Page 48 of Petite Fleur

“No! It was a question in class about overpopulation.” He whines.

I grip harshly onto his chin, disgusted with the feeling of exposed muscle on my bare fingers, but I squeeze until I can see the muscles tense and blood covers my hand. “Well, that just won't do.” I huff.

Now I have a new task on my plate, to find out if my girl takes the pill, gets a shot, has an IUD, or who knows what the fuck else is out there.

Fuck!

It's a damn good thing that I have an outlet for this frustration right now.

I'm glad Turner so graciously and involuntarily gave himself to me.

I continue my little game with the table salt, continuing my tangent about how beautiful and wonderful my Maeve is and how lucky I am that she's mine, all while my mind tries to figure out how I'm going to rectify this little birth control issue.

Okay, maybe she's not officially mine, but she will be soon.

Turner screams as I cover his open skin in salt, straining his vocal cords so harshly that more blood starts to spew from his mouth, and his screams become hoarse pleads for mercy and death.

As I continue my torment, his whispered screams become entirely silent, and I know that his last words have come and gone, fallen on deaf ears in a soundproof room.

I could promise him that somebody would remember him and that somebody would care that he's gone, but they won't.

I'm sure the only ones who will even notice are the meter maid at the college and his skanky teaching assistant from the other night.

“You know, you're a good listener. Nobody else lets me talk about Maeve like this.” I mention when I've finally run out of salt and have grown bored with his torment.

Now that he can't scream, I'm bored with him altogether, but he is a good listener.

Maybe I should always keep my victims alive for a few days so they have to listen to me; this is nice.

No wonder my practice is doing so well. Everyone needs someone to talk to who isn't allowed to ignore them.

But now, I only need him for one more thing, then I guess he can die. “Okay, you have to sit really still for me, okay?” I ask, knowing damn well he can't answer me.

Turner looks up at me, a pathetic and silent plea for mercy, but he obviously doesn't object other than a very hoarse and silent groan that I choose to ignore.

I grab the long wig from my cabinet and bring it over to Turner, placing it on his skinned head. “Maeve has really long hair; I need practice braiding it like she does. I hope you don't mind. Well, of course you don't.” I chirp.

I grab the hammer stapler and make sure the wig is perfectly placed before stapling it to his bare scalp.

Every staple earns a new and indescribable noise from Turner and a few harsh thrashes, but he soon gives up by staple number 15…or was it 12?

Who knows.

All that matters is that this wig isn't moving, and I can finally practice that goofy-ass braid Maeve has somehow perfected.

“You know, it's a shame that you're a horrible person. We could've been friends. Well, maybe, maybe not. You are kind of an asshole.” I ramble as I attempt to perfect this thick and chunky braid on the cheap wig.

I hope Maeve's hair is softer than this wig, it's kind of scratchy.

“Do you think Maeve's hair is softer than this? I bet it is; she looks like she has soft hair.” I add as my fingers slowly coat with blood from around the staples.

I think there's some brain matter under here.

No, that can't be.

Did I cut that deeply?

“Did I remove your skull? I can't remember.” I ask, but all Turner does is groan and tip his head down toward the floor while blood oozes out of his mouth.