#vilmer sawyer x reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

melodrama-ticcc · 6 months

Text

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞

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. ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵘʳᵈᵉʳ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ.

—

When Rebecca was only eight years old her mother sat her down, struck her across the face and handed her a brand new doll; her only instruction being to ‘sit down, shut up and stay out of my sight.’ With the stinging red imprint of a hand across her cheek and tears welled in her eyes she watched as her mother flounced down the hall to rejoin her estranged lover. Only for the discordant slam of the bedroom door to echo through the home and into the child’s ears, leaving her sat with the doll still in its box planted in her lap.

It’s hair is blonde like her own, eyes a pretty blue too. The paint virgin and pristine; it’s done up in vibrant and glamorous makeup. Adorned in a cute little gingham dress and a matching bow. It’s curious how her eyes light up in awe and her lips form an innocent smile. Heart-wrenching surely, how she hugs tight the box in her arms and clutches the package against her small frame as though it were the only thing that would ever evoke such a pure, sweet smile.

The warm tears that once gathered at the cusp of her lashes drip down her cheeks when she squints shut her eyes. She cuddles the box as though it were a plush, nuzzling her head against its top as she sought the comfort such a foreign thing brought to her.

When her sadness had been quelled and the happiness the doll instilled in her took over, she pulled away from the box to examine the toy in its entirety. A delighted giggle befalls her smile as she excitedly begins her attempts to open the thing. Her small, fragile fingers prying open the plastic wrapped cardboard to gain access to her precious new doll. The toughness of the packaging tears at her delicate skin and she gasps, pulling away her hand as she inspects it closely. When she determines there is nothing to fret over she contently hops to her feet, eagerly making her way to the kitchen to fetch a blade.

However like all children must learn, it isn’t safe to play with sharp objects.

In her guileless little brain the idea seemed harmless enough. Use something sharp to cut open that which she couldn’t. Just like she’d seen daddy do with the pocket knife all those times splitting hay bales out in the fields. She mimics that act. Sliding the sharp edge of the knife beneath the plastic tape that lines the box, the girl steadies her grip atop the thing and pulls upwards, cutting through the damned tape but also into the tip of her finger. With a shrill cry she drops both the knife and the doll, staring wide-eyed at the blood that oozes from the sliced fingertip.

She cries because it hurts, the pain much more than a little one that age can bare. Frightened and scared, she scurries down the hall to the closed door of her mother’s quarters. Tears spill down her stained cheeks and her face turns bright red, mouth whirring as she desperately attempts to keep it shut. That is, to avoid a corporeal scolding from her mother. Muffled sobs and whines of affliction dance off the walls and back into her ears. She wails for her mother, her father, for help, for anyone, as the blood drips to the wood floors to paint it crimson.

It seems that when the air becomes deadly still and her helpless hyperventilations cease, for but a moment, she can distinguish the lewd moans that come from beyond that door. The vulgarity of it all is innocuous in a little girl’s mind, and despite her mother’s wishes the severity of the matter seemed more prevalent than what she could not understand. So, she reaches for the doorknob. Contemplating the possibility of a second beating, her hurt gets the best of her and she decidedly rotates the knob. It seems to turn in slow motion, her stifled whimpers and convulsing breaths quieting in the suspenseful act. Suddenly fear far outweighs the perceived pain, and just as she becomes regretful of her decision the door swings open to reveal what she can only assume is her mother beneath a man in her father’s place.

She doesn’t move, only stands there sniveling. Holding out the gushing finger as she cries out for her mother. Through the smutty sounds of voyeuristic phrases and libidinous mewls she struggles to grasp the attention of her lecherous mother. Shaking, she toils to stop the bleeding that continues to pour from her wounded fingertip. But the longer she stands there, weeping, the more the pain dissipates and the reality of what surrounds her comes crashing down. Her mother doesn’t so much as glance at her; she doesn’t care. She’d much rather get all fucked out than pay attention to her poor little girl. That epiphany hurts most of all, so she cries harder, legs going limp as she collapses to the floor in a panic-stricken heap. She screams something ugly, snot spurting out her tiny nose and hot-tears searing her burning red cheeks. Her long lashes coagulate together as she winces her eyes shut, head bobbing up in the air as she transmutes to incoherence.

