The woman on the floor is less a woman now-- more a twisted, broken heap of shattered bones and bleeding parts. She's past tense, soon to be buried and forgotten in the ground. A corpse and a tragedy to some, but a victory for Bobby Lane. One more human being he was close with, more intimate with than any other soul will ever be. He has taken something that can only be taken once and never returned. Life.
There's something thrilling about smashing a human body up with a hammer. Hearing the bones shatter and the organs squish. It fills him with a primitive power. A masculinity denied to him at birth. It's better than sex. He tells himself that, as he rises from the mess of their victim. Still, he doesn't deny his partner the pleasures he can't have.
"She had nice legs," Bobby responds simply, his already soft voice muffled by the mask they share. "Come help me arrange the body."
Jeremiah stoops down to inspect closely, fascinated as he always is by his partner's messy work, not necessarily sloppy, just. Brutal, definitive. Their styles are different, he takes no pleasure in killing the women he fucks, rather likes them breathing and shrieking and warm-blooded under his hands, though Bobby's method does shut them up quite nicely afterward.
Standing, he kicks the corpse's legs apart. The motion leaves behind a smear of blood, an imprint of where she once rested on the floor. "All right, then."
Bobby takes a moment to calm himself-- to let the blood stop pounding so loud in his ears and the adrenaline slow in his veins. He can't clean up properly with the thrill of the kill still suffocating his senses. It makes him careless, when he's too excited. And it does excite him. The sick crunch of bones, splintered under his hammer. He has to close his eyes, breathe deeply to purge the dark pleasure from himself even to think clearly again.
When he reopens his eyes, his gaze finds Jeremiah. "Get bleach from the laundry room," he instructs, voice quiet. His voice is always soft. He never seems to raise it, except in his rare flashes of temper. There's something restrained about him, as if his whole life he's been controlling the complexes and demons that come with being deformed as he is.
Almost clinically, he bends down to arrange the woman's arms, protected from her blood by the plastic trash bags covering his clothes.
Jeremy circles the woman's body like a wolf around its fallen, bloody prey. He examines with a hint of revulsion and appreciation, visits upon the memory of earlier destroying the woman's brittle pride with his own body, violating her very core. He looks upon the gore at her stomach, bashed in, pubic bone crunched under the hammer and remembers his hands there, minutes earlier, stroking over unblemished skin.
Murky blue eyes shift up to Bobby, and he sneers, faintly, clips out, "Don't order me around like some maid."
But he does, snapping his own plastic gloves over his fingers and retreating to the laundry room. He'd spent a portion of his time scouring through the house while Bobby was busy, getting a grip on its layout, going through the woman's belongings carelessly. He comes back with the bleach, thrusts it at the other boy.
Comments 21
There's something thrilling about smashing a human body up with a hammer. Hearing the bones shatter and the organs squish. It fills him with a primitive power. A masculinity denied to him at birth. It's better than sex. He tells himself that, as he rises from the mess of their victim. Still, he doesn't deny his partner the pleasures he can't have.
"She had nice legs," Bobby responds simply, his already soft voice muffled by the mask they share. "Come help me arrange the body."
Reply
Standing, he kicks the corpse's legs apart. The motion leaves behind a smear of blood, an imprint of where she once rested on the floor. "All right, then."
Reply
When he reopens his eyes, his gaze finds Jeremiah. "Get bleach from the laundry room," he instructs, voice quiet. His voice is always soft. He never seems to raise it, except in his rare flashes of temper. There's something restrained about him, as if his whole life he's been controlling the complexes and demons that come with being deformed as he is.
Almost clinically, he bends down to arrange the woman's arms, protected from her blood by the plastic trash bags covering his clothes.
Reply
Murky blue eyes shift up to Bobby, and he sneers, faintly, clips out, "Don't order me around like some maid."
But he does, snapping his own plastic gloves over his fingers and retreating to the laundry room. He'd spent a portion of his time scouring through the house while Bobby was busy, getting a grip on its layout, going through the woman's belongings carelessly. He comes back with the bleach, thrusts it at the other boy.
Reply
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