“It’s pretty.” She says, cracking that fucking gum in my face.
Do it! Do it! Do it! Light her up, then piss on her. She deserves it. Whore!
“It’s going to be really pretty indeed.” I hiss, sniffing up her cheek, smelling the perfume on her that makes her smell like a French whore.
French whore, American whore, they’re all the same. Trash! The reason your love is dead. Burn her now!
She’s gonna burn so beautifully with all that shit sprayed on her skin. I can already feel the heat and she’s not even lit up yet. It makes my dick thump in my leathers, and my pulse quicken in excitement.
Her gasp when I pull my lighter from my pocket and hold it up to her face is perfectly fearful. The look in her wide eyes as the pupils dilate and the green of her irises disappears is stunning, and I know she can see it reflected in the visor of my helmet. She can see her own panic and it intensifies it for her.
The first scream as I grab her white dress shirt and touch the flame to it is so erotically beautiful I almost cum in my pants. She squeals like a little piggy, and I can almost see myself as the big bad wolf, blowing her world down.
The fire crawls up the material as I pin her to the wall, her hands smacking at my helmeted head, pushing on my visor, trying to back me away from her. It’s no use though, I’m bigger and stronger from all the years I’ve spent in the gym, perfecting this body, making it into the killing machine it’s become.
“Help!’ She screams, flailing and bucking between me and the dirty tunnel wall. “Someone help me!”
I can hear the skin of her back being shredded on the rough wall behind her as she fights me. It sounds like meat being run over a cheese grater, all wet and gooey as the fire burns her front, and it’s so yummy.
“No one’s coming. Why would someone risk themselves to rescue garbage like you?”
“I’m a mother, please don’t do this. I have a baby at home!” She cries out, and the irony of it is not unnoticed.
Ooohhh even better! Good choice! Burn the stupid whore faster, make her suffer more.
“Oh baby. That’s what I wanted to hear. Now I’m so glad I picked you.”
As her clothes glow from the smoldering of the fabric, and the small flames lick up her front between her tits, I can see all the women I’ve taken for just that reason. Especially the one I was playing with when I first my angel, my Phoenix, my love.
I had been burning someone who reminded me of my mother, and in the process I met the woman who would make some of that go away. Now, it’s come full circle, she’s gone and I’m back to doing what I do best. Ridding the earth of the diseased cows. Only now I’m doing it in her name. She would want that.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
I’m like a little boy again, before the death of my mother, before the fire licked me, and before the man in my head took over as I watch the whore burn. Everything is quiet except the popping and sizzling of her flesh as her corpse cooks on the tunnel floor.
He'ssilent, most likely enjoying himself, probably because I am. It’s always quiet when I am at peace, and standing over the trash as it incinerates makes me happy, even if it is just temporary. I can’t imagine myself ever being truly and permanently happy again, and it’s not like it was something I ever thought of before. But with Phoenix gone, now it’ll never happen. I’ll just take these brief moments and be okay with that.
The visions of a wife, family, house, and picket fence that came to me before the explosion seem so far away now. They were fleeting, but still meant so much to me, showing me that maybe deep down inside of me there was something normal, and she had brought that to light. But maybe it was because she was as fucked up as me and I could see us being together forever, our own little version of happily ever after, even if it would have been something unconventional for others.
It’s a shock when a tear builds in the corner of my eye, breaking the tranquility of my “work”.
Don’t be a pussy. Killers don’t cry.
“And you’re back.” I say, yanking my helmet off my head and wiping at my eye with my gloved finger, staring at the moisture on the leather.
I never left. I’ll never leave you. I’m with you forever.
“What is happening to me?” I weep, my legs going weak, my knees shaking.
This is temporary. Suck it up.
I’m used to anger, rage, hate, and all the other negative feelings that drive me to do what I do, but this is something else. It’s still negative, but it’s different. It’s sadness and regret. It’s all encompassing, overwhelming, and as my legs give out and I collapse to the dirty ground next to the trash, I cry.
The sobs are violent, shredding my soul as I cry out all the pain and sorrow from the past month. I wail to the ceiling while pulling my hair about how much I fell in love and now how much I miss her. I scream out my misery at finding something so right and losing it so wrongly.
I can’t breathe. It’s not from the fire or the smoke that wraps around me like a blackened hug, it’s from the utter anguish squeezing the organ in my chest, the same chest that still bears the scar from her. The brand she left me with hurts, both physically and emotionally, and I can’t stand the feeling of my clothes brushing against it. It’s like razor blades digging into my soul.
