“Tell me.” He cages me even tighter into the corner with his body, putting his legs up against mine, like he’s convinced I’m about to snap and try to run off, or fight, or hurt myself. Maybe he’s right. Everything is starting to feel a little far away. But his stare is so solid, so intense, that I don’t dare drift off into disassociation. His fingers on my chin are warm, his body pressed against mine is strong.
“The first one, I ambushed.” As the story starts, I feel its momentum like a river rushing past a broken dam. The seal is broken and I’ve got nothing holding it back. I can finally tell someone, finally talk about it. About what I did. “He was a rough one. He was fat too. A heavy fucking bastard. I hated how heavy he was. I cornered him in a back alley with a bat, hit him on the head as hard as I could. I was only like fifteen, sixteen, so I wasn’t that strong anyway. So it didn’t kill him, but he was disoriented enough for me to handle for the rest of it. I had a nail gun on me. I poked him full of holes, broke his legs when he tried to run, and put so many nails in him that I ran out of ammo. Must’ve been a thousand or more. I started running out of places to put them, honestly. He lived all through it, too. I really didn’t expect him to last so long. Probably all his fucking fat, keeping him from bleeding out. Anyway, I got bored when I ran out of nails and bashed his skull open with the bat.”
Young-gi keeps his grip on my chin but lowers his other hand to cup the back of my neck, to gently scratch the nape of my neck in hypnotic strokes that send shivers down my spine. I lean into his hold as I keep talking. I’m tense, expecting anything from apunch to the gut to getting tossed out on my ass, but he isn’t reacting yet. And I can’t stop now.
“The second one was cruel. He liked pain. So I lured him out to a secluded area with the promise of his favorite game, and he stepped on a bear trap I put out for him.”
The way he screamed was brutal; I can still hear it sometimes. It always sends a thrill through me. A smile peels my face open, revealing the evil glee inside me. “I liked that part.”
“Keep going,” Young-gi demands, hanging on my every word, barely even breathing.
“I gave him a hand saw and waited with him for two days, just watching him.” By that time, the man who had taken me was obsessed with his new target, and I was allowed out by myself. “I stayed with him until he was finally desperate enough to cut his own leg off. I let him do it. I promised I’d let him live, that I’d take him to a hospital once he was free. But as soon as he was done, I stabbed him in the gut and let him watch his intestines fall out. Nasty. Then I left him there, and he died.”
Young-gi shudders and I can’t tell what emotion drove that response. Is he disgusted?
“And the third man?” he asks roughly.
I hesitate. My eyes close on their own and he gives my chin a little shake to get them open again. My hands fly up and I grip his wrists, nervous and uncomfortable.
“I hated him the most,” I say softly. “Not because he was cruel, but because he wasn’t. He loved me, Young-gi. He loved me all the time, in all possible ways. He would’ve done anything for me. Anything at all. The other men, they just wanted to use me. They liked that I was a kid, got off on it. But he…the one who took me, he wanted me to enjoy it, too. He wanted us to be lovers. He waited to rape me until I was old enough to cum, and he made sure I did. Every time. I didn’t want to, I didn’t like it, I swear–”
“Breathe,” Young-gi murmurs, pressing a palm against my chest, bringing attention to the burning lack of oxygen in my lungs. I inhale shakily, and he hums approvingly.
It gets me back on track, and I leave that stuff in the past. That’s not what I’m trying to tell him, anyway.
“So I asked him–asked him to let me tie him to the bed for fun. As a sexy game. I’d never asked for anything like that before. He was happy, excited. He trusted me, didn’t doubt me for a second. And when I had him tied down…”
The memories come rushing back. “I pulled his head back and made him swallow a knife, the hilt sticking out of his mouth. Like at a circus. And then, while he tried not to cut himself open from the inside, I set the bed on fire. Then I left.”
A long, tense silence. All I can hear is my harsh breathing and the rushing blood in my ears.
“Did you say anything to them, when you killed them?” he asks, surprising me. I blink, thinking back.
“I think the first one, no. Maybe? I was dialed in, amped up on it. I don’t remember saying anything to him. The second man and I talked a lot; I made a lot of promises, but none of them were true. He did the same to me when he’d rape me, so it felt even. But the third… I asked him while he was choking on the knife if he still loved his perfect, precious child now. And when I set the bed on fire, I said–I said that I’d see him in hell, and he’d better enjoy the days he has before I get there.”
Young-gi leans forward and rests his forehead on my shoulder, pinning me to the wall. I hold very still, feeling weirdly empty and full at the same time. My head is quiet because I’m so hyper-focused on him right now, but my body is full of adrenaline; I can’t believe I told him everything. Told him about my cruelty, my rage. There was no justice in those killings; it was all vengeance and hatred and poison and torment. I made them suffer.
Suddenly, Young-gi falls to his knees, keeping me pinned in the corner. I gasp, frozen. He pulls my hands forward and, while watching me through slitted eyes, places a kiss on each palm. The brush of his lips on the sensitive skin jolts through me and my knees get weak.
“What a good boy,” he rumbles, his voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it. “These hands did good work, didn’t they? Good hands,” he says, pressing kisses to them again. “Held the bat with these hands, pulled the trigger on the nail gun. Set the trap, used the knife. Struck the match.” Between each declaration, he lays kisses on my fingertips until I’m shivering. “What clever, clever hands you have, Tommy. Good boy.”
“I-I–” I battle with my lungs for oxygen. “Most people wouldn’t react this way to finding out that their boyfriend brutally tortured a couple people before killing them.”
“I’m not most boyfriends, am I?” he asks, and only then do I realize what I called myself. I stiffen, but he stands up, blocking me from running.
“And this mouth,” he groans, cupping my face and tilting my head up. “I bet it said so many good things to the second one. It said such a good thing to the third one, too. What a good mouth you have, Tommy.”
I know what’s coming, and I melt in his hold with a sigh right before he leans down to kiss me. He’s rewarding me. This isn’t correction. Or is it? He’s telling me I’m wrong, that I’m good for those things I thought made me so bad. He’s technically correcting me. But it feels like a reward.
“Vicious,” he says against my lips, kissing me between words. “Bloodthirsty. Dangerous. Perfect.”
The words hit me like arrows, but instead of wounding me, they pierce my shame, purging me of my self-disgust. It’s painful, but it doesn’t feel like violence. It feels like care.
God, it hurts.
“I–” He doesn’t let me protest, swallowing my voice, kissing the thoughts out of me.
“You’ve got such beautiful rage,” he groans. “Such lovely violence. You’re art, Tommy. Pretty. Deadly. Mine.”
