#TCSM oc | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

melodrama-ticcc · 7 months

Text

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐏𝐢𝐞

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ.

—

The drive from the countryside of Skiatook, Oklahoma to Newt, Texas was a ten hour trip, spanning the pastoral plaines of Oklahoma to the hilled grasslands of midwestern Texas. A sight to behold, surely, but even a blind man would grow bored of staring at the same image if it meant he was looking death in the face.

The summer sun baked the peeling paint off that ol’ 56’ pickup. Heat radiating from the build of its classic body to the cabin, where the broken air conditioning did little to improve their conditions of travel. Even the windows — half rolled down (enough to flick strands of hair astray in varying directions, but keep the sharp feel of the hot wind out of the eyes), did close to nothing to alleviate their discomfort.

All of it had been enough to further sour her perturbed feelings regarding the move. Sat in the passengers seat, she stared at endless grass hills, a blank expression resting on her pretty features. The sun shines in through the window, and she does her best to hide beneath the little shade her hand provides. The sun meets its peak in the sky as it moves westward. To inevitably kiss where those hills met the horizon. In many ways, the beauty of it all was quite remarkable. Peaceful, one might say.

Yet, Rebecca Payne only felt the urgency to conclude she and her father’s travels and settle into that reposeful farmhouse she would come to call home.

Surrounded by fifteen acres of fenced grasslands, the old farmhouse sat just a half mile off the main road of the highway. Shrouded by overgrown foliage, a dirt road leads to a set of warped wooden stairs, then, a porch that wraps around the left side of the place. The eaves provide plenty of shade, and a torn screen door serves as the front entrance of the home. She was sure it must’ve been a grand estate some once upon a time. Now, it was just a rickety old house that needed lots of fixing. She supposed there was something beautiful in it though, for it had the potential to be something great once more.

As dusk approaches, Rebecca slams shut the truck door. Slinging a tote over her shoulder, she hurries up the front steps. Her second footstep is met with the sound of a loud crack, the regrettable indication of the wood snapping. Her weight propels the leg through the broken board, and it nearly sends her face first into the top stair before she catches herself on the railing.

“Shit!” She lifts her foot slightly, as if to assess damages before she realizes the extent in the fragility of the old place.

“Now, you best watch yer’ language young lady, watch it for’ I ain’t wanna tell you ‘gain.” His voice is deep and rumbles, like the thunder rolling in as a summer storm approaches. Her father shuts the truck bed, bags in hand as he makes his way towards the house’s edifice. “Movers’ll be here in the mornin’, we best get some rest. We can unload tomorrow.”

His warning is met with skepticism, as she scoffs and moves toward front door. The screen is kept open, seeing as it swings freely in the gentle breeze. However, the solid wood door behind it is locked, so she raises her hand up in a careless motion.

“Ya’ got keys, daddy?”

“Now hold on.” He steps up after her, rustling in his pocket for the key. She moves to the side as he sticks it in the lock, pausing for a moment as he looks to her. “I know it ain’t much, but it’s home, and you aughtta’ be grateful for what we got, ya’ hear me? A home is a home, you’s and me can fix ‘er up but in the meantime, s’long s’we gots a roof over our heads and supper on the table, we doin’ just fine.”

“Oh daddy,” she smiles, maybe for the first time that day, and it’s charming. A pretty little smile bound to tickle the hearts of any man who saw her. It was no wonder her father loved her so damn much. “You know I can make anythin’ work. Jus’ needs a lil’ woman’s touch. I’ll take care of the inside, you take care of the outside.” She plants a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll have ‘er lookin’ like home in no time.”

The two days that followed had consisted of the typical unpacking and arranging of furniture that followed a new move. Far from complete, boxes of varying sizes, empty and full, scattered about the oak floors of the interior. Contrary to her expectations, the inside of the home had been in much better shape than the exterior. Not perfect by any means, but considerably better. It was nice in some ways, to have such a spacious home with ornate architecture. That which matched the stye of most farmhouses built in the 1800s.

There’s a knock at the door as Rebecca hunches over a hot open stove. Rather half heartedly she calls out for her father, however when met with no response, she proceeds to pull the meatloaf out of the oven and places it onto the stove top. Tossing the oven mitts on the counter, she moves to approach the door. From where she stands, she can see three figures standing behind the screen.

The gentleman on the right is carrying something. He’s older, she thinks. Probably in his fifties. His dark hair is combed over the top of his head, yet it’s clear he’s balding to some extent. His dress slacks are pulled up past his waist, and his dress shirt has some sort of red name tag that she can’t make out. He’s rather short, too. The woman on the left, while fair for her age, seems to be an older, more mature lady. Her dark hair is done up in some neat updo, and she wears a purple dress with some floral accents. There’s eye glasses with dark frames on her face, and she looks less than pleasant. The last figure had been a taller young man situated behind both of them. He seems her age, his hair is slicked back in grease and a stern expression is written on his handsome features. His tight jeans and torn black tank top tell her everything she needs to know, he’s no good.

“Hi.” She peers beyond the screen, as if to examine them and ensure they were somewhat trustworthy. Her eyes scan each of them, a hand kept on the door handle. “Can I help you folks?”

“Forgive us for showin’ up unannounced like this, it ain’t too often we find ourselves gettin’ new neighbors is all.” The older man speaks, a friendly smile on his face. “We’s the Sawyers. Our farmhouse is settled just up the main road here a little ways. I’m Drayton, this is Nancy, and this here is Johnny.” He lifts what he’s holding and shakes it gently. It sounds heavy, its contents something greasy that stains the thin paper bag. “It ain’t much, but we brought some barbecue as a house warmin’ gift. Thought we’d welcome you’s to Newt.”

“Awfully kind of you folks,” Rebecca extends their gratitude, swinging open the screen with her booted foot. That charming smile of hers meets their every gaze. “Comin’ all this way to say hello. My names Rebeccca Payne, y’all can call me Becca.”

Johnny thinks she’s something like the movie stars he sees on the television or on the covers of his pornographic magazines. Big blonde hair falling in effortless curls and waves, swooped bangs framing a finely carved face. High cheekbones, full, pouty lips, a button nose, bright blue eyes. Her skin is kissed by the sun, freckles scatter across the highs of her face and body, beauty marks adorning several sections of her tanned skin. He smiles, and perhaps for a moment he imagines what it would be like to have her tied up in his shed. A part of him wants to keep her as a pet, the other wonders what it would be like to carve into her like a he did those college students. But it’s her smooth southern drawl that removes him from his immoral conceptions.

“You’ve caught me just as I’ve finished supper, care to join us? Daddy’ll be pleased to meet you folks. We ain’t know we had neighbors ‘round here.”

“Well, ain’t you sweet.” The woman, Nancy, speaks, a motherly tone in her voice as she offers a kind smile. Its her first time expressing anything but that mean veil she donned.

“But ‘uh, we ain’t wanna impose or nothin’ . . . .” It’s said more to front niceties as opposed to genuine concern. After all, they had come here with the intent of getting to know who was next door just a little better. Watching from afar could only give them so much.

“Nonsense, y’all come on inside ‘n I’ll fix y’all’s a place at the table. ‘S the least I can do, now come on in.”

There were two rules to abide by when invited for dinner by a southern woman. The first, always compliment her cooking. The second was never turn down the invitation.

“S’pose it wouldn’t hurt nothin’.” Drayton easily caves into her offer, sending a look back the other two’s way.

Rebecca had the sort of southern hospitality that was reminiscent of a belle. In a way, it’s old fashioned. But there’s something about her new age appearance and haphazard attitude that makes her seem carefree. Like a bronco in the wild, nobody could tame or give her instruction. She was an unbridled mustang.

She’s stepping aside to let them all in, shutting and locking the door behind them. She makes a point to shield the shotgun leant up against the door frame as they enter. Not before moving ahead of the group and leading them to the dining table.

“Go ‘head and have a seat where you like. Daddy’ll be in shortly.” Without clemency, she begins fixing the table to accommodate the three guests. Placing napkins and proper silverware at each place. Shouting out the open window she calls for her father, “daddy! Suppers’ on, we got company!” There’s a freshly baked cherry pie sitting on the window sill, steam still emitting from its crispy golden edges. The smells of savory meat and sweet cherries intertwine, she’s a woman who knows how to cook. And for that, she’d win the hearts of many.

As Rebecca shifts to place a porcelain plate at each seat of the table, she moves on to set out their meal. First the creamy mashed potatoes, then the salty gravy, bacon infused green beans, and one hell of a meatloaf. All centered down the runner of the table. The table is set, and as she removes the oven mitts and apron from her person there’s a faint slam at the back door. Her father steps in, wearing a days work and covered muck and dirt. The girl smiles, grabbing the iced pitcher of sweet tea and filling up five glasses at the table.

