"My Darkest Secret" Feb 12, 2013 12:50:39 GMT -5
Post by UlrichAcheronNacht on Feb 12, 2013 12:50:39 GMT -5
“My Darkest Secret.”
I picked up my telephone as it rang, I couldn't help but yawn; it was two in the morning and I had a tiresome day.
“Hello?” My voice sounded muddled, even to myself.
“Rein?” It was Rosalind, but it sounded like she had been sobbing. Despite the fact my name was “Maximillian,” she insisted on calling me “Rein” after my last name, “Reinhart.”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” She seldom called me when she was upset – partially because she was hardly ever upset. This worried me and I couldn't help but bite the inside of my cheek.
She sobbed into the phone again, I clenched my hand into a fist. I felt my fingernails biting into the palm of my hand. I wasn't able to discern her sobs; I thought they were words, but I've been unsure about that to this day.
“Hey Rosalind,” I raised my voice over hers to get her attention. “What's wrong?” I stood from my chair and paced back and forth in front of my bed. I had no idea why she was weeping. Debt? Was her father kicking her out? The possibilities were endless.
Rosalind's weeping came to a halt. “Hey!” There was no answer. I felt blood trickling between my fingers and down my fist. More blood cascaded from my split knuckles after I swung my fist through the wall thrice.
The holes stared back at me, vacant and taunting. It was if they dared me to punch another hole. So I did. My temples pounded, I felt the adrenaline surge through my veins as I grabbed my jacket on the way out of the door.
I was in too much of a hurry to lock it, so I stormed out of my apartment. The door slammed shut behind me, I hardly heard it over the crescendo of my boots' rhythm against the pavement. Each long stride made my legs feel as if I was stretching them a little too much; I just kept my pacing going steady.
The cold air felt like daggers bearing into my throat with each breath. I was getting colder from the rivulets of sweat rolling down my face. All I could concentrate on was what had made my precious Rosalind so distraught, along with the movement of my legs.
I hoped it was a man that made her upset, I really did. Just so I could feel his bones bend and break underneath my brute force. Wrath has always been a dangerous tool: the key to its strength is to use it sparingly. But, I'd probably end up exploding and releasing much more of it than one should.
The worst thing was that I wanted to explode; if something made her – My Love – like that, it was my right to beat whoever or whatever it was into a bloody pulp.
My chest began to ache with each heave. Every breath sent agonizing jolts of pain through my throat. My hands were starting to feel numb, I wasn't sure whether or not the blood caked on my knuckles was frozen.
I was getting closer to her father's house. Once it was in sight, my mad dash slowed to a jog until I reached it. I collapsed on the lawn, breathing in short, deep gasps of pain and fatigue. I wasn't sure how long I'd been running – my conception of time ran dry when I headed out.
I found myself crawling up the steps until I could hammer on the door. I found it difficult to stand, I had to use the railing to support my quivering body. My legs felt like they were made of extremely heavy jello. Despite that, I felt full of energy. I watched the scabs on my knuckles break off and bleed onto the white door.
It opened several seconds after, releasing an extremely potent stench. Rosalind's father glared at me through his bug-eyes as he bounced his jaw like a nutcracker on fast forward. He spat at me as I shouldered my way past him. It took some will to hold myself back from taking a swing at him. I had priorities.
Ironically enough, when I went into the living room, I discovered the source of the pungent scent; several white lines laid on the coffee table, beside a razor and a single dollar bill. On the other side of the table some sort of waxy rocks were on a plate, alongside a metal pipe. Then it hit me: the prick was smoking crack and snorting coke.
“Fucking junkie,” I muttered under my breath as I finished my journey through the room and headed upstairs. I don't know why I ran up the stairs, but I did. Somehow, I still had the stamina to climb the stairs three-at-a-time. Once I reached the top, I walked through the dark hall and ignored the closed doors bordering my path.
Her door was at the end of the hall.
“Hey, Love?” I knocked on the door and called for her.
I knocked harder and shouted: “Rosalind!” She never, and I truly mean never, pulled this kind of thing before. So I acted in a way that didn't usually define myself: I urged my legs to let me slam my body into the door.
“What are you doing up there, you jackass?” I ignored her father and drove myself into the door again.
“Fuck off, you prick,” I bellowed before the door broke down. My breath caught in my throat once I beheld the sight that awaited me behind the door. I felt a stone sink in my stomach. I wanted to vomit the stone out, all over her floor. But I kept its contents still.
