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I feel Khi’s hand ghosting across my bicep, shaking me back to the present briefly.
“Where are you?”
I shrug. “Thinking about our first time, actually.” I leave it at that. No need to elaborate. I mean our first kill and not our first fuck.
“Well, I’m going to go pack the bags for our next adventure. Go drink a beer, and don’t let our parents take up any more of our time tonight.” He walks off toward the back of the warehouse, and I head to the same alcove where we have a basickitchenarea.
It was fitting that our first murder together was a circumstance of culmination and instigation. I led us both out of that library and downstairs. We moved in sync, like we could read each other's minds, and were so connected when I lifted my right leg, so did he. It was almost artistic how well our actions melded together, like a well-rehearsed dance that was mesmerizing and disturbing. Our parents never stood a chance.
The kills themselves were messy despite the countless times I’ve thought about it, or the moments we talked about it between the two of us and how prepared we would be finally. I should have waited, but I couldn’t. Not after seeing my brother’s face.
The actual act of committing parricide was swift, each of us surprising a parent and slicing quickly across the jugular. They both flayed about, clutching their necks, and alternating between shock and indignation.
Once their bodies dropped and stopped twitching, no death moan left to be heard, is when we were able to actually have a bit of fun.
As we worked, a sense of exhilaration surged through me, mingling with the heady aroma of anticipation. This was more than just an act of violence; it was an exploration of our connection, a test of the chemistry that existed between us. The way Khi’s movements were flexible yet strict, the intensity in his blue-green eyes as we transformed the space into our personal canvas–it was a union that blurred the lines between darkness and art.
With care, we staged the scene, arranging objects and directing the flow of blood like a domino train just waiting to be unraveled in chaos. I zigged and Khi zagged, one right after the other, an exchange that needed no words to convey the depth of our understanding.
We drew pentagrams in their blood using latex gloves our grandfather had left in his study years ago. It took nothing to force the front door in and act like a break-in occurred.
It was only when we took the two steer skulls hanging from the study wall and shoved them on our parents' heads in an act of pure anarchy that we realized our art had taken on a mind of its own.
Stepping back to admire our work, a sense of satisfaction settled within me. It wasn't just the thrill of the act that coursed through my veins; it was the knowledge that Malakhi and I were bound by this connection, a life that defied societal norms and conventions. This was our union, a pact sealed in blood and darkness, an understanding to embrace the desires that society deemed taboo.
Malakhi’s eyes met mine, and a knowing smile danced at the corners of his lips. It was as if he could read my thoughts, as if the euphoria that pulsed through my veins mirrored his own. There was an intimacy to this moment, a secret that bound us together in ways that were equal parts unsettling and intoxicating.
He comes close, too close, and I can feel his breath ghosting over my lips, begging for more. I give in, unable to resist any longer, and tug him fully into me. Capturing his lips with my own, I force my tongue between his teeth and battle him for dominance, which he quickly gives up. He knows who’s in charge here.
“Please,” Khi whimpers, and I know he wants more. Fuck, so do I, but I have the wherewithal to know that if we fuck right now, the evidence of our mixed bodily fluids will contaminate the scene more than anything else.
And I’ll be damned if I let us get caught because I can’t keep my dick in my pants, so I just shake my head, “No, not now. We need to go. Head to the river and wash up. The treehouse has clothes, and then we’ll go see a movie. We haven’t been home in hours. Do you understand?”
He nods and we slowly move away from the house and into the silence. Our fingerprints should be all over that house. The only thing that could fuck us up is the muddy shoeprints Khi left from earlier, but I’m hoping they will have dried by the time we get home or the police come.
"We are the designers of our own story." My voice cuts through the silence, my words hanging in the air like a proclamation.
"Bound by the threads of our darkness," Khi replied, his voice steady, echoing the conviction that surged within me.
A pact was forged that night that extended into the depths of our souls, a commitment to explore our darkest desires together.
“C’mon, Daddy Dom. Ha! Get it? Daddy Dom? In more ways than one. Am I right?” He cackles, wiggling his eyebrows at me in that stupid, exaggerated way with two duffle bags thrown over his shoulder.
“You’re a real Matt Rife, Malakhi. Let’s go, you little shit.” I walk out of the warehouse with him following me like the shadow he is as we bypass the two jars lining the wall before the door.
A man's hand in one and a woman’s in another. Preserved forever on this little mantle.
No one touches my baby boy but me. I took their lives for it, and each offending hand that touched him.
As we leave, something skirts up my neck, causing the hairs to stand at attention. I can’t shake the feeling that our journey and path is changing. Something is looming on the horizon, and I don’t do well with change. Not unless I am the puppet master holding the strings.
* * *
Nights like this with Khi are a melody of passion and darkness. Getting to do the very thing that drives me, that fills my well with the one and only person I care about, defies everything in this fucked-up world. Our connection is so intricate, binding us together in proverbial chains that is both exhilarating and unnerving. Our passion is a reflection of our mutual obsession, and the flame that fueled us could not be snuffed out.
In these quiet moments, with the soft moonlight casting a silvery glow on our tangled bodies, I trace my fingers along the contours of Khi’s skin as I pull him close into the side of my body. My fingers know every dip, curve, and scar like a well-read map, and yet, I still chart it like I’m on the brink of a new discovery.
We spent tonight stalking our next mission. Who would become the newest member of the Harbingers Omen of Hell? Our picks always mean something. The corrupt mayoral candidate. The dirty racist cop. The seemingly innocent housewife who leaves cookies and water on her porch for the delivery drivers.