“Daddy, these are the Sawyers. This is Drayton, Nancy and Johnny Sawyer. They’s our neighbors, live just up the road this way.” She places the pitcher back on the counter, “I hope you folks are hungry, all this food don’t do much good with just my daddy and I ‘round. Momma always said a meal tasted better when it was shared with others.” She carefully hands out the homemade sweet tea poured in crystal glasses, condensation dripping down the sides of each glass as the cold beverage faces the Texan heat.

“Names’ Raymond Payne, pleasure to meet you folks.” He takes his seat at the head of the table, and as Rebecca places a glass of sweet tea at his hand she leans down, a loving hand on his shoulder as she kisses his cheek.

“Love you daddy.” She whispers into his cheek, then takes the seat to his right side. Across the table from Nancy and Johnny, besides Drayton. “God is good, God is great, let’s eat.”

“You’ll have to excuse the rest of our family, we’d of loved to bring ‘em along to say hello but they can be rather . . . . preoccupied with work.” Nancy smiles, not before Raymond nods in a feeble attempt to acknowledge her.

“I ain’t know we had neighbors ‘round these parts.” As he begins digging into the food set on the table, Raymond eyes Drayton. He’s a friendly man. His rough hands and calloused skin a showcase of his life’s work. He’s no stranger to a tough job, and it’s evident in his wise tone that he knows a thing or two about life. Though his friendliness need not be mistaken, for he’s skeptical. A life of hardship had led him to become wary of strangers. All the same, he couldn’t help but feel proud at his daughter’s benevolence and cunning hostess skills. “How long y’all been livin’ out here? Recommend it?”

For a few moments there is a profound silence at the table, as their guests begin to make their own plates, Rebecca waits patiently to be the last to serve herself. Yet the lack of answers leads her to smile awkwardly, as if hoping to stir up the conversation. But finally, the old man beside her speaks.

“Well, you ain’t got many more of us. S’far as I’m aware there ain’t many others makin’ a livin’ out here in Muerto County. We’re always happy to meet a new friendly face, it don’t happen too much.” Drayton raises his glass as he sips from it, before continuing to answer Raymond’s inquiry. “It’s a quiet lil’ town, ain’t much goes on ‘round here. You’ll find it can be quite peaceful. If you enjoy the quiet of the countryside I reckon you’ds find yourselves at home here.”

The thought picks at Drayton’s brain like a fly on dung, yet he watches himself so as to not seem too upfront. He eyes Nancy, then Johnny boy, then back to Rebecca and Raymond. They’d only made their way over to determine whether or not these new neighbors were a threat, something to harm the family business. He didn’t need some strangers waltzing in and causing trouble. He was certain they couldn’t kill them, but the girl would make a fine piece of meat. At the same time, he really had no desire to kill them. If they could, he’d much rather have it they lived their own separate lives in peace. Not to mention the suspicion that would arise if they were to eradicate the Payne’s so suddenly. They’d just moved in, and as the only neighbor to the old farmhouse they’d be prime suspects in a missing persons case. Their sudden disappearance would be most unwise.

“So, where you folks from, what brings yuh’ out these parts?” Drayton smiles, beginning to dig into the serving of meatloaf he’d cut for himself.

“Business.” Raymond replies dryly, between a mouth full of food. But he chuckles, nodding his head towards Drayton in an endearing matter. “We’re from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Tulsa was once a farmin’ town, not before they gentrified it all. Had some property out there, some land. We ran the cattle business with our very own slaughterhouse. Bank offered me a deal for the land I just couldn’t pass up and uh, well. We’s just cattle farmers lookin’ for a quiet life on the countryside’s all. A fresh start.” He nods, “say uh, what’s the Sawyer’s do for business, hm? How y’all makin’ yer’ livin’? I’m assumin’ you’ves got some farmland in these parts?”

“I reckon you’s right. Got lots of it. Looks like we in the same line of work, my friend.” Drayton smiles, “we owns a slaughterhouse. It’s a meat packin’ business. Say, you’s ever need any help you just holler my way. I don’t mind it one bit.” He smiles. “Family’s been in the business for years, my old grand father built it from the ground up. Used to take the hammers to the heifer’s heads. We know a thing or two about prime meat.”

Raymond laughs, coughing a bit as he leans back in his seat. “Say, I like you mister Drayton Sawyer.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a napkin, takes a sip from his glass and looks about the table. “You’s a good man. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” He nods.

The way he stares at her pisses her off. Like he can see through her mask of sanity and pick apart her every secret. He’s staring, that Johnny boy, dark, brooding eyes from across the table. She’s got half a mind not to call him out on it right then and there, but for her father’s sake she keeps her mouth shut. Even then, she’s returning the favor; a cool gaze from her side of the table. Brows cocked downward in a scowl.

“That boy of yours, he don’t talk much do he?” Raymond flags his hand towards Johnny, pulling his gaze from her.

Perhaps what angers her even more is the way he pretends as though he’s doing nothing out of the ordinary.

“Nah but he sure do gotta starin’ problem.”

“Young lady-.”

“Oh don’t let his politeness fool you, he’s a talker alright. Ain’t ya’, Johnny?” Drayton laughs. A charming smile graces Johnny’s features as he looks to Raymond. Now he’s rising from his seat to stand up and offer his hand in a hand shake. Becca makes a note of the scars that riddle his strong arms as she folds her arms over her chest. Her father stands to meet him, his own right arm locking in a firm handshake while his left arm holds Johnny’s wrist.

“Johnny, nice to meet you son.”

“Not used to strangers sir, you’ll have to forgive me. Nice to have some new neighbors ‘round here though, you ever need help ‘round the place gimme a call.” He glances to Rebecca, a distasteful countenance on her mien. She looks like someone shit in her cheerios. “Same goes to you too darlin’, need summin’, don’t hesitate to gimme a call.” She wants to slap the stupid smile of his pretty face, but instead scoffs aloud.

“I can handle myself, thank you.”

The remainder of dinner was much of the same small talk and pleasantries. Nancy tried to make conversation with Rebecca — going on about being a housewife and proper manners, most likely because of her blatant disregard for her son’s generosity. Drayton laughed along with Raymond, as Johnny talked him up with stories of hunting wild animals and growing up in a small town. Humorous tales of reckless behavior as children, setting smoke bombs off in the creek or fetching rattlesnakes with bare hands. All the while she felt disgraced by the young man’s suave behavior. His smooth, deep voice echoing in her ears. It was a euphoric sound, tingling her innermost desires in such a fulfilling way. But she hated it. She never did care much for those frivolous boys who flaunted their good looks and tight jeans to break the hearts of naive women. Women like her, who knew his type all too well. Thems hearts were never loyal to just one.

Throughout the evening’s festivities, he made a point to watch Rebecca as if to study her. Only when she called him out on the matter did he especially brush it off as some insignificant coincidence. He talks her up like she’s some prize to be won. Each of his advances met with a cold shoulder and quick exit. Further reinforcing the initial impression of his character. A good-for-nothing heartthrob with an ego he wants stroked.

Even with her hands buried into the warm dishwater of the sink, scrubbing away the remnants of a tasty home cooked meal from porcelain plates and the sticky sweetness left behind by the sweet tea in fancy glasses, she found herself resentful of a man she had only just met. The thought and buildup of it all weighs heavily on her mind. She faces the window, dusk settling with brilliant hues of yellow, orange and pink. Then the pie, that she’d left to cool off in the window sill. Her eyes flash quickly as she calls out to the others, interrupting their seemingly amusing conversation to offer up desert.

“I almost forgot, I’ve got a fresh cherry pie baked. You folks like sweets?” Rebecca calls out, putting the last dish to dry as she wraps her wet hands in the towel hanging off the side of the sink. “I’ll get us some dishes.” She extends a smile to the group, primarily her father, as she fishes out small plates from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer. Setting them out on the table, she fetches a cutting knife from the counter, placing it beside the plates. Then, she carefully retrieves the pie, placing it on the table for all to see.

“Knew I smelt summin’ sweet walkin’ down the road, here lil’ lady, lemme cut this for ya’-”

“I can cut my own damn pie.” The change in tone is stark. What was once a pleasant, primarily gracious hostess was now filled with unrelenting anger and frustration. Like flipping a light switch, something had ignited the spark within her. Becca’s eyes glare something wicked into him. Her own hands are shaking, and though she hears her father call out for her in a low, monotone warning. It does little to shake the feeling that her control over her perfect fairytale is fleeting. “Give it here.” She gestures towards the knife.