The vigorous resound of the wooden bed frame creaking too and fro gradually becomes much more potent, it being the only thing that fills her senses and clouds her mind. She might be young but she knows the man shouldn’t be there, that he was a man in her father’s place. That only makes matters worse, and the surrealism of it all makes it something she won’t soon forget. When she opens her eyes and the wet dissolves from her vision she’s left to stare at the face of the man who elicits such lustrous sounds from her mother. Only it isn’t that same man she’d come to know as Matthias, and the face that turns its head to look back at her is a face much more recently familiar than she would have liked.

There was no mistaking those cataclysmic eyes or that long slick hair. They look to her with with a direful motive, those dark strands of inky locks falling forward and into his face as he prods into her mother with a divine purpose. With each thrust of his hips he grunts, her mother sings and the bed croaks. Her morose screams become silent in the wake of such unchaste moments. Eyes wide in fear at who looks back at her. That defined scar that draws itself over his left eye and down his cheek is a defining feature, and when he looks back to her that shit-eating smirk sends her over the brink of sanity. Johnny’s strong, scar-littered arms prop himself up, his muscular back arching over that who he makes love to. Scratches and bruises cover his back, scars of past histories evident in the dim light. His focus goes back to the woman beneath him, only it isn’t her mother as it had once been.

Those blonde ringlets are irrefutable, messily folded about the pillowcase as her head throws back in blatant pleasure. Her back is arched into the cotton sheets and face contorted in a congenial display of affections. As the woman gasps, her brows screw up and those sapphire eyes flash open to reveal the cutthroat face of what she can only perceive as herself.

Her eyes open and her body shoots up from where it slumbers, eyes wide and face washed pale as though she’d just seen a ghost. Rebecca clutches at her chest, hair astray as she breathes heavily. The faint sound of mockingbirds chirping a sweet song can be heard from just outside the window, and as the sun rises it’s rays peak through the small opening in the curtains. When the realization becomes her and it is known to be nothing more than a dream, she settles. Her body relaxes from its tense state and eases back into the plush of the pillows.

She hadn’t thought about that memory in some time, what kind of mother does such a trashy thing? She could never wrap her head around it, not even now. She’d never understand why some tramp was more important than the relationship with her husband or caring for her child. That was the day Becca realized her mother didn’t actually care about her, that she was nothing but a nuisance to the woman. Of course, she’d chose to block that from her memory, her stubbornness making the denial much more difficult to get through. After years of convincing herself it was the opposite, she made herself delusional with whatever she wanted to believe; that her mother was a saint that tended to her every need. Deep down though, she knew that woman was a no good slut.

The scene disquiets her. The cursed image of Johnny hovering over her nude body in such an explicit act both terrifies and invigorates her. Her intellect tells her she should be disgusted or repulsed, petrified by the thought of him ravaging her in such an crass way. But the arousal that burgeons in the pit of her stomach tells her otherwise, as does the racing beat of her heart. She is both alarmed and enticed, so she finds it in her best interest to bury the memory deep within her.

Something about him is so undeniably haunting. Attractive and well-proportioned, his imposing appearance is one intertwined with both strength and mystery. With an uncanny eeriness about him, his enigmatic nature is imbedded within those gloaming eyes. Thick and dark lashes swathe those hooded tenebrous orbs. His veneer is effortlessly beautiful, a strong jaw enough to make any woman feel weak in the knees. His staunch determination is evident in those fervid brows and the way they taper downward to demonstrate his intense personality. His rugged, brawny body is lean and agile, and those scars only further antagonize his austere persona.

Screw Johnny Sawyer and his stupid good looks.

In a flustered plight she tosses the duvet and white linens off of herself, swinging out of bed as she marches toward the window and flings open the drapes. The early morning sunshine flares in through the far off skyline, a sheen of golden luminosity gleaming into her sparkly ultramarine lenses. The bright blue glimmers in the light of that rising sun, a stark contrast to her glum state.

And that was just it, she was in fact glum. Gloomy and distressed, confused, and most especially flustered.

It had been a few days since Rebecca had last seen any trace of Johnny, not since he’d dropped her off on the front steps of her porch and proclaimed how wild she drove him. The juncture replays itself in her head like a film reel, over and over again, without clemency. Sending a disgustingly violent shiver through her body. She hasn’t been able to rid herself of the thought of his tantalizing words, full of such throbbing tension and tease. Leaving her wanting more from him. His words stuck like glue and so prevalently made themselves known at the forefront of her mind, tickling at her thoughts more frequently than she’d liked. They were filled with such promise, genuine affection that made her feel as though she were the only girl in the world, the only one worthy of his keen eye. But while her instincts tell her no, that it was exactly what he wanted and she was falling for his trap, she knew all too well the truth riddled in his eyes. She could read him like an open book the same way he did her. He couldn’t manipulate a manipulator. Even Johnny knew that. So, tormented by the prospect of his flagrant demonstration of admiration, the few days staggeringly becomes a week, and a week two, with not so much as a glance of him.

