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ASH
The forest looms ahead, a dense, eerie wall of trees and shadows, the perfect hiding place. The truck’s headlights slice through the darkness as we go off the main road and into the undergrowth. The tires crunching over fallen leaves and twigs is the only sound in the otherwise silent woods.
Lila is quiet beside me, her face pale in the dim light from the dashboard. I can feel her fear; it’s a palpable entity in the enclosed space of the truck, but there’s no room for comfort right now. We have to keep moving, keep running.
As we drive deeper into the forest, I pull the truck over in a clearing, a secluded spot where the thick canopy of trees provides an eerie sort of shelter. The headlights dim, plunging us into momentary darkness soon swallowed by the moon’s weak glow filtering through the branches above.
“Stay in the truck,” I demand.
Lila doesn’t look at me or respond as I get out and open the trunk, pulling his body out onto the forest floor. Luckily, the bounty hunter had his own shovel in the trunk, ready for me to bury him.
The act of digging is mechanical, my body on autopilot as I plunge the shovel into the earth and toss it aside. There’s no remorse, only a cold, hard determination.
With the body buried and the dirt compacted, I toss the shovel back into the trunk and climb back inside. I glance at Lila, her face shrouded in shadows. I know she’s afraid and not of the people pursuing me.
She’s afraid of me and of what I am. A killer. But it’s a part of me that I won’t apologize for, not even to her.
I start the truck and drive deeper into the forest, leaving behind the grave. For better or worse, I’m the man who will do whatever it takes to win my freedom. And if that means killing, then so be it. My only hope is that Lila, my starlight, can somehow learn to accept this dark part of me. Leaving her behind isn’t an option anymore.
I drive us into the heart of a deserted town, the silhouette of dilapidated buildings rising eerily in the moonlight. I stop in front of what used to be a tattoo shop, its sign barely hanging onto one rusty hinge. With a swift kick, I break in, creating a dust cloud that echoes our situation’s desolation.
The store has an old generator with enough fuel to give us light and a bit of heat. I turn it on, and the place is illuminated, making the dust clearer.
I scrounge around for blankets and create a makeshift bed in the corner. “Lie down and sleep starlight,” I demand.
She lowers herself to the blankets, but instead of lying down, she sits there with her arms wrapped around herself. Slowly, she rocks back and forth.
Have I broken her?
The idea excites me in a sick and twisted way.
“I said, sleep.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, her pretty blue eyes haunted.
“I can take your mind off things,” I suggest, grabbing the ski mask from my pocket and putting it on. The words hang heavy in the air, my intentions unmistakably clear.
Power surges through my veins as I notice her stop rocking, a flicker of desire entering her eyes. She wants this, no matter how fucked up that makes her. In the dim light, she looks ethereal.
“Stand up,” I demand.
She does as she’s told. She’s such an eager submissive, ready to bow to her king. “Good girl,” I praise, taking in the image of her. “Now, strip.”
I don’t even have to ask her twice as she pulls her clothes off, letting them pool around her feet.
I follow her lead, pulling all my clothes off and allowing them to join hers on the floor. And then, I grab her wrist and drag her into the parlor, the chair where they used to tattoo still intact but dusty.
I clean the chair, the sound of my scrubbing echoing around the barren room. Then, with a deep breath, I lie down, my skin burning with anticipation. “I want you to tattoo your name on me.”
Her brow furrows. “You’re crazy.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never tattooed in my life.”
I smirk. “That makes it more fun.”
I nod toward the side of the room, gesturing to the tattoo gun. “Grab that,” I instruct, my voice steady.
Without argument, she moves to where I’m pointing and picks up the tattoo gun attached to the power supply. She holds it hesitantly. Turning back to me, she walks over and places it on the table beside me.
“Now check in that drawer for cartridges and ink,” I instruct, nodding to it.
