Would there be any of us tossing a ball back and forth? Fishing? Him cheering me on at my track meets? Birthdays? Holidays? My life is a black hole. The people that fostered me didn’t care enough to take pictures, and Ryker sure as hell didn’t. More than likely, he was worried they’d be used as evidence of his wrongdoing, and I’m sure he was right.
I don’t think my face would have conveyed anything but sorrow or the dim eyes of a hollowed-out boy that just wanted to die. Even though bruises wouldn't have been seen, the invisible scars would have shined through. As stupid as it sounds, part of me wants to correct that, to start taking more pictures of me. Now that I’m somewhat of a success, despite my past, I can use that to put forth a normal, unbroken image of myself.
Flipping the page, I start to notice a theme. In all of the photos, there’s either evidence of bad weather or rain jackets. In Shelaine’s hand, she’s always holding a small digital camera, clutching it like it’s her life. And that’s when things start to click. The classes, the book in her room.
My little rabbit is a thrill-seeking storm chaser. I’ll bet everything I own on it. Lips curving into a smile, I close up her memories and put them away. I know the perfect thing to make her feel more welcome in my home. Pulling up a search engine, I find the most expensive, waterproof camera I can, along with various lenses.
Nowhere in this room do I see evidence of a digital camera, and there’s no way she’d leave something that valuable in the basement storage. Nodding, I put my phone on the desk and grab the knives, taking them into the bathroom. Earlier, when I grabbed the ointment, I also saw a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
After I get everything set up, I head back to the room and take the small tube, squirting a small amount of ointment onto my finger. I meant to take care of her scratch right away, but I ended up getting distracted by her body. Tilting her chin up, I ignore the small grunt of dissatisfaction and wipe the medicine onto her neck.
It’s small enough that it probably wouldn’t be a problem, but when it comes to knives, it’s the one thing I don’t play around with. Things can go sideways so fast. After tucking her back in, I go to the bathroom and uncap the rubbing alcohol. The pungent smell has a permanent place in my brain, dredging up memories of other times I’ve had to clean my knives.
Most of the time, my knives were weapons of torture and not pleasure. I had a separate knife for that, not this one. I never wanted to taint the feeling of this knife by doing anything other than providing pleasure or sexual torture. But the smell….
For both knives, it’s exactly the same. I’m never able to escape it. Most of the time, I can ignore it, but sometimes, my brain merges them together, convoluting my feelings. Taking a clean rag, I hold it over the top of the bottle and shake some out.
As I clean, I force my brain to stay in the present, to start associating that smell with her, the way she trembled under my touch, the way her eyes said no, but her body said yes. I let the memories slide over my body, fusing with me until all I can see is her. All I can smell and taste is her arousal.
Once both knives are done, I put the bottle away and try to clean up as best as I can before leaving. She knows how the room is supposed to be done far more than I do. With one last glance, I turn the light off and head out for my own cold, empty house.