Page 70 of They Call Me Wicked
He backs away, taking every ounce of heat with him and I breathe deeply past the ache between my legs. My fucking vag is one thirsty bitch.
“What the hell?” I barely register Alan as his confusion at what just happened is voiced, but I ignore him. He’ll figure it out soon enough. Thank God he already cleared everyone else away from the scene before we got here, or we would have quite the massive audience in the form of all of our coworkers as well.
“You ready?” Kai murmurs in my ear and I nod more convincingly.
A massive hand encompasses mine, squeezing slightly before pulling away, and I smile. “Thanks, Ezra.” He doesn’t talk much, but the fact that he offered a little bit of reassurance is completely outside of who he is, and it’s the equivalent of a normal man’s proclamation of love and protection, support and comfort.
I step away from the group, whistling to call on my little trash pandas. Their tiny bodies race ahead of me, leading me directly to my stalker’s latest victim. I stumble slightly over the coffee grounds piled onto the floor, but I manage not to fall, stopping when I’m within touching distance.
I cringe as I remember the mess between his legs, suddenly wondering what it’s like to not only have a dick, but to have one cut off. I’m really not sure if I want to know.
I slowly reach a hand out, holding my breath right before bending and letting my fingers brush against the skin of Arlo’s knee, then I’m sucked away.
21
Black leather gloves fill my vision, a knife gripped in the right hand. The view is crystal clear, so much so that I can see each pristine droplet of crimson red liquid dripping from the end of the wickedly sharp knife before it disappears into the void of black on the glove.
The person’s eyes glance back up, taking in the almost finished word carved into the bare chest of the man tied to his chair. With one more quick slice, the last line of the D pools with blood.
I hear a moan, distorted and cruel, as Arlo whimpers against the pain. I strain to focus on the sound, but it’s muffled, like cotton is pressed into the person’s ears, preventing me from getting a clear sound.
I’m in the stalker’s body.
As his gaze travels downward towards the floor, I get a glance of plain black baggy pants and a matching hoodie, every single inch of his skin is covered. There’s a thick, padded vest over the top of it, constricting the man’s chest. It almost appears military in style, but before I can examine it further, the vision shifts again.
“Please…I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone. Just please let me go.” Arlo’s begging is broken and coarse as he coughs past the blood pouring from his mouth. It’s obvious this torture has been going on for quite a while, the man struggling to stay present.
The stalker watches it trail down his chin, another moan pulling from his throat. So distorted, almost robotic in a way, I can’t place its true sound. He hums a lively tune before turning around, a foldaway table holding an assortment of tools and weapons. He glances over each one before settling firmly on a rubber mallet. There’s a bounce to his step as he grabs it and spins in place, his tune growing in fervor as Arlo’s eyes widen, his green gaze flashing with desperation and terror.
“No!” He rocks in the chair, struggling against his bindings as his eyes never leave the mallet in the stalker’s hands. “Stop it! Stop it! You son of a bitch! Stop i-”
The stalker swings out and smashes the mallet against Arlo’s knee, a mangled scream cutting off the rest of his words. The stalker chuckles darkly as he surveys the busted area before sighing and moving to the side of Arlo’s chair, his cries echoing and reverberating over the abandoned concrete of the warehouse.
He lines up like a baseball player at bat, knocking the mallet against the floor a couple times before shimmying in place. He swings, the mallet making impact with the back of Arlo’s head with a loud crack. I expect him to stop moving after the hit, but he doesn’t, his head lolls to the side slightly before he lifts it back up and tries to shake away the haze that I personally know he’s feeling.
He’s quiet now though, no longer screaming or crying, like he’s struggling just to breathe.
Another sensation I know quite well.
The stalker glances down at the mallet, then back to Arlo’s head, then down once more before he shakes his head and tosses it back towards the table. His work here isn’t done yet, and he knows another hit will likely kill him, or at least knock him out. And I suppose that’s not really something that interests the psychopath yet.
He grabs Arlo’s hair, jerking his head back before slapping his face, waiting for his eyes to reopen. His eyes are glassy, dazed and unfocused, but they slowly sharpen before widening once more.
The stalker pats his cheek before walking away, his gaze once more examining the instruments of destruction laid out on the table. His focus flicks to what looks like a piece of jagged metal sitting on the edge, something that doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the items. One half is dark and silver, while the other is a bright yellow. His gloved hand reaches out, stroking over the odd piece of metal almost reverently before gripping it tightly in his fist and turning back to Arlo.
“Wicked the insecure, powerless kind. Wicked the ones who steal from the blind.” He grabs Arlo’s hair once more, holding his face to the ceiling, his eyes darting to and fro as his chest heaves and jerks. “Wicked the abuser who touches and taints. Wicked the dick that lacks restraint.”
He stabs the metal down sharply, digging it into Arlo’s eye socket without mercy. He grinds it into the flesh, slashing and carving, his hand efficient, quick and brutal. When his eye is unrecognizable, sunken and ruined, he does the same to the other. Arlo’s screams and wails don’t stop him, they only seem to drive him on and push him to keep going.
When he’s done, he gazes at his work, eyes focusing on each trail of blood and flap of carved flesh. Satisfied, he steps away, glancing at the piece of metal before bringing it closer to his face.
There’s nothing particularly special about the metal, though it seems to have been taken from somewhere else. A piece to some other puzzle. But the stalker holds it as if it’s the most treasured thing on the planet, a priceless gem stone. He presses it against the front of his face, placing a kiss to its bloody surface, before setting it back on the table. His gloved fingers stroke lovingly over it before he glances over his tools once more.
Back to the matter at hand.
There’s so many different knives on the surface of the table, but he seems to just grab one at random before turning back to Arlo. The man is still alive, surprisingly still conscious too, and the stalker flips the knife in the air before catching it effortlessly as he walks towards him.
His arm jerks out, slicing down Arlo’s collarbone, his flesh opening and blood pooling in a wound identical to the one he gave to me. Instead of moving on to his next torture technique, the stalker suddenly slows his movements, gently scraping the blade over Arlo’s collarbone. His muscles bunch and coil, flinching at every swirl of the knife as the stalker trails it along his chest.