The mission was never cancelled. I’m still active, waiting, just waiting, for orders.
I was in limbo, ready for ignition.
Priority two.I swallow. It’s not the same. Mission active, yes, but I killed my handler. Priority one was impossible and I resisted it. I fucking did.
Priority two. Torture. Rape. Kill her. Do it in front of the father, Simon Tarrant, before killing him.
I don’t have to. I can resist.
He’s already dead. Abort the mission.
I stalk through the house on leaden feet. The house sways, trembles, taunting me.
I need to find the right place.
I just…
I can do this.
I can.
Control is the answer. Unscramble my mind.
I want to have her. I have always wanted that. Even in my own world. We are meant to be together. My need is desperate and dark, and to stop myself killing her I will need every scrap of control.
My heart chugs through the automatic motions of pumping blood. My jaw tenses, relaxes, flexes, and I hear a tooth crack ,and a sliver breaks off and hits my tongue. I swallow it. My legs walk from room to room, seeking somewhere, something. Life has devolved into this.
I need…
Somewhere beautiful. Something to remind me of what isgood in this world. This is Hailey’s world. Love needs beauty. If I love, I shall not kill, I shall not torture. God, I hope that’s true.
Tears leak from my eyes and trail down my face without a word of sadness being said.
I must not kill.
Subvert the command. Channel it. My cock throbs, jostled by the shifting of my pants as I walk.
If I don’t get myself inside her… If I don’t make her suck on me, bow to me, sob for me, yield to me?—
A bird flits by wings drumming the air.
“Kail? Kail?” She’s smacking my ass and lower back with her fists and has been doing so for a while.
“Here. It’s here.” I turn in a slow circle. I flick the light switch beside the doorway.
I’ve found it. The place. Somewhere pretty but ripe with places to do things to her.
A low chandelier of multicolored glass prisms hangs from the ceiling above a high, square timber table and a pair of red leather armchairs. Framed posters of nature from around the world feature on the walls—a lake in Scotland, a rainforest in Australia, Islands of the Caribbean and mountains, mountains of snow in France or Switzerland, the jungle and deserts of Africa. Yet this is a gym with a padded bench, an overhead bar, a bike, with ropes, bars, and metal weights. Behind the table and chairs is window seat recessed before a mullioned window. Through the glass I see night sky, space, and the land. Revenant sleeps below.
My hip nudges the table.
It’s late. No moon. No people in sight. Below the window is the cliff I climbed on my way to find the hoodie. The attic I explored is above.
The house has ceased to sway.
Was the bird that flew by real? The command may be creating holes in my real-time memory.
When I turn from the window, I see the white not-a-cat. In the arched doorway I entered through, it sits watching us, elegant and patient, as proper cats often are. The black mark on its forehead reassures me. Squiggle Cat has arrived. It’s real, even if the bird was not.
