrous and passionate display of emotion and adoration. It makes her feel hot, the guise in such a sweet action eliciting a feeling she cannot control within the physiological workings of her mind. It was the notion that it had been over her, a protectiveness she feigned over.

“Quick darlin’, grab some rope and let’s get ‘em in the truck, ‘fore we find ourselves in a whole heap of trouble.”

“They didn’t think I’d do no harm,” reluctantly she obliges, fetching the spares they’d keep in the truck bed. “Thought I wasn’t no threat.” She tosses some to him, then makes quick work with the other restraining his limbs and stuffing his mouth with the ends of the ropes. “Johnny boy you hear me?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, perhaps a signal of his own anger and self discipline. He only moves to hurl them over his shoulder one by one, tossing each of them in the back then covering it up in the tattered bits of burlap before opening the passenger door.

“Get in the truck.”

—

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭! - 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

@yixxes @bdudette @nerdykat101 @kaymarnun @casually-in-love-with-madari

—

The brutal attack last night on two cotton farmers has Cedar Canyon residents left concerned with the safety of their community. Reports say the attack on brothers Aaron and Bryan Wickett happened just outside a local bar, where an unidentified man and woman were seen quote, “beating the daylights out of them.” Witnesses say the suspects wore nice clothes and looked quote “nothing out of the ordinary.” The man’s description is congruent with the violent attack on three college students in Pfluegerville just less than a year ago, however authorities say the two crimes are not connected. The unidentified woman is believed to be in her early twenties, has blonde hair and blue eyes, and exudes unusually brute strength. As of now, the whereabouts of all parties involved are unknown, and authorities are urging anyone with information to please come forward. More on this story as it develops.

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melodrama-ticcc · 10 months ago

Text

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐋𝐚𝐦𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

—

Strapping arms mottled in scarred, calloused skin accompany the faintest scent of the ashen, stale smoke of woody tobacco from the cigarettes he smoked and the oddments of fresh linens — the same ones he laid upon just five minutes prior. It’s a bitterly comforting scent, the acridity of herbaceous nuances and the pleasantries of simple, clean laundry detergent meet their match in the assuaging nose of musk that followed him down the drive.

He’s austere and tenacious, a valiant leader in times of great hardship and need. His stalwart determination and carnal instinct to staunchly protect his people and come to her aid would only showcase how strong and worthy of a man he was. The way his lusty figure strides with a fierce purpose and fervent motivation, his visage making it all the more evident how grave her fallen endeavor was to him. In other circumstances, perhaps it would have made her heart flutter with avid concupiscence. His virile persona and dauntless attitude a beautiful depiction of the true man Johnny Sawyer was, one gallant, stouthearted and resolute.

It was no wonder girls swooned over him and sluts threw themselves at him in forlorn and desperate attempts to be bed, for if it hadn’t been his manful character it would be his animal good looks. A brawny physique like his was enough to make any young girl drool, but the way in which his work ethic displayed itself was all the more impressive. Resolute and undaunted, characterized by the intransigent persona he carried. Unshaken, indurate, purposive, a strong and protective man who served to remedy her from this mess. A mean stare, a cold shoulder, a flagrant saunter, those pretty dark eyes shrouded by the chocolate lashes that surrounded them make him nothing short of an enigma, a breath taking image of the dangerous and allusive. Any imperfections were overshadowed by the illusion of his angelic smile, even the slight bend in his nose; presumably from being broken at some point.

It’s a wonder she’s not feinting at his virile demeanor, but then again, the predicament at hand makes itself out to be much more prevalent then her precognitions. Still overcome with grief and the weight of her grave mistake, Rebecca sporadically makes the trip back to the front drive of her farmhouse. With trembling appendages wrapped thickly in her blonde hair and tugging at the follicles, her quivering lips spurt incoherencies even she cannot make out. Something about screwing everything up and not tying down loose ends, what a damn mess this had become.

Heavy is the hand that takes refuge on the small of her back, a gentle reminder that he’d been alongside her all that time. The simple gesture is enough to cease her thoughtless blabbering and pull her from the demented pool of self deprecation she’d imbedded herself in. He was there now, it would be okay.

“Now you tell me just what it is that happened, calmly.”

She opens those pretty pink lips, only for the breath to get caught in her throat and hitch itself as she stammers on her own thoughts. Reliving the moments in her head, she thinks back to what it had been like when she was still at the bar in Pfluegerville, and whether she should have just asked Johnny for help from the very beginning. But nah, that ruined all the fun.

The events of the evening play about her mind like the films she saw on the television alongside her father, a horrid moving picture show of the macabre and inhumane. It’s strange, the feeling, as though she were watching herself from the outside, as if she were the movie star in this grotesque drama of the diseased and grisly. However as she stood there, going through the frightfully wonderful acts she’d committed that night the sensation of delight pangs at her heart, and with it the fluttery feeling that burgeons in the pit of her stomach. She can’t believe she’s actually done it.

“I wanted to do it. I wanted to kill a boy. I don’t know I-I-I brought home a boy.” She starts, sapphire eyes gazing blankly in the far off distance as she speaks frantically, face still wet with the tears of her hysteria. The fear of what’s to come picking at her from the inside out, she wonders if he’s disappointed in her. “I meant to fucking do it! He just- this was all on purpose, he just- he- I hate him. I hate him so much he-I- he’s just like Matthias, just like him I swear I aughtta- no, no, I lured him into the wash but I wasn’t there, I waited, I waited so patiently. Everything was so perfect- everything- I did so good and then I just- and I just-.”

“Stop.” Johnny hushes, watching the tears well and drip down her face before he’s got her cheek by the palm again, flicking away those pesky tears with the pad of his thumb. “Be good, tell me what happened darlin’.”

She sharply inhales, a stabbing pain itching at her side as she battles the hyperventilations that accompany her heightened state. Those arms are hoisted back up over her head, grasping onto the hair and pulling as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded, the single thing holding her back from going absolutely insane. A pitiful sob falls from her lips, and just as it does the cacophony of the smack! that besmirches her cheek ceases it all. The stinging burn of Johnny’s hand sets her on fire, the red imprint of his fingers etched into her cheek. She gasps, eyes wide with shock before she looks to him with anger and a newfound sense of relief.

