The Executioner (4 page)

Kansas

After last night’s dream, I awoke this morning and resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to go ahead and open up to this shrink about my recurring dreams. I can’t keep going on no sleep. Every night is the same—I sleep, dream, wake up, and then can’t get back to sleep. I called this morning and made an appointment before I could back out. I can’t wait until my next appointment because I know I’ll lose my nerve.

I am so glad I don’t have time to sit and squirm in my seat. I am immediately called back and it sabotages any idea of not going through with finally being honest about my dreams and lack of sleep. I just know if I sit in this waiting room too long I will chicken out.

“Kansas, Dr. Winslow will see you now.”

I make my way in and the doctor stands to shake my hand. “Hello, Kansas.”

I literally feel my knees turn to jelly.

“Kansas, are you okay?”

He rushes around the desk to help me get seated but ends up having me lie down on a couch instead.

“Oh gosh, I thought that the couch was only in the movies. I am so embarrassed.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, it is just your first time actually being willing to open up during a visit.”

“I have to go,” I state.

I’ve got to get out of here. My head is spinning and I feel like the walls are closing in. What was I thinking when I made this appointment?

I run from the doctor’s office and make up my mind on the way into work to call in sick. I need a day at home by myself to get my head straight, not an appointment with a shrink.

My hands shake on the steering wheel of my beat up Mercury Tracer. God, don’t let today be a day that this stupid car doesn’t start. Visions of the well dressed doctor barging out the door and demanding to know all my dirty little secrets have me trembling with fear. What am I so afraid of? I don’t know; I just know that I am.

I make my way home on autopilot, never taking in the scenery or the street signs during the journey. I just need to get home so I can breathe. I feel like I’m having an anxiety attack and the fear of having a break down in public only feeds the nervous tension coiling in my stomach.

I hold my head down as I wave at my elderly neighbor. I’m trying to avoid talking to anyone right now, and the threat of being caught up in a long-winded conversation helps me to put one foot in front of the other until I finally make my way up to my door. I grapple with my keys until I successfully make my way inside.

I trip over a small table in front of my door and my fear has now turned to terror due to the knowledge overtaking me that someone has been in my house. The table that normally sits to the right hand side of my entrance has been moved to the front of the door. I kick the door shut behind me from the place I have fallen to on the floor and give way to the tears that have threatened to fall since this nightmare started.

Admittedly, I knew I was being followed due to the packages I have received. For some reason unknown to me, it never entered my mind that my admirer had access to my home.

The knowledge that it isn’t my imagination I’m being followed breeds fear to the questions of whether my dreams are merely dreams, or some sadistic form of reality. Is the man in my dreams real? Is there an executioner who desires taking over my very being, or am I losing my mind? Oh God, what if he wants to kill me?

Why would someone come into my home and purposely move items around? I can feel my heart race and my palms sweat as I dissect my new reality. Someone is purposely fucking with my head and if I try to open up and tell someone it will only serve to make me look crazy.

My mind is a cluster-fuck of jumbled confusion right now. Thoughts of leaving this place and staying somewhere else for the night bombard me. The anger I feel towards someone violating something as sacred as my home, my thought processes, and my emotions spurs me on to fight. I need to find out who is following me and, more importantly, I need to find out why they are doing this to me.

Executioner

I make my way out of the doctor’s office bathroom, where I have been listening to this poor girl all but collapse in a full-blown melt down, and an overwhelming need to protect her overtakes me.

My hand shoots out like a jack-in-the-box, only I’m not fucking playing. I watch the good doctor’s face turn red as he gasps for the air supply I have cut off with just one of my large hands. My palm span is so large that I can feel my fingers touching at the back of his neck. My size has always been intimidating but when you add the brutal scar that runs down my face and my cut, chiseled features, well, it’s enough to make anyone shit their pants, especially a little weasel like this guy.

“Why are you doing this?” I loosen my grip and wait for an answer.

“It’s a study on Reactive Attachment Disorder.”

“I know that, you stupid quack, but I didn’t know she’d react like this! You’re going to have the poor girl really believing she is going crazy.”

“Look at you,” he spits out at me in contempt. “You’re a man who has everything yet nothing. You’re a fucking millionaire hermit, a man who won’t come out of his house because he looks like a monster, a killer, a psycho. You wanted her as badly as I wanted you to watch her. You’re as fucking twisted as I am. You have everything; you have nothing!”

My hand squeezes around his throat. I’m enjoying the fear in his eyes as the reality hits that I could kill him with one flex of my hand. My eyes cut through him with palpable hatred.

“I’ll tell you what I am… I’m the man who holds your life in my hands.” I shove his head back against his office chair so hard that it bounces off the back. I turn, making my way out his back door and into the alley behind his office. I’ll kill him with my bare hands if I stay here.