Johnny, partly wanting to instigate a further reaction out of her, and partly due to the stern look Raymond was giving her, withheld the utensil. He feigns innocence, playing the part of the concerned stranger with excellence and finesse. He cautiously looks to her, his brows raised in suspicion. He knew better than anyone, she was in fact losing her grip. He found it amusing too, the way she stared at him with wild eyes. Waiting for him to cave to her will as if she were a threat to him. He wondered how far he could push her over the edge.

“Now now lil’ lady, all’s I’m doing is offerin’ a favor, best calm down now.”

“I can do it myself.” She mumbles beneath her breath, pupils diminishing with the dark light that came with the sunset. As the sun draws downward, dark shadows are cast over her expression. Sweat drips down the crest of her forehead, then the side of her nose and over the cusp of her lip. She’s shaking something scary, not before she moves swiftly to grasp the knife away from Johnny from across the table, fed up with his not listening. Just as she thinks she has it, she begins to grasp her fingers. Not before he draws the blade back, in an attempt to shield it from her.

Crimson taints the silver blade of the knife, painting the stained wood of the table a pretty red and even splattering the once faultless cherry pie. It drips from a laceration on her palm as she grasps it tightly with her right hand. The liquid oozes between her fingers despite efforts to slow it down. It continues to dribble down the length of her arm and drip onto the table below. It’s a sharp pain, stinging like hell. She doesn’t display any signs of pain, though. Instead, she stares curiously at the liquid. In a deep state of shock. Cerulean eyes wide with fear. Her shaking has come to a stop, and instead she stands still in her place. All sounds of those around her are drowned in the loudness of her consciousness. She sees blood, as it stains her hands for eternity. Visions of her deceased mother, in a pool of her own blood flood her mind. Thick and rich scarlet, all over the ivory curtains and painted walls. When she looks upwards to those around the table, only then does she realize what she’s done. It’s as if the switch had turned off and she realized she’s lost control of her temper.

They all stare at her with a dazed expression, confusion laced in their features, that with utter shock. Her father watches her cautiously, the feeling of disappointment clear in the way he calls out to her, reaching for her arm as he rises from his seat. But that which sticks out to her the most, was the look that bastard Johnny boy gave her. As opposed to rising with the others, he puts the knife on the table and finds his seat. Arms folded over his chest in a proud display. Those same dark eyes stare right through her, as if she were transparent. His features contorted in a wise smirk. One that indicates he knows something, or like he’s accomplished some great ordeal. She swears she can hear him chuckle, his husky voice at the forefront of her mind. He’s proud, she thinks. Because he knows something.

“Sorry y’all, now, where was we?”

As though nothing had ever happened at all, she picks the knife off of the table to cut a slice of pie. The sticky red of the cherry syrup pulls as she lifts it from the tin to place on a plate. A macabre display of delicious baked goods, blood falls down the side of the pie from the pool that sits atop it. It’s all over the treat, the slice, the table, the knife, still oozing from her wounded hand. She sits back down, plate in hand, before taking a chunk out of the tip of the slice with a fork to place in her mouth. A smile befalls her lips as she chews, it’s a warm aroma of sugary fruit and metallic. Perhaps the blood adds a little something. But it’s as though she’s trying to feign innocence, like there hadn’t been a some unfortunate incident. Like it was all normal.

She wasn’t crazy by any means, perhaps just a bit of a control freak. Her desire to provide the perfect image at the hand of her sacrifice of sanctity.

“Pie, anyone?”

259 notes · View notes

melodrama-ticcc · 3 months

Text

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐋𝐚𝐦𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵘʳᵈᵉʳ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ʳᵃᵖᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ˢᵘⁱᶜⁱᵈᵉ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ.

—

Strapping arms mottled in scarred, calloused skin accompany the faintest scent of the ashen, stale smoke of woody tobacco from the cigarettes he smoked and the oddments of fresh linens — the same ones he laid upon just five minutes prior. It’s a bitterly comforting scent, the acridity of herbaceous nuances and the pleasantries of simple, clean laundry detergent meet their match in the assuaging nose of musk that followed him down the drive.

He’s austere and tenacious, a valiant leader in times of great hardship and need. His stalwart determination and carnal instinct to staunchly protect his people and come to her aid would only showcase how strong and worthy of a man he was. The way his lusty figure strides with a fierce purpose and fervent motivation, his visage making it all the more evident how grave her fallen endeavor was to him. In other circumstances, perhaps it would have made her heart flutter with avid concupiscence. His virile persona and dauntless attitude a beautiful depiction of the true man Johnny Sawyer was, one gallant, stouthearted and resolute.

It was no wonder girls swooned over him and sluts threw themselves at him in forlorn and desperate attempts to be bed, for if it hadn’t been his manful character it would be his animal good looks. A brawny physique like his was enough to make any young girl drool, but the way in which his work ethic displayed itself was all the more impressive. Resolute and undaunted, characterized by the intransigent persona he carried. Unshaken, indurate, purposive, a strong and protective man who served to remedy her from this mess. A mean stare, a cold shoulder, a flagrant saunter, those pretty dark eyes shrouded by the chocolate lashes that surrounded them make him nothing short of an enigma, a breath taking image of the dangerous and allusive. Any imperfections were overshadowed by the illusion of his angelic smile, even the slight bend in his nose; presumably from being broken at some point.

It’s a wonder she’s not feinting at his virile demeanor, but then again, the predicament at hand makes itself out to be much more prevalent then her precognitions. Still overcome with grief and the weight of her grave mistake, Rebecca sporadically makes the trip back to the front drive of her farmhouse. With trembling appendages wrapped thickly in her blonde hair and tugging at the follicles, her quivering lips spurt incoherencies even she cannot make out. Something about screwing everything up and not tying down loose ends, what a damn mess this had become.

Heavy is the hand that takes refuge on the small of her back, a gentle reminder that he’d been alongside her all that time. The simple gesture is enough to cease her thoughtless blabbering and pull her from the demented pool of self deprecation she’d imbedded herself in. He was there now, it would be okay.

“Now you tell me just what it is that happened, calmly.”

She opens those pretty pink lips, only for the breath to get caught in her throat and hitch itself as she stammers on her own thoughts. Reliving the moments in her head, she thinks back to what it had been like when she was still at the bar in Pfluegerville, and whether she should have just asked Johnny for help from the very beginning. But nah, that ruined all the fun.

The events of the evening play about her mind like the films she saw on the television alongside her father, a horrid moving picture show of the macabre and inhumane. It’s strange, the feeling, as though she were watching herself from the outside, as if she were the movie star in this grotesque drama of the diseased and grisly. However as she stood there, going through the frightfully wonderful acts she’d committed that night the sensation of delight pangs at her heart, and with it the fluttery feeling that burgeons in the pit of her stomach. She can’t believe she’s actually done it.

“I wanted to do it. I wanted to kill a boy. I don’t know I-I-I brought home a boy.” She starts, sapphire eyes gazing blankly in the far off distance as she speaks frantically, face still wet with the tears of her hysteria. The fear of what’s to come picking at her from the inside out, she wonders if he’s disappointed in her. “I meant to fucking do it! He just- this was all on purpose, he just- he- I hate him. I hate him so much he-I- he’s just like Matthias, just like him I swear I aughtta- no, no, I lured him into the wash but I wasn’t there, I waited, I waited so patiently. Everything was so perfect- everything- I did so good and then I just- and I just-.”

“Stop.” Johnny hushes, watching the tears well and drip down her face before he’s got her cheek by the palm again, flicking away those pesky tears with the pad of his thumb. “Be good, tell me what happened darlin’.”

She sharply inhales, a stabbing pain itching at her side as she battles the hyperventilations that accompany her heightened state. Those arms are hoisted back up over her head, grasping onto the hair and pulling as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded, the single thing holding her back from going absolutely insane. A pitiful sob falls from her lips, and just as it does the cacophony of the smack! that besmirches her cheek ceases it all. The stinging burn of Johnny’s hand sets her on fire, the red imprint of his fingers etched into her cheek. She gasps, eyes wide with shock before she looks to him with anger and a newfound sense of relief.

“I said be good ain’t I? Now quit actin’ a damn fool and spit it out, we gon’ catch this fucker but I need you to get that damn head of ya’s on straight, you got that?”