“I said be good ain’t I? Now quit actin’ a damn fool and spit it out, we gon’ catch this fucker but I need you to get that damn head of ya’s on straight, you got that?”

“I-I-I-I forgot.” She cries, prying at the hair on her head. Dazed sure, somewhat clear, his smack wasn’t hard but it sure did knock her straight. “I hit that bitch, I hit ‘em with my axe- yeah. I don’t know how many times, I don’t. No- Yeah- yeah. I sliced his shoulder, and then I cut ‘em up real good, and I cut his damned dick off too. But- I-I messed up I didn’t know- he hurt me! My head! He pushed me down the damn stairs that’s it- how’d I let it happen! No- no I meant it, Johnny, he hurt me!” Her screams pitch high and she feels belligerent, grasping onto his shoulders with a degrading type of need. “Please help me Johnny please, I was wrong I can’t do it without ya’. I’m scared, I’m scared, I need help. I need your help.”

Those rough hands of his rake through the tangled lengths of her hair, not before brushing the flyaway strands from her eyes and grazing over the soft skin of her lips.

“I’ll find ‘em, don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

The words spoken from his lips alone are enough to quell the anxieties that plague her, a perpetual aura of calm washing over when he gazes through her and speaks it. In anxious anticipation, she watches patiently as he pushes past her and acts to examine the porch and the front area of the house, only to let out a soft chuckle when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Here. Come ‘ere.” He points to the ground in front of him, crouching down as he swipes the spot and nods up at her. “Footprints. They’s faint as hell, but they there. Gotta look closely when they get away, theys slippery little bastards I give ‘em that, but you can always catch ‘em. Now you tell me, where you think that trail leads off to?”

Suddenly the weight of it all comes thwarting down onto her, the pressure seeping through her as her face turns a bright pink. She squats, carefully analyzing the very thing Johnny had been talking about and making out the trajectory of the steps. Her swollen eyes squint just a tad, not before they look back up to him seeking some sort of approval.

“Well? He ain’t of gone far.”

“I- I don’t know. I don’t.”

“Think now, think with that there head of yer’s. I know you’s more than a nice lookin’ face.”

Rebecca obliges his orders, her gaze shifting to the ground where the puddles of crimson and dusty footprint resides. Despite his words she only becomes more flustered, eaten half alive by the plaguing thoughts of her anxieties and presumed failures. She’s desperate for help, not a damn lesson, there wasn’t much time to be wasted. So, concluding no clear answer and growing wary of the looming fear over her shoulder she shakes her head, throws her hands up and shouts.

“Please, I-I can’t. It’s just one shitty damn footprint- there’s no fuckin’ point.”

“Tch, ways I see it you can follow the direction of that there print, possibility there’s a trail, you got ‘em leakin’ after all. Or, miss thang, you put yourself in your target’s shoes.” Johnny doesn’t move, only stares at her, waiting. “You start thinkin’ like yer’ prey, things’ll get a whole lot easier for ya’.”

She stops, blue irises blown out as she looks to him in disbelief. It’s an epiphany, of sorts. A sort of realization in his words, think like the prey. Reluctantly she picks up the pieces and sutures herself together, able to make some string of coherent thoughts. Her head turns towards the side yard, thinking deliberately in the eyes of that damn boy. It seemed the most intelligent outcome would be to run up the front drive, however, that’s all most sure the first place anyone would look. So to avoid suspicion and buy more time, he had to of run elsewhere. Perhaps through the brush against the sides of their land, or more likely the back where they’d keep the cattle.

“I uh- looks to me like he ran off someplace out ‘n to the back, only thing back there is the cattle fields and wild life.” She says, the tinge of uncertainty in her voice a demonstration of her willingness to please. Johnny smiles wide, gesturing to her with his head as he strides forward.

“Well, let’s see how right you are ‘bout that.”

“I thought he’d made it out to the road and got away, thought I was done for.” She stands up straight, hands shaking at her sides when her vision fogs with tears. She sniffles, hastily wiping the underneath of her nose as she stares forward at the vacant trail of dusty footprints and spattered blood. “He made a damn fool of me.” Her hands ball into fists and her brows dive into a scowl. “Why I gotta be so shitty at it, alls I wanted to do was prove I could do the damn job.”

“Rebecca,” Johnny warns, grabbing at the wrist that reaches for her axe. “Come on pretty girl, you got a natural knack for this sort of thing.” Her eyes meet his gaze and she frowns, only to smile a sad smile at his words.

“You really think so?”

“Ah come on now darlin’,” he grins, tucking his fingers under her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “I know so. Don’t you think I know a thing or two ‘bout killin’, ain’t bad for ya’ first time, all by your lonesome.”

“Yeah? Yeah . . . And I’ll make ‘em pay- yeah- where ever that little fucker is he’s mine.” Through teary eyes she smiles at him, and somewhere in there she feels as though she’s earned his approval. His words worth more than any consolation killing Matthew could provide. She looks to him and he quiets the never-ending thoughts in her head, he takes away the need to fret about anything and gives her the thing she craves most, that warming look of praise and gratitude. It replaces that need for control, at least temporarily, and she knows then it’ll all be okay. Even as his demeanor changes and he thwarts her forwards. Her steps stumbling into themselves as she looks to him in infatuation, only before she presses on with a determined effort to keep him appeased.

“Now quit standin’ round lookin’ pretty and get a move on girl.”

A muddied track of stammered prints planted into the wet earth and heaps of blood splattered about the dirt lead to a quick chase, one that takes them through a spastic path of snapped branches and fallen foliage, plants crushed and broken in the wake of her running victim. Inevitably, he met his demise at the swimming hole long ago, truth be told by his cold, lifeless corpse at the bottom of the dried out pool.

He must’ve ran off in a dazed state, in shock from the trauma endured and the blood loss of his wounds. Without realizing the dip in the land led to a ten foot tumble down a steep hill into the ole hole, where his carcass lie sprawled out and mangled. A bloodied bath towel partly covering his nude and mutilated body, she’s disgusted by him. A pathetic excuse of a man who hadn’t even the manners to hold the door open for her.

At first she’s relieved, fully, and a bit proud too. She’d like to claim she knew she was the superior being, the one who’d win this charade, but given the turn of events it became clear she’d need to plan much more carefully. One thing was certain; never underestimate the victim.

