Chapter Text
The world turns on its head, spinning, spinning, everything rapid, everything slow, too dark, too bright, not enough. And the anger. The righteous fury. It’s bold and loud. It’s pounding, pounding like the throb of a pulse, ratcheting higher and higher.
And the desire… insidious as it whispers.
Stumbling, and then, suddenly, the door.
When? How?
The world is dark and black and the lights spike brilliant spires, impressionist paintings of insubstantial vibrance, floating disjointed and unsupported in the night.
Keys jangle, the car door beeps.
The shattering of glass is distant and far away, the thump of the whiskey bottle, it’s meagre contents sloshing, muted, dull as it falls into the passenger seat and rolls with a clink to the floormat.
There! There, in the glove compartment! Silver sleek and wicked gleaming. Bright beautiful vengeance! Cruel, terrible retribution, slim beneath the hand, fitted to fingers in perfect grip. Heavy weighted. Heavy in hand, heavy in the gut.
But the desire remains.
It rests on the passenger seat, waiting like a lover. Excitement builds, grows, wells, overflows. The car is running, the streets flying past.
How? When?
Metal winks in the streetlights, stares back at the driver.
Soon. Soon.
Thrumming, the car is still and the world flies by outside, streets and alleys winking past. Time means nothing to space when the drive pulses frenetic under the skin. The drive, the itch, the desire.
Hold me, use me.
It’s sultry, seductive, urgent.
Stairs now.
When? How?
Up, up, up the smooth decent, but the weight remains, thumping with each step reassuringly, comfortingly.
There’s a person at the door. Perhaps the bell rang, perhaps not. The memory is vague, half lucid in its formulation. Everything is a haze. Everything black and shadow-nothing unreality. Perhaps the bell is still ringing; the woman’s lips move and the sounds are bells, high pitched, tinny ringing, ringing.
A slam.
The door. Closed. Carpet beneath feet. The woman is still talking.
Respond. Respond.
Voices, words, a sharp rebuke.
There, still and waiting against the thigh. Heavy, pensive.
Hold me, use me, do it now.
Words fly from lips, back and forth, back and forth. A glimmer of silver amongst the black shadow of the woman’s hair. Hatred. Warm and dark, burbling at the core. Hatred and wrath, vivid and writhing within.
Hold me.
The metal is ice, is wicked and cruel.
The metal is a trusted friend, subtle whispers grown urgent.
Use me.
The weight is good. The weight is right.
Do it.
No tremor shudders to life.
Do it now.
BANG!
BANG!
It’s in the air now, too. The scent. The taste. The hatred.
No one speaks now.
The carpet soaks up all.
Sound.
Ichor.
Soul.
The metal is warm.
It beckons from hell.