6

Whore

Alpha

My mother was a whore.

I remember the stench of filthy sex in our little rank, dirty apartment. It permeated the air, mingled with the sour stink of curdled milk left out on the counter and the moldy scent of old carpet and rain-ruined wallpaper.

I recall the g

roaning sounds coming from behind her bedroom door. Trying to silence the infuriating cries by cranking the volume of my cartoons on the small, static-lined TV. The muffled sobs when one of her johns got too violent.

Some sounds can’t be drowned out.

Or forgotten.

It’s the glare on the television that brings this memory racing back. There was always an annoying glare from the sun-bleached windows that never had any shutters. The first thing I did when I got my own place was put up blinds.

“Shut the fucking curtains.”

Donavan does as instructed, and my hand relaxes on the remote as the widescreen display becomes crisp and vibrant in the dimmed room. I inhale a deep breath, taking in the fresh scent of leather and oleander. A combination that reminds me nothing of my mother’s home.

As I knew they would, the press have sunk their greedy teeth into the serial killer epidemic. The media’s appetite is insatiable, easily fed. The craze inflamed. Give them the bait, and they gnaw at the hook until their gums bleed.

The FBI have arrived. Not that they needed to make a special trip. They have a convenient office just outside of Arlington, the proverbial heart of the state. The press reporting the FBI’s interception of the Alpha Killer case that, just today, was upgraded to serial killer status, means my pretties have been discovered.

I did so try to display my girls in a true sadistic art form.

And oh, how I enjoy watching them all scramble. Fumbling with their little clues.

The coppery tang of blood still lingers on my hands. When you spill so much, it’s impossible to wash it all away.

I dig the tip of my finger into the pint of chocolate ice-cream, pop my finger into my mouth. Savor the metallic aftertaste of a job well done. Though I do take pride in my work, that’s all it is: a job. There’s little pleasure to be found in the demoralization of an empire.

A whimper steals my solitude, and I set the pint down and mute the TV.

I saved one of my treasures for the party. I have to have something to show for my hard work. She enters now, escorted roughly by her arms, Donavan and Micah directing her to kneel before me.

She’s not the prize that I ultimately, intimately wanted, but… How did Dr. Lecter phrase it? All good things to those who wait.

Such irony, really. To quote a fictitious serial killer amid the current circumstances. Rather fitting, in a sort of cheap way. There is always humor to be found, though. Even in the blackest of souls.

And I am patient. My lovely medical examiner will make the perfect reward.

The lithe creature before me shies away as I reach for her. I latch on to her jaw and jerk her face forward. “If you struggle”—I tilt her quivering chin up—“I’ll make this far more entertaining than it has to be.”

Ready with the syringe, Donovan moves closer. I accept the serum with one hand as I hold the whore with the other. Her shaky whimpers slither over my skin as she extends a trembling arm outward.

“Good girl.” I release her face only to grip her wrist and inject the needle deep into her forearm.

She bites back a scream. More from the shock than the pain. I imagine how the burn courses her blood, heating her from the inside out, as I push the plunger down.

She’s glassy-eyed in a matter of seconds, barely able to put up a fight if she so desired. Which now, as she rolls her head, body becoming languid, demonstrates her desires have become anything I wish.

That’s the beauty of it.

To all our desires, we are slaves. One must only know how to conquer these desires in order to fully possess another.

Tags: Trisha Wolfe The Broken Bonds Dark
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