But then, as she stood there, gazing over his pale corpse with a look of disdain written in her features, she becomes angry. The predilections of the last hour or so coming back to her in a raging fit. At the end of it all, he had taken away the satisfaction in beheading him. He still ruined it, and despite the cruel fact she’d reign supreme; she sought vengeance over the life that had already been reaped.

“Well well well, not bad at all for a first time.” His voice beckons her from her thoughts, not enough to alleviate her passion for violence and ultimate satisfaction. This was it, this was where she’d feel that cathartic release, the feeling of control coming back to her.

“You slimy little bitch.” Heavy footsteps March down that steep hill, gripping the splintering wood handle of her axe, she pauses, chewing at her lower lip as she watches the breathless corpse with pure hatred and animosity. “Fuck you.” She spits, watching the coagulated wad of saliva splat against his bare skin. The warmth of tears riddle the cusp of her eyes and she feels the emotions gurgling back up, only this time it’s pure anger and a feral inkling for revenge. Letting out a flustered scream Becca lurches the axe over her head, only to scream again when she sends it down onto his neck. “Rot in hell you son of a bitch! You deserve it like the rest of ‘em!” Again, a powerful swing halfway severs his neck in two, his head hanging on by a few torn ligaments and flesh. Blood sprays each time she swings; painting her a vibrant crimson and plastering over the grass they sit upon. Again, a third time she hoists the thing up over her head and contracts her muscles to swing it downward with all her might, the blade entirely separating his body from his head. Which rolls some couple feet away. She pauses, screaming out in great relief as she laughs about his dead body, hysterically, like a mad woman who’d lost her way. She spits again, this time crouching over the head and making sure it lands over his face.

“Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

She picks it up, gripping a handful of the bloodied dark hair that sits upon its head. She holds it up, examining his features before she squeezes the puffed out cheeks and fronts a frown.

“Lookit here, lookit who stands on top. The strong, not the coward.” Smiling widely she throws the thing to the ground with a sharp arm, screaming out something incoherent between her bouts of delighted laughter.

It exorcises the demons within her, does away with all the bad thoughts of yesterday and brings in a newfound joy she never knew she’d discover. It frees her of the need to take hold of trivial matters and emotions, purges the very concept of her idea of control and replaces it with something new, something exciting, something erotic. It arouses her beyond belief and fulfills the sensation she craved so violently, quells the aching throb in her soul and makes it feel full. For the first time in a long time, she feels happy, she feels full, she feels satiated.

Gripping the hand of that axe just a little tighter she screams fervently, smiling like a madwoman. Blissful tears pool at the edge of her pretty eyes, looking up to the starry night sky as she laughs in hysterics. She forgets Johnny’s there, forgets he’d been watching the entire thing with the pleased look he wore. But he strides over to her, taking her wrists in hopes of calming her down and bringing her from that high.

“You sure are as good as I knew you’d be, I told ya’,” he says, pulling her arms back down only for her to look at him with a face of disbelief. “I like watchin’ you do all that, that kinda thing really gets a man goin’, you know that?”

Dazed and excited she looks to her counterpart with a trebled stare, eyes wet and wide with enjoyment and a profound look of thought over her features. She thinks his words over, and though it aggravates her, pesters at her self respect, she cannot help but ponder the thought of cutting into him, making an example of him. One more time, one more time and she’d reach that ultimate high.

“I’m the one with the axe, all alone out here, in the middle of no where . . . . with nobody else about.”

“Oh Becca,” Johnny shakes his head, “You threatenin’ me?” He wastes no time in making his point, patting over the hunting knife tucked into his waistband. “I said you wasn’t bad, not damn near perfect. Think I’m scared of that?”

“I’d like to do it again,” sure his comment pisses her off, and she feels the regurgitating feeling of fury pit in her stomach and rise through her throat like hot air. He doesn’t believe in her, that’s upsetting. Doesn’t take her seriously. But she’s only thinking aloud, saying the inside part outside, staring blankly at him as she toys with the splintered handle of her toy.

To think of how fondly it made her feel, even with her frenzied state of self control and madness. How pleasurable it made her feel both inside and out, her mind in pure ecstasy and core in tight coils. She’d love to do it again, love to watch the fear on his face and the blood spurt out in pretty scarlet splatters. It’s a high she keeps on riding, the ever present feeling of tension arising between her legs. Sinful maybe, but she thinks the thought alone might drive her over the edge. How powerful and dangerous she could be, the superiority over the boys she loathed so much, so perfect, it all felt so lovely. If she could just show him what she was capable of, show him how powerful she could be. She could make a splendid example of him.

Her body moves before her head forms a thought, scrounging her face up tightly as she lifts the axe over her head. Without thinking she swings downward, not with the intent to kill but the intent to make an example of her point. She was every bit a danger as he was.

The blade comes crashing down to land suspended in the air, the uppermost part of its handle caught by his big hand. Riddled with shock and disbelief she gasps, eyes wide in both fear and anger as he tears the thing from her grasp and chucks it out somewhere into the night. She can hear it smash into the wet earth, but her focus is elsewhere, observing the angry look plastered over Johnny’s face.

“Well lookit this, somebody’s ready to fight.” He’s as sly as the fox hunting it’s prey, clasping her wrist as he waves that knife in front of her face and presses it carelessly against her neck. “Let’s not forget who had to come out all this way and help ya’, you still got lots to learn darlin’, best to quit makin’ a fool of yourself. But uh, you sure do turn me on.” His lips lean into her neck and press sensual kisses along the dirtied skin, sliding wet up to her ear where his teeth graves over the tender skin. Enough to entice her, draw her in, and yet yer stubbornness reigns supreme.

Be it the residual effects of the distaste and anger towards Matthew or the genuine disbelief in his words and actions somethings stirs in Becca, ticking off the bomb that orates her brain and causing her left brow to twitch in the wake of her fury. Instinctively it is in her nature to attack him, striking those strong arms and pushing him backwards. Delicate features twisting into a heinous display of fulmination; where her brows tilt downwards and her eyes swirl with rage. Those kissable lips pulling downwards in some sort of inveighed image. Once Johnny steps back, she can see the anger beckon him too. His own handsome face somewhere along the lines of both shocked and disrespected.