Rosalind's lithe body hung from the ceiling, a noose pulled taut around her throat. She was always so fragile-looking – now she was lifeless. An object. Blood ran down her stockinged thigh, pushing the stone even deeper downwards. She was dressed in her school's uniform – a checkered white-and-black skirt, her black stockings, the white shirt, and her black shoes. I always thought she looked beautiful with her slender legs.
Now, my hands trembled uncontrollably as I reached into my pocket for my knife. I clicked the button and flicked the stiletto blade out. My left hand began trembling even harder as I took the rope. I started sawing at it, it felt like ages until I managed to get through.
Rosalind's corpse fell into my arms, I shut my eyes. I pulled her cold body against mind. “No,” I whispered. “Not you... My Rose...” My whispers swiftly grew into sobs. I still can't remember what words I sobbed, but I remember everything else that I did that night.
After I finished bawling into Rosalind's shoulder, I pressed my lips to hers and told her that I loved her. I carried her to the bed and laid her down, which is how I saw the note waiting for me on her nightstand. It read:
“I'm done with this. I'm done with everything. I'm tired of having my father rape and molest me after he finishes beating me. I'm tired of him doing drugs before he starts hitting me. I hate it when he touches me, or any of the people he's sold me to for his drugs. I wish I could've done this differently, so I wouldn't have to hurt Rein, My Love. I hope he won't hate me for this. I love him with all of my heart. Maximillian, I hope we unite in the next life. – Rosalind LeBlanc”
My blood went ice-cold. Sweat ran down my back. My fingers went numb and the sheet of paper slid from my grasp. All I had known about that was the beating. I moved in a daze, as if it was someone else controlling my body and I was just sitting on the sidelines, watching. I took my switchblade from its place by the stool. It was that moment when my tears dried up. It was a draught from the harsh heat of my hatred and anger.
The heat warmed my cold blood and gave me the strength to pursue forwards. I didn't think before I acted, I just let my emotions act for me. Wordlessly, I descended the stairs. I walked towards her father, he sat in a chair facing the coffee table. I felt nothing for him but hatred. A violent, seething tornado of hatred. I did not pity him, nor the scent of piss and alcohol that lingered around him. I wanted to punch him as hard as I could in his fat, jumping jaw. I wanted to clean his coke-covered nostrils with a cheese grater.
Each step towards the deprived rapist evoked hundreds of macabre images in my mind. I wish I could've done all of them, but you can only harm a man so much before he dies. I clenched my fists and felt the dried (or frozen) blood crack and fall to the carpet, as more of my blood began slowly flowing out.
His bug-eyes were staring at the top of a curtain. I heard him mumble something about mice, but his mumblings grew short as I wrapped my fingers around his throat.
“Shhh, rapist. It's time for you to scream. Save your breath,” My voice was calm. I felt him wriggle as I pulled him even closer.
Rosalind's father grunted as I pulled him back, with the switchblade held high, ready to plunge down. I thrust it into his crotch, eliciting a scream from the sack of shit. I felt the blade hack through his rapist genitals. A rapist that can no longer rape will no longer cause any trouble.
Thankfully, he was much weaker than me. I pulled him backwards until he and the chair fell towards me, so I could step back and plant my boot on his throat. My other foot pinned one of his wrists down as I held the other hand. I skewered the palm of his hand on my knife and took his middle finger in my hand.
He screamed like a little girl as I felt bones snap under my grip. Each scream he let out gave me a certain sadistic satisfaction that I cannot explain in words. It just encouraged me to continue. I bent the broken finger back and impaled it on the knife; bits of bone protruded from his flesh amidst the blood pouring out.
I proceeded to break each of the remaining fingers of his hand and skewer them on my switchblade. I took the knife's handle and began twisting it to and fro as I slowly pulled it free – his screams got even louder and I started to grin as part of me began to break away. I dropped his mutilated hand, just so I could grab him by the collar of his shirt. I removed a boot from his throat, and the other from his wrist.
With his restraints lifted, I was able to pull him to his feet and then tug on the collar to make him smash his face against the tile floor. I sat on his back and took him by the ankle; I brought the foot up and stabbed my foot through the flesh just behind the ankle. I sawed away at the flesh and hamstring in the blade's way until I managed to cut through entirely. The foot was now useless, I pushed it into the tiles so I could do the same to his other foot.