“I-I-I-I forgot.” She cries, prying at the hair on her head. Dazed sure, somewhat clear, his smack wasn’t hard but it sure did knock her straight. “I hit that bitch, I hit ‘em with my axe- yeah. I don’t know how many times, I don’t. No- Yeah- yeah. I sliced his shoulder, and then I cut ‘em up real good, and I cut his damned dick off too. But- I-I messed up I didn’t know- he hurt me! My head! He pushed me down the damn stairs that’s it- how’d I let it happen! No- no I meant it, Johnny, he hurt me!” Her screams pitch high and she feels belligerent, grasping onto his shoulders with a degrading type of need. “Please help me Johnny please, I was wrong I can’t do it without ya’. I’m scared, I’m scared, I need help. I need your help.”

Those rough hands of his rake through the tangled lengths of her hair, not before brushing the flyaway strands from her eyes and grazing over the soft skin of her lips.

“I’ll find ‘em, don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

The words spoken from his lips alone are enough to quell the anxieties that plague her, a perpetual aura of calm washing over when he gazes through her and speaks it. In anxious anticipation, she watches patiently as he pushes past her and acts to examine the porch and the front area of the house, only to let out a soft chuckle when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Here. Come ‘ere.” He points to the ground in front of him, crouching down as he swipes the spot and nods up at her. “Footprints. They’s faint as hell, but they there. Gotta look closely when they get away, theys slippery little bastards I give ‘em that, but you can always catch ‘em. Now you tell me, where you think that trail leads off to?”

Suddenly the weight of it all comes thwarting down onto her, the pressure seeping through her as her face turns a bright pink. She squats, carefully analyzing the very thing Johnny had been talking about and making out the trajectory of the steps. Her swollen eyes squint just a tad, not before they look back up to him seeking some sort of approval.

“Well? He ain’t of gone far.”

“I- I don’t know. I don’t.”

“Think now, think with that there head of yer’s. I know you’s more than a nice lookin’ face.”

Rebecca obliges his orders, her gaze shifting to the ground where the puddles of crimson and dusty footprint resides. Despite his words she only becomes more flustered, eaten half alive by the plaguing thoughts of her anxieties and presumed failures. She’s desperate for help, not a damn lesson, there wasn’t much time to be wasted. So, concluding no clear answer and growing wary of the looming fear over her shoulder she shakes her head, throws her hands up and shouts.

“Please, I-I can’t. It’s just one shitty damn footprint- there’s no fuckin’ point.”

“Tch, ways I see it you can follow the direction of that there print, possibility there’s a trail, you got ‘em leakin’ after all. Or, miss thang, you put yourself in your target’s shoes.” Johnny doesn’t move, only stares at her, waiting. “You start thinkin’ like yer’ prey, things’ll get a whole lot easier for ya’.”

She stops, blue irises blown out as she looks to him in disbelief. It’s an epiphany, of sorts. A sort of realization in his words, think like the prey. Reluctantly she picks up the pieces and sutures herself together, able to make some string of coherent thoughts. Her head turns towards the side yard, thinking deliberately in the eyes of that damn boy. It seemed the most intelligent outcome would be to run up the front drive, however, that’s all most sure the first place anyone would look. So to avoid suspicion and buy more time, he had to of run elsewhere. Perhaps through the brush against the sides of their land, or more likely the back where they’d keep the cattle.

“I uh- looks to me like he ran off someplace out ‘n to the back, only thing back there is the cattle fields and wild life.” She says, the tinge of uncertainty in her voice a demonstration of her willingness to please. Johnny smiles wide, gesturing to her with his head as he strides forward.

“Well, let’s see how right you are ‘bout that.”

“I thought he’d made it out to the road and got away, thought I was done for.” She stands up straight, hands shaking at her sides when her vision fogs with tears. She sniffles, hastily wiping the underneath of her nose as she stares forward at the vacant trail of dusty footprints and spattered blood. “He made a damn fool of me.” Her hands ball into fists and her brows dive into a scowl. “Why I gotta be so shitty at it, alls I wanted to do was prove I could do the damn job.”

“Rebecca,” Johnny warns, grabbing at the wrist that reaches for her axe. “Come on pretty girl, you got a natural knack for this sort of thing.” Her eyes meet his gaze and she frowns, only to smile a sad smile at his words.

“You really think so?”

“Ah come on now darlin’,” he grins, tucking his fingers under her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “I know so. Don’t you think I know a thing or two ‘bout killin’, ain’t bad for ya’ first time, all by your lonesome.”

“Yeah? Yeah . . . And I’ll make ‘em pay- yeah- where ever that little fucker is he’s mine.” Through teary eyes she smiles at him, and somewhere in there she feels as though she’s earned his approval. His words worth more than any consolation killing Matthew could provide. She looks to him and he quiets the never-ending thoughts in her head, he takes away the need to fret about anything and gives her the thing she craves most, that warming look of praise and gratitude. It replaces that need for control, at least temporarily, and she knows then it’ll all be okay. Even as his demeanor changes and he thwarts her forwards. Her steps stumbling into themselves as she looks to him in infatuation, only before she presses on with a determined effort to keep him appeased.

“Now quit standin’ round lookin’ pretty and get a move on girl.”

A muddied track of stammered prints planted into the wet earth and heaps of blood splattered about the dirt lead to a quick chase, one that takes them through a spastic path of snapped branches and fallen foliage, plants crushed and broken in the wake of her running victim. Inevitably, he met his demise at the swimming hole long ago, truth be told by his cold, lifeless corpse at the bottom of the dried out pool.

He must’ve ran off in a dazed state, in shock from the trauma endured and the blood loss of his wounds. Without realizing the dip in the land led to a ten foot tumble down a steep hill into the ole hole, where his carcass lie sprawled out and mangled. A bloodied bath towel partly covering his nude and mutilated body, she’s disgusted by him. A pathetic excuse of a man who hadn’t even the manners to hold the door open for her.

At first she’s relieved, fully, and a bit proud too. She’d like to claim she knew she was the superior being, the one who’d win this charade, but given the turn of events it became clear she’d need to plan much more carefully. One thing was certain; never underestimate the victim.

But then, as she stood there, gazing over his pale corpse with a look of disdain written in her features, she becomes angry. The predilections of the last hour or so coming back to her in a raging fit. At the end of it all, he had taken away the satisfaction in beheading him. He still ruined it, and despite the cruel fact she’d reign supreme; she sought vengeance over the life that had already been reaped.

“Well well well, not bad at all for a first time.” His voice beckons her from her thoughts, not enough to alleviate her passion for violence and ultimate satisfaction. This was it, this was where she’d feel that cathartic release, the feeling of control coming back to her.

“You slimy little bitch.” Heavy footsteps March down that steep hill, gripping the splintering wood handle of her axe, she pauses, chewing at her lower lip as she watches the breathless corpse with pure hatred and animosity. “Fuck you.” She spits, watching the coagulated wad of saliva splat against his bare skin. The warmth of tears riddle the cusp of her eyes and she feels the emotions gurgling back up, only this time it’s pure anger and a feral inkling for revenge. Letting out a flustered scream Becca lurches the axe over her head, only to scream again when she sends it down onto his neck. “Rot in hell you son of a bitch! You deserve it like the rest of ‘em!” Again, a powerful swing halfway severs his neck in two, his head hanging on by a few torn ligaments and flesh. Blood sprays each time she swings; painting her a vibrant crimson and plastering over the grass they sit upon. Again, a third time she hoists the thing up over her head and contracts her muscles to swing it downward with all her might, the blade entirely separating his body from his head. Which rolls some couple feet away. She pauses, screaming out in great relief as she laughs about his dead body, hysterically, like a mad woman who’d lost her way. She spits again, this time crouching over the head and making sure it lands over his face.

“Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

She picks it up, gripping a handful of the bloodied dark hair that sits upon its head. She holds it up, examining his features before she squeezes the puffed out cheeks and fronts a frown.

“Lookit here, lookit who stands on top. The strong, not the coward.” Smiling widely she throws the thing to the ground with a sharp arm, screaming out something incoherent between her bouts of delighted laughter.

It exorcises the demons within her, does away with all the bad thoughts of yesterday and brings in a newfound joy she never knew she’d discover. It frees her of the need to take hold of trivial matters and emotions, purges the very concept of her idea of control and replaces it with something new, something exciting, something erotic. It arouses her beyond belief and fulfills the sensation she craved so violently, quells the aching throb in her soul and makes it feel full. For the first time in a long time, she feels happy, she feels full, she feels satiated.

Gripping the hand of that axe just a little tighter she screams fervently, smiling like a madwoman. Blissful tears pool at the edge of her pretty eyes, looking up to the starry night sky as she laughs in hysterics. She forgets Johnny’s there, forgets he’d been watching the entire thing with the pleased look he wore. But he strides over to her, taking her wrists in hopes of calming her down and bringing her from that high.