“How dare you.” Those are fighting words, and without a second thought she grapples him, arms intertwining in a battle of dominance and power. His own expostulation is evident in the way he glares at her, with a visage written in disapproval and denouncement.

“You best watch that attitude of yours girl, lest you wanna be gettin’ into trouble- now quit it.” His firm grip can be felt against her shoulders, his reach much larger than her own despite her strength. His thick fingers dig into the skin of her shoulders and he pulls her forward, all the while she’s clawing at his biceps like a feral cat, groaning and hissing as she struggles to keep him at bay.

“You aughtta learn to keep your mouth shut boy.” She warns, tussling herself when her body begins to thrash about his grip. Likewise she meets him with that same competence, only falls short in getting the upper hand that his tight grasp has over her.

Johnny laughs, the same laugh that is demented and evil and downright demeaning. Like he’s toying with his food, or playing a childish game. The disgust held for him bubbles up again, and she’s half but forgotten all his benevolent qualities and his status as a worthy counterpart and leader. Only does it come back to her when he yanks her closer, staring into those equivocal eyes. She whines, cries out in a desperate attempt to push herself from him to no avail. This time his hand clutches a handful of the dirtied hair at the back of her head, the other tightening down on her wrist as he lurches her forward. She begins to cry; not because she’s afraid or unwilling, but because of the tumultuous nature of her consciousness. Both enchanted and disdainful of him, timid in her affairs and the lingering of his scent in her nose and closeness of his touch.

The tears come sopping down her cheeks when she screams out, in one last vociferous attempt to free herself from him. Her hands move to push against his face, pawing at it and shoving him away. Between grunts of frustration and anger Johnny pulls her towards him stridently, prising her hand away and biting at the other. Her yell is scornful when she jerks it away, and finally he takes the advantage of the clearance and forcefully closes the gap between them, their lips sealing in an ardent kiss potent in impassioned desire and earnest lust.

At first it’s apoplectic, acrimonious and powered by the incensed nature of each of their perspectives. A splenetic, rough and messy kiss imbedded with the bittersweet passion that resides in them. Then her expression lightens, her forceful nature dwindling as time pressed on. Her limbs go limp in his grasp, fingers stretching out in a strained state and she leans into his touch with an inkling for more. Where she is soft and tender, he is callous and brusque. Then it is reciprocated, quiet sobs breaking the seal between their lips when she cries. Those hot tears sear down her cheeks; she hates the way she loves it, despises the way it excites her, the way his words gift a fluttery feeling inside her. The way her head swirls with adulate emotions her actions follow suit, head feeling dizzy with those foreign feelings of pleasure and bliss, a resentful delightment. Even when the heat of her face and upset overpowers the touch of his palm over her cheek, she loves it. Or when he forcibly wipes the burning tears away with his thumb, his palm squishing the flesh of her cheek together as he does so.

There is an arcane sense about the ghost of his touch or the bitter cold of his kiss, not electrifying, not warm, it brings about a certain piercing sensation. After which her body feels numb and tingly, brumal from the ice that was his grasp. And all the while, the gelid feeling is peculiarly comforting. In an odd, backwards sort of way. His bitterness cooled her fire, and in many ways she would feel at peace after the initial bite of his touch. It would all fade into a stultifying, tingling feeling; one of pure peace and contentment, sangfroid.

Her heat melts into him, giving into the temptation and stumbling into him just slightly. Fingers still twitching in aggravation, they pry away to clasp at his shoulders, gripping onto them with such need and fervor. It is a violently passionate kiss, one that finely captures the line between adoration and the utter barbarity shared between them. Her eyes are scrunched shut painfully, and it isn’t until now that she relaxes. Her tense figure falling into his broad one like the gazelle the lion, the bunny the fox, or the lamb the slaughter.

He is vicious, cutthroat and relentless, each movement like a stab to the heart when he gnaws and bites and rubs at her raw lips. It makes it all the more delightful, that is until she reacts with that same intensity.

It isn’t lost on her how absolutely loathsome he is or how demented he might be, how everything that had led up to this moment was one combative argument over the next. But the way he looks after her and comes to her aide even without being asked to far overshadows the reality between them. It was then that in her eyes, he became the man she was so revered with, the one she trusted enough with her life, the one who’d truly take care of her. And still; she hates how perfect he really is.

Despite her endless mental battles or the back and fourth of her thoughts, and even the kill that had so nicely satiated the hunger for control she could no longer quell, it all comes rushing back in that instant. The terrorizing phenomenon of her looming thoughts and lost consciousness; she can no longer differentiate what she wants versus what she feels, and the daunting feeling drives her into a deeper panic. The need to kill regains traction, and she cannot deter whether she loathes or loves Johnny Sawyer.

Flustered and angry once more, Rebecca pulls away from him and with her newfound freedom levers her strength against him and pushes him back. Only Johnny has caged her into his arms, and now she freaks, thrashing her body against him and screaming, crying and sobbing miscellaneous threats and whines his way. Those tears burn her stained cheeks once more, and for a passing second the lightheaded feeling that overtakes her makes her feel as though she may faint. But it’s his soothing southern drawl and wintry touch that polarizes her. Now she stirs, succumbing to defeat when she tucks her face into his chest. There she sobs quietly, cupping her hands carefully around her face as her body wracks with the overwhelming urge in her. Johnny hushes quietly, his roughened touch grazing over the knots in her hair and patting over her trembling head. Her figure blurs into his, racking with the tumultuous thoughts that ill her head. She doesn’t have to say a thing; he knows. He proudly tells her it too, through the serene grin on his lips and the simple words from his lips. He knows he’s won, and it isn’t a question of if, now of when.

“Shhhhh, I know . . . I know.”

Her body shakes with vehemence, oscillating in his arms. Even when he cautiously rubs the small of her back, in hopes of calming her incessant cries and restless breathing there is no avail, no indication of even a thought behind those teary baby blues. But he knows, he knows too well.

“When’s ya’ daddy get home?”

“‘Bout another day or so, I reckon.”