Had she done something wrong, scared him off in some way?

No, that was stupid. She couldn’t give two shits about that. She still hated him.

But then, why hadn’t he returned to pester her? Like he always did before. Or inquire about the aftermath of their night out?

Since that supposed date there was nothing but static, not even the slightest inclination of Johnny’s seething presence. It was through his absence that Rebecca discovered the unfathomable; a pressing and unrelenting urgency to see him once more. Unsurprisingly it had vexed her that he’d been such a gentleman on their night out, only to carelessly remove himself from her to conclude. She’d expected this, in fact, that wasn’t the part that bothered her the most. It only strengthened her simmering animosity.

For the time they were apart the Johnny dilemma was the only thing that bedeviled her thoughts. At first she thought this was another one of his antics, a method of getting her all bent out of shape and riled up. She thought he was aiming to get her to act out as per his usual, even thought it might of been a way of getting her to fall for him. Then her thoughts became more visceral. She was scared that she’d frightened him off or off-put him in some way. That lingering paranoia often became too much for her, and she would overthink and complicate every possible reason and outcome. Was he trying to get her to come back to him herself? Trying to get her to lash out? Was he finished with her then? Leaving her alone? Was he angry or upset with her? Did she say something she shouldn’t have? Maybe he was just no longer interested in her, no, that meant she’d done something to deter him. But she didn’t care about that, that was moronic, she didn’t like him she loathed him. But ultimately; it only angered her worse. And she’d continue to bounce between a recalcitrant rage and a profound panic.

When she couldn’t control her thoughts she couldn’t control her actions, and by that extent the things that surrounded her. Maybe this was his plan all along, to tear down her peace of mind and solitude. The sporadic nature of her pathos made her a catastrophic walking disaster. And with the fading feeling of her own grip she went mad, freaking out about the littlest of things and still unwavering of her solicitude for Johnny and the notions his actions implicated. It was those thoughts that drove her into a state of desperation and lunacy, and he had been the cause of those thoughts. So with the fervent emotions that coarse through her there is an abundance of wrath that come with it.

It radiates off of her in laden waves, the unbearable sensation felt from a great distance. Hot and heavy feelings of feral anger and turbulent resentment. The delinquency of her unbridled rage surpasses that of anything she’s ever felt before. She even thinks she might despise him more than she does her mother and her tool of a paramour. She is foreign to the complicated emotions he evokes from her. Perpetually bouncing from that long-standing narrative of vehement loathing to the newly acquired perfervid adulation. Rebecca is no longer in charge of her own affairs and it only worsens her feelings of antipathy. The fleeting phenomenon of the jurisdiction over her own inclinations is enough to drive her past the point of no return. It is an itch that needs scratching, an infestation of her peace and solitude. There it is, that lost sense of control. And the unrelenting tremors that come with it.

Why must she feel such a way? Where she can no longer differentiate between the need to kill him and the desire to fall victim to his pretty charms. Like magnets the instincts push and pull with their negative and positive charges. Never quite meeting in the middle, never going where she wants them to go. That missing sense of stable ground would eat at her incessantly, and at the same time his calming demeanor quells the acute aggravation in her head.

But more than anything she is acrimonious of this newfound impasse. Inimical over the verity that he had forsaken her with and the catalyzed influx of emotions she felt. Her vitriol is festering and rearing it’s all time high. Episodes of mania become much more frequent even without his presence, and all so slowly, painstakingly laggardly, she can feel herself loosing her way. She’s sure it’s all his fault. Convinced he is the reason the intermittent flukes of both flagrant belligerence and vacillating reverence are driving her battier. Determined that he was causation for all her demented emotions and loss of self maintenance.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She cannot bare to face the convoluted reality of her inner turmoil or the blossoming feelings that had been birthed within her. Acknowledging them meant acknowledging her lost footing and forfeiting her control, and she couldn’t fathom the possibility. To snuff the ephemeral stewardship she busies herself with the housework, remaining cooped up in the farmhouse in hopes of brainwashing herself of Johnny and his charismatic persona while her father worked diligently out in the fields prepping to take in cattle.

