All of this is just a game to him, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some thrill in it too. He grabs my arm and pulls me along, steering me away from the path Patrick took. We move in a different direction. I don’t question him, but obediently follow in his footsteps.
It's a relentless chase, and I'm mortified by how unfit I am as I try to keep up with Jasper. When we cross paths again with Patrick, he lets out a cry of defeat, probably thinking he'd lost us for sure. He makes a strange turn, causing me to nearly twist my ankle as I try to follow suit. I snarl in dismay, while my entire body aches and my lungs feel like they can explode at any time.
My attempt at knocking him out was one of desperation, and I feel overjoyed when I hear the sickening crack and see our prey collapse when the stick hits him off balance.
“Time to get to work, Starling,” Jasper grins. “You know what to do.” A wicked smile spreads on my face.
Chapter Seven
Patrick thrashes like a wild animal in Jasper’s tight hold as I clamp my hand over his mouth, forcing him to swallow the medicine I push past his lips. I begin to stroke his throat as if he were a cat, unsure if it helps him swallow the crushed tablets. I reach for the water flask, feeling impatient and a bit worried someone might find us, which makes me hurry. Jasper seems unaffected, holding our victim in an iron grip, wearing him down. Between my fingers, I let the water drip, causing Patrick to swallow it involuntarily. His thrashing and fighting decrease with each passing second until his body goes limp.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, brushing away the sheen of dread. Easily, Jasper throws Patrick over his shoulder as if he weighs nothing. He’s completely unfazed by what we just did, which is typical for him.
“Good job, Starling. That was some impressive improvising making sure he swallowed down the medicine. But, Darling, how do you feel?” He scrutinizes my facial expressions.
"I... I don’t know, pretty overwhelmed, I think. This was a rollercoaster of emotions,” I admit.
He leans over, the drugged man rolls along on his shoulder, and he gives me a kiss, while Patrick’s head swings from side to side. It’s strange, but part of me feels some excitement in all of this. We walk back to the mansion at a relaxed pace.
When we get inside, Jasper takes Patrick to the same spot where he gutted the deer and boar earlier, slamming him onto the metal table that used to be a mortuary table. The limp body jerks, but he remains unconscious. The air is crisp, and I shiver—perhaps because I’m near an almost-dead body.
“How much did you give him, Darling?” Jasper says with a smirk.
He places a finger under Patrick’s jaw, still feeling a pulse, and he shrugs. Then, he hands me a pair of black latex sterile gloves.
“Unless you prefer to feel the slipperiness of warm blood between your fingers and the flesh creep under your fingernails.”
“I do,” I whisper, tucking the gloves into one of the back pockets of my pants in case I change my mind later.
With sickening interest, I watch as Jasper begins to tie Patrick down, stretching his arms and legs until he’s spread-eagled, across the cold metal. I can’t wait until he’s dead and I can try my first time photographing a deceased human being.
Jasper and I spoke about our fascination, or perhaps obsession in my case, with death photography early on in our blossoming relationship. I began collecting the macabre pictures when I was around fifteen—it's not a cheap hobby for a teenager, but I worked side jobs and saved every penny. Money was one obstacle I tackled almost immediately, but the biggest challenge was finding authentic photos. I looked for original images, not mass-produced ones or those still alive. I wanted real photographs from that era, the Victorian age, with the subjects deceased—preferably children or young women. Something was mesmerizing about their youth being captured for an eternity. Luckily, he understood, confessing he also owned several authentic images, all framed in antique frames. We would exchange photos online, gushing over each other’s collections. His were mostly women, while mine were mainly children, primarily young girls. It was an unspoken preference on both our accounts. None of it was about sexual desires, we both felt their lifeless expressions were captured more beautifully.
I told Jasper that it was my dream to photograph people after they have passed away in their moment of serenity. Still, I felt a career as a post-mortem photographer was frowned upon not only by my family, but by society as a whole. Besides, if I were to chase such a career, I’d do it the genuine way, pure in its essence. And that would be a problem as well, since I highly doubt anyone would let me draw eyes on their deceased lovedones anyway, to make them appear more lifelike, or press glass eyes between their stiff eyelids.