“You go on ‘n get the inside fixed up, clean yer’ self up.” Her swollen red lip quivers and she feigns innocence, cradling herself into his big strong arms. Soft eyes glazing over in a wave of calm, she nods her head. “I’ll be gone a little while, stay inside ‘till I get back, you understand?”

Rebecca’s nod is lento and messy, her trembling arm reaching up to dance over the roughness of his cheek. She moves lethargically, pushing herself off of him as she maneuvers away.

Stammering back in a haze she sniffles quietly, nodding briefly before she turns to run up the steep hill and back to the front of the house. Her wary gaze quickly glancing behind to meet Johnny’s lingering stare. One shrouded in his perturbed features and stern leer.

Thick pools of crimson veil the wood floorboards of the house’s fanciful interior, plashes of it spattered along the ivory curtains that hang from the front door and alongside the white walls. The purity of it tarnished with the devil’s wrath, the home bathed in a thick and nasty smell of iron and bloodshed. Up the stairs and down the hall the scarlet bespatters the hand woven tundy rug that lines the grand hallway, and dowses the linen shower curtain that hangs pitifully by a thread. The hot water has long run cold, still spilling the remnants of blood that ooze from the severed anatomy in the tub down the drain in a tumultuous spinning cycle. There, in that dreadful bath, the once steamed mirrors are soused in the rich fluid, curating some abstract painting of the obscene and bizarre. The blood-slopped walls that intertwine with the water droplets that cling to the drywall the additions to such a mundane collection. She was never artful, and yet there was merit to that bathroom saturated in the viscous and gummy liquid that adorned those walls.

There is a looming consternation in her, one birthed from the disaster that had become the home and the inevitable disappointment her father might have felt for her; if he were to see such a gruesome scene. And yet, the staunch opposition of the luminous red against the stark white of the washroom was a peculiarly pleasant reminder of her achievement. There was some beauty to that grimey image, a stunning picture of the dreadful and tragic, the horror and fatale.

It is with a heavy head that she scrubs at the floor boards, bleaches the walls and rips the lace curtains from the door to drench them in the same liquid. Eyes wet and vision blurred, her hair matted in a tossled heap, her tremulous figure haunches over the steps of the stairs and the stretches over the sticky walls. Red goo staining the bucket of bleach and water. The bathroom, to which she debated savoring in, had proved most daunting. Yet the years of homemaking had done her well, and in no time it had been just as spotless as it had been before. The only remnant of the affair the bloodied wash bucket and stained gloves and sponges, and Matthew’s manhood dumped into that same murky bucket.

Cold water lathers into the nest that had become her hair and drizzles down the length of her body, gliding over the skin and washing away with it the dried blood and clumped pieces of scab that nestled into the fresh cuts. She sits against the porcelain floor of the tub, staring blankly at a tile wall that seems to distance itself further and further away from her. So far that she can’t seem to touch it, not even with the tips of her elongated fingers. As it moves further from her, her vision spins and her thoughts become loud. Before shutting her eyes and tilting her head to face the downpour of icey water. The feeling of ice pelting at her skin brings fourth the events of the evening, and she relives the moments of pleasure elicited from the look or torment and fear in Matthew’s eyes, in them Matthias, two boys who’d she’d come to despise with such fervor. Cathartic, euphoric, renascence, the rebirth of her own self. A more informed, liberated self not suffocated by the grip in which those boys grasped onto her. And yet, the pleasure of it all seemed to bludgeon a knot in her abdomen, a tingling sensation of bliss that called to her from regions below. A moan, then two, or three, and the revitalizing feelings of her intricate fingers drawing against herself in sporadic motions. All most as soon as it had began, the tension snapped and relief became her, a newfound sense of sexual repentance and divinity birthed straight from the act itself. Her fantasy was no longer that, it was a beautiful memory.

Clean hair neatly detangled and dripping wet spots onto the back of the tank top she now wore, she sits at the vanity mirror in her room, gracefully running the bristles of the silver brush through her tresses as she stares blankly into the mirror. Purplish bruises taint over the skin of her arms, indication of Matthew’s attempt to fight. The back of her head aches, and a tender bump finds it’s place there. The cause behind her lingering headache.

She slips into a pair of cotton shorts, only to find Matthew’s clothes sprawled out over the floor next to her bedside. One moment dazed, she’s now flustered, abhorrent at her inability to properly dispose of them. She decides, rather than burning them, utilizing their pieces as scrap fabric is much more useful. Yet, the desire to completely eliminate his presence there resides in her. It’s then, as she’s grasping the fabric of his trousers in her hands and prying at the thing that she glances toward the clock. 3:24 am.

One couldn’t help but wonder where that time had gone, how the events of the night surpassed that which she thought capable. The frustration looms, and the bitterness picks at her insides like vultures. She succumbs to the mental battle once again, handing over the defeat as the remnant tears cloud her vision and drip down into the fabric she held. Where was Johnny, how had he held up?

Vexation is an ugly thing, and yet as it consumes her and Becca becomes maddened by the terrors her shortcomings ail, she is all the more fascinating. As she hurriedly clasps together all the pieces of clothing — from his undergarments to his shoes, and frantically stumbles down the stairs shouting incoherent sobs. The swelling at her eyes and stinging of her cheeks are near numb, null in comparison to the dinging in her head and turbulent thoughts.

It always seemed as though Johnny had perfect timing, always stepping in at the right moments. This had been one of those times, when he turns the knob to that front door and steps inside just as she’s about to reach for the damned thing. He’s tall, seems so much bigger than she remembered him to be, more muscular, more dominant. There she stands doe eyed, tears trickling down her cheeks as she furrows her brows. She watches him with a saddened look, his critical countenance meeting her with an ominous look. He locks the deadbolt on the door, then the barrel bolt. The slinking of the metal click echoes in her ears and she feels like stone, petrified in her place. He’s dirty, muddied up and partly bloody.

“It’s done.” He’s stern. “He’s gone, you ain’t gotta worry bout him no more darlin’.”

Johnny steps forward, meeting her halfway.

“The clothes,” a whisper. “I need to burn the clothes. I have to.”

“No.”

“Okay.” She hushes.

“I’ll take ‘em. Head back upstairs.” Without another word he takes them from her.

