He turns his head at me pleadingly.
Jasper scoffs. “You all say that. Now show us some respect and shut your mouth while the misses and I speak.”
Ignoring Jasper's words, Patrick keeps spitting out phrases, initially begging for mercy and then demanding it. I’m unable to get a word in as he continues to speak over me every time I try.
“Let my Starling speak, you fucking shit!” Jasper spits, backhanding Patrick. The man groans in pain.
Annoyed, Jasper steps away and rummages through a cabinet, and returns with a machine in one hand. The metal glistening. He lifts the staple gun, presses it over Patrick’s lips, and within a few seconds, the deafening sound of galvanic steel inserting itself into soft flesh fills the air. A metallic snap, likea bone breaking clean. Fresh, deep red blood welts around the minor wounds, and droplets drip down Patrick’s chin.
“Much better,” Jasper says, satisfied with his work. All Patrick is able to do is release pathetic murmured whines.
“Now, my love, please tell me how you want to position him.”
I hop off my chair and move closer, inspecting the man. His eyes are still moving, while the clear lens begins to frost, milky as winter glass, sealing the world outside as the formaldehyde bites deeper into the tissue. Splinters stick out between his blond eyelashes, and small bruises form. Tiny red dots paint a map of pain across Patrick’s pale skin. My eyes trail to his stapled mouth. Beneath the taut skin, capillaries quivered under the metal’s bite, breaking silently, leaving bruises and bursts of red that darkened like veins of ink across his flesh. Different colors begin to paint his face.
“I like how he looks now… His face... There’s a distorted serenity to it.”
I trace my finger over his skin, and Patrick flinches at my delicate touch. I use his blood to draw across his flesh. He reminds me of a mime player, so much emotion, but unable to say any words. The only difference is that he is bound to die.
“I would position his arms across his chest… Put him to rest like that,” I say dreamily.
Jasper gazes at me with quiet devotion; this is his normal, and I take it as I once gave him mine, whole and unflinching, a communion of shadowed souls.
“I want him to suffer,” he says, his voice barely audible, as if the admittance itself kills him instead. Understanding the need that dwells inside him, I am grateful for his offering. I don’t mind having to wait a little longer.
I cup his face and kiss him. “Then make him, Darling. Don’t hold back because of me.”
He takes my hands in his and kisses me back tenderly. We deepen our kiss, and I open my lips so our tongues can start their intimate dance together. He lifts me and places me on top of Patrick's stomach, who tries to cry out, the staples in his mouth preventing it. Instead, a squirming sound escapes him, while I wrap my legs around Jasper’s hips. Feeling the erratic breathing of Patrick underneath me heightens my senses, and I grab onto Jasper’s black hair, fisting it. I softly bite his lower lip, and he lets out a low growl with approval. Impatiently, he pulls up my shirt and unclasps my bra. I don’t worry about exposing myself to Patrick, as his eyes are covered in ulcers and swelling; I highly doubt he’s able to see at all.
Jasper wraps his hand around my neck, like poison ivy, squeezing my throat lightly, while we continue to make out. I moan loudly into his mouth as his other hand snakes around my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers and occasionally pinching it. My wriggling against his lower body, awakens something inside Patrick as well, despite being in horrid pain, and I squeal in disgust when I feel his hard bulge against my ass.
“Gross,” I murmur, and unwrap myself of Jasper, desperate to get off Patrick.
Jasper’s face reflects only anger, the fact another man pressed their body like that against mine, is not something he takes lightly.
Furiously, Jasper grabs a claw hammer, nails, and yanks down Patrick’s cargo pants. Patrick is squirming as he can’t see a thing, but still, I cross my arms against my chest, hiding my nudity from his pus-festered eyes. With precision, Jasper places a large, sharp nail and slams it into Patrick's half-erect penis, straight into his thigh. In total, Jasper buries six steel nails, nailing Patrick’s, now limp, member into his flesh—tiny rivers of blood snake along his skin, and a lake of blood forms on the table—a crucifixion of sinful flesh. A small stream of piss leaksfrom the tip, and he lets out a throat-bound, whimpering sob. Part of his lips are riven and perforated as he manages to tear them apart, letting out a hollow groan. Biting through the pain, Patrick begins to murmur immediately, trying to find his voice to beg us for mercy.
Jasper barely gives him time to catch his breath as he reaches for the staple gun and brutally begins to fire staple after staple into Patrick’s mouth, silencing his susurrus of pain, while the metal bites again and again through the thin skin. Tiny rivulets of blood well instantly, and more bruising begins to bloom, a hidden lattice of suffering made visible, while Jasper continues his assault.
Jasper breathes heavily as he takes in his work, his chest moving rapidly, like waves crashing onto the shore. I get up and move to his side, wrapping one arm around his waist and placing my other hand on his heaving chest, feeling the rhythm of his pounding heart. My bare breasts press against his ribs, my pale skin a stark contrast against his tattooed covered body. I glance at Patrick, and the entire lower half of his face is covered with small metal bites, as if his skin had braces. A zigzag pattern, like an impossible puzzle, decorates him. I let out a laugh at the absurdity of it all, and my high-pitched giggle makes Patrick wince and jerk his head. I’m surprised he’s still with us; the pain must be unbearable by now.
I notice a fly landing on Patrick’s ruined eye, just like it did on the dead stag; it prances around, searching for a spot to lay its eggs.
“You know what would make for an interesting picture?” I ask, my eyes fixed on the fly.
“Hmm?”
Jasper softly caresses my face, his rough fingers unexpectedly gentle.
“Bugs crawling from his insides. Since, we have long passed the possibility for regular post-mortem photography.” I chuckle.
“We can do that,” Jasper confirms, and my heart leaps with excitement.
He rummages through a drawer, then shows me what he was searching for. It’s a small knife, its blade stained with brown spots.
“My favorite,” he grins.
I realize the spots are dried blood from earlier kills, and I shake my head with a smile while glancing at him, noticing the excitement on his face.