When her mind wasn’t preoccupied with the daily chores she bestowed upon herself, she was huddled into a pulsating ball. Slender fingers intertwined into her silky hair as she grasped and pulled and writhed. Her eyes would strain wide and her arms would ensnare her throbbing head. Silent tears would drip down her face as she babbled disjointed nothings and ballads of nonsense in a desperate attempt to quiet her looming fear. It wavered and teased above her head, and nothing, not even her perfect little life would shake the lingering feeling of overwhelming emotion. She’d sit there for hours, shaking profusely until the feeling became numb enough for her to carry on with her activities. It would happen once a day, then twice, and then more than she could bare to count. A gradual progression of lost conviction. The more frequently they prevailed, the more control she immolated. Until she wavered on the brink of there being nothing left to give.

Her world was tumbling down around her, like a castle crumbling down upon itself. The perfect little picture she worked so diligently to create was faltering upon a faulty foundation, breaking apart all at once. She felt as though she was falling down a never-ending hole in which she constantly feared the landing, only it never came, so the feeling of distress became worse and worse with each passing moment.

Perhaps Rebecca had never been bewitched by such unwarranted emotions. The subject foreign and the feeling most uncomfortable. Sure, her unfamiliarity with the phenomena certainly made her feel a little queasy. But the presumption it carried was the real perpetrator.

Emotions, what a pernicious affair.

She’d never expected the thing that arrested her control to be something so petty and frivolous. Ah, but then again, hadn’t her anger ceased it several times before?

No. That was Johnny’s doing. Just like this was.

Somewhere in there the hunger for malignancy and sanguinity grew ten fold, a barbaric surrogate to what she was losing. Only her urge for bloodshed was no longer solely pinned on Johnny, in fact she craved more to kill those who were strangers to her. Those who were unaware of her lack of civility, those she hadn’t cared to garner the approval of, those she didn’t need to impress. Strangers who were disposable to her, whom she didn’t care about. Strangers who were men that inflicted damage like Johnny and Matthias did. Men who preyed on pretty girls and thought so highly of themselves. Men who only wanted to have sex and dump girls on the street the very next day. There she’d find the control she sought, over their mutilated and lifeless body as she stood over them drenched in their blood. That, and the ecstasy the brutal act would elicit from her core. Rebecca was so keen on the idea; she was sure it would grant that thing she craved so much.

Ever since the night she’d seen Sisters at the drive in, something had awakened in her. Call it a new found inspiration, but the vividly dark and murderous beauty in witnessing another woman kill men for her own gratification and vengeance had sparked something within. It was no longer just a thought, it was something Becca saw herself doing. It blurred the lines between what was reality and fiction.

She had dreams of it, wild fantasies where she’d hack up the bodies of unsuspecting young men. Liquidating them while they were still young. Let them think they were getting what they wanted and just as they’d take their pants off she’d take the axe to their torso. Bloodthirsty and homicidal imagery that made her legs feel weak and her insides tingly. But of course it was only an idea.

However Rebecca couldn’t do away with that idea. The desirable idea of killing men who didn’t matter to her, one’s the world would be much better off without. She could confiscate the control they had over her and wield it as her own, and when she killed one she would go on and find another. Fulfilling her innermost covets and regaining the very thing she felt she’d lost. She’d lost it one way and would supplement it with another.

He was there sometimes too, watching from the outskirts and offering his nonverbal approval in the form of the slight nod of his head. His brawny arms crossed over his chest.

It was just a silly dream.

Through and through, she was certain he was at fault for it all. Her deprecation simmered in the days spent tormented by her own addlepated mind. Simultaneously juggling the creeping emergence of her newfound infatuation. It would continue to pester her that he was nowhere to be seen, and that he had so casually and selfishly treated her so perfectly and then left her all alone. It was respectful in some ways, he must’ve considered the fact that she’d never really been akin to him before. But that never stopped him before, and it seemed to be in line with this game of his. She was convinced this was his way of getting her to crawl to him in a pathetic state of desperation, begging for him at his feet. She wouldn’t cave and go see him, but she was going to be sure to chew his ass out when he came up again. But in his truancy, those passions only swelled in her, stirring up something beyond anyone’s grasp.

