Lifting my head, I notice a piece of fabric on the floor not too far from me. I reach over and grab it before scrubbing her blood off my hand absentmindedly until an idea enters my mind. I look back at my bedside table and stand, heading towards it. When close enough, I open the drawer and retrieve my sewing kit. Taking a seat back on the bed, I begin to stitch the fabric, my hands moving with a knowing precision and each stitch brings me closer to her, becoming a ritual as I imagine her. The look of fright on her face when she first sees me, only to surrender to what we both want so quickly, makes me feel things. Things I haven’t felt before. I’m addicted to the fucking feeling.
Since being at Oddity Carnival when my mom died, I’ve always taken what I want in life even if it means hurting people in the process. I am a hired torturous killer. People come to me for the most brutal ways I can murder. When we joined The Shadow’s society, we made a vow. Sold our fucking souls to the devil if you will, with little in return but trauma and hollow hearts. I’m the monster I’ve been designed to be, yet I feel Dolly is someone who seems to yearn for something from me despite her seeing the evilness that dwells inside of me and it does something to my crazed mind.
She lets me watch her, touch her, and take control of her. She could easily say no and make a big deal out of it. It probably wouldn’t stop me, but just knowing she isn’t willing to say itbecause she likes my twisted bullshit is even more thrilling than simply just taking it from her. Dolly is different. After some time stitching my masterpiece, I think about how she’s mine in ways she doesn’t fully understand yet, and I’m determined to show her the depths of my obsession.
Once I’m finished, I hold up the soft object, inspecting my work. It’s a small gift, but it carries a weight of significance. A reminder of what she is to me—my perfect little toy. I place it carefully on my bedside table, a symbol of my deranged affection, ready to give to her when the time is right. I lie back on my bed, one leg hanging off and my arm resting behind my head as I stare forward.
My thoughts start to swirl with filth, and I flick the button undone on my pants, dragging the zipper down. I pull my growing, heavy cock free seeking relief before wrapping the chain from my jeans around my hand. The metal is cool and rough, adding a harsh edge to my grip.
I get a firm hold on my dick, jerking myself off slowly at first and the chain adds extra friction, scraping against my skin in a way that heightens my senses. My eyes drift close as I visualize her chained up, helpless and mine to destroy. I picture fucking her violently, her cries mixing with the sound of rattling chains. The image takes the edge off this built-up sexual frustration and the chain collides with my piercings as I become rougher, my hand moving faster. My breathing picks up, becoming ragged and shallow as my cock expands. When I finally explode, my hot cum leaks down my hand as I squeeze my pulsing dick harder, milking myself for every drop. I breathe heavily, my chest rising and falling as I slowly open my eyes again, staring blankly at the ceiling.
With a soft clink of the chain, I release my grip, my hand sticky with cum, but I make no attempt to clean it up, instead, I reachover, lifting the soft toy with my wet hand and place it on my stomach, leaving my scent on it. My eyes close, thinking about the next time I cum, it will only be because I am skull fucking her.
It’s been a few days since I last saw Hell and it's my first night at the circus, and my emotions are a tangled mess. I crave him with a burning intensity. I want him to hurt and fuck me, to release this pain inside me, even though I know it's wrong. It defies everything I stand for, it’s not fair on E and I feel so guilty for it, but I can’t help it. I feel like he's turning all of my shattered pieces into a beautiful masterpiece, and it's a twisted sensation because it's dragging me back from my path to recovery, I think.
Surrendering to him and exposing my vulnerability, he saw I wasn't like other girls, but he wanted me anyway. In that moment, he helped me.
His blade relieved my pain, and strangely, it felt right because I wasn't inflicting it upon myself so I couldn’t hate myself for it.
His pleasure gave me something I have never felt before, making me realize I have the ability to feel euphoria. His presence and words, they make me feel as if everything I believed was wrong with me, could never be wrong in his eyes.
Maybe he's right; perhaps I'm just as messed up in my head as he is and despite everything he makes me feel, I know I made the right decision by telling him to leave me alone. Hell is not good for me, even if sometimes it seems like he is. I am deluded. He cannot fix me—he is broken himself.