It’s some unspoken thing, the way she feels at peace with his words, like she can believe anything he tells her. It brings her to ease, quells her anxieties and it’s as though anything she’d thought prior was only a faint memory. She hadn’t the need to question him, ask how or why, nor had she the desire. Only basqued in the comfort of knowing he’d maintain that control for her. It’s the comfortability he instills in her that introduces the thought, one in which falls from her lips in saccharine toxicity.

“Johnny?” It’s a quiet plea, her head turns back around and she ceases in her place down the foyer. Through a strained voice to calls for him, riddled with newfound joy, grief and love and struggling to juggle them all. “Stay.” She pauses. “Stay with me, stay the night, here, will you? Stay, just for tonight. I’d like you to stay with me. Daddy ain’t ‘round and I, I don’t wanna be alone.”

It’s that same unspoken thing, something neither of them would have been able to foresee. A certain degree of knowing and acceptance, a mutual understanding, a bond forged in the pits of hell.

“Please, do it for me?” Johnny watches her with eyes of cynicism, as though he were trying to figure her out. He watches as her wet eyes glazed in her own despair look to him through coagulated lashes, luring him in with a pretty face. He steps toward her, moves his hand to fiddle with her hair, twirling the wet tresses in his fingers and brushing through it. Then he looks to her again, eyes narrowing with a mean look, one she’d come to know as pleasant.

“I’ll be up shortly, lemme get cleaned up first, doll.”

Some time passes before he walks into her bedroom, drawing her from her thoughts as her gaze moves from the wall to the doorway. He’s wet with the drippings from his shower. Droplets of water adorning his bare skin, dressed only in his bath towel and his hair wet and messy. He steps in, shutting the door behind him before he moves to sit atop the same bed she lay on. His gaze instantaneously meets her own, watching in thought, as though he were trying to read her own.

“How did it feel?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you killed ‘em, how’d that make ya feel?”

“I,” she heaves, “I liked it.”

“No shit,” his hand grazes over her cheek, sliding the wet strands of hair behind her ear. “I know you like it girl, been knowed you’d like it. I wanna to hear you tell me how it made you feel.”

There’s a drawn out pause in her speech. Perhaps she’s in thought, or the rugged pads of his fingertips has her leaning into him a little too much, or both. But she’s bewitched by him, entranced.

“I ‘spose it felt, like it was natural or summin’, felt, good, like I’d finally let my those urges run wild,” she speaks earnestly. “You was right ya know? Bout me bein’ a control freak, and I, him, killing him, it gave me that.” She smiles faintly, watching as he chuckles softly, shaking the bed beneath them.

“Would you do it again?” He already knows the answer to that, and Becca knows it too. He just wants to hear her say it, but she obliges his little game.

“I hated it when he got away Johnny boy, thought I’d be caught. That feeling, like a bug in ya’ drawers, it gits under my skin and I can’t take it. I just can’t do it.” She’s flustered again, upset. “Makes me mad that I couldn’t do it the way I wanted, the perfect way. But I, well, you know dear, there’s always something, the feeling doesn’t last forever. I need, I think, well, the more I think bout it all the more I’d feel like doin’ it all over again. I love that feelin’, what you call it, the power, the control over ‘em, but I hate that he got away. I can’t, thought I had everything all figured out.”

Be it the tenderness in her eyes that softened her hardened exterior or the inkling of disappointment in her voice and features when she speaks of her fears, Johnny is attentive to her expression, drawing out a prolonged sigh from his lips before he punctuates with a quiet chuckle. Muffled beneath his heavy breaths.

He appears to be some sort of sentient being, a deity, a god. The way his wet hair falls about his face and clings to the skin of his neck, the way his fingers tear into those same locks and hem they prop his head up with his elbow against the bedsheets. His eyes so solemn and resolute, quiet, intense. In all her readings, the antichrist was meant to be beautiful, like Johnny had been. A breathtaking man with undeniable charm, whose existence and evilness would bring about the end of the world. Sometimes, she felt that way about him.

But through it all there’s been something about him, and she’s convinced in the way he so daringly comes to her aide or soothes her thoughts, in his own little way, that he’s anything but demonic.

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathes out, smiling gently. “I was hopin’ you’d say summin’ like that, might of had to get rid of ya’ otherwise.” The hand that had been so tantalizingly pressed against her features grasps at her chin, pulling her face closer to his. “You’s perfect. Don’t you worry bout what’s been done with, you got a real . . . . skill. The rest, that’ll come with time, believe me.” His voice quiets.

She knows he hates repeating himself, knows it’s best to leave it at that. But her temptation as a woman rooted in her emotions gets the best of her and she just has to press on, her face inching closer as she does so, drawn in by his pleasantries.

“Tell me,” her eyes are wide with curiosity, maybe worry. “You think I could do it the way you do? Think I’d get to bein’ that good? I can’t slip up like that again you heard me boy? I can’t, I want, I want them to fear me, I want that control.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Johnny questions. “See it ain’t about what’s accordin’ to that there plan you got, it’s ‘bout the thrill of the hunt. Let ‘em have that hope, think they got a chance at livin’, let ‘em be scared, just long enough for you to take it all away from ‘em. You go ‘round plannin’ it all there ain’t nothin’ exicitin’ bout it. I like it when they run, makes it interestin’. There’s summin’ real satisfyin’ bout workin’ for the kill, makes it that much better when you cut into ‘em.”

Contemplation and confusion, then a steady realization made evident by the lift in her features. His words heavy on her mind, it is the intense emotion that comes over her at the notion of it all. Let them have hope, then take it all away.

“See, I knew that there kill of your’s wasn’t gonna be gettin’ too far, you did far too much damage to let ‘em run. These people, victims, they act stupid when they panic. Ain’t very smart, the power of fear works in your favor. That’s summin’ you ain’t come ‘round to understandin’ just yet. You gotta put the surroundings you got to good use. Ain’t expect anyone to be that good on their first time, but you, I told you you’s like me, got a real knack for this thing.”

Sapphires glossed in infatuation, a limerence so far gone that her own father could not draw her from it. She stares in awe, his words of affirmation more than enough to quell the scarcity that runs rampant in her deranged, pretty little head. What once is uncertainty, paranoia and self doubt is now contentment, relaxation and confidence. Thick wet lashes bat against the ocean in her eyes, flickering up to the tarry abyss that was his ominous gaze. She is bewitched, comforted, entranced by the masculine presence he provided.