The day Rebecca was sure she’d go out and sever someone’s head, the worst day of those two weeks, she had chosen to pamper herself through miscellaneous matters in an attempt to keep herself distracted from her ails. Between bouts of insufferable rage and trifling mental afflictions, she would carefully apply her expensive creams, do up her hair in the fancy curlers she loved so much and prepare to lacquer her nails in a fine red color. It was a tumultuous affair that juxtaposed between the picturesque illustration she wished to present and the tenuous mental state within. Between each episode she’d carefully neat her messed hair and dab at her wetted eyes. It hadn’t mattered though; her appearance perfectly emulated the despaired state within her. A distressing image of sickness and the unwell.

She would tread between an entirely maddened mess to a woman struggling to keep herself together, but desperately trying to. Her fiery eyes blown out wide and frantic, sullen with the purplish blue her exhaustion caused beneath them. Her cheeks are sunken, devoid of the rose tincture they typically donned. And despite her best efforts to maintain that faultless appearance it was futile, for that day, nothing could begin to cease the teeter totter that took refuge in that turbulent brain of hers. It was eventually settled upon; she needed to kill someone just alike him, less he wise up and come to. But that, that would be the only thing that kept her from becoming a shell of a girl with no purpose to life.

She instead finds herself surfing through the seven television channels their meddled reception provided them, in order to distance herself from the cage she was entrapped in. She settles on a familiar channel that played old black and white movies, reruns of those shown in cinemas years ago. The same channel she and her father would entertain from time to time. Doing her best to rest and calm her tempestuous thoughts she eases into the cushions on the sofa in the homestead’s living space, shaking up the rattling bottle of scarlet nail lacquer before twisting open it’s top.

A suspenseful, quick paced orchestra plays over a black screen, that which follows a series of opening credits transitioned through the retro slideshow that blended the stark white lettering against the streaks of gray and the blackness of the foreground. Ah, she’s tuned in just at the very start.

ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S

PSYCHO

Surprise is evident in her expression, the revelation dawning on her that this had been the exact film Johnny had recommended to her two weeks prior, the same one advertised on that movie poster. Confounded, she pauses, contemplating whether or not to switch the channel to the local news or continue on with the show. She resented the fact that he’d been the one that recommended it to her, but at the same time it piqued her interest for that very same reason.

Inevitably she decides to press on with the film, eyes transitioning back and fourth from the on screen story to her half painted toe nails that were placed gently against a throw pillow that sat atop the cushions. Her body is hunched over on the sofa, her knees tucked up against her chest as she hangs over them, hovering over to paint those neatly trimmed nails. She wiggles her toes and stretches them out, admiring her work with a tickled countenance. Every so often her icy gaze flickers up to the lit screen, half-heartedly following along with the intriguing story the film tells; a young woman on the run to set her man free of his debts.

There’s a well put together young man. His dark curls swept in a fine hairdo and his black eyes bleak and void of emotion. This aside, he is the classic depiction of a finely raised boy; well mannered and eloquently spoken. He looks nice, the type of man young women garnered trivial crushes on and gave valentines to. He was well dressed, clean and attractive, much like someone full of class. He offers a cunning, benevolent charm and a sort of reserved politeness. Not overtly uncomfortable, just the right amount of benignancy. Johnny could take a few notes.

As the story progresses it is revealed the man, Norman, is the proprietor of the motel the woman has taken refuge at. He invites her to dinner with his mother, things become heated over supper, and the woman returns to her motel room. Just as Becca has become disinterested in the dwindling story, something peculiar occurs. Something ominous, something sinister, something twisted and sick.

The man, once deemed charming and benevolent by Rebecca’s very own sentient, was now tastelessly peeping the winsome woman undress and strip down to the nude from a hole made through the walls. She must’ve made a face, one riddled with disgust and disbelief. She didn’t take him the type of man to be so vulgar.

But it doesn’t stop there, in fact, Becca’s attention averts fully to the story, her hand mindlessly waving about the nail polish cap as her eyes fixate on the screen. The man ceases his spectacle, just as the woman shuts the washroom door and steps into the shower.

No one could have explained what happened in that brain of hers, why she suddenly became to captivated. But as the woman rinses and scrubs her bare skin in a scene that borderlines pornography, Becca‘s attention is drawn to the graphic imagery. Fascinated and mesmerized, she inches out from her seat. Crawling from the sofa in an animalistic sense, hands stabilizing her body as she kneels against the cold, hard wood floors of the farmhouse. Never once does her stare remove itself from that television.