I’m second guessing why I ever agreed to this. I know exactly why I agreed to it at first. I agreed because I’m a sick, twisted mother fucker who enjoys taking innocent women and mind fucking them while I control every aspect of their lives. I was turned on by the thought of stalking this unsuspecting woman. Now I am turned on by the thought of holding her captive. After all, she needs a savior…  

I wait until the sun goes down and I know she is asleep before I make my way back to her house. I tell myself I’m doing this to protect her but the pleasure of knowing I’ll have her completely at my mercy soon is tangible.

The shadows and the sound of dogs barking in the distance spur me on as I make my way to the back window I rigged early on in this game. I jiggle it just so and it unlatches, allowing me access to the woman who has become mine even though she is unaware of it as of yet. I unlock her back patio door and grab her purse, laptop, and phone. I take them out to the cargo van that awaits me and make my way back through the shadows. I quietly stand over her, watching her breathe, as I remove the syringe and jab it into her arm, pushing the drug that ensures she won’t fight me into her system.

I toss her over my shoulder as if she is weightless and make my out of her house and to the side door of my van. I toss her in the van and slide the door shut before anyone can take note of what is happening. Dogs still bark in the distance as I pull out onto the quiet suburban street. The inhabitants are completely unaware I have just kidnapped one of their neighbors.

None of them will realize she is gone and even if they discover it, they won’t care. The quack doctor who is counseling her is crazy as fuck, but he is right about one thing: this woman does suffer from Reactive Attachment Disorder. She is not bonded to anyone; she has no friends, family, or lovers. She is the perfect specimen for what she will become in the next few days—my victim. 

I drive through the night unnoticed and pull into the gated home I own, which is more of a compound than house. Every inch of it is under surveillance and no one goes in or out without invitation. She is the first visitor I’ve had since I took on the life of a hermit. We are alike in more ways than one; I too am unable to bond. It’s not due to suffering from any phobias but due to choice. I have had no desire to be close to anyone emotionally… until now.    

Kansas

I awaken, once again nude and chained, in the basement of my captor’s home. Though my mind is in a fog, this time I am well aware this is not a dream. Though a blindfold covers my eyes, I know he is here with me. His presence permeates the room and it stirs a mixture of fear and desire within me. I’m grateful for the drugs I can feel in my system because I know they are responsible for lowering my reservations about being naked and subjected to man who, up until now, I believed to be a figment of my imagination.

His voice cuts through the air, confirming what I already know to be truth—he has taken me captive.

He bends down, breathing in my scent as he speaks, and fear grips me.

“You’re in trouble. You failed to wear perfume, my little Vixen.”

I reach up and cautiously begin to touch the man’s face I have come to know as ‘The Executioner.’ Today he dons no hood. His brow is furrowed as if he is shocked at my boldness. Once again, I am grateful for the drugs in my system which have relieved any reticence I would normally experience. I gently run my fingers over the eyes I have come to love—one blue, one brown. I’m shocked when my fingers run over a thick scar that goes down his face in a straight line from his eye down to the middle of his cheek. I feel the close cut beard and mustache on his face. His features are carved out in prominent angles and my fingers trail down to his neck which is all thick muscle. His hand viciously grabs mine and his voice comes out in a rabid, threatening growl.

“Have I given you permission to touch me?”

“Please let me see you. I have to know if you’re real or a figment of my imagination.”

He rips the blindfold from my eyes and I blink trying to focus. Though the lighting is dim, the drugs, along with being blindfolded, have caused my vision to be hazy. I look up into the face of the most beautiful man I have ever encountered and once again, against my better judgment, I touch his face. I run my hand over the scar that, on him, looks ironically angelic. He is a warrior of sorts, a dangerous specimen of man that looks as though he is from times long past.

His hand rapidly shoots out, grabbing my wrist with a vengeance and guiding my fingers to where he wishes them to be—on his cock. I run my hands over his jeans and I feel his cock jump against the material that separates us.

“Take it out, Vixen. Take it out and please me for your insolence in presuming you may touch me without my permission.”

I scrape my knees on concrete floor when I kneel in front of him. I can feel the chain pulling at my ankle reminding me who is in control. He viciously fists a handful of my hair.

“You better make it good, girl.”

I swallow his cock, almost choking, as he blocks off my airway. He is deep in my throat when he begins fucking my face without mercy. If I’m looking for a kind lover, he won’t be found here.

I gain a rhythm, allowing him to assault my throat and his groaning only spurs me on.

“Ahh fuck, you’re such a good girl, letting me use you.”

Warm spray bathes the back of my throat and I take everything he has to give in order to avoid the impending discipline for touching him without permission.

He grabs me by my neck, pulling me up against the concrete wall and purposely scraping skin from my back. Tears stream down my face as his fingers close around my throat in a vice like grip. I’m unable to stop looking into the face of a man who looks like he wants to kill me.