“In fact,” the back of his roughed up hands graze her cheek, intertwining themselves into the strands of her damp hair and clutching at the back of her head. His thumb prods miscellaneous patterns into her scalp, an uncharacteristically gentle gesture that has her head spinning. “I reckon you start comin’ along with me, I’d like to show you a few things, think you’d get some real use outta it. I wanna see just what kinda stuff yer made of miss Rebecca Payne.” His smile is taunting, like the grinning leer of a demon laughing in God’s face. “Hell, maybe you and I’d make a better pair than you initially thought. Might even work better together, huh?”

Those pristine eyes narrow to look to him through fanned lashes, as if to make out what his true intentions were. But again, it becomes easier and easier to believe him. There’s no ulterior motive, he’s telling the truth. And the delight that was his presence only furthered that fluttery feeling within her. She’s made up her mind.

“Sounds mighty fine to me Johnny boy. Teach me everythin’ you know.” She’s teasing him, the way she leans in and weaves back, tilting her face up and drawing out her words in an exaggerated manner. “I should thank you, reckon there’s anyway I can repay you for tonight?” A delicate hand lands perfectly over his bare shoulder, Dainty fingertips soft like velvet and a featherlight touch that glides over the scars of his skin.

“Don’t disappoint me.” It’s blunt, his smile sort of faltering. “Show me I’m right ‘bout you.”

Her stare tender hearted, eyes lost in the callous look that was his own. She can only nod, her inhibitions incessant on abiding to his wishes, proving herself to him. And still, the grievances arisen from their past bury themselves further within the back of her mind. Slowly to become a distant memory. Her acknowledgement is signified in the sweet kiss she places upon his cheek. A gesture that is met with an intense and fervent stare, that with the hand that palms her cheek.

“Johnny boy?” There’s that angelic tone once more, beckoning him like a siren a sailor. “Hold me, would you?” He’s not the affectionate type, though the way in which she nestles the soft skin of her cheeks and the gentle touch of her Pam over his chest would only convince him to clasp his arms around her. Ensnaring her in a cage of flesh and bone, as he stares into the blank, white paneled walls of her bedroom. The night would soon pass.

The days that followed were a stark contrast to the slower ones that had prevailed prior, filled with father’s return and the herding of cattle, and Johnny’s looming presence on their property. Given the added workload the arrival of cattle had on Raymond it was no surprise that Johnny had hung around more to aide him, and it wasn’t lost on Raymond that the relationship between Rebecca and Johnny had taken an unprecedented turn, one disturbingly idyllic and peaceful, a direct counterpart to Rebecca’s less than ideal attitude towards the boy prior. All most as though it were an entirely different thing all together.

Though there were many things that took Raymond by surprise, from the moment he’d returned to that farmstead. From his daughter’s eerily steadfast smile to her seeming detachment from him. He’d partially worried something drastic had happened during those few days he was gone, something that changed her for worse. Yet again he’d chosen to be blissfully ignorant, as her attitude seemed to improve, and for the first time in a very long time she seemed content, happy. He supposed that in regards to her mood he should have been glad for her, proud even, for she’d finally managed to let free the events of the past and come to terms with the move, but deep down the lord knew he couldn’t help but feel something was so dreadfully wrong.

The way she smiled and laughed with such a free spirit when it came to that boy, or how her touch lingered just a tad too long for comfort. Hell, even the way in which she brought him cold sweet tea or a bottle of beer while they worked out in the fall sun, marking cattle and getting them all settled into their fields. It reminded him vaguely how she treated him, and it hadn’t dawned on him till then that her demeanor had entirely evolved. She hadn’t been nearly as doting as she was before, and he thought maybe he’d consider it a good thing.

It wasn’t until he’d taken notice to the murky bucket of water that sat up against the back wall of the garage, slumped into the corner behind the door that he’d truly become skeptical. He’d examined it more closely, until he saw the sight of maggots and signs of decay, floating about the reddish brown suds, he’d felt sick. A cultivation of anger and fear arose within him, and for but a moment he marched into the house with the bucket in tow, about to confront the girl on his findings. He was sure it must’ve been there some time, judging by the putrid smell. Only, when he’d seen her there, smiling peacefully as she dried the dishes she’d just cleaned and putting them up in the cupboards he felt a pang of guilt, one that quelled that anger so quick he could only turn away in shame. Must’ve been a wild animal of some sort, he was sure of it, and he’d dispose of it himself only to ask about it at a later time. He couldn’t bare the weight of trashing that illusion of hers, whatever it might’ve been.

That same evening, there’d been a knock at the door. One Raymond met with a somewhat annoyed look, only to smile once he’d seen it was Johnny Sawyer. He stood there, wearing a days worth of work and holding a six pack of beer. A good looking grin spread over his features as always, nodding to him in his typical manner. A sign of respect, mutual trust.

“Evenin’ Johnny, what can I do for ya’?”

“Evenin’ sir, brought summin’ for ya’. But I’d be lyin’ if I said I ain’t came here lookin’ to ask you summin’.”

“Right,” he can’t help but chuckle, looking down to the workbooks on his feet before he looks back to Johnny. “Well don’t be a stranger, come on in.”

The smell of metal has long faded and is replaced with the scent of soft vanilla candles and a smokey fireplace. Johnny can’t tell if Becca is home or not, but judging by her absence he can tell she isn’t in the house. Maybe in the fields, he couldn’t tell. Either way, his attention is diverted to her father whilst they sit at the kitchen table, the same table they’d first met at. Ironically they sit in their very same places, and he makes it a point to place the pack of beers on the table.

“Now I’m awfully appreciative of yer help round here boy, I ain’t got much but I owe you son. But uh, I just seent you yesterday, why the sudden formality eh?”

“It ain’t no problem, I ain’t mind helpin’ y’all out. Don’t owe me a thing.” Johnny’s eyes are on him, a charismatic smile over his features as he reaches for the cans over the table. “I’m a man of respect, sir.” He nods, freeing a bottle from its cardboard trap and waving it towards him. “Care for a beer?”

“I reckon one won’t hurt,” Raymond smiles, taking the bottle from him and popping it open against the table. “Don’t go tellin’ that there girl of yours though, she’d kill me if she found out.”