It’s a carnal exhibit of the sanguinary and viciously grim. A murderous collection of images that sickeningly captures the brutal stabbing of the young girl. Shrieking music and explicit camera shots of perfectly captured nudes as the blade penetrates in and out her wet torso, the water still pouring and intertwining in a tango with the thick blood that spills from the girl’s mutilated body. The killer stabs once, then twice, then thrice.

Becca cannot help the disgusting feeling that cudgels in her, the abominable desire for the obscene and uncouth. The effervescent fondness she has for the act of bloodshed and violence, the ravenous hunger for that which she’s lost. She thinks about it, imagine if she the killer and a boisterous man in that shower, her victim. The way she could dominate and make him feel so little, so useless.

She thinks back to the time she watched Sisters with Johnny. And the woman who so ruthlessly slaughtered men the way Becca wished she could do. She grew wary of seeing men prey on women, frustrated with the box the world had put her in. She could run a home far better than any man could, she could kill far worse than any man could, and she could be immensely more dangerous than any man could. She imagines herself in the killer’s place, pretends it’s Johnny in that shower as she catches him in such a vulnerable state. How downright horrible it was to prey on girl’s in such a weakened predicament.

The fantasy was delectably satiating. A beautiful desire fully realized. Rebecca doesn’t know whether or not to find the scene infuriating or inspiring. The thought of a man convicting such an act ignites the fire in her, but the idea of a role reversal is exhilarating. Just what she needs to take back the power of her perfect little life.

She crawls closer to the television, closing the space between her and it as she braces herself against her bare knees. Her head looms over the screen, observing as the killer vacates the scene and the woman, in her last, dying breaths grasps out for help. Only to be met with a collapsed shower curtain and her face flat against the tile floors. Water droplets dribble on her skin and her dark lashes clump together. She’s dead, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at nothing and her corpse still bursting with blood as it washes down the shower drain. The water still runs, but she’s gone.

The wolfish yearning swells in her, the urge becoming all most unbearable when presented with something as inhumane and mortal as this. The very thing she set out to distract herself from has only been made to grow with the invigorating art form. Her tremors develop to become more violent, her face contorting into an angry expression fueled by her cacoethes.

Her forehead is pressed against the now buzzing screen, hands clasped on either side of its metal frame as she shakes vigorously. The pads of her fingers press into the box gripping it tightly, fervently, feigning for some type of relief. Her knuckles burn white and those pretty eyes are open vast and wide as she continues to watch. She wants to see it again, and again, and again. The woman get stabbed to death by the no faced killer. The images play about in her brain, revealing themselves to her over and over again. She needs to see it a second time, perhaps a third.

There’s that fantasy again, the lethal and savage reverie of decimating a man and reducing him to chunks of dead meat. Only now she rethinks how she might do it. She’d still love to use that axe of hers, it had to be a staple in her routine. Her weapon of choice, so to speak. Instead of just hacking up their bodies into a heap of pieces perhaps she longed for something more degrading and humiliating, something that truly deduced them to the childish boys they were before she drug them through the anguish and suffering they deserved. Feasibly, she could use the shower to her advantage — just as the killer in Psycho had. She liked that, the idea of reversing the roles, being the unexpected. Going against the grain and changing the narrative. Make the men feel as though they were safe, protected. Only when they let their guards down would she swing open the shower curtain to take an axe to their naked bodies. The ideal concoction of both indignity and massacre, the perfect blend of torment and mortification. She’d start with their legs, they couldn’t do much if they couldn’t run. Then their arms, their dick, and then finally she’d revel in their tears of misery before severing their heads from their bodies. Through it all, she’d exude control. The very fate of their lives and wellbeing lied in her hands. Their endgame, the final outcome, it was hers to decide. She was playing God.

Then, her faultless illustration of class and reformation shatters. It doesn’t matter anymore, the only thing remaining is her need for the unattainable; the cruel and bloody.

Something in her just snapped.

Before she knew it, she was at the Sawyer’s doorstep banging against the screen and yelling on about Johnny and his obscenities.

“Johnny Sawyer you git yer’ ass out here right this second ‘fore I come in there and kick it out here for ya’!”

No answer.

“Johnny boy so help me God if I gotta come in there there’ll be hell to pay!”

Not even a sound.

“Johnny, now! I know you in there!”

