The thought comes unbidden.
It doesn't make it untrue, though.
I could reclaim every mark on her body, bend it, and break it. I could shatter her bones, probably as well as her spirit's been shattered from whatever happened to her before she became mine.
I wanted afreshvictim, something that felt authentic.
Killing her while she's unconscious suddenly doesn't have the appeal it did when I was getting everything set up for this moment. It feels like cheating, taking the easy way out. And I don't want the easy way out.
I'm a predator. I need to hunt, to prey.
I also need tonotget caught killing random women off the street like hundreds of serial killers before me. I have a luxury they don't, which is that I can afford my proclivities. It's the reason I did it this way. The best thing to do is to get my knife and see if her heart bleeds red for me, maybe to carve my name on it with the scalpel.
Kill the bitch. She's worthless.
“No.”
She's mine, which makes her valuable on her own.
I rake my hands through my hair, torn between the compulsion to rip her apart and let her blood rain on me and the desire to fuck her again.
Or kill her while you fuck her.
Really, I don't have to choose. I've got time with her—as much time as I want. I can drug her again and again, keeping her as my living dead girl until it becomes too much for her broken body to handle.
But she'll need a shower if that's the plan, because I can't imagine letting this fester.
She seems lighter as I lift her into my arms this time, freeing her of the shackles and rope so I can take her up the steps with her slung across my arms, bridal style. I regret putting the snakes in the shower, because she needs to be hosed off rather than to marinate in her filth, but the snakes are angry, and I have nowhere to move them right now.
Instead, I just have to drop her into the porcelain tub, where her head falls onto her chest.
I leave her to gather the things I'll need—shampoo and soap, a sponge and towels, and a pitcher to fill with water.
When I return to her, she's sunk deeper in the bathtub, so I adjust her a bit before turning the water on. I wait for it to be warm enough before I fill the pitcher, pouring it over her filthy body so that it rinses some of the dirt clean. I watch it swirl around the drain for a second, dark with dirt and blood and God knows what else.
Now that I've sated the beast, I'm feeling more like myself. The reality of my situation is dawning on me with violent acuity.
I bought a woman.
A person.
Somebody's daughter.
I can't even begin to imagine what horrors this woman faced before she met me... how she ended up being sold on the internet like a used car or secondhand clothing. I haven't let myself think about those things much, knowing it would have soured the experience when I unwrapped her.
But now, I can'tnotthink of these things, especially as I wash away the grime from her hair. Bits of straw rinse down the drain as I pluck them from her strands and begin soaping her hair, pulling it through my hands to ensure it's properly cleansed. That's how I notice it's an uneven cut, clearly not professionally done. I don't know anything about women's hair care, but even I can see that the way it hangs isn't normal.
I wash her twice, soaping her body with the sponge so that I can avoid waking the beast inside by touching her with my bare hands and feeling her soft body beneath my fingers.
The first pass, I work in sections, rinsing to check that I've not missed any spots. The second pass, I cover her entirely with suds, careful not to get soap up her nose.
As the grime rinses down the drain, I'm struck by how innocent she appears. Her full lips are red and puffy, cut in places and cracking, but they turn up just a little at the corners, giving her the illusion that she's peaceful. I suppose compared to whatever she experienced when she was awake, the abyss may be peaceful after all.
Her dark lashes don't so much as flutter when I pull her forward, holding her limp body up with a hand around the back of her neck so I can slip into the tub behind her.
I haven't taken a bath since I was a child, but the compulsion to hold her like this swells so great inside of me that I find myself easing her against my chest. The warm water spills over my toes as I situate her, sweeping her wet hair off her chest so I have unhampered access.
I can't say with any certainty that it's good for her, but something tells me to fill the silence, to speak to her.