“Yeah,” Johnny chuckles. “‘Bout her, Rebecca,” he hums her name against his lips, taking his own beer bottle and opening it against the lip of the table. He takes a swig, popping the bottom down against the wood table and gulping it down. He clears his throat then, nodding towards Raymond. “I uh.”

“Y’all gotten along real close ain’t cha’?” Raymond asks between drinking from his own bottle. “She wasn’t real fond of ya’ all that long ago, not sure why, fill me in on that, will ya’?”

“Well she’s a firecracker, I’ll tell ya’ that much. But, I think she just came ‘round to me, ain’t much to it. No hard feelin’s, knew I was gonna have to prove myself to ‘er the second we met.”

“Yeah, well,” he takes another swig of his beer. “I’d say she’s more than came ‘round to ya’ son.”

“Yeah well, I’d been wantin’ to ask for yer permission, takin’ her out on another date.”

Raymond holds back his laughter, chortling behind his clasped hands.

“Lemme tell you summin’ boy, s’long as you get ‘er to say yes it’s all swell with me. I like you, you’s a fine young man. Ain’t no quarrels with me. Don’t make me regret that or it’ll be my shotgun to your head, ya heard?”

“Why thank you sir, ‘ppreciate that. I won’t let yer blessin’ go to waste.”

“Well now, at the end of the day it’s up to Becca. That girl, she ain’t all that easy to win over. But I’d say she’s takin’ a likin’ to you, better keep it that way.”

“Right,” Johnny nods. “Where she off at?”

“Store,” Raymond shrugs, “summin’ ‘bout needin’ flour, think she bakin’ summin’. How’s the family been? Ain’t seen the old man in some time, only met yer mother that once.”

“Oh they doin’ just fine,” Johnny somewhat chuckles. “Drayton, he always ramblin’ on ‘bout how I’m over here too much, thinks I’m botherin’ y’all’s. But he asks ‘bout ya an awful lot, think he likes havin’ some company ‘round here. Momma, she doin’ fine too. Lil’ skeptical of Becca but she’s always like that. She’ll come round. Reckon we aughtta get together again.”

“I’d say, maybe we can get those brothers of yer’s over? Remember summin’ bout there bein’ others. Reckon it’s time everybody gets acquainted with each other.”

“Right, yeah,” he’s hesitant, as though he’s hiding something yet his calm gaze makes it seem otherwise. “Rest of my kin don’t get out much, they real quiet folk. But I’m sure we can figure summin’ out.”

“Daddy, I’m home!” Both their gazes avert towards the foyer, the echoing sound of the door closing ringing in the hall where Rebecca steps into view, a brown paper bag of groceries nestled against her hip. She comes in, placing carefully the bag on the kitchen counter before moving to plant a kiss over Raymond’s cheek. “Here’s the change,” she reaches into her pocket to plant a few coins onto the table. Her mien is gracious yet admittedly neutral. Even when her eyes lock with Johnny’s and she raises her brow ever so slightly. “Johnny boy,” she nods her head. “Y’all workin’ out in the fields? I’d of stayed if I knew. Needed some things to help with supper, though.” She says so matter of factly, hands atop her hips as she stares over the two of them. Her eyes sort of gloss over Raymond, who sits there with his gaze fixated on that newfound gleam in her eye.

“Don’t you think you aughtta invite our guest to dinner?”

Becca only sends him a questioning countenance, looking to Johnny with a perturbed face. It’s only then that she takes notice to the pack of beer sat on the dining table, that and the bottle in each his and her father’s hands. Disappointment riddles her features and her brows furrow down in upset, she wastes no time in stepping toward them.

“Johnny,” she sighs. “Figured you’d invite ya’ self, like to have supper with daddy ‘n I?” Her tone is more disdainful than anything, patronizingly childlike. She still couldn’t let him on that easy, and she’d more than shown him her weakest sides.

“And daddy,” she sighs, “what’s all this then?” She picks up his bottle, holding it up. “You know you ain’t s’post to be drinkin’, it’ll kill ya’ if you make it a habit you know that?”

“Darlin’ ain’t no use in gettin’ between a man and his beer,” it’s that instant Johnny rises from his seat, circling round the table to place a firm palm on Rebecca’s shoulder and his other against Raymond’s chair, splitting them from one another. “One ain’t gon’ hurt ‘em, let the man rest for god’s sake.” It doesn’t take much to pry the bottle from her hands, with her wildly irate stare and faltering grip. “Now let yer’ old man and I catch up while you cook up summin’, we’ll be sat here if you need us.”

Silence can be blissful, except when it is filled with the rising tension of a blistering temper. Her disbelief at his utter disrespect and lack of regard is evident in the way which she stands there, glaring to him with an ugly look of vehemence and anger. Strange, the way she feels an overwhelming sense of loathing for him, yet, she stands there with her thumb in her mouth bewildered with forced acceptance and utter awe. A sort of odd concoction of love, hate and a murder most foul.

It’s foreign to her the way she can find both comfort and peace in one man but also aggravating hatred. The way the past had yet to be settled despite their mutual understanding. Perhaps her turbulent personality was the culprit, her unwillingness to compromise unless in the face of someone she respected and her stubborn head. Even her natural confrontational nature could have been behind it, yet there was no confrontation here, only acceptance. Yet she no longer wished to lob that head of his off the broad shoulders which they sat between, nor did she wish to make him suffer an insurmountable amount of pain at her hand. Rather, she’d like his approval, his understanding, his acceptance. And it only fueled her rage and the insatiable love for bloodlust that took refuge within.

So she steps away without another word, only shared glances to which she looks with a hellish expression. Going about her business in the kitchen where she’d began to prep the days meal. The distinct chatter of both Johnny and her father are in short earshot, and she makes it a point to punctuate her own seething anger with the chop of her cutting knife against the carrots. It was a stupid little thing she did, carrying about her activities in a manner that was obnoxiously loud, to make her upset known.

Just like her mother used to do.

Just like her mother.

How pitiful.

Then it was as though nothing had happened at all, as though she’d been nothing short of gracious all the while.

—

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭! - 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

@yixxes @bdudette @nerdykat101 @kaymarnun

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