“Good little Frankenstein Girl.” He grinned, lowering the stapler. “Look at that. I fucked you and I still want to sell you. What a rush.”
I half expected him to giggle.
Not that he would.
I recalled the flicker of expression when he’d switched from less bad to this, before he’d fucked me on glass... He’d almost been nice. None of him was good. Over the years the goodness had leaked away and left mediocre evil and whatever this was. This thing he was now was barely human.
He led me to the bedroom and had me stand, wobbly though I was, while he dabbed iodine on the stapled cuts. Put me to bed, collared and naked. Then he left.
I was Red, wasn’t I?
The blood
that was smeared and mixed with the yellow iodine on my belly seemed to underline that idea. One cut on my breast, one next to my navel. One on my thigh. A few tiny punctures. The longest stretched to an inch. I wouldn’t die from this. He still meant to get money for me.
I wasn’t Red. Deal with it.
He’d taken away my name. That was worse than cutting me. When I held my hands before my face, they trembled.
Despite the well of my tears and the waning shock, something incongruous about the room drew me to survey it.
In the gloom, in the far and shadowed corner, sat a huge suitcase.
Chapter 11
The slam of the car door entombed me in air-conditioned silence.
I sat, strapped-in by the safety belt, with an air bag in the door to save me if we hit another car, thinking about what I’d done to Red.
The red under my nails from when I’d stapled her wounds remained. Visible whenever I turned my fingers over. I’d soaped up my hands but left my red-red nails. Loved the reminder of her whimpers, of her squirms, as pain overcame my commands.
The wetness of the cuts had contrasted obscenely with the neat seams after I’d stapled them – snicksnack. My Frankenstein girl.
Maim her past wanting her? I grinned. Seemed that was almost impossible to do.
And in the very back of my mind I was rocking and saying sorry, sorry, over and fucking over. I shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t like hurting her, shouldn’t have a hard-on at the memory.
My mouth twitched up.
My distant ineffectual conscience. Maybe if the last day hadn’t been so traumatic my ritual would’ve been better? The day after that woman had left me on the eve of our marriage. What a fucked-up time to remember and use as my gold standard of life-before-mesmer.
What a farce.
If she’d been a susceptible female, we might’ve had a very bloody wedding.
Sorry, not-sorry.
I let my back hit the seat behind me. Best I lose Red before she made me lose myself.
Sell her and forget her.
Chapter 12
The suitcase was red.
If I did nothing, I was going to be a sex toy for a criminal. It couldn’t be good, might be worse than Isak. He’d hinted I might be tortured. Though dead was worse than alive, most times. I imagined an existence of constant pain that might make a person beg for death.
I should be vomiting at the prospect.