I CONTINUE TO sit and stare. Think. I’ve worked myself into a bit of a corner. This man came to rape me, do whoknowswhatelse with fourteen condoms. Kill me? I’m thinking yes. He’d had enough darkness in his soul that he tortured Mike and drove fifteen hundred miles to my door. I have, no doubt, fueled that anger. Now that his hysteria, the brain fuck that the gas took his head through, has passed, he is furious. I have watched his swollen eyes. Watched as they gained some ability back, enough to look at me with a look that clearly communicates hate. Taking off his finger was the big fucking pile of straw that broke that already-puny camel’s back. So now I have an asshole in my apartment with every intent to kill me should he regain the ability. That’s grounds for murder, right? My conscience rolls over uneasily. It’s debatable. I can’t exactly call the cops. And I can’t exactly let him go. Cut his zip ties and unhandcuff him, wave a cheery good-bye as he walks off, one finger lighter. And I’m keeping the damn finger. I’ll send it to Mike as a response to his next invoice. I smile, excited at the prospect. It’s witty, I’ll give myself that.
I glance at my watch. Eleven thirty-five p.m. My phone dings and I glance down, read a text, short and sweet, from Mike. “I can get back the $.”
Good. One thing off my plate. I text back. “Do it.” Then I set my phone down, pull off the mask—fuck the fumes—and step over to my visitor.
I should walk away. I should step into the hall, take the stairs down, enter the night sky and let FtypeBaby take me anywhere but here, in my apartment, at the motherfucking witching hour, with a knife in my hand and a body before me.
This is bad. All the elements of an impossible temptation. I feel the moment my soul loses the decision, my madness starting to flow with greedy inhibition. The dam breaking, power surging through my body, excitement in my veins, my limbs unrestrained, my mind at full iwillkillthismotherfucker strength: All are very, very bad. Not for me, not for my sick heart, which is orgasming at the—I unsheathe my knife—future, but for him. The blood pulses, all sane thought leaving my head in the loud rush of excitement. I fight it, try to curl, try to cover my ears, the action only amplifying the sound. It is useless and the moment that I surrender to it… it is the best moment in the world, a full-body rush of euphoria, one that bursts through me with clear and perfect energy. I am high, able to do anything and everything, but I have only one want on my agenda.
I step forward and lean over, roll his body to its back and straddle him, resting my weight on his stomach, his attempt to buck me off met with a warning look. This is bad. I hear the cry of my soul and ignore it as I finger the knife.
I should walk away.
I have so little control.
I smile.