“You sure are as good as I knew you’d be, I told ya’,” he says, pulling her arms back down only for her to look at him with a face of disbelief. “I like watchin’ you do all that, that kinda thing really gets a man goin’, you know that?”

Dazed and excited she looks to her counterpart with a trebled stare, eyes wet and wide with enjoyment and a profound look of thought over her features. She thinks his words over, and though it aggravates her, pesters at her self respect, she cannot help but ponder the thought of cutting into him, making an example of him. One more time, one more time and she’d reach that ultimate high.

“I’m the one with the axe, all alone out here, in the middle of no where . . . . with nobody else about.”

“Oh Becca,” Johnny shakes his head, “You threatenin’ me?” He wastes no time in making his point, patting over the hunting knife tucked into his waistband. “I said you wasn’t bad, not damn near perfect. Think I’m scared of that?”

“I’d like to do it again,” sure his comment pisses her off, and she feels the regurgitating feeling of fury pit in her stomach and rise through her throat like hot air. He doesn’t believe in her, that’s upsetting. Doesn’t take her seriously. But she’s only thinking aloud, saying the inside part outside, staring blankly at him as she toys with the splintered handle of her toy.

To think of how fondly it made her feel, even with her frenzied state of self control and madness. How pleasurable it made her feel both inside and out, her mind in pure ecstasy and core in tight coils. She’d love to do it again, love to watch the fear on his face and the blood spurt out in pretty scarlet splatters. It’s a high she keeps on riding, the ever present feeling of tension arising between her legs. Sinful maybe, but she thinks the thought alone might drive her over the edge. How powerful and dangerous she could be, the superiority over the boys she loathed so much, so perfect, it all felt so lovely. If she could just show him what she was capable of, show him how powerful she could be. She could make a splendid example of him.

Her body moves before her head forms a thought, scrounging her face up tightly as she lifts the axe over her head. Without thinking she swings downward, not with the intent to kill but the intent to make an example of her point. She was every bit a danger as he was.

The blade comes crashing down to land suspended in the air, the uppermost part of its handle caught by his big hand. Riddled with shock and disbelief she gasps, eyes wide in both fear and anger as he tears the thing from her grasp and chucks it out somewhere into the night. She can hear it smash into the wet earth, but her focus is elsewhere, observing the angry look plastered over Johnny’s face.

“Well lookit this, somebody’s ready to fight.” He’s as sly as the fox hunting it’s prey, clasping her wrist as he waves that knife in front of her face and presses it carelessly against her neck. “Let’s not forget who had to come out all this way and help ya’, you still got lots to learn darlin’, best to quit makin’ a fool of yourself. But uh, you sure do turn me on.” His lips lean into her neck and press sensual kisses along the dirtied skin, sliding wet up to her ear where his teeth graves over the tender skin. Enough to entice her, draw her in, and yet yer stubbornness reigns supreme.

Be it the residual effects of the distaste and anger towards Matthew or the genuine disbelief in his words and actions somethings stirs in Becca, ticking off the bomb that orates her brain and causing her left brow to twitch in the wake of her fury. Instinctively it is in her nature to attack him, striking those strong arms and pushing him backwards. Delicate features twisting into a heinous display of fulmination; where her brows tilt downwards and her eyes swirl with rage. Those kissable lips pulling downwards in some sort of inveighed image. Once Johnny steps back, she can see the anger beckon him too. His own handsome face somewhere along the lines of both shocked and disrespected.

“How dare you.” Those are fighting words, and without a second thought she grapples him, arms intertwining in a battle of dominance and power. His own expostulation is evident in the way he glares at her, with a visage written in disapproval and denouncement.

“You best watch that attitude of yours girl, lest you wanna be gettin’ into trouble- now quit it.” His firm grip can be felt against her shoulders, his reach much larger than her own despite her strength. His thick fingers dig into the skin of her shoulders and he pulls her forward, all the while she’s clawing at his biceps like a feral cat, groaning and hissing as she struggles to keep him at bay.

“You aughtta learn to keep your mouth shut boy.” She warns, tussling herself when her body begins to thrash about his grip. Likewise she meets him with that same competence, only falls short in getting the upper hand that his tight grasp has over her.

Johnny laughs, the same laugh that is demented and evil and downright demeaning. Like he’s toying with his food, or playing a childish game. The disgust held for him bubbles up again, and she’s half but forgotten all his benevolent qualities and his status as a worthy counterpart and leader. Only does it come back to her when he yanks her closer, staring into those equivocal eyes. She whines, cries out in a desperate attempt to push herself from him to no avail. This time his hand clutches a handful of the dirtied hair at the back of her head, the other tightening down on her wrist as he lurches her forward. She begins to cry; not because she’s afraid or unwilling, but because of the tumultuous nature of her consciousness. Both enchanted and disdainful of him, timid in her affairs and the lingering of his scent in her nose and closeness of his touch.

The tears come sopping down her cheeks when she screams out, in one last vociferous attempt to free herself from him. Her hands move to push against his face, pawing at it and shoving him away. Between grunts of frustration and anger Johnny pulls her towards him stridently, prising her hand away and biting at the other. Her yell is scornful when she jerks it away, and finally he takes the advantage of the clearance and forcefully closes the gap between them, their lips sealing in an ardent kiss potent in impassioned desire and earnest lust.

At first it’s apoplectic, acrimonious and powered by the incensed nature of each of their perspectives. A splenetic, rough and messy kiss imbedded with the bittersweet passion that resides in them. Then her expression lightens, her forceful nature dwindling as time pressed on. Her limbs go limp in his grasp, fingers stretching out in a strained state and she leans into his touch with an inkling for more. Where she is soft and tender, he is callous and brusque. Then it is reciprocated, quiet sobs breaking the seal between their lips when she cries. Those hot tears sear down her cheeks; she hates the way she loves it, despises the way it excites her, the way his words gift a fluttery feeling inside her. The way her head swirls with adulate emotions her actions follow suit, head feeling dizzy with those foreign feelings of pleasure and bliss, a resentful delightment. Even when the heat of her face and upset overpowers the touch of his palm over her cheek, she loves it. Or when he forcibly wipes the burning tears away with his thumb, his palm squishing the flesh of her cheek together as he does so.

There is an arcane sense about the ghost of his touch or the bitter cold of his kiss, not electrifying, not warm, it brings about a certain piercing sensation. After which her body feels numb and tingly, brumal from the ice that was his grasp. And all the while, the gelid feeling is peculiarly comforting. In an odd, backwards sort of way. His bitterness cooled her fire, and in many ways she would feel at peace after the initial bite of his touch. It would all fade into a stultifying, tingling feeling; one of pure peace and contentment, sangfroid.

Her heat melts into him, giving into the temptation and stumbling into him just slightly. Fingers still twitching in aggravation, they pry away to clasp at his shoulders, gripping onto them with such need and fervor. It is a violently passionate kiss, one that finely captures the line between adoration and the utter barbarity shared between them. Her eyes are scrunched shut painfully, and it isn’t until now that she relaxes. Her tense figure falling into his broad one like the gazelle the lion, the bunny the fox, or the lamb the slaughter.

He is vicious, cutthroat and relentless, each movement like a stab to the heart when he gnaws and bites and rubs at her raw lips. It makes it all the more delightful, that is until she reacts with that same intensity.

It isn’t lost on her how absolutely loathsome he is or how demented he might be, how everything that had led up to this moment was one combative argument over the next. But the way he looks after her and comes to her aide even without being asked to far overshadows the reality between them. It was then that in her eyes, he became the man she was so revered with, the one she trusted enough with her life, the one who’d truly take care of her. And still; she hates how perfect he really is.

Despite her endless mental battles or the back and fourth of her thoughts, and even the kill that had so nicely satiated the hunger for control she could no longer quell, it all comes rushing back in that instant. The terrorizing phenomenon of her looming thoughts and lost consciousness; she can no longer differentiate what she wants versus what she feels, and the daunting feeling drives her into a deeper panic. The need to kill regains traction, and she cannot deter whether she loathes or loves Johnny Sawyer.

