She’d walk by, head down, and the streetlights would shine on her hair. It would look almost gold. Almost.
People would think: That’s a pretty woman, a nice, quiet pretty woman, going about her business. But they didn’t know. He knew what was inside the shell. Bitter, black, and dark.
He could feel it rising in him now as he anticipated her. Rage and pleasure, fear and joy. You’ll look at me now, you bitch.
And we’ll see how you like it, see how you like it.
Thought she was so pretty. Liked to parade and pose in front of the mirror without her clothes. Or parade and pose for the men she let touch her.
Won’t look so pretty when I’m done.
He slipped a hand into his pocket, felt the long length of ribbon.
Red was her favorite. She liked to wear red.
He saw her, as he once had. Screaming,
screaming, naked but for the red ribbon she’d worn around her throat. Red as his blood when she’d beaten him. Beaten him until he’d passed out.
Only to wake in the black. In the dark, in the locked room.
She’d be the one to wake in the black now. Blind in hell.
There she was . . . there she was now, walking along in her brisk way, head down.
His heart thundered in his chest as she came closer.
She turned, as she always did, through the iron gates and into the pretty park.
For an instant, just one trip of that heart, her head came up. And there was fear and shock and confusion in her eyes when he leaped out of the shadows.
She opened her mouth to scream, and his fist broke her jaw.
Her eyes rolled back to white, to blind, as he dragged her away from the lights.
He had to slap her several times to bring her around. She had to be awake for it, awake and aware.
He kept his voice down—he was no fool—but he said what he needed to say as he used his fists on her.
How do you like it now, bitch? Who’s the boss now, whore?
And there was both shame and unspeakable delight in ramming his body into hers. She didn’t fight, only lay limp, and that was a disappointment.
She’d struggled before, and sometimes she’d begged. That was better.
Still, when he pulled the cord around her neck, when he yanked it tight and saw her eyes bulge, the pleasure was so keen he thought he, too, might die of it.
Her heels drummed, soft little thumps on the grass. Her body convulsed, and brought his—at last, at last—to completion.
“Go to hell.” He panted it out while he stripped off her clothes. “Go to hell now, where you belong.”
He stuffed her clothes in the bag he’d brought with him, then hooked the strap crossways over his massive chest.
He picked her up as if she weighed nothing. And he reveled in his strength, in the power it gave him.
He carried her to the bench he’d selected, so lovely under the big, shady tree, so close to the dignified fountain. There he laid her out, carefully bringing her hands together, tucking them up between her breasts.
“There now. There now, Mother, don’t you look nice? Would you like to see?”