Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (22 page)

IT IS RETURNING,
the rush of intense need, flooding my veins and traveling through my limbs, causing my hands to shake and my breath to come in short, tense pants. For the first time in my life, I am grateful for its presence. Being with Annie stunted my mind, the fear of losing her crippling my body’s ability to travel to this point, my brain and thoughts centered on her and getting her to safety. It is the first time, in as far as I can remember, feeling fear. When you are the darkest presence in the room, there is very little to fear. An opportunity to interact with evil would only justify any violent actions my body might take. But when I was accountable for her, when her innocent life was in my hands and I was relied upon for protection…my demonic urges failed, withered and suffocated by the mothering instinct that was concern. Concern for her safety, concern that I, if engaged in a confrontation with Ralph, might fail her.

Now that she is safe, now that he is in my sights—that fear is gone, replaced with the uncontrollable urge that is my obsession.
I want to kill, I need to kill, I have a target before me.
It is the first time I haven’t fought the feeling, haven’t tried to control it with closed eyes or a redirection of my mind. Instead I embrace it, flexing my hands around the shaking steering wheel, celebrating the release of dark energy as it spreads through my body.

The gate is now open, the chain hanging loosely from metal piping, and I swing the truck in, all concerns of stealth gone. A battle is before me, and I almost moan at the excitement of it. After four years of waiting, I feel beyond ready, panting at the thought of it.

The Ford Explorer is parked at an odd angle, his approach probably as hurried as mine. The door to the shed stands open, and he appears in the doorway at the same moment that I step out of the truck, my hands tucked into my sweatshirt, one palming the knife, the other my gun.

It is amazing that with all the chats, the multiple times that I have heard his cruel voice, I have never seen his face. No smiling photos in the documents I received from Mike. No identification or screenshot to prepare me for his likeness.

I have imagined him in my mind for so long, my imagination creating a monster of grotesque features and proportions. But standing in the opening of the shed, his head tilted and eyes sharp, is just a man. Slightly balding, twenty pounds too heavy, whose mouth is turning into a sneer. Whose eyes are narrowing, stance strong, the combined effect sinister. This man, this balding, thick man, has whispered in my ear, poured out the disgusting thoughts in his soul, showed me the dark evil in his heart. And now he is stepping closer, the excitement radiating from his body like a foul smell.

Come on…baby. Come on. Closer, you sick fuck.
I want to smile, giddiness spreading through my body at the joyous task before me. I am about to kill. About to take a life, feel live flesh, and carve its breath in a burst of blood. I am almost overcome with excitement, the concept of dropping my barriers strange, my push to contain these demons so ingrained that it feels odd to open that latch, odd to let myself think, feel, and act without censorship or control. But I must be smart. I must be quick. I must punish this man and get back to Annie. I must remember what happened with Jeremy, his overtaking of my body. How quickly I was brought under control, how the tables were reversed and he was on top and holding me still.

The gun. The gun is the best chance. I should pull it now, stop his forward advance. Then fire a shot that will kill. Done. Mission accomplished. No chance of error. It was also fucking boring. I have fantasized for four years over this moment, envisioned countless killing scenarios, 90 percent of which involved close contact, a blade, and an intimate encounter of the killing kind. Not a gun, ten feet away from the target, one trigger pull and a human body’s flop to the ground.
Anticlimactic. Disappointing.

I contain my smile, wanting to put him at ease, wanting him to think that he is in control, that he is the aggressor in this battle. He steps fully out of the shed into the morning light, and my hand releases the gun, leaving it in my pocket as I step forward and wonder if he will recognize me.

I can feel his panic. Not at me, not at this young girl before him in a sweatshirt and sneakers. His eyes have already glanced over me, running up and down my body, dismissing me as a threat. No, his panic is over Annie. Wondering where she is. Wondering what happened to his plans, his restraints. Wondering how far she has traveled and how long she has been gone. I am a distraction, a waste of time that should be dealt with quickly so he can move forward and secure his prize.

I can’t stop it, can’t stop the grin from stretching across my face, the glee at this possibility spreading through my body. He hesitates, the friendly expression confusing him, his eyes squinting at me as he moves forward, our bodies within two steps, and suddenly stiffens.

His beady eyes examine my face, hesitantly and then boldly, his face hardening as recognition slowly dawns. Incredulity, then anger gleams in his eyes.

“What are
you
doing here?”

He is unarmed—his soft body stiffened only with his newfound anger. He has no need for a weapon; his victim is a helpless six-year-old girl. My confidence grows at the same time that his brain processes the possible reasons for my presence. He steps back, looking toward the shed, his eyes studying the broken window, the empty shell. I stand there, wondering at the intelligence level of the man before me, so much about him unknown, and wait for him to make the connection.

I can see the moment it happens, the slow draw of his gaze from point A to point B. My presence. Annie missing. My knowledge of his carnal desires. Understanding hits, and his head whips back to me, his eyes blazing with raw fury.

“You. Little. Bitch,” he grounds out, stepping toward me. I move quickly in response—learning from my mistakes with Jeremy. I cannot let him grab me, must catch him off guard and unprepared. I yank out my right hand, the stiletto blade tight in its grip, and press the release button while moving. The sharp blade shoots into place, the sharp jerk beneath my palm making my legs clench and stomach curl.
This
is the moment.
This
is my time. The guilt—that giant boulder that suffocates my shoulders, telling me that my thoughts are wrong, my intentions twisted—is gone, and my conscience is light, doing nothing to impede the rush of energy flowing through my body. The knife shakes slightly as my hands tremble from excitement, and I eye his neck, my sharp gaze examining the curves and valleys I will soon puncture. He sees my knife and pauses, stopped momentarily by the reflective flash of a weapon in my hand.