Flustered and angry once more, Rebecca pulls away from him and with her newfound freedom levers her strength against him and pushes him back. Only Johnny has caged her into his arms, and now she freaks, thrashing her body against him and screaming, crying and sobbing miscellaneous threats and whines his way. Those tears burn her stained cheeks once more, and for a passing second the lightheaded feeling that overtakes her makes her feel as though she may faint. But it’s his soothing southern drawl and wintry touch that polarizes her. Now she stirs, succumbing to defeat when she tucks her face into his chest. There she sobs quietly, cupping her hands carefully around her face as her body wracks with the overwhelming urge in her. Johnny hushes quietly, his roughened touch grazing over the knots in her hair and patting over her trembling head. Her figure blurs into his, racking with the tumultuous thoughts that ill her head. She doesn’t have to say a thing; he knows. He proudly tells her it too, through the serene grin on his lips and the simple words from his lips. He knows he’s won, and it isn’t a question of if, now of when.

“Shhhhh, I know . . . I know.”

Her body shakes with vehemence, oscillating in his arms. Even when he cautiously rubs the small of her back, in hopes of calming her incessant cries and restless breathing there is no avail, no indication of even a thought behind those teary baby blues. But he knows, he knows too well.

“When’s ya’ daddy get home?”

“‘Bout another day or so, I reckon.”

“You go on ‘n get the inside fixed up, clean yer’ self up.” Her swollen red lip quivers and she feigns innocence, cradling herself into his big strong arms. Soft eyes glazing over in a wave of calm, she nods her head. “I’ll be gone a little while, stay inside ‘till I get back, you understand?”

Rebecca’s nod is lento and messy, her trembling arm reaching up to dance over the roughness of his cheek. She moves lethargically, pushing herself off of him as she maneuvers away.

Stammering back in a haze she sniffles quietly, nodding briefly before she turns to run up the steep hill and back to the front of the house. Her wary gaze quickly glancing behind to meet Johnny’s lingering stare. One shrouded in his perturbed features and stern leer.

Thick pools of crimson veil the wood floorboards of the house’s fanciful interior, plashes of it spattered along the ivory curtains that hang from the front door and alongside the white walls. The purity of it tarnished with the devil’s wrath, the home bathed in a thick and nasty smell of iron and bloodshed. Up the stairs and down the hall the scarlet bespatters the hand woven tundy rug that lines the grand hallway, and dowses the linen shower curtain that hangs pitifully by a thread. The hot water has long run cold, still spilling the remnants of blood that ooze from the severed anatomy in the tub down the drain in a tumultuous spinning cycle. There, in that dreadful bath, the once steamed mirrors are soused in the rich fluid, curating some abstract painting of the obscene and bizarre. The blood-slopped walls that intertwine with the water droplets that cling to the drywall the additions to such a mundane collection. She was never artful, and yet there was merit to that bathroom saturated in the viscous and gummy liquid that adorned those walls.

There is a looming consternation in her, one birthed from the disaster that had become the home and the inevitable disappointment her father might have felt for her; if he were to see such a gruesome scene. And yet, the staunch opposition of the luminous red against the stark white of the washroom was a peculiarly pleasant reminder of her achievement. There was some beauty to that grimey image, a stunning picture of the dreadful and tragic, the horror and fatale.

It is with a heavy head that she scrubs at the floor boards, bleaches the walls and rips the lace curtains from the door to drench them in the same liquid. Eyes wet and vision blurred, her hair matted in a tossled heap, her tremulous figure haunches over the steps of the stairs and the stretches over the sticky walls. Red goo staining the bucket of bleach and water. The bathroom, to which she debated savoring in, had proved most daunting. Yet the years of homemaking had done her well, and in no time it had been just as spotless as it had been before. The only remnant of the affair the bloodied wash bucket and stained gloves and sponges, and Matthew’s manhood dumped into that same murky bucket.

Cold water lathers into the nest that had become her hair and drizzles down the length of her body, gliding over the skin and washing away with it the dried blood and clumped pieces of scab that nestled into the fresh cuts. She sits against the porcelain floor of the tub, staring blankly at a tile wall that seems to distance itself further and further away from her. So far that she can’t seem to touch it, not even with the tips of her elongated fingers. As it moves further from her, her vision spins and her thoughts become loud. Before shutting her eyes and tilting her head to face the downpour of icey water. The feeling of ice pelting at her skin brings fourth the events of the evening, and she relives the moments of pleasure elicited from the look or torment and fear in Matthew’s eyes, in them Matthias, two boys who’d she’d come to despise with such fervor. Cathartic, euphoric, renascence, the rebirth of her own self. A more informed, liberated self not suffocated by the grip in which those boys grasped onto her. And yet, the pleasure of it all seemed to bludgeon a knot in her abdomen, a tingling sensation of bliss that called to her from regions below. A moan, then two, or three, and the revitalizing feelings of her intricate fingers drawing against herself in sporadic motions. All most as soon as it had began, the tension snapped and relief became her, a newfound sense of sexual repentance and divinity birthed straight from the act itself. Her fantasy was no longer that, it was a beautiful memory.

Clean hair neatly detangled and dripping wet spots onto the back of the tank top she now wore, she sits at the vanity mirror in her room, gracefully running the bristles of the silver brush through her tresses as she stares blankly into the mirror. Purplish bruises taint over the skin of her arms, indication of Matthew’s attempt to fight. The back of her head aches, and a tender bump finds it’s place there. The cause behind her lingering headache.

She slips into a pair of cotton shorts, only to find Matthew’s clothes sprawled out over the floor next to her bedside. One moment dazed, she’s now flustered, abhorrent at her inability to properly dispose of them. She decides, rather than burning them, utilizing their pieces as scrap fabric is much more useful. Yet, the desire to completely eliminate his presence there resides in her. It’s then, as she’s grasping the fabric of his trousers in her hands and prying at the thing that she glances toward the clock. 3:24 am.

One couldn’t help but wonder where that time had gone, how the events of the night surpassed that which she thought capable. The frustration looms, and the bitterness picks at her insides like vultures. She succumbs to the mental battle once again, handing over the defeat as the remnant tears cloud her vision and drip down into the fabric she held. Where was Johnny, how had he held up?

Vexation is an ugly thing, and yet as it consumes her and Becca becomes maddened by the terrors her shortcomings ail, she is all the more fascinating. As she hurriedly clasps together all the pieces of clothing — from his undergarments to his shoes, and frantically stumbles down the stairs shouting incoherent sobs. The swelling at her eyes and stinging of her cheeks are near numb, null in comparison to the dinging in her head and turbulent thoughts.

It always seemed as though Johnny had perfect timing, always stepping in at the right moments. This had been one of those times, when he turns the knob to that front door and steps inside just as she’s about to reach for the damned thing. He’s tall, seems so much bigger than she remembered him to be, more muscular, more dominant. There she stands doe eyed, tears trickling down her cheeks as she furrows her brows. She watches him with a saddened look, his critical countenance meeting her with an ominous look. He locks the deadbolt on the door, then the barrel bolt. The slinking of the metal click echoes in her ears and she feels like stone, petrified in her place. He’s dirty, muddied up and partly bloody.

“It’s done.” He’s stern. “He’s gone, you ain’t gotta worry bout him no more darlin’.”

Johnny steps forward, meeting her halfway.

“The clothes,” a whisper. “I need to burn the clothes. I have to.”

“No.”

“Okay.” She hushes.

“I’ll take ‘em. Head back upstairs.” Without another word he takes them from her.

It’s some unspoken thing, the way she feels at peace with his words, like she can believe anything he tells her. It brings her to ease, quells her anxieties and it’s as though anything she’d thought prior was only a faint memory. She hadn’t the need to question him, ask how or why, nor had she the desire. Only basqued in the comfort of knowing he’d maintain that control for her. It’s the comfortability he instills in her that introduces the thought, one in which falls from her lips in saccharine toxicity.

“Johnny?” It’s a quiet plea, her head turns back around and she ceases in her place down the foyer. Through a strained voice to calls for him, riddled with newfound joy, grief and love and struggling to juggle them all. “Stay.” She pauses. “Stay with me, stay the night, here, will you? Stay, just for tonight. I’d like you to stay with me. Daddy ain’t ‘round and I, I don’t wanna be alone.”

It’s that same unspoken thing, something neither of them would have been able to foresee. A certain degree of knowing and acceptance, a mutual understanding, a bond forged in the pits of hell.

“Please, do it for me?” Johnny watches her with eyes of cynicism, as though he were trying to figure her out. He watches as her wet eyes glazed in her own despair look to him through coagulated lashes, luring him in with a pretty face. He steps toward her, moves his hand to fiddle with her hair, twirling the wet tresses in his fingers and brushing through it. Then he looks to her again, eyes narrowing with a mean look, one she’d come to know as pleasant.

“I’ll be up shortly, lemme get cleaned up first, doll.”

