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Dropping to my ass on the hard concrete floor, I stare at him probably in the same way he stared at me.
Not completely comprehending what I just did.
Fists clenching, Martin rocks side to side, but the movement must cause more pain because he lets out another howl.
Heart racing, skin breaking out in a cold sweat, I watch him. Watch him squirm, writhe, and suffer.
My thoughts a chaotic mess.
His howl trailing off, Martin takes a deep breath then bellows. “You bitch! You fucking bitch!”
I’ve never hurt anyone before.
Fuck, until the kidnapping I’ve never been in a fight.
There was one time when I was young, maybe eight or ten, I’m not sure, when another girl at school got mad at me and threatened to kick my ass. I remember vividly the panic I felt when she stepped up to me. I remember my heart beating so fast I wanted to puke and was afraid I was going to keel over from a heart attack.
I couldn’t think straight and froze.
Paralyzed by the fear of her hurting me. Terrified for some reason of being forced to fight back and cause her pain.
Thankfully, a teacher walked up on us and put an end to it.
But I’ll never know what would have happened if she did hurt me.
I’ll never know what I would have done had she actually hit me. The whole situation left such a mark on me, from that day forward I learned to fight with my words. I learned to use my status and my friends to avoid ever being in that position again.
There were some close calls. Some real close calls, but I also learned how to run. To get away.
Until I couldn’t…
Like that day at school, I’m paralyzed. My fight or flight so overwhelming, I can’t think.
I can’t act.
You’d think he was the one that hurt me by the way I’m reacting.
I suppose thinking about doing something and actually doing it are two completely different things. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this… uncertainty.
Martin finally looks down at himself and wails, “You stabbed me in the fucking dick! The dick!”
Something about that, about those specific words and him crying over it causes a weird sort of hysteria to come over me.
Laughter bubbles out of me before I can swallow it back.
“What’s so funny?! What’s so fucking funny?!” Martin wails some more. “You crazy fucking bitch! I’m going to kill you for this!”
More laughter bubbles out of me, like I’m hiccuping it. “Kill me? You’re going to kill me when you’re the one strapped to a chair?”
“Yes! Fuck!” Martin looks down at his bloody groin and his flushed face instantly pales. “Jesus fucking Christ, you messed me up. You messed me up real bad.”
The change in his tone sobers me enough to get a grip.
“Man,” he drags out in a long whine, “at least pull the fucking blade out!”
Arms straining against the tape wrapped around them, he tries his best to reach for the knife, but there’s no give.
This strange sort of calm comes over me as I watch him struggle.
Then I hear myself saying, “Okay.”
Slapping my palms against the cold floor, I push myself up. I probably flashed everyone in the room, but I don’t give a fuck about propriety.
Not at this moment.
All that matters is Martin.
And the need that’s been slithering under my skin.
Before now, I’ve never hurt another person.
But I’ve had urges.
Violent urges that have been haunting me.
Violent urges I’ve been fighting.
Afraid of what will happen if I give in.
Martin’s chin jerks up as I step toward him, and I don’t know what he sees on my face but fear flashes in his eyes.
He knows he’s made a mistake.
We both know it.
“Never mind. Stay the fuck away from me!” he cries and sputters. “Don’t you fucking touch me, you crazy bitch!”
I bare my teeth. “But Martin, you asked so nicely…”
Reaching down, I grab the handle of the knife.
Because the blade didn’t pierce the metal chair it slides right out of his flesh.
Blood immediately wells up in the hole I made in his shorts, hiding whatever damage I’ve done.
Fingers tightening around the handle of the knife, I honestly don’t know if he has any cock left.
But I want to find out.
Giving into the urge that comes over me, I ram my arm down, burying the blade back into his groin.
I slam the knife down so hard it hits the metal of the chair and sends vibrations up my arm.
“Fuck!” Martin roars over and over like a broken record.
Ears ringing from his screams, I pant hard, overcome with a sense of supreme satisfaction.
And the need to do it again.
Yanking the knife back out, I slam it down. Over and over. Matching up with the beat of his screams.
Screams I’ve created.
Each time I feel the thick, meaty resistance of flesh against the blade, I relish in the sensation. This terrible itch I’ve been suffering from these past few months is finally getting scratched.