I stood up and took a few steps away. I surveyed the crippled rapist with a sinister grin.
“Fuck you,” Her father gasped. “You fucking monster.”
“I'm a monster? You made this monster, you fucking rapist. You're as good as dead. Raping your daughter? Selling her for dope? Who the fuck here is the real monster?” The words left my mouth like venom as I spat them in his face.
The same anger boiling in my veins burned in his eyes as he asked me, “And who are you to judge?”
I brought my boot straight into his nose, bending it halfway to his cheek at a nice, gruesome forty-five degree angle. “I am the judge, the jury, and the executioner.” I lifted his face with the toe of my boot to better survey the damage. It looked like it hurt pretty bad.
“Now, stay still,” I ordered him as I walked into the kitchen. I wiped my bloody knife on the sofa as I passed it. I pulled the clasp of my knife back and shut the blade before I stowed it in my pocket. It's a nice stiletto, but a stiletto wasn't what I needed for the job.
I listened to Rosalind's father squeal in pain; I was expecting him to pass out soon, so I had to hastily scour his kitchen for knives. The first drawer I opened was full of rags. The second was full of coke, some pills, and some weed. The third was full of silverware.
I chose the largest knife: it was a long and thick bread knife with a razor-sharp edge. I returned into the living room, watching the rapist try to pull himself to the door. In the middle of his trail of blood laid his severed genitals.
I stomped on the genitals as I made my way towards him; they squelched under my boot and blood cascaded out from the boot's treads. It sounded like I was either stepping into or out of mud. Regardless, I had to finish what I'd started – crippling and castrating this man was not enough. I took a couple long strides towards him and it was all I needed to kick him in the armpit of his good arm.
Rosalind's father howled and my grin twisted into a smile. I guessed that I kicked it hard enough to numb the entire arm. I reached down so I could lift him by the collar with both hands. I tossed him on his back, causing his round gut to ripple on impact. He repulsed me, with his borderline obesity and the way he smelled like piss, shit, and booze.
Rosalind's rapist looked up at me and the bread knife, I saw the fear in his eyes. His fear was the gasoline poured on my burning hatred. “Say your last words, rapist. I'm done with this game.” His eyes widened from the tone of my voice.
“P-please! Don't kill me! I'll do anything,” He begged.
I kneeled beside him and held his mouth open with one hand. I grabbed his tongue and sliced it off with a single swipe of the bread knife. I shut my eyes because he was spitting blood at my face. I opened them for a split second, allowing me to thrust the knife into his crotch. I wrenched it up bit by bit. He screamed in agony as I cut through his intestines, and then his stomach.
I pulled the blade out for a moment to watch the stomach acid eat through his innards and fat. I plunged it in from the start again, but deeper with the second thrust. I kept going this time, until I reached the center of his torso. I was tempted to reach inside and pull them out, but I held myself back. I didn't want to get my hands too dirty with his blood.
Rosalind's rapist died screaming as he convulsed in his pool oif blood. I left the knife in him and went back into the kitchen to wash my hands. Then, I went upstairs one last time. I took the stool and dragged it to her bed. I sat down beside her and blinked. I whispered to her, “I've killed him. Now you can rest, Love.” I leaned forwards and pressed my lips to hers for the final time. “I love you Rosalind. Now rest in peace, my Rose.”
I laid Rosalind down and shut her eyes. I folded her hands over her chest, her flash was cold to the touch.
With nothing left to do, I left the house. My final goodbyes had been said.
I walked back to my apartment, staring straight ahead. My steps were slow and I felt exhausted. I trudged home as the severity of the night's events hit me. I relived everything in my mind again and again: discovering Rosalind and the note, the torture that led up to murder, and my final goodbye.
Next thing I knew, I was standing in front of my bed. I leaped into it and let my blankets envelop me.
My steps were easily traced back to me by the police, whom pulled me out of my bed that morning. I was taken to the court and I pleaded guilty.
Six months later, I was sitting in an electric chair after murdering ten more people during my imprisonment before my death sentence was carried out. The electricity hurt as it coursed through my veins, but it brought me to the most definite of finalities.
As I write this, I'm waiting for Purgatory to get to me, so I can know whether or not I'm going to Heaven or Hell.