I've put up some curtains in the trailer to create some kind of privacy, yet I have a strange feeling that nothing will stop this man. He is, as he said, obsessed and I don’t doubt he means it.
As I prepare for the circus, I lean into the mirror, painting my face with black makeup, transforming myself into a broken doll which is ironic considering what Hell calls me. Cracks spread from my heavily lined eyes, and I paint stitches from the corner of my lips, extending to my cheeks to create the illusion of a wide smile. I add two small red hearts beneath one eye and curl my blonde hair into loose waves.
While thinking about getting into my outfit since I am running out of time, I notice Eli enter behind me in the reflection. As his aftershave wafts through the air, I turn around to face him. Guilt creeps in as I think about our argument and then what I did with Hell hours later. I'm stuck in a limbo of telling him the truth or burying it in the past as fucked as that sounds.
I don't want to fight with E. He looked after me when I was at my lowest, and now I feel like I unfairly accused him of something so disgusting just because of my past. But in the aftermath of what happened between Hell and me, I can't shake the feeling that there's no future for me and E. He's been a great friend, but I need to be honest with myself that that's all we are. I can’t keep letting him believe it can be more, because I wouldn’t have surrendered to Hell so easily if it were. E didn’t even enter my mind or stop me and that’s the harsh truth. When things have calmed down between us, I know it's time to have that talk.
I look him up and down as he slips on some loafers. “Are you coming to the circus?” I ask with a hopeful tone.
Without looking at me, he tucks his blue shirt into his black pants. “Nah,” he answers coldly.
I raise an eyebrow, pulling my hoodie tighter around me and crossing my arms. “So, where are you heading to?”
He turns his back to me, collecting the keys to his truck before he walks toward the door. “I'm going to a bar. I need a drink,” he replies, his tone still distant.
My lips form a flat line, feeling slightly disappointed that he doesn't want to see me perform tonight and I decide to say something. “I would have thought you'd want to watch the show. I'm dancing for the first time tonight.”
He stops at the threshold, his back to me, and keeps his eyes forward. “Why would I do that? We're not bound to each other, right?” he retorts, his words full of bitterness.
My jaw tightens, and I look away, but from the corner of my eye, I notice he glances over his shoulder at me. “Have a good night, Noir. Good luck.”
With that, he walks away, and when I hear the trailer door open and shut, I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.
When I eventually turn around to face the mirror, I am startled, jumping backward as a petrified scream nearly escapes me. Arabella's reflection stares back at me with wide, haunting eyes, covered in blood, her mouth twisted into a silent scream. In the blink of an eye, she disappears, leaving me frozen in terror, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs, questioning my sanity as I stare at my own reflection.
“Weak,” her loud taunting whisper in my left ear causes me to spin on my heels, my breathing frantic.
I stand there, worried with each inhale that she might return, but she doesn't. With a jittery breath, I quickly find my costume, and hurry to the living room to put it in a bag.
Once I step out of the trailer into the cold night, I hike my backpack over my shoulder and make my way toward the circus. The breeze bites at my skin, freezing my bones, while a chill creeps up my spine. A single raindrop splashes onto my face, and I growl in frustration, yanking my hood over my head to protect my freshly done makeup and hair.
As I approach the circus, the distant murmur of an eager crowd grows louder and the glow of the lights pierces the darkness, and the smell of popcorn filling my nostrils. I focus on my goal: go in, get ready, perform, and fucking leave. As I pass by The Hollows’ trailer, the roar of their bikes rumbles through the night. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, my pulse racing because I know it's them, but I refuse to acknowledge their presence.
As I draw closer to the circus, I watch Soul and Wrath whiz ahead on their bikes, their taillights flickering like fireflies in the night. The hum of Hell's bike comes up slowly beside me and I try not to pay him any attention, keeping my eyes fixed forward, but from the corner of my eye, I see him matching my quick strides, his engine revving aggressively in an attempt to startle me. The sound pierces the night, but I remain unfazed.