The latch on the door clicks. She ceases her pounding and lowers her fist.

There he is, demoniac hallmarks as wickedly fine as ever and his stoic demeanor as though nothing was wrong at all. He sees her, sizes her up with his flagitious look and grins something ungodly and depraved. With a luciferin glint in those infernal eyes, he pulls the door open wide and leans leisurely against the doorframe. She thinks him privy to that devil, a fallen angel consumed by his own vain and pride.

Why he presumes as though nothing had happened between them is beyond her, as if he hadn’t just left her high and dry for two entire weeks without saying a damned word. He didn’t seem to see the fault in that, for he was still as cuntish as ever. It boiled her blood burning hot that he could act so indifferent, so unphased. Why couldn’t she of been the same.

“Darlin’, bout time you came around, how you been?” He nods his head towards her, folding his arms over his chest.

“Johnny Sawyer I swear to the great lord above you tell me what the hell is goin’ on and why you ain’t been comin’ bye no more huh? What kinda fuckin’ game you playin’?”

“Seemed like you needed some time to ya’ lonesome, had lots on yer mind I reckon.”

“That ain’t ever stopped you b’fore.” She leans in, gets real close. She can’t tell if he’s being smug with her or he actually means that horseshit.

“If I didn’t know any better darlin’ I’d say you’d missed me.”

“Johnny stop callin’ me darlin’, damnit. I’m tryna figure out just why the hell it is you make all this fuss bout a date then just up and disappear. After you had the audacity to say the things you said to me? Nu uh. No. I don’t think so, I don’t think so.”

Johnny pauses his speech and looks to the ground, smiling to himself as he sighs all most disappointingly. He stays there for a moment pondering her words and tapping his booted foot against the porch deck. He can feel her seething with contempt and rancor, her fiery sense burning that which her eyes glaze over. He didn’t expect her to be this distraught.

“I was tryna give you space. I knew you’d come see me when you was ready to.” He says ominously, alluding to some sort of thing she isn’t privy to. It sounds like a tease. His look moves upwards once more. He watches her carefully, dark eyes narrowing to her as she stares at him with a softened mien. One that perfectly emulates her degree of stupor and disbelief. Her brows arched upwards and her sapphire irises tender with the realization of her mistake.

It was one hell of an epiphany. She felt the truth of the matter rattle her core, disrupting her every thought as her misconceptions of Johnny Sawyer came thrashing down just as quick as her pestilent and relentless execration. He was telling the truth. And she doesn’t know what to be more upset over; the fact she’d so badly misjudged his morals or him, for humiliating her and causing so much bedlam and disorder.

Still she cannot bring herself to fully succumb to his cogent charms. Her bitterness had grown much too strong and she despised the way he melted her with the smooth sound of his voice or the graze of his hand. She hated all the emotions he made her feel, the way he made her insides churn and flip. She hasn’t forgotten the past two weeks, it was still all his fault.

The all too familiar feeling of her composure slipping floods in. With it the uncanny shakes of her body as she looks to him with crazy eyes, maddened. This is his fault. She tries so hard to hate him, but he makes it so hard to do so.

“God damnit Johnny I try so hard to hate you but you makin’ this too damn difficult!”

It becomes too much to bare, her trembling body heating up and turning a fiery red. She hates him still, but not for the same reasons she had before. This time it was much, much different. She couldn’t fathom the way he invaded her every thought and infected that which she cherished. He was like a virus the way he weaseled his way into her every single aspect of her life. There’s a faint hint of that rage she felt the very first time he broke her temper, and it was just enough to push her over the edge. Her hands form fists when her tremors become more fervent and before either of them can tell it the right fist comes crashing into his jaw with a fleshy thump. Johnny groans, cocking his head back and rubbing the spot with his palm.

He doesn’t find himself angry, though. He knew how she was and this wasn’t anything foreign to him. She’ll regret that later, he’s sure of that. It wasn’t that he thought he deserved it, but he knew good and well he’d toyed with her enough trying to figure out the type of girl she was. Now that he knew, he should’ve been more careful not to tick her off. Still, the intense yearning bellows in his gut and he all most lashes out at her like before, but he’s able to keep his calm. Instead he nods his head, tweaking his neck slightly before he plants his gaze on her.

“Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

Becca’s visage softens, once a scowl turning to a look of confusion and concern. She’d expected him to get angry, fight back, that was what she’d known him to do. She needed his anger and temper to justify her own ludicrous behavior. But he didn’t, he just took it without any quarrels. It was a decent hit too, she can see the red and purple forming on his jaw.

