Chapter 11
An Unexpected Occurrence
Cain
P
hoenix crashed to the ground.
No.
I stuffed my dick in my pants.
She passed out.
Lowering to her, I placed my index and third fingers on her neck, right on the side of her windpipe. As soon as I felt her pulse, I raised my other hand and looked at my watch.
Don’t die on me.
Her blood rushed and rubbed against my fingertips.
If you go, then it’s by my blade.
I counted the number of heartbeats in fifteen seconds and then multiplied the number by four to calculate her beats per minute.
Seventy beats. Not too bad.
I raced to get the first aid kit, under my shelf.
I was reckless. I have to calm down and pace myself.
Fast, I returned to Phoenix, opened the kit, pulled out a clean piece of gauze, and applied direct pressure to the tiny wound on her shoulder.
Come back to me.
Anxiety crept into my heart. I checked to make sure blood didn’t soak the gauze.
Her chest rose and fell at a normal rhythm. I assessed her pulse again and was reasonably pleased.
I can’t let this happen again.
I placed more gauze on top of the wound and continued to apply pressure.
No marijuana or alcohol next time.
My head had to be in the game. She was different than the others. I couldn’t just let her die. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I would ever kill her. The very idea terrified me.
She was amazing.
I gazed down at her in silent observation.
She lay limp and naked on the ground.
There was something so disarming about the sight. It could have been the vulnerability or how attractive she was covered in wounds and blood.
I guided my gaze to C that I’d cut on her collar bone.
Why did I do that?
Her blood had been seducing and intoxicating. Due to that, I’d let too much spill out. I’d been so mesmerized with the blood all over her curvy body.
I’d gotten too damn careless.
I went too far.
But how could I not? She was so beautiful and broken, strong-spirited, yet completely submissive to me. And then that poetic, intimate connection between blood and sensuality stirred my cruel soul.
I couldn’t blame myself.
It was all because of her.
The sight of her blood. So ruby-bright, when it sprang from the cut, it looked like a liquid rose blossoming from satin brown skin.
And I yearned to cover her in more wet crimson roses.
The blood didn’t ooze or stream like the others. Her blood was a steady flow. Thick and strong. I imagined it sprouting in time with the beating of her heart.
It was the smell of her too. A sweet perfume radiated from her skin and enchanted me. The fragrance held a sense of romance with subtle notes of jasmine and cinnamon.
Then, I cut her and the scent of her blood soared to the forefront. When I inhaled it, I experienced an exquisite floral bouquet, the kind that grew in the grandest of gardens. The sort that triggered demons to crawl out of their hiding places.
It was all her fault. She was too damn good.
Her flesh was warm and soft. I relished in using the knives and scalpel on her. And I swore that she loved it too.
I can’t wait to cut her more.
And the wet, silky texture of her blood aroused me. So much that I had to smear it on my dick and taste the sweetness on my tongue.
Did she love it too?
She must have.
While I enjoyed cutting and slicing, I never took it there sexually with the others.
Most of the time only evil, despicable people earned an invitation to my soul coffin.
Most of the guests were men—disgusting pieces of shit that deserved to be taken from this Earth.
Getting rid of evil men served as a hobby.
In between jobs, I paid attention to the cities around me—news channels and articles. I picked men that had gotten off for crimes just from having good lawyers—rich pedophiles, religious sociopaths, and bottom-feeding domestic abusers.
I found these men.
I followed them around for days.
I snuck into their homes and snatched them away.
And I cut them.
They were sweet visions of blood pulsating from carotids, hearts struggling to not die, bodies convulsing on jagged screams.
Sometimes, I played with their bodies, cutting here and there. Stacking body parts on top of each other as if they were a pair of children’s building blocks. An arm on the left. A leg on the right. A head right on the tower of sliced kneecaps and chopped feet.
Once done, I buried the men in the back of the chapel, right in an old cemetery already filled with decaying bones and rotted bodies.
I could never do that to Phoenix. She’s different.
Granted, I didn’t like hurting females.
So far, only two women had won a ticket to my soul coffin.
The first one was named Hannah. She was a nurse that had been accused of suffocating newborns in her unit. Healthy babies kept dying on her watch. Always the footage went dark like it was planned. But there was never enough evidence to prosecute her.