In Victorian times, people did it because photographs were expensive, and it was a cherished memory of their loved ones. Besides that, in that era, people were obsessed with the dead, their mourning, ritualistic and deeply symbolic. It was a culture surrounded by remembrance. I also collect hair pieces from that time, the jewelry, and small artworks, which are so delicately crafted. It makes me long for a past I never experienced, one I would never live through.
Yet, here I am, with a possibility to catch a glimpse of what once was, and I plan to take full advantage of it.
Back then, Jasper told me I would get it, that he would give me that kind of life. I never paid much attention to those words, thinking they were his way of saying he cares about me and wants to work toward that dream together, but here we are. He’s carving his vows into a deed, as he lets his promises breathe into the world. Not once did it cross my mind that Jasper was one to steal lives and silencing thoughts, and that I would reap the bitter fruits of his victim’s fate. Let alone that I’d be thrilled to do so.
He bends over Patrick, peels his eyelids up, and the man’s eyeballs begin to twitch frantically, like they want to flee, sensing the danger they’re in. Jasper lets go of the skin, and it immediately closes, soothing the eyes underneath. He gets up, opens a cabinet, takes out a jar, and returns to his initialposition, bending over Patrick. I watch it all in pure infatuation. Then he looks up, his gaze meeting mine. Jasper wiggles his eyebrows at me, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“Let’s wake up, mister sleepy head… Also… my love, if this gets too much… I understand… I will not be upset if you decide to go outside or inside the house to wait until I’m done. It might be… gruesome…”
“I promise,” I say, a smile plastered on my face, as I feel giddy.
I feel butterflies in my stomach, as if I'm experiencing love for the first time. My nerves are on high alert, but in a good way, and I sit on the tip of my stool. Jasper shows me what he’s holding: formaldehyde. He puts it down, takes a used toothpick—given the bloodstains on it—from his pocket, breaks the thin wood into two, and places them like tiny stents between Patrick’s eyelids. Patrick’s eyes are twitching and darting from left to right, but he still seems to be unconscious. Jasper unscrews the lid of the formaldehyde bottle, then carefully pours the clear liquid into both eyes. Within seconds, Patrick returns to the land of the living, wildly blinking, pushing the splintery wood through the skin of his eyelids, and he howls in agony.
I’m frozen in my seat, both shocked and intrigued, listening to the unfortunate man before me, screaming and crying out. Like poison, the formaldehyde bites into his bare eyeballs, and the broken toothpicks rupture the tender skin as Patrick frantically blinks and tries to wipe the toxic chemical out of his eyes by shaking his head. All it does is spread it across his face as it trails down his cheeks like tears, burning its path. I can already envision the photos, artistically in their own unique way, as I capture his broken skin and ruined eyes. I have a leather case filled with antique glass eyes, in all sorts of colors, and I get excited at the prospect of using them on Patrick.
As time ticks by, the eyelids swell, skin blistering, as if the eyes are trying to bury themselves in their own grave. Jasper takes his time, not rushing this experience. He circles Patrick like a vulture, slowly, as if he’s not already wounded prey, but a meal that still needs to be conquered. Jasper glances at me, the dimly lit space casts shadows across his sharp features, making him look like a demon rising from the depths of Hell, and I want to crawl toward him and unbuckle his pants. I want to suck his cock, while he assaults Patrick, and the thought both frightens and arouses me.
“You look flushed, Starling. We haven’t even started yet.” His eyes dip down my physique, and he grins maliciously at me. I feel the dampness between my thighs, causing my cheeks to heat further.
“How do you want to prepare him? Any ideas for your photoshoot later?” he asks.
“Photoshoot?” squeaks Patrick. “Please, I need a doctor! Please let me go, I won’t tell anyone. My eyes! Please, help me!”