And he can so clearly see the dumbfounding in her face.

Admittedly though she feels a pang of guilt plague her consciousness. Now Rebecca was never the apologetic type, not genuinely, not unless it was someone she longed to impress. Be it the guilt or the gushy feelings he elicited from her, she felt the need to clear the air. After all, he proved himself to have a certain chivalrous quality about him. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she initially made him out to be. Maybe, just maybe.

“Now I was ‘bout to head into town to grab a few things, how’s bout you come along with me and we talk bout all this?” With that, he shuts the door. The jingling of keys sounding as he passes by her.

“Fine. Only cause I ain’t finished with you just yet.” She’s reluctant to go but stern in her ways, she needs more answers. Her cold look sharpens as she turns to him.

“Fair ‘nough, you can count this as our second date.” He opens the passenger side of his truck for her and she moves toward the door, grabbing the hand her offers as she throws herself into the seat.

“Not quite that, watch yer self.”

“The two of us all alone, out in town, talkin’ and playin’, sounds lots like a date to me. Doncha’ think darlin’?” He’s only playing with her, a sheepish grin over his mouth as he chuckles heartily.

“You pushin’ yer luck.” She slams shut the rusted truck door. Johnny follows suit, stepping into the drivers side and starting up the spasmodic engine. The familiar sound of the intermittent misfires play before it shakes the cabin and comes to life, just as he shifts gears and heads up the drive and onto county road 172.

A contrast to their first car ride together, this one is not full of disdainful silence and trivial niceties. Rather a productive conversation initiated by Becca, who struggles to bind together her chaotic thoughts and piece together how she truly felt. Bouncing from one side of the spectrum to the other, she’s quick to relish in the frustration of her own emotional compass. Unable to navigate the complexities her brain conjures up.

“Listen,” she starts, nervous with the thought of being courteous to him. “I thought you were different.”

“How’s that?” Johnny only laughs, his eyes focused on the road as he drives.

“Momma had a lover like you.” Her eyes look to him solemnly, with no judgement or prior animosity. A truly sullen look, morose. “I hated him.”

“Well what’s that got to do with it?” Johnny clicks his tongue, looking to her a bit skeptically.

“Guess I thought you was the same typa boy. The type to bring about trouble and ruin lives, break a girl’s heart. Ya’ know? I was wrong though, and I’m real sorry ‘bout that.”

“And where’s that momma of yer’s now huh?”

There’s a halt in her speech, a distinct pause while she looks to him with wide, scary eyes. It’s creepy how sunken her features appear when she looks this way, macabre and deadly.

“She’s dead.”

“But damnit I can’t stand boys like that, despise ‘em. The type who think they can take advantage of a woman like me tch. Well I ain’t naive or a whore.”

Ironic considering the fact Johnny was a self proclaimed serial killer who preyed on clueless women in the same sense.

“I’ll tell ya’ something, you ain’t all wrong,” Johnny pipes up, caliginous eyes examine her for a moment as he removes them from the drive. “I kill girls. I weed ‘em out and make ‘em think they’s special. You know that. And when they do inevitably fall for me, I take ‘em back home and butcher ‘em up. I prey on those naive little creatures, they’re easy to catch.” She seems to be stoic and somewhat perturbed, but he only presses on. “But I told you before and I’ll tell you again, you’s different miss Rebecca Payne. And whether you’ve admit it yet or not, you yer’ selfs a killer too. You’d like to prey on boys and do the same thing as I, I know it. That, or you already have. Makes you special.”

It isn’t difficult for her to deduce that he once again speaks the truth.

She doesn’t know whether to be petrified in terror or delighted that he understood. She knows it should be the ladder, but she can’t help but feel complacent and comfortable near him. She’s calm. In a mind full of inhumane and otherwise immoral thoughts he made her feel normal and sane.

“You ain’t all wrong about me either,” she fesses. “I ain’t ever killed a man before Johnny.” She’s not forgotten the weeks of suffering and torment endured at his hand, rather she’s reached a standstill. A point where she cannot bring herself to be upset with a man who understood her so well, one who made her feel so stable, so perfect. “But I dream about the dozens of ways I’d do it.”

“That’s my girl.”

—

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭! - 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

@yixxes @bdudette @nerdykat101 @kaymarnun

58 notes · View notes