In movies, they always refer to the jugular: “Go for the jugular.” But the jugular is actually a vein located on the outer portion of the neck. Cutting it will cause some bloodshed, but not enough to kill, not unless you do something like hang them upside down and slowly let every drop of their blood drip out of their neck. That’s a boring death. I’d probably fall asleep after twenty minutes of listening to the soothing sound of blood dripping.

When slicing a throat, you actually want to go for the carotid arteries, located in the small indentations on either side of the windpipe. You don’t
have
to slice the arteries: simply applying pressure on the artery will stop the flow of blood to the brain, causing your victim to pass out and—if pressure is continued—eventually die. But that’s no fucking fun. Strangling them for five additional minutes after they pass out? You might as well sing a lullaby and rock them gently into the great beyond. Ralph doesn’t deserve a soft sink into death, his mind blocking out the pain and allowing him a slow and graceful sink into oblivion. Fuck that. This man deserves to bleed. I need him to bleed, I need to provide my dark obsessions with some sort of reprieve after four years of neglect.

The best way to slice his neck is straight across the tracheal area, one quick swipe that will destroy both the windpipe and the carotid arteries simultaneously. This method will removes his ability to speak or scream, plus his gasp for breath will pull the blood in, preventing a spray of blood from covering me.

The problem is, I want his screams. I want to hear his pain, howls of agony that won’t stop until he dies. Screams are always my favorite part of the fantasies; they are the proof that I have the power, that I am in control and they are scared and at my mercy. I also want the blood, want it to spray everywhere, covering my hands and body, my dark needs wanting the proof of their devastation, the proof that we, as a unit, took the life of this man.

But there is Annie to think of. A girl too close, who might hear his screams, who might be scared. A girl who has already been through too much. A girl who doesn’t need me, a stranger, to return covered in the fresh blood of her relative.

For a moment I imagine what I want to do, how I want to decorate his body with my knife, cut off fingers and toes and listen to him scream, to beg me for mercy, for me to hear the strength of my power through spurting blood and gasps of agony. Then my fantasies shut down, pausing when Ralph rushes forward and grabs the front of my shirt, slamming his fist into the front of my face.

Blackness.

I never before realized the level of my inadequacies. I am weak, my muscles worked enough for cellulite reduction and little else. I am puny, easily overcome by a man who is nothing other than naturally strong. One firm punch into the delicate bones of my face and I am stunned, destroyed, every reflex in my body wanting to curl up and scream my mother’s name. But my mother will not save me. She cannot; I killed her. That perverse recognition causes me to fight the pain, to stretch the muscles in my face and open my eyes, blinking weakly as my ruined nerves try to focus.

I am weaker. I am inferior. But I am also a killer, and that sickness may be the only thing to bring me strength.

My vision comes into focus and I look up, my grip tightening on my knife, and stare into the silhouette that is Ralph. He is breathing hard, kneeling alongside my body, leaning down and resting on his hand, which pins my arm into the dirt, the knife useless against 190 pounds of weight.

I grunt, struggling beneath him, trying to move away as he leans over me. “Where. Is. She?”

This is a disaster. It is Jeremy all over again, but instead of a smoking hot man who wants my body, I have the man of my nightmares, have risked Annie in the process, and will be lucky if I live. I need my gun. Fuck the blood, fuck my enjoyment of the fucking process, my once-in-a-lifetime-justified-opportunity-to-kill. I just need him dead, and my inner demons will have to get over the fact that it won’t be picture postcard perfect.

I mask the sound of my movement with a scream, a long, tortured howl, something I pray Annie will not hear. The sound causes him to jerk back, his hand tight on my arm. As my brain reverberates from the noise, I slide my free hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt, grab the gun, pull it out, point and fire. Let the double-action do the work, no cocking needed. One hard squeeze that blows fire from its depths.

I would have loved to hold the gun to his face, talk some serious smack, and wait for him to release my arm and back away. But that’d be stupid. Give him time to knock it from my hand and punish me for every smartass comment I made. I already made my stupid mistake for the day. I had wanted intimate bloodshed so badly that I’d allowed him to walk right up and pulverize my face.

So I shoot him, not really paying attention to where, my hand pulling the trigger at a target two feet away. I can’t miss. He starts, his eyes dropping to my gun, then traveling back to my face, anger mixed with pain in his expression. He sits back, holding his side, where it appears my bullet hit. I don’t know what organs lie in the right side of someone’s rib cage, but my fevered mind doesn’t come up with anything important, and I sit up quickly, scooting my legs underneath me and kneeling before him. Having regained my grip on the knife, I bring it forward through the air in a smooth arc that instantly satisfies every wet dream I’ve ever had, moving across and sinking the sharp blade into his skin just under his left ear.

I yank left, cutting the throat as I have imagined, countless, fevered times, the blade jerking in a wet sweep across his neck until it breaks loose of the skin. The movement is sluggish but clean, the blade barely slowing, my mind surprised at how easily it slices, how little effort is required.

Time pauses, a heart-stopping second when I worry that I didn’t cut deep enough, that the knife slid too easily, a superficial wound that will do nothing but infuriate my adversary. His eyes meet mine, fury against fury, strength against weakness.

Then he slumps.

He falls forward, a hand reaching up to the cut, some blood gurgling through his fingers as he tries to speak, tries to communicate the hatred and frustration that blazes through his eyes. I catch him with my hand, holding him upright, my hand twitching around the blade.