Some time passes before he walks into her bedroom, drawing her from her thoughts as her gaze moves from the wall to the doorway. He’s wet with the drippings from his shower. Droplets of water adorning his bare skin, dressed only in his bath towel and his hair wet and messy. He steps in, shutting the door behind him before he moves to sit atop the same bed she lay on. His gaze instantaneously meets her own, watching in thought, as though he were trying to read her own.

“How did it feel?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you killed ‘em, how’d that make ya feel?”

“I,” she heaves, “I liked it.”

“No shit,” his hand grazes over her cheek, sliding the wet strands of hair behind her ear. “I know you like it girl, been knowed you’d like it. I wanna to hear you tell me how it made you feel.”

There’s a drawn out pause in her speech. Perhaps she’s in thought, or the rugged pads of his fingertips has her leaning into him a little too much, or both. But she’s bewitched by him, entranced.

“I ‘spose it felt, like it was natural or summin’, felt, good, like I’d finally let my those urges run wild,” she speaks earnestly. “You was right ya know? Bout me bein’ a control freak, and I, him, killing him, it gave me that.” She smiles faintly, watching as he chuckles softly, shaking the bed beneath them.

“Would you do it again?” He already knows the answer to that, and Becca knows it too. He just wants to hear her say it, but she obliges his little game.

“I hated it when he got away Johnny boy, thought I’d be caught. That feeling, like a bug in ya’ drawers, it gits under my skin and I can’t take it. I just can’t do it.” She’s flustered again, upset. “Makes me mad that I couldn’t do it the way I wanted, the perfect way. But I, well, you know dear, there’s always something, the feeling doesn’t last forever. I need, I think, well, the more I think bout it all the more I’d feel like doin’ it all over again. I love that feelin’, what you call it, the power, the control over ‘em, but I hate that he got away. I can’t, thought I had everything all figured out.”

Be it the tenderness in her eyes that softened her hardened exterior or the inkling of disappointment in her voice and features when she speaks of her fears, Johnny is attentive to her expression, drawing out a prolonged sigh from his lips before he punctuates with a quiet chuckle. Muffled beneath his heavy breaths.

He appears to be some sort of sentient being, a deity, a god. The way his wet hair falls about his face and clings to the skin of his neck, the way his fingers tear into those same locks and hem they prop his head up with his elbow against the bedsheets. His eyes so solemn and resolute, quiet, intense. In all her readings, the antichrist was meant to be beautiful, like Johnny had been. A breathtaking man with undeniable charm, whose existence and evilness would bring about the end of the world. Sometimes, she felt that way about him.

But through it all there’s been something about him, and she’s convinced in the way he so daringly comes to her aide or soothes her thoughts, in his own little way, that he’s anything but demonic.

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathes out, smiling gently. “I was hopin’ you’d say summin’ like that, might of had to get rid of ya’ otherwise.” The hand that had been so tantalizingly pressed against her features grasps at her chin, pulling her face closer to his. “You’s perfect. Don’t you worry bout what’s been done with, you got a real . . . . skill. The rest, that’ll come with time, believe me.” His voice quiets.

She knows he hates repeating himself, knows it’s best to leave it at that. But her temptation as a woman rooted in her emotions gets the best of her and she just has to press on, her face inching closer as she does so, drawn in by his pleasantries.

“Tell me,” her eyes are wide with curiosity, maybe worry. “You think I could do it the way you do? Think I’d get to bein’ that good? I can’t slip up like that again you heard me boy? I can’t, I want, I want them to fear me, I want that control.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Johnny questions. “See it ain’t about what’s accordin’ to that there plan you got, it’s ‘bout the thrill of the hunt. Let ‘em have that hope, think they got a chance at livin’, let ‘em be scared, just long enough for you to take it all away from ‘em. You go ‘round plannin’ it all there ain’t nothin’ exicitin’ bout it. I like it when they run, makes it interestin’. There’s summin’ real satisfyin’ bout workin’ for the kill, makes it that much better when you cut into ‘em.”

Contemplation and confusion, then a steady realization made evident by the lift in her features. His words heavy on her mind, it is the intense emotion that comes over her at the notion of it all. Let them have hope, then take it all away.

“See, I knew that there kill of your’s wasn’t gonna be gettin’ too far, you did far too much damage to let ‘em run. These people, victims, they act stupid when they panic. Ain’t very smart, the power of fear works in your favor. That’s summin’ you ain’t come ‘round to understandin’ just yet. You gotta put the surroundings you got to good use. Ain’t expect anyone to be that good on their first time, but you, I told you you’s like me, got a real knack for this thing.”

Sapphires glossed in infatuation, a limerence so far gone that her own father could not draw her from it. She stares in awe, his words of affirmation more than enough to quell the scarcity that runs rampant in her deranged, pretty little head. What once is uncertainty, paranoia and self doubt is now contentment, relaxation and confidence. Thick wet lashes bat against the ocean in her eyes, flickering up to the tarry abyss that was his ominous gaze. She is bewitched, comforted, entranced by the masculine presence he provided.

“In fact,” the back of his roughed up hands graze her cheek, intertwining themselves into the strands of her damp hair and clutching at the back of her head. His thumb prods miscellaneous patterns into her scalp, an uncharacteristically gentle gesture that has her head spinning. “I reckon you start comin’ along with me, I’d like to show you a few things, think you’d get some real use outta it. I wanna see just what kinda stuff yer made of miss Rebecca Payne.” His smile is taunting, like the grinning leer of a demon laughing in God’s face. “Hell, maybe you and I’d make a better pair than you initially thought. Might even work better together, huh?”

Those pristine eyes narrow to look to him through fanned lashes, as if to make out what his true intentions were. But again, it becomes easier and easier to believe him. There’s no ulterior motive, he’s telling the truth. And the delight that was his presence only furthered that fluttery feeling within her. She’s made up her mind.

“Sounds mighty fine to me Johnny boy. Teach me everythin’ you know.” She’s teasing him, the way she leans in and weaves back, tilting her face up and drawing out her words in an exaggerated manner. “I should thank you, reckon there’s anyway I can repay you for tonight?” A delicate hand lands perfectly over his bare shoulder, Dainty fingertips soft like velvet and a featherlight touch that glides over the scars of his skin.

“Don’t disappoint me.” It’s blunt, his smile sort of faltering. “Show me I’m right ‘bout you.”

Her stare tender hearted, eyes lost in the callous look that was his own. She can only nod, her inhibitions incessant on abiding to his wishes, proving herself to him. And still, the grievances arisen from their past bury themselves further within the back of her mind. Slowly to become a distant memory. Her acknowledgement is signified in the sweet kiss she places upon his cheek. A gesture that is met with an intense and fervent stare, that with the hand that palms her cheek.

“Johnny boy?” There’s that angelic tone once more, beckoning him like a siren a sailor. “Hold me, would you?” He’s not the affectionate type, though the way in which she nestles the soft skin of her cheeks and the gentle touch of her Pam over his chest would only convince him to clasp his arms around her. Ensnaring her in a cage of flesh and bone, as he stares into the blank, white paneled walls of her bedroom. The night would soon pass.

The days that followed were a stark contrast to the slower ones that had prevailed prior, filled with father’s return and the herding of cattle, and Johnny’s looming presence on their property. Given the added workload the arrival of cattle had on Raymond it was no surprise that Johnny had hung around more to aide him, and it wasn’t lost on Raymond that the relationship between Rebecca and Johnny had taken an unprecedented turn, one disturbingly idyllic and peaceful, a direct counterpart to Rebecca’s less than ideal attitude towards the boy prior. All most as though it were an entirely different thing all together.

Though there were many things that took Raymond by surprise, from the moment he’d returned to that farmstead. From his daughter’s eerily steadfast smile to her seeming detachment from him. He’d partially worried something drastic had happened during those few days he was gone, something that changed her for worse. Yet again he’d chosen to be blissfully ignorant, as her attitude seemed to improve, and for the first time in a very long time she seemed content, happy. He supposed that in regards to her mood he should have been glad for her, proud even, for she’d finally managed to let free the events of the past and come to terms with the move, but deep down the lord knew he couldn’t help but feel something was so dreadfully wrong.

The way she smiled and laughed with such a free spirit when it came to that boy, or how her touch lingered just a tad too long for comfort. Hell, even the way in which she brought him cold sweet tea or a bottle of beer while they worked out in the fall sun, marking cattle and getting them all settled into their fields. It reminded him vaguely how she treated him, and it hadn’t dawned on him till then that her demeanor had entirely evolved. She hadn’t been nearly as doting as she was before, and he thought maybe he’d consider it a good thing.

It wasn’t until he’d taken notice to the murky bucket of water that sat up against the back wall of the garage, slumped into the corner behind the door that he’d truly become skeptical. He’d examined it more closely, until he saw the sight of maggots and signs of decay, floating about the reddish brown suds, he’d felt sick. A cultivation of anger and fear arose within him, and for but a moment he marched into the house with the bucket in tow, about to confront the girl on his findings. He was sure it must’ve been there some time, judging by the putrid smell. Only, when he’d seen her there, smiling peacefully as she dried the dishes she’d just cleaned and putting them up in the cupboards he felt a pang of guilt, one that quelled that anger so quick he could only turn away in shame. Must’ve been a wild animal of some sort, he was sure of it, and he’d dispose of it himself only to ask about it at a later time. He couldn’t bare the weight of trashing that illusion of hers, whatever it might’ve been.

That same evening, there’d been a knock at the door. One Raymond met with a somewhat annoyed look, only to smile once he’d seen it was Johnny Sawyer. He stood there, wearing a days worth of work and holding a six pack of beer. A good looking grin spread over his features as always, nodding to him in his typical manner. A sign of respect, mutual trust.

“Evenin’ Johnny, what can I do for ya’?”

“Evenin’ sir, brought summin’ for ya’. But I’d be lyin’ if I said I ain’t came here lookin’ to ask you summin’.”

“Right,” he can’t help but chuckle, looking down to the workbooks on his feet before he looks back to Johnny. “Well don’t be a stranger, come on in.”

The smell of metal has long faded and is replaced with the scent of soft vanilla candles and a smokey fireplace. Johnny can’t tell if Becca is home or not, but judging by her absence he can tell she isn’t in the house. Maybe in the fields, he couldn’t tell. Either way, his attention is diverted to her father whilst they sit at the kitchen table, the same table they’d first met at. Ironically they sit in their very same places, and he makes it a point to place the pack of beers on the table.

“Now I’m awfully appreciative of yer help round here boy, I ain’t got much but I owe you son. But uh, I just seent you yesterday, why the sudden formality eh?”

“It ain’t no problem, I ain’t mind helpin’ y’all out. Don’t owe me a thing.” Johnny’s eyes are on him, a charismatic smile over his features as he reaches for the cans over the table. “I’m a man of respect, sir.” He nods, freeing a bottle from its cardboard trap and waving it towards him. “Care for a beer?”

“I reckon one won’t hurt,” Raymond smiles, taking the bottle from him and popping it open against the table. “Don’t go tellin’ that there girl of yours though, she’d kill me if she found out.”

“Yeah,” Johnny chuckles. “‘Bout her, Rebecca,” he hums her name against his lips, taking his own beer bottle and opening it against the lip of the table. He takes a swig, popping the bottom down against the wood table and gulping it down. He clears his throat then, nodding towards Raymond. “I uh.”

“Y’all gotten along real close ain’t cha’?” Raymond asks between drinking from his own bottle. “She wasn’t real fond of ya’ all that long ago, not sure why, fill me in on that, will ya’?”

“Well she’s a firecracker, I’ll tell ya’ that much. But, I think she just came ‘round to me, ain’t much to it. No hard feelin’s, knew I was gonna have to prove myself to ‘er the second we met.”

“Yeah, well,” he takes another swig of his beer. “I’d say she’s more than came ‘round to ya’ son.”

“Yeah well, I’d been wantin’ to ask for yer permission, takin’ her out on another date.”

Raymond holds back his laughter, chortling behind his clasped hands.

“Lemme tell you summin’ boy, s’long as you get ‘er to say yes it’s all swell with me. I like you, you’s a fine young man. Ain’t no quarrels with me. Don’t make me regret that or it’ll be my shotgun to your head, ya heard?”

“Why thank you sir, ‘ppreciate that. I won’t let yer blessin’ go to waste.”

“Well now, at the end of the day it’s up to Becca. That girl, she ain’t all that easy to win over. But I’d say she’s takin’ a likin’ to you, better keep it that way.”

“Right,” Johnny nods. “Where she off at?”

“Store,” Raymond shrugs, “summin’ ‘bout needin’ flour, think she bakin’ summin’. How’s the family been? Ain’t seen the old man in some time, only met yer mother that once.”

“Oh they doin’ just fine,” Johnny somewhat chuckles. “Drayton, he always ramblin’ on ‘bout how I’m over here too much, thinks I’m botherin’ y’all’s. But he asks ‘bout ya an awful lot, think he likes havin’ some company ‘round here. Momma, she doin’ fine too. Lil’ skeptical of Becca but she’s always like that. She’ll come round. Reckon we aughtta get together again.”

“I’d say, maybe we can get those brothers of yer’s over? Remember summin’ bout there bein’ others. Reckon it’s time everybody gets acquainted with each other.”

“Right, yeah,” he’s hesitant, as though he’s hiding something yet his calm gaze makes it seem otherwise. “Rest of my kin don’t get out much, they real quiet folk. But I’m sure we can figure summin’ out.”

“Daddy, I’m home!” Both their gazes avert towards the foyer, the echoing sound of the door closing ringing in the hall where Rebecca steps into view, a brown paper bag of groceries nestled against her hip. She comes in, placing carefully the bag on the kitchen counter before moving to plant a kiss over Raymond’s cheek. “Here’s the change,” she reaches into her pocket to plant a few coins onto the table. Her mien is gracious yet admittedly neutral. Even when her eyes lock with Johnny’s and she raises her brow ever so slightly. “Johnny boy,” she nods her head. “Y’all workin’ out in the fields? I’d of stayed if I knew. Needed some things to help with supper, though.” She says so matter of factly, hands atop her hips as she stares over the two of them. Her eyes sort of gloss over Raymond, who sits there with his gaze fixated on that newfound gleam in her eye.

“Don’t you think you aughtta invite our guest to dinner?”

Becca only sends him a questioning countenance, looking to Johnny with a perturbed face. It’s only then that she takes notice to the pack of beer sat on the dining table, that and the bottle in each his and her father’s hands. Disappointment riddles her features and her brows furrow down in upset, she wastes no time in stepping toward them.

“Johnny,” she sighs. “Figured you’d invite ya’ self, like to have supper with daddy ‘n I?” Her tone is more disdainful than anything, patronizingly childlike. She still couldn’t let him on that easy, and she’d more than shown him her weakest sides.

“And daddy,” she sighs, “what’s all this then?” She picks up his bottle, holding it up. “You know you ain’t s’post to be drinkin’, it’ll kill ya’ if you make it a habit you know that?”

“Darlin’ ain’t no use in gettin’ between a man and his beer,” it’s that instant Johnny rises from his seat, circling round the table to place a firm palm on Rebecca’s shoulder and his other against Raymond’s chair, splitting them from one another. “One ain’t gon’ hurt ‘em, let the man rest for god’s sake.” It doesn’t take much to pry the bottle from her hands, with her wildly irate stare and faltering grip. “Now let yer’ old man and I catch up while you cook up summin’, we’ll be sat here if you need us.”

Silence can be blissful, except when it is filled with the rising tension of a blistering temper. Her disbelief at his utter disrespect and lack of regard is evident in the way which she stands there, glaring to him with an ugly look of vehemence and anger. Strange, the way she feels an overwhelming sense of loathing for him, yet, she stands there with her thumb in her mouth bewildered with forced acceptance and utter awe. A sort of odd concoction of love, hate and a murder most foul.

It’s foreign to her the way she can find both comfort and peace in one man but also aggravating hatred. The way the past had yet to be settled despite their mutual understanding. Perhaps her turbulent personality was the culprit, her unwillingness to compromise unless in the face of someone she respected and her stubborn head. Even her natural confrontational nature could have been behind it, yet there was no confrontation here, only acceptance. Yet she no longer wished to lob that head of his off the broad shoulders which they sat between, nor did she wish to make him suffer an insurmountable amount of pain at her hand. Rather, she’d like his approval, his understanding, his acceptance. And it only fueled her rage and the insatiable love for bloodlust that took refuge within.

So she steps away without another word, only shared glances to which she looks with a hellish expression. Going about her business in the kitchen where she’d began to prep the days meal. The distinct chatter of both Johnny and her father are in short earshot, and she makes it a point to punctuate her own seething anger with the chop of her cutting knife against the carrots. It was a stupid little thing she did, carrying about her activities in a manner that was obnoxiously loud, to make her upset known.

Just like her mother used to do.

Just like her mother.

How pitiful.

Then it was as though nothing had happened at all, as though she’d been nothing short of gracious all the while.

—

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭! - 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

@yixxes @bdudette @nerdykat101 @kaymarnun

39 notes · View notes