On top of the paper is the same image etched on Bill Henson’s forehead.
The Devil.
This message is from him. From Damien. I’m fucked.
11
Damien
It’s cute how my pet thinks she can keep me out.
I watch, my smirk deepening, as she shuts the windows, locks them, and does the same to the front door.
As if that can save her.
As if I’m not already hiding in her closet, with a spare key in my pocket. Who does she take me for?
Doesn’t she realize that if I wanted to kill her, she’d be dead already? She’s my girl, and she’ll be safe with me.
Safe, yes, but certainly not happy.
For the moment, though, I’m satisfied toying with her. I listen to the glass crashing to the floor with satisfaction, then hear her move around the house for a while. She doesn’t stay in the kitchen but goes straight to the bathroom, and a minute later the faucet turns on. She’s brushing her teeth.
I scowl, realizing that she’s not planning to eat dinner. This won’t do. I’ll have to figure out a way to make her eat. I have no desire to see her starve to death.
My hands clench into fists, because this is another proof of her disobedience. Of her betrayal. I’d force-fed her once, and then she’d learned her lesson.Eat half of all your meals. Or else.
She clearly hasn’t been eating half of anything. She’s clearly forgotten I own her.
I’ll make sure she never forgets again.
She stays in the bathroom for some time, and I close my eyes, trying to imagine her brushing her teeth, washing her face, getting undressed, her beautiful hair...
No.I rip anything tender from my mind and replace it withcold, merciless anger. Never again will I see her as a sweet, pretty thing.
She’s rotten to the core. Dark and twisted inside. Nearly as dark and twisted as me. And she’ll pay. I’m going to make her fucking pay.
Finally, she enters the bedroom. I don’t want to crack open the door to watch her. I don’t want her to see me. Not yet. I’m going to put the fear of God in her. Or rather, the fear of the Devil.
It’s tantalizing to sense her taking the three steps to her bed, hear the rustle of the sheets as she drags them back, and listen to the soft sound of her body against the mattress. To drink in the fragrance of her skin, made stronger by the humidity and the rain.
Now, her violet eyes are probably fluttering down, her long dark fringe of eyelashes sweeping her pale cheeks, and…
She’s crying.
Not discreet crying, either; great big heaving sobs that resonate loudly in the small bedroom. She’s not trying to hide it. Why should she? She believes she’s alone in the middle of nowhere.
My own reaction surprises me. It takes everything I have not to burst out of here, take her in my arms, crush her to my chest, console her.
Fuck.
She’s crying. That’s agoodthing. I want her to suffer. I want her in pain. I want her to pay.
And yet, she’s crying, and I’m feeling close to crying myself.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I grit my teeth, willing this sign of weakness to stay buried deep down. I’m not supposed to be fucking weak. I’ve put bullets in my enemies. I’ve stabbed them. I’ve watched with a smile as Igor tortured them to death. I’ve taken a few bullets myself, and it’s nothing.
Nothing compared to what this girl has made me feel.Ismaking me feel.
