Twelve of Roses

“I’m going to give you a new look; now sit down, and don’t move. We wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

I watched her in the mirrors, grabbing a few blow dryers and flat irons so I could tie the bitch up before I got to work. She watched me the entire time, shaking so hard it looked like she was having conniptions.

See, I never raised my voice at the girls I took. I always talked to them as if I actually cared about their feelings, lulling them into a somewhat relaxed sense of security.

This woman knew better, and the second I pulled my mask off, it solidified the fact that she wasn’t leaving the chair I had just tied her up in.

“Remember—don’t scream,” I warned again, reaching behind me for Rose’s pair of clippers.

It took me less than five minutes to shave the woman bald. Strands of brunette hair covered her, the chair, and the floor.

She never stopped crying, and snot was running from her nose. I went back over her head a second time, not wanting any stray strands sticking out when I put on her red wig. This was much quicker than trying to turn someone’s hair the same shade Rose’s was.

“Open up.” I stepped around to the front of the chair and pressed my mask against her mucus covered lips.

“Why are you–?”

“Because you didn’t lock your door,” I cut her off, shoving the black fabric all the way into her mouth.

Reaching in my hoodie pocket, I retrieved the bundled up synthetic hair and carefully placed it on top of her head, smoothing the silky strands down with a sigh.

“Much better,” I commented, adjusting the chair so she was leaning back.

“Now, this next part is going to hurt a little,” I explained calmly as I grabbed my hunting knife from the vanity. She thrashed her head back and forth, screaming incoherently and pointlessly at me. More than likely, it was some form of begging.

Pressing the tip of the knife to her bare stomach, I slowly began making my first incision. Dark, beautiful crimson immediately began to run out, pooling inside her belly button. I retraced the curved line, going a little deeper this time, inhaling deeply when she squealed like my swine used to.

My dick twitched in my jeans when she screamed a little louder as I made the second incision. There was so much blood starting to run together—it was breathtaking. It ran off the sides of her stomach, dripping onto the white tiled floor, staining the leather.

I needed to see more.

My pulse quickened as I went back over my symbol, shoving the knife all the way inside her, willing it to pop out of her back and tear through the chair.

She made a mangled sound in her throat. I swore her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets, but I kept on going. It happened the second time I shoved the knife in. I treated her like I would a buck, twisting the handle, hearing bone and intestine shift and squish around. Her head hung, the life having left her body in the midst of my sculpting.

My hands shook as I pulled the blade back out. If this were way back when, Rose would be on her knees right now, sucking me dry and finger fucking herself.

Plugging another flat iron in, I waited for it to get hot, then used it to cauterize my mark so it stood out better.

A burnt rubber smell filled the air as her flesh sizzled and blood popped like hot oil.

Running a hand over my chin, I stepped back and admired my craftsmanship before grabbing a comb so I could fix her hair up.

Chapter Fifteen

Past

I heard his heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Molly huddled closer to me, shivering from the chilled air coupled with fear. I gripped her freezing, pale hands in mine, counting the seconds before he arrived.

The two new girls sat on the opposite side of the room, far away from us. They thought we were like him. I didn’t blame them. In fact, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. If I’d seen what they had I might have come to that same conclusion.

Molly and I were only permitted to wear white, vintage silk gowns, and our hair had to always be presentable. Our room was painted a soft pink, and our golden framed beds were of the best quality.

It wasn’t usually how people pictured two kidnapped girls living.

Con did his usual and paused three doors down, continuing to sing his twisted song. This was his thing, one of his methods of torment. He sang us a lullaby where we died at the end. When the doorknob slowly began to turn, the two girls grabbed hold of one another, as if that would protect them from him.

Poor things.

At first, I often wondered where he found his new toys, but after being with him for over six months I learned there was a pattern with him. He had methods to his crazy, and it had everything to do with me. I was his madness. I was the disease he fed off.