Page 2 of Mine To Hunt

He doesn't scream. Yet. That's for later. Instead, he whimpers, a low keen from the back of his throat. "Please... don't..." His voice cracks, words tumbling like stones down a well, but they slide off me. I see the plea in his eyes, though the fear ignites rational thought, drowning in a primal flood.

I start slow, because haste dulls the edge. My knife traces his forearm, not cutting yet, just pressure enough to dimple skin. He flinches, a full-body shudder, and there it surges, adrenaline. Dopamine follows. It's euphoria. Pure, endogenous pain I don't feel, only pleasure.

The first cut is shallow, right along the soft inside of his arm, where the vein runs close to the skin. A thin red line opens up, spreading like spilled paint across pale flesh. He sucks in a sharpbreath, his eyes squeezing tight for a second before popping wide, staring at the bright trail of blood trickling down. "No, no. Why? Tell me why!"

I ignore his plea and feel it bounce back into me, that terror wrapping around my own thoughts like smoke, turning everything sharp and alive. The blood pools slowly at first, thick and dark from all the iron inside it, his body already starting to weaken as it leaks out drop by drop.

I push the knife in harder, twisting it to rip through the tougher skin and the squishy layer of fat underneath. It gives way with a soft tear, yellow bits jiggling like jelly in the wound. His whole arm spasms, yanking against the ropes that bite into his wrists, and I know the pain is exploding through him. Quick stabs at first, then a deep, grinding ache that won't let go.

He starts begging for real now, his voice breaking into pieces. "I'll do anything, just let me go..." But his eyes give him away, shining with pure, glassy horror that pulls me in deeper. Sweat pours off him, his skin going clammy and gray as his body fights to hold on.

I slide the blade down to his thigh, that big vein there calling to me like a promise, but I take my time. I drag light cuts across the meat of his leg first, carving shallow paths over the thick muscles that bunch and quiver under the steel.

Blood rushes out in warm sheets, sticky and hot, running down his skin in rivers that soak his pants. It tries to clot, small clumps forming where it pools, but the flow is too much, too fast. His body can't keep up, the red mess just keeps coming.

The rush hits me stronger, a wild heat flooding my veins, better than any drug I've ever chased. No crash after, no numb fade.Just this clean, sharp high from his panic feeding straight into me. Each slice pulls a fresh wave, his screams twisting the air until it feels thick enough to chew. "It hurts! Fuck, it hurts. Stop, please, I'll do anything!"

I go deeper now, straight into his belly, where the skin stretches tight over softer things inside. The knife bites through easily, peeling back layers like ripping open a bag. Skin splitting wide, then the tough bands of muscle underneath, tearing apart in wet strips, red and raw.

He bucks up off the floor, his back arching like a bowstring, a deep groan clawing out of his throat. "No more. Please, it hurts..." His guts tumble out in a slippery pile, long ropes of them coiled and gleaming, covered in a thin shine of their own juices. They twitch and squirm for a bit, trying to push back in, but everything slows as the cold shock sets into his bones.

His heart stutters, slowing unevenly, but those eyes are locked on me. It's like staring into an open grave. No more kicking or twisting, just that final, broken giving in, his whole face crumpling around the terror.

The thrill roars through me now, unstoppable, making my skin buzz and my muscles lock tight with power. I feel like nothing can touch me, every part of me alive and roaring, blood singing in my ears.

He starts to fade, his breath coming in rough, wet gasps, his arms and legs going heavy and limp like they're filled with mud. One last slice. Straight across his throat, deep enough to open the big vein there wide. Blood sprays out in a hot arc, hitting my chest warm and coppery, then gushing steadily as the pressure behind it bursts free.

It floods the floor in seconds, his neck a ragged hole pulsing empty. His eyes roll slowly, the light in them flickering out, that wild fear draining away to nothing but a dull stare. His body jerks once, twice, then goes still, the last rattle of breath slipping out quiet.

The wave crashes over me, not in the mess or the red, but in the sudden drop after. The air went thick and silent, wrapping me up tight. Everything inside settles, smooth and full, like a thirst quenched after years of dryness. No empty hole gnawing at me anymore. In this one held breath, this frozen beat, I'm complete.

The whole damn world squeezed down to the hush of his gone. It's calm, deep as the ocean bottom, soaking into my bones and holding on, the one real thing that's ever stuck. I lean back, my own breathing even and slow, and I let it stay, pulling me under gently.

I clean the knife on his shirt, methodically, then move to his arm. The bicep, left side. My mark. A light cut, blunt and shallow, just enough to etch without spilling more. No blood wells, it's a whisper on skin, a signature for the record.

I step back, survey the scene. Peace settles, not the empty quiet of before, but something fuller. The void is filled, if only for now, with the echo of his fear still thrumming in my veins. I feel... complete. For the first time, truly.

But it won't last. I know that already. The flatness waits, patient as ever. So I'll find the next one. Another shadow in the aisles, another plea in the dark. The cycle turns, and I turn with it. Alive, at last.

Chapter 2

Her

Idrift, my mind pulling me under like a current I can't fight. Thoughts swirl, heavy and insistent, but I don't chase them. Not here, not now. The world around me fades to a hum, distant voices, the scratch of pens on paper. It's easier this way, letting everything blur until…

"Ow!" A sharp elbow digs into my side, yanking me back. I blink hard, my head snapping up as heat rushes to my cheeks. Maddie's face swims into focus, her eyebrows arched in that mix of worry and amusement she wears so well.

We're in the middle of Prof. Kingsley's lecture hall, rows of desks stretching out like forgotten ideas. The air feels thicker now, charged with eyes on me. My heart stutters, a frantic little beat against my ribs.

"Miss Whitlock?" Prof. Kingsley's voice cuts through, calm but pointed. He's leaning against his desk at the front, arms crossed over his button-down shirt, glasses perched low on his nose. The whole class is staring with some smirking, and others just curious. My stomach twists. God, how long was I out of it?

"S-sorry." I stammer, my voice cracking like dry leaves. I sit straighter, fingers twisting the hem of my denim shirt. It's oversized, loose around my shoulders, paired with these white parachute jeans that bunch at my ankles. Comfortable, but right now, it feels like I'm shrinking into it. "I didn't... Um, I didn’t hear you. Sorry, Prof. Kingsley."

He tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. It's not anger, thank God. Just that patient look he gives when someone's half-asleep. "No harm done, Iris. But let's try to stay with us, shall we? I asked what do you think is the role of unreliable narration in building tension in a story likeFight Club?”

The question lands, and something clicks. Creative Writing 301. My major, my escape. I've read that book three times, underlined passages until the pages frayed. The unreliable narrator isn't just a trick, it's the heartbeat, the doubt that makes you question every turn. I swallow, the stutter easing as words flow out.

"It's the foundation of the unease. Palahniuk uses it to mirror the protagonist's fractured mind, so the reader feels that same disorientation. You start trusting the voice, then bam! It's all smoke. Builds tension because you're never sure what's real, and that uncertainty keeps you hooked, page after page."