‘It’s too late to quit the game now,’ I muse.
‘No, it’s not. I don’t want to play.’
‘When I’m done, you’ll be so delirious you won’t even remember your name.’
My fingers slowly stroke against the outer lips, reveling in the juices lubricating my fingers. I skim across her opening, barely touching her, and my tongue flicks out. I lean forward, my head darting between her thighs, and the first swipe of my tongue is slow, the creamy wetness leaving a trail of flavour that lingers on the edge of my lips.
Hmm.
Another lick traces the lines of her shape, the taste deepens – a quiet indulgence as she drifts in and out of consciousness. I step back, watching as Stella’s body reacts; the slow unraveling of awareness. A few minutes upside down is safe for most. But after ten, maybe twenty minutes, circulation shifts and the balance tips.
The quiet moment shatters. There’s a stir from a dark corner, and I freeze, breath catching in my throat. Rats? It has to be rats. The barn is old, the shadows are deep. Then I hear the noise again.
‘H-help me.’
Not rats.
Shit.
‘What the heck? ... Is someone there?’ I call out into its darkness as I rush over to turn on the other lights. I turn towards Stella, still bound, still limp, body swaying gently with each breath that grows shallower. I move fast, hands fumbling to undo the knot around the hook, urgency creeping up my throat. ‘Wake up,’ I say, lightly slapping her cheeks. ‘Come on, Stella.’
She groans – barely, eyes fluttering, her breathing uneven. The voice is still there, pleading, threading through the space as Stella fights to regain composure. I turn towards the noise. A man sits naked, strapped to a chair. Ropes coil around his arms, biting deep into his skin. His head slumps forward, chin nearly brushing his chest. I take a slow step forward.
‘Shit,’ I whisper, my voice caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.
He’s alive.
I glance back at Stella – she’s staring, and as I step closer, my breath is caught in my throat. I press up against the metal bars of the cage – he’s moving – not entirely.
Something else is.
Bats.
A dozen – maybe more – small, frantic bodies crawling across his skin, lapping up blood from sporadic cuts on his body.
The sight of the bats – their small bodies shifting, tongues lapping at blood - turns my stomach. A sick twist blooms in my gut, crawling up my throat before I can stop it. I stumble back, the barn walls pressing in, narrowing, closing. The nausea winning.
I double over, bracing myself against the wall. My body wracked with violent heaves, then, acid coats my teeth. Behind me, Stella’s laugh rings out.
‘Oh, my God, you’re actually throwing up.’
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, catching my breath, the world still spinning in slow waves. ‘I-bats. I hate bats. And blood. Both, just – no,’ I heave.
She laughs again, louder this time, arms crossing as she shakes her head like I’m ridiculous.
I am ridiculous.
‘It’s not like they’re Giant Golden-Crowned flying foxes,’ she scoffs.
‘Flying foxes?’ I retort.
‘One of the largest bat species in the world. They can have a wingspan of 5.6ft, but don’t worry, they’re endangered frugivores, endemic to the Philippines,’ she nods.
‘Yeah, thank fuck for that…’ I answer, sarcastically.
‘Imagine one of them swooping down with wings like a hang glider and a face like a gremlin,’ she laughs.
‘I don’t know what’s worse, rabies or one of those shitting a fruit smoothie on me,’